#twisted tourniquets

[mumblelard]

two days in a row or it's almost like the bog monster thinks the narrator needs to get on board with us enthusiastically embracing our frayed internal locus of control, and the difficult choices that entails, but has doubts about the narrator's ability to grasp the message. the drama is real

i wonder how all this is going to turn out? maybe there is couples therapy for personified components of consciousness? family therapy for anthropomorphized abstractions of personality?

[cosmicobubisi]

Cosmic's Malleyuu Whump vs Flufftober: Day 22

BLEEDING THROUGH BANDAGES tourniquet | reopening wounds | "oh, that's not good" / Heirloom

Yuu watched Malleus's hand shake, as an ashy pallor overtook his face.

It was remarkable to see such a thing happen- not just the unraveling of a high-and-mighty prince, but the drastic desaturation of an already very pale man.

His pupils had shrank to minuscule pips drowning in an ocean of bright green, the outline of his knuckles visible in his leather gloves as he tightened his hands.

Yuu stared at him for a bit, a slow, steady smile spreading across their face as Ace and Deuce slumbered deeply in the chairs next to their bed.

They stared at each other for a bit, Malleus frozen to the floor.

Yuu kind of expected him to come to them. They were the ones practically chained to the medical bed.

"H-hello," said Malleus finally. "How... how you feeling?"

"Better than before, I suppose," they said, unable to stop one of the corners of their mouth from lifting in a slight tease.

They tried to stamp down the little voice that wanted them to poke fun at him. There was something sickeningly thrilling, to not only know that they had so much power over a powerful man, but that it was currently on such display.

"That is not saying much," said Malleus, glancing off to the side.

"Yeah," they replied, a bit hoarse with the memories. "I know."

He stepped forward then, plucking the pitcher and a glass off their nightstand, which he quickly filled with water. He summoned a straw out of thin air and placed it in the glass, which he quickly offered to Yuu's lips.

They drank gratefully, appreciating the gesture more than the water but relishing the refreshening of their mouth.

As nice as it was to have Malleus here, seemingly at their mercy, Yuu wondered what he was actually here for. Ace and Deuce had already made their impassioned apologies for getting them into the precarious situation that had caused Yuu to become so injured.

It was Malleus, in the end, who had taken the charge on Yuu's necessary medical attention. Under the direction of Ace, he elevated their arm, applied pressure to the wound, and even tied a tourniquet to their arm when the situation became worse until help arrived.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked, setting the mostly-empty glass down on the nightstand.

"Not really," they replied, "except for maybe some company. Unless you have something else to do."

With a flash of magic, Malleus was sitting next to Yuu in his own chair, spine straightened and shoulders stiff as he folded his hands in his lap.

"What would you lie to discuss?" he asked, primed for a conversation.

Yuu giggled. So eager.

"I dunno. You start. Anything you want."

Malleus's head ducked. "I hadn't realized how helpless I was without my magic."

This sounded like it was gonna be a very roundabout apology.

"Don't be like that," they cut in. "First aid is tricky, and it was a tough situation."

"Still," he said regretfully. "This experience has identified large gaps in my knowledge. I must endeavor to fill them expediently, so that I can be a good ruler."

Yuu shook his head. "We could all use a first aid refresher anyway."

"It would have been impractical to expect for you to perform first aid on yourself."

"Can we talk about something else, please?" insisted Yuu.

Malleus shook his head. "Of course. I would not expect you to relive traumatic memories for my sake. Can I... perhaps interest you in a story from my homeland?"

Yuu smiled and nodded. This sounded like it was going to be a lot more entertaining.

"Well... ah, yes," said Malleus, before clearing his throat. "When my mother was young, and still courting my father, he desired to propose to her in private, to seek her consent before he asked the Senate and my grandmother for permission. But he had few means, and so instead of purchasing something, he decided to make her something."

"Aww," cooed Yuu.

"He ventured out into the forest to find fibers in which to weave together, and eventually settled on making a ring made of wood, with the centerpiece being a flower."

"Oh!" said Yuu, trying to picture the ring in their mind.

"However, once he plucked the flower he wanted, a flaower fairy appeared, and scolded him for taking her spare dress. He apologized, and gave her his hankerchief so she could make another, as by plucking it, my father had spoiled the flower."

"Oh," sighed Yuu.

"Of course, this meant the flower would not last for the ring. He asked for help, and so she instead told him to take the flower-dress and press it, and return to her when it was done. He did so, returning two days later to ensure the flower was properly pressed, and she rearranged the flower into a beautiful arrangement for the ring, and he thanked her. However, before he left, she had a request."

"Oh?" inquired Yuu.

"She asked for an invitation to the wedding, and, seeing that as a good sign, he agreed. A few weeks later, he would invite her on a date in the solarium to propose, but as fate would have it, she proposed before he could."

"Oh." Yuu gasped at the turn the story had taken.

"She, of course, gave him her permission to formally ask for her hand, and they exchanged rings. They got more official, ornate rings for their wedding day, and wore both on their fingers together. My mother, of course, was buried with her wedding ring, but the one she gave to my father for their pre-engagement was lost to time."

"Oh..." trailed off Yuu, blindsided by the tragic end, though they knew about Malleus's parents ultimate fate.

"The ring he made her was removed by my grandmother, and she is saving it for me to propose one day. It's quite beautiful, and the tiny stitches are still intact. I would hope that it would serve as my mother's approval of my future spouse, even beyond the grave."

"Oh!" exclaimed Yuu, unable to restrain themselves at the swell of emotion that rose within them.

"Anyways, I hope that has lifted your spirits somewhat."

Yuu nodded enthusiastically. "It did, it really did! That's so romantic!"

Malleus smiled. "I am glad, to have provided you even a temporary relief."

Yuu huffed and pushed themselves up. "Come here, and give me a hug. When I say I'm fine, I'm fine."

"But-" Malleus was cut off as Yuu yanked them into a hug, and he eventually melted into it."

"Ow!"

Malleus immediately pulled himself away to see red spread through their white bandages.

"Oh," he uttered airily, "oh no, no, no, that is not good."

"U-uh," stuttered Yuu, because they had realized that was kind of a bad idea, "maybe-"

But Malleus had already vanished and returned with a dazed-looking doctor, shoving them towards Yuu's bed.

[scealaiscoite]

(:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅ a month’s worth of whump prompts ]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅)

¹⁾ blood swirling down a shower drain

²⁾ stitches on a cheekbone

³⁾ fingertips numb from cold

⁴⁾ painkillers and a cup of tea left on a nightstand

⁵⁾ a thick plaster cast

⁶⁾ canine teeth tipped with blood

⁷⁾ a bruise in the shape of a boot print

⁸⁾ dried tear tracks

⁹⁾ an inescapable migraine

¹⁰⁾ sunglasses over a bruised eye

¹¹⁾ scars littering the expanse of a back

¹²⁾ bloodied teeth

¹³⁾ skinned knees

¹⁴⁾ a torn-apart first aid kit

¹⁵⁾ frozen peas pressed against a fresh bruise

¹⁶⁾ brambles and twigs knotted into hair

¹⁷⁾ lipstick and a split lip

¹⁸⁾ an especially improvised tourniquet

¹⁹⁾ blood seeping through clothes

²⁰⁾ a heart monitor

²¹⁾ unbearable nausea

²²⁾ a hoarse throat

²³⁾ blood under fingernails

²⁴⁾ a thermometer between bitten lips

²⁵⁾ hands soothing over a shaking frame

²⁶⁾ a twisted ankle on the side of a mountain

²⁷⁾ cuddling for warmth

²⁸⁾ thin hospital blankets

²⁹⁾ broken glass

³⁰⁾ a knife pressed against a throat

³¹⁾ night terrors

[lovebugism]

❛ if you die, i'll kill you. ❜“i cant live without you” “don’t die on me, we haven’t even gotten to the good part yet” “i lied i never hated you”

eddie x reader enemies to lovers 🥹🥹

pls enjoy this absolute heartache of a fic :D — you and eddie hate each other until he almost dies (angst, enemies to lovers, cw for mentions of gore, 1.1k)

“Wanna make out?” Eddie had asked you, some hours ago now, when you first arrived at the Upside Down version of Skull Rock. You’d just narrowly survived a gang of demobats, and the stale air smelled distinctly of copper pennies. He managed a smug smile anyway. “I mean, we might as well. Looks like we’re gonna die out here, anyway.”

You scoffed and rolled your tired eyes. The annoyance you felt for him then momentarily distracted you from the fear swirling in the pit of your stomach. “I’d rather,” you’d quipped.

You feel a little like you’ve prophesized something now.

Eddie bleeds out in your arms with a hundred little bites on his stomach that were supposed to be yours. He’d distracted the circling demobats when you twisted your ankle, too hurt to run away. And now he’s dying. And it’s all your goddamn fault.

You sit with him while Dustin rushes into the Creel House, in search of help from the older crew. You watch him attentively over your shoulder until he disappears behind the rotted front door. When you turn back to Eddie, you find his eyes have fluttered shut.

“Eddie—” you call for him, clearing your throat when it comes out garbled. “Eddie! Hey!”

“Hm…” he hums tiredly in response, eyes still shut.

You sigh with the subtle relief that he’s not dead. The breath catches in your chest. You try to fight away the panic attack clawing behind your ribcage, even though it makes everything around you seem more and more distant. You try to stay as present as you can despite the horrors swimming all around you — for Eddie The Freak Munson.

“You have to stay awake,” you tell him, voice thick with emotion. “Open your eyes.”

“I’m just… I feel a little tired right now,” he mumbles, slurring slightly. 

Your chest wrenches. He’s getting paler and paler by the minute. The tourniquet you made from the bottom half of your shirt is now soaked with deep red blood. Panic burns a wildfire in your chest because you’ve done everything you could think to do. 

You can’t lose him. That’s all you’re telling yourself now. You can’t lose him, you can’t lose him, you can’t lose him.

“I don’t care. Keep your eyes open, alright?”  Your heart wrenches again, with something short of hope this time, when Eddie’s eyes flutter open. They’re glassy and dilated, but the deep chocolate of them hasn’t changed. You muster a small smile. “There you go, Eds. There you go— Now, just keep talking to me, okay? Keep talking.”

“I’m tired,” he mutters under his breath, too weak to do anything more.

Your face screws together as you choke back a sob. You swallow down every instinct to cry. You’ll cry when this is over, you tell yourself, when Eddie’s safe and back in Hawkins.

“I know, Eddie. I know,” you babble through stinging tears. “But you gotta— you gotta keep talking, alright? It’ll help you stay awake. And I need you to… I need you to stay awake for me, okay?”

He nods. At least, you think he’s nodding, because the movement is terribly faint. 

His eyes fall shut again. You feel the loss of his melted chocolate gaze like a stab in the chest. Your hand grips his jaw, a little less than gentle.

“Eddie,” you bite through gritted teeth.

“Mm…”

“If you die, I swear to god, I will fucking kill you.”

The familiarity of your aggression reminds him of home. He opens his eyes and cracks a small, barely-there smile. Blood glistens on his mouth. “I thought you hated me?” he slurs in an inaudible mumble.

“I do,” you tell him without thinking twice, laughing through the sob in your throat. “But I’ll love the shit outta you if we make it out of here together.”

Together, you say, because either both of you make it out or neither of you do. 

His grin widens softly, chapped and lopsided. “Metal,” he murmurs.

A whimper sounds in your throat when his eyes flutter shut again. “Eddie…”

“‘M sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers, breathing sharply through his nose. 

It’s getting harder and harder for him to breathe. You can tell by the harsh rise and fall of his chest. There’s little oxygen getting to his brain, accompanied by the weeping bites on his stomach— where the fuck is Dustin Henderson?

“I don’t know if I…. If I’m gonna make it outta here, babe…”

Your chest tightens. He only ever called you babe to piss you off. You wonder if he’s still being the annoying asshole you knew back home or if the term of endearment is too engrained in his head.

“Don’t say that.”

“If I don’t—”

“Eddie.”

“If I don’t make it out,” he repeats, sterner this time. He drags a sharp breath in and opens his eyes, just barely. “I want you to know that I never… I never hated you… ‘M just a liar… And a total fucking coward…”

“You can make it up to me when we get back home, okay? You just gotta stay awake.”

His lip quirks into a faint, crooked smile. “I’ve been dyin’ to kiss you since ninth grade… Did you know that?”

“I know,” you nod with an emotional laugh.

“I did make it kinda obvious, didn’t I?”

“You can kiss me when you get better. I swear.”

Eddie nods. You feel him grow heavier and heavier in your arms. His smug smile starts to fade, and you panic. “Eddie? Eddie, don’t— don’t die on me, okay? Please. We haven’t— We haven’t gotten to the good part yet, asshole. You have to stay awake.”

You shift him in your arms, trying to sit him up more when he slumps. He does little to fight you. He doesn’t have the strength to anymore.

“‘M sorry, babe,” you hear him whisper.

“No— No, don’t— Don’t fucking say that,” you scold bitterly, less angry at him and more at the rest of the world. It should’ve been you lying here, after all, not him. You’d trade places in a heartbeat if you could. “You can’t die, you asshole! How am I supposed to— fucking— keep going without you annoying the living shit outta me?”

“Henderson’ll annoy you for the both of us,” he manages to joke as life spills from the weeping wounds on his stomach.

“Fuck that. It’s not the same— I need you, Eddie. I need you, okay? I can’t— I can’t fucking live without you,” you cry over his pale, bloodied body.

You hear yelling and a set of rushed footsteps. “Eddie!” Dustin calls as he dashes down the decrepit porch steps of the old home — with Steve, Nancy, and Robin following close behind.

The sight of them makes you sigh. Your chest starts to sparkle with a hope you’d thought you lost — damn near aching when Eddie’s glassy eyes flutter open once more. 

The fucker grins weakly up at you. “I knew you had a crush on me, babe.”

[tumble-tv]

Going to a protest? Bring first aid.

I don’t mean bandaids and acetaminophen (although those are helpful). I’m talking trauma first aid. I’m talking gunshot wounds and car accidents and stabbings, stuff to keep somebody alive long enough to get to the hospital. Because it happens, and you need to know what to do if and when it does.

You need an IFAK (Individual First Aid Kit) pouch. You can find them easily online, this is my favorite model. No clasps, no buttons, just pull and it’s open. You don’t want something that will take a long time to open or something that has seventeen pockets. Everything needs to be in one place and easily accessible.

Here’s what you need in that pouch:

Tourniquet (https://www.rescue-essentials.com/combat-application-tourniquet-cat-gen-7/) This is how you keep people from bleeding out. Relatively easy to use, there’s plenty of videos online on how to properly use them. When somebody is shot in an arm or leg and is bleeding out, you need to use this or they will die. You can keep this on a limb for about six hours before there’s any risk for amputation, so they’ll be fine. Have one easily accessible on the outside of your pack and another inside your bag. Two is a safe number, but the more the merrier. Don’t cheap out on them, either, you need something that will hold up and do what it needs to the right way. Bright colors are your best friend here, use them. Black may look cooler, but it’s harder to see. Neon orange will always be your friend in the medical field. You can also write a “T” on the person’s forehead to let medical professionals know that they have a tourniquet on.

Trauma Shears (https://www.rescue-essentials.com/north-american-rescue-trauma-shears/) Somebody gets shot in the upper leg? You need to cut their pants off and this is what you’re gonna do it with. No time to waste with taking them off the normal way, get to cutting. Sorry, but their jeans are not top priority at the moment, their life is. I like to get mine in a color that I can easily recognize, like orange or glow in the dark green. Makes it easier to find.

Nitrile Gloves I’m talking medical gloves, the blue ones. You don’t want black because you can’t see blood as easily with that. You want blue or green. Keep multiple pairs (I personally have a handful just shoved in mine), because god forbid you’re working on multiple people, you NEED to be able to change gloves so you don’t cross contaminate their blood with each other. That can lead to so many problems. This protects both you and them from any contagions on your skin or in their blood. You can honestly get these at any store, but please get them allergen friendly (latex free). Keep them in their own little baggie to prevent contamination.

Sharpie When you apply a tourniquet, there’s a little white piece. You need to write the time you applied the tourniquet on that little strip. Worst comes to worst, if you forget your sharpie you can use blood to write on the person.

Compressed Packing Gauze (https://www.rescue-essentials.com/nar-responder-compressed-gauze/) If somebody has a deep wound like a gunshot wound where you can’t use a tourniquet (far up on the shoulder, far up on the thigh, etc.), you need to use this. Find where the blood is coming from and shove it in there. You can get hemostatic packing gauze with a clotting agent, but it can be a bit expensive. Apply pressure, it’s a game changer. Also, if you’re using a clotting agent, keep the package to show to the medical professionals. This can only be used on extremities.

Compression Bandage (https://www.rescue-essentials.com/israeli-t3-bandage-4/) Also known as an Israeli bandage (I know, that’s just what it’s called and referred to). It ahs some plastic on it so you can wrap it around and twist the plastic piece to apply as much pressure as possible. Theta aren’t overly common, but they’re good to have. Perfect for slowing bleeding or securing a bunch of gauze you packed into a wound that you don’t want to move.

Nasopharyngeal Airways (NPAs) (https://www.rescue-essentials.com/rescue-essentials-naso-airway-kit/) Basically a tube you slide down somebody’s nose to keep their airway open. Best for if somebody has significant trauma to the jaw or mouth. Always use the lubricant!!! If you don’t, this becomes so much harder to do and so much more painful. These cannot be used when there is a suspected head injury, like a concussion.

Vented Chest Seal (https://www.rescue-essentials.com/hyfin-vent-compact-chest-seal-twin-pack/) For a penetrating wound to the chest like a bullet, use these. One for the entry wound, one for the exit wound. These let trapped air to escape, but don't let air come in. Best for chest, back, stomach, and neck.

Space Blanket (https://www.rescue-essentials.com/nar-survival-blanket/) You know those funky silver blankets that look like tinfoil? That’s it. When somebody goes into shock, their body temperature will drop significantly. They can literally go hypothermic in ninety degree weather.

Rat’s Tourniquet (https://www.rapidtq.com/collections/tourniquets-1/products/r-a-t-s-tourniquet) Sometimes a regular tourniquet is too bulky. Maybe somebody is super skinny or it’s a kid or an animal, this will stop blood flow when a regular tourniquet won’t. They’re a little harder to figure out, but they’re worth it.

Other Helpful Stuff

Bandaids

Regular old sterile gauze

Alcohol pads

Neosporin

Sealed water bottles for washing out wounds if need be

Medical tape

Rolls of sterile gauze

Antiseptic

Tweezers (DO NOT GO DIGGING AROUND FOR BULLETS THIS IS FOR NASTY SPLINTERS)

Penlight

Glucose gel for all of our hypoglycemic friends

Blood glucose monitor to test if need be

Pulse oximeter

Shit ton of eye drops for tear gas, because that stuff hurts

Superglue

Masks

Hand sanitizer

Rubbing alcohol (Can be substituted with drinking alcohol if need be. Find the highest ABV you can, vodka and whiskey are your best choices here.)

Hydrogen peroxide

Electrolyte packets/chews

Bandanas

Eye protection, like goggles

Something to make a splint with. You can use an actual splint (https://www.rescue-essentials.com/sam-splint-original-36/) or any long rod or stick, really.

Duct tape

Multi tool and/or pocket knife

If you’re going to be That Guy in full tactical gear, make sure people know which side you’re on with patches. Pride flags, ACAB patches, whatever it is, put them everywhere. Make sure the people around you know which team you play for.

Buy multiples of everything. Make sure you practice and know what you’re doing. Have a bigger bag than that pouch I linked above? Great! Shove more stuff in there, the more the merrier.

Take a Stop The Bleed course, that makes everything easier and you’ll be better at what you’re doing. They’ll teach you how to pack a wound, you’ll stick your fingers in a fake leg and learn to do it. Also take a CPR course and get certified. I believe they teach you how to use an NPA, but I’m not entirely sure since I took one for my EMT certification and was taught to use NPAs, but I know that EMT certification for CPR is different from civilian certification in some way.

I did not include CPR materials for a reason. If somebody is passed out from massive blood loss, they won’t wake up with CPR. If there’s no blood for the heart to pump, then CPR won’t do anything. If someone isn’t breathing and this is a mass casualty event like what this bag is packed for, leave them. I hate to say it, but you need to leave them. There is no way you are going to get this person breathing again in time for you both to get out alive if you’re being shot at. If somebody needs CPR, they are classified as “meaningfully dead.” CPR is meant to keep blood moving until first responders arrive, and during protests, they won’t. You’re free to bring CPR materials, I won’t stop you, but be aware of that.

Tampons are a good emergency alternative to packing gauze if need be. You’ll probably need a lot of them, but they’ll work in a pinch (and will be awesome if somebody needs one for their normal purpose).

If you have anything to add, please do. Any information helps.

Updated January 27, 2025.

[bzurk]

bits and pieces

Ghost is not a trusting man. His heart has been shattered time and time again from the shock of betrayal, like a stone through a glass wall. The smallest of impacts could shatter his trust irrevocably, quick to shatter and leave behind sharp, dangerous edges, impossible to rebuild.

He watches the medic with an intensity that borders on madness, every movement etched into his mind as if he were committing it to memory. His eyes never leave her as she hunches over Soap, the man he has reluctantly filed under friend/ Her fingers digging into his torn uniform, fighting to keep him upright against the wall. The sight of her so close to him, one of the few men he cares for, so focused, sends a shiver down his spine. Here and now, she is the tether that keeps Soap alive. He is forced to trust her, to trust her abilities, and it makes him sick to his stomach. His muscles long to hold a knife to her neck, to test the give of her skin, to demand she saves the sergeant. Faster, he longs to scream. Work faster. I cannot lose another one.

The air is thick with the stench of blood and cordite, but Ghost barely notices. All his senses are attuned to the medic as she presses her fingers against Soap's neck, her face drawn in concentration. All that matters is Soap's ragged breathing, the medic's steady hands, and his own pounding heart.

It's like a sick dance they're all caught up in, but he sees the steeled determination in her eyes, and he knows, deep down, that he can trust her with Johnny. To Ghost, this moment is about more than the mission. It’s about her, and it’s about Johnny. She holds his heart between life and death in an ethereal balance, one wrong move and they’ll both drop into the abysmal pits of hell. The rhythm of Soap's shallow breathing, her frantic movements, all mix together into a morbid waltz of death and survival. The seconds bleed together, each one taking an eternity to pass, yet flying by faster than bullets through the air.

"Fuck." He hears her mutter under her breath, utterly focused on her work. He’s not scared, not worried. Under her care, he knows Johnny will be fine.

Rain pours down in relentless sheets, soaking through their gear and chilling them to the bone. Ghost barely registers the cold. His focus is solely on the doc, watching as the crimson blood mixes with the cold water, tracing a macabre path down her face and neck. Each shiver is a reminder of her vulnerability, a vulnerability he wants to shield- needs to shield- if she is to work effectively. She winces at the sting of the cold but doesn’t let it deter her from doing her job. Ghost can hear the distant sound of gunfire in the distance where more soldiers are fighting against enemy forces; their voices echoing through comms muffled by the stormy night.

Above, a helicopter hovers, its rotor blades cutting through the rain, creating a maelstrom around them. Ghost’s gaze shifts momentarily to the bird, then back to the medic. He catches her eye, nodding towards the extraction point, but his thoughts are only of her. The way her gaze briefly meets his, the connection that flares between them, fuels his blooming obsession. He sees the weight of Soap's body bearing down on her, the pain etched into her features, and he feels a twisted sense of gratitude and guilt. It looks good on her, the intensity.

But she ignores all of this easily—the deafening noise of the helicopter's blades, the blasts of grenades, and the barrage of bullets. Her only concern is keeping Soap alive. Ghost watches intently as she efficiently rummages through her medkit, marvelling at her precision and speed as she works to save Soap's life; tourniquet, gauze pads, morphine syrette. His heart races in his chest in sync with the raging storm. He’s entranced by her dedication, by the fire in her eyes that refuses to be extinguished.

"Here," she whispers, steadily plunging the syrette into Soap's arm without waiting for his response. Her face is soft, and relaxed, oozing calm and safety despite the blood and rain that stains her face, trying to convey reassurance in her expression where words fail, drowned out by noise. The blood and violence and gore aren’t new to her - she is steady, calm, unfaltering. She double-checks the tourniquet again, and then once more. Holds her ear to Soap’s chest to count the rise and fall. Nods to Ghost.

Ghost has lost everybody important to him. The trauma has etched apathy into his very bones, the scars a physical reminder. He deters anybody that dares creep too close, to protect the fragments of his broken heart. He has built his walls high, topped with barbed wire and made from the strongest concrete. He could count on one hand the people who’d made it past his barricades, and Soap was one of those select few, a determined nuisance who crawled through the barbed wire, ignorant to how it sliced his skin. Ghost supposes the knicks and slices wouldn’t deter a man with such a bleeding heart.

As they hoist Soap to his feet and begin moving towards safety, Ghost grips his sergeant's arm tightly but his eyes never leave the doctor’s. He feels Soap's blood seeping into his gloves and mixing with the rain, staining his hands in violence and desperation. The wind from the chopper's blades whips at their clothes, but all Ghost can see is her—the determination in her eyes, the strength in her slender frame, the blood that stains her vest and gloves and fatigues. She is a guardian angel, descending into chaos and death to bring her soldiers back to life, single-handedly keeping Ghost’s remaining sanity intact. They reach the open bay door and a medic rushes to relieve them of Soap’s weight. Ghost watches her step back, her chest heaving, her face a mask of exhaustion and relief.

Something inside him aches, a feeling he can't quite define—gratitude, obsession, an insatiable need to be closer to her, possess her, and hide her behind the walls of his heart. A gratitude that seeps so far into his bones it becomes a part of him.

As the chopper lifts off, carrying Soap to safety, Ghost stands beside the doctor, the storm still raging around them. He wants to reach out, to touch her, to pull her into his arms and never let go, to spew his endless thanks into her skin until it sinks into her flesh and he can be sure that she knows of his gratitude. The gratitude he feels for her saving Johnny’s life floods him, cementing his new fixation. He knows it’s wrong, knows it’s dangerous, but the pull is too strong to resist. He'll do anything to keep her close, this mystery woman who has snuck into his heart with nary a word, anything to protect the doctor who is both his salvation and his undoing.

—

The second time he meets her is in the medical wing, perched upon a stool and diligently writing notes. The room is bright and sterile, simple, illuminated by the warm afternoon sunlight streaming in through the large windows. The white walls and floors gleam under the light, giving the room an almost heavenly glow. The doctor, perched on a stool, is a vision in white. Her long white coat falls in gentle folds around her, and her smile exudes warmth, kindness and safety. The warm rays shine down on her in a halo, illuminating round cheeks and long, delicate lashes.

As Ghost approaches, he can almost feel the warmth radiating from her as if she were a sun. He can see the softness of her skin, almost glowing in the sunlight, and is drawn to it like a magnet. Her hands move gracefully over the pages of her report, the pen gliding smoothly across the paper. Her fingers are long and slender, delicate and dainty with her nails painted a feminine shade of regulation-approved pink. Her form is all soft edges, flowy and gentle, her hair tied back to highlight her face, the hint of a necklace below the collar of her shirt, the joints of her ankles where they cross at the foot of her stool, and even the toe of her flats are rounded.

But Ghost knows better. Moving closer, he notices more. Her smile is a flash of white teeth, light glinting off of white canines - a hint of danger beneath her skin, a tease. A glint of mischief in her eyes, the suggestion of danger beneath her calm facade. The sharp tools and instruments hidden in her coat and outlined in her pockets. The way she brandishes the sharp point of the pen between her fingers, perched precariously on the edge of the page. It’s as if she knows the effect she has on people and enjoys playing with it, toeing the edge precariously.

He’s reminded of a fox, all soft fur and cute exterior, wide-eyed and small. But a fox is still a predator, hiding claws and teeth and bloodlust. Ghost decides, then, that he wants to see it for himself, the animal that lingers beneath her smooth skin. He wants to dance along its edge, to prick himself on the point of the knife, to find the rawest and most depraved corners of her mind. Would it be as fractured as his?

“Lt.!” Soap chimes beside the cute doctor. He’s sitting up in the hospital bed, his leg elevated on a stack of pillows with the leg of his pants rolled up, bandages fresh and pinned in place neatly. His face is pale, his eyes sunken, but the spark that makes him Soap is still there. His stomach, though, is bare and stained with watercolour splotches of grotesque yellows and blues. “Have you met the nice doc yet? She really saved my arse out there.”

She doesn't even look up from her notepad as she continues scribbling away, but a small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "It's my job," she replies lightly, finally glancing up at him with those eyes - those stunning, bright, cheeky eyes - that seem to see straight into his soul. "Besides," she adds with a wink and a quirk of her eyebrow, "who else would tolerate you enough to patch you up?" She jabs a playful finger at Soap, riling him up easily. It's like she has a sixth sense for it: calming patients and riling them up at the same time.

Jealously sits heavily in Ghost’s gut when the doctor turns her smile from the page to Johnny. It sizzles and boils in his stomach, evaporating into mists of anger. “You’d best be on your way then, Sergeant.” She hums, placing the notebook down at Soap’s side. “I think your lieutenant is here to collect you. Remember, the pain medications are eight hours apart, and my office is always open if you need me to rewrap that leg, alright?”

She lays a delicate hand on Johnny’s good leg, giving it a soft pat before rolling her stool back.

The green, angry jealousy threatens to erupt from his guts.

see part 2 here ->

[clockwayswrites]

A Broken Sort of Normal, Part 16

WC: 756 , Masterpost CW: We loop to the start and that entails The attacks start in northern Africa. It jumps from Algeria to Egypt, across the sea to Saudi Arabia to Turkey and into Europe. By the time it hits Metropolis, resources are already stretched thin. Danny is calling in every contact, every possible help, while he follows the worst of it himself, constantly organizing the next area of triage.

As he’s attempting to wrap the tourniquet around Barry’s leg, blood slicked hands failing him, it hits Danny like one of Superman’s punches.

They are going to lose.

Barry reaches out and grips a weak hand around Danny’s wrist. “Kid?”

It’s still a stupid nickname, but through all these years Barry still used it. Through the years of dinners and disasters and Danny being welcomed into Barry’s family at Wally’s side.

And now all these wonderful, heroic, brave people that Danny had come to be friends with are going to die. The monologue happening in the middle of the street made that much clear. No hero would be spared; any chance of a future uprising would be snuffed out this very day.

Because they are going to lose.

Danny smiles softly at Barry and pries his hand away.

“Kid, whatever you’re thinking—” Barry could have no idea what Danny is thinking. No one can.

No one can, because no one knows what Danny can do.

He leaves his bag by Barry. Most of the supplies have been used up, but maybe there is still something in it that will help people.

He just wants to help people.

The monologue cuts off as Danny approaches, feet sliding on the loose concrete around the edge of the crater that the imposing figure stands in. He manages not to fall, though, and strides past Superman with his head held high. He will not cower in front of death. He faced death once before and even though this time means becoming nothing, he will not cower as he faces it again.

He has to look up to meet the being’s eyes. There’s only cruelty there. The mouth twists in a cold smirk. “Has it come to this? That they send their healer to face me?”

“No.” Danny could hear Barry shouting his name. “They didn’t send me, I came by myself.”

The laugh raises the hair on the back of Danny’s neck, but he doesn't move away.

“Pathetic! You presume yourself to be the last line of defense? You, a mere medic? You are no hero and yet you dare to stand before me? Do you not think that I could break you with a single fist?”

Danny smiles softly, and raises his hand. The man doesn’t even move, so utterly sure that Danny poses him no threat. Danny rests his hand on the man’s chest. He has to reach up to do so.

The smirk turns into a sneer. “Or do you intend to appeal to some ideal of compassion? To try and change my heart? To ask me to spare your heroes?”

Superman is screaming at him now as he struggles to stand. Danny hears him fall again.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the man who would try to rule them all with nothing but death in his wake.

“No,” Danny says, tilting his head just slightly. His eyes scan over the hardened face again. “No, I don’t think I can do that. You’ve made a mockery of death for so long that your heart is hardened. It’s a good thing I don’t need it soft.”

Intangibility is as comfortingly familiar as it is horrifying to feel again. Danny shudders as it washes over him. His hand sinks, sickeningly, through armor and skin and bone to wrap around that hardened, beating heart.

It thuds once in his grip.

Danny yanks his hand back.

Danny pulls that heart from its chest.

The man gasps— the sound a pale imitation of a breath— and then he falls.

Like he was nothing.

Less than nothing.

A man that will only be remembered with hatred.

The massive heart slips from Danny’s limp fingers. It hits the ground with a wet squelch.

Danny wavers, eyes turning up to the sky where hundreds of clones are falling like horrifying intimidations of shooting stars. A soft smile spreads over his face.

He had done it.

Will people remember him?

It isn’t why he did it.

He just wants to help people.

Wanted to.

Was someone calling his name?

There had only been one chance. It was all he needed.

They would be safe now.

Everyone would be safe.

Humanity, Barry, Iris, the Titans…

Wally…

“Danny!”

---

AN: And here we are, back in present tense (thank you @mokulule for correcting all my slips back to past tense my migrained brain didn't catch.

I would say Danny used his one moment well, wouldn't you?

But this isn't quite the end. Now that we're back in the present... I think it's about time we saw somethings from Wally's POV, don't you?

I no longer tag, you can subscribe to the masterpost instead!

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2024 No. 16, No. 19, No. 22

Prompt 16: Swamp

Prompt 19: Abandoned cabin

Prompt 22: Tourniquet

Warnings: Animal death; severe injuries

A/N: Sorry for the abrupt ending. This one has been a work in progress since the beginning of the month and I just can’t get it to go any further. Maybe I’ll continue with a second part later.

gif is not mine - google

Neither human nor beast had moved since you had spotted the predator—a dragon by its own right. The alligator’s eyes reflected both the water’s surface and a sinister promise. Daryl, the water easily reaching his shoulders with his feet touching the swamp floor, was breathing quickly through his nose but remained otherwise motionless. The only thing you could see in his eyes was naked, implacable fear. 

“Daryl.” You whimpered. 

“Get outta the water.” You knew better than to argue and moved the slightest inch to turn before he spoke again. “Slow. Don’t splash.” He added. 

“Okay.” You tried to keep your movements fluid, deliberate. Each step beneath the murky surface felt heavy and so slow that you thought you would never feel the water receding around your upper body. You momentarily considered shedding your backpack but decided against it. There was a strange noise behind you but you kept your eyes on the overgrown shoreline. “Daryl?”

“Doin’ great. Keep goin’.” 

You nodded and maintained your glacial pace, bending at the waist as you began to leave the water in order to minimize the droplets that would unsettle the surface. The foreboding sense of being followed gnarled and twisted in your gut, and you allowed yourself to believe it was Daryl inching along behind you. 

“Almost there.” The tremble in his tone was easy to detect. You could also pick up that he was nowhere near behind you. 

“Daryl, how will you—” You didn’t see the debris. Of course you couldn’t through the dingy water. You had barely tripped and hit your knees when all hell broke loose around you. 

“Run, run, GO!” Came Daryl’s roar, a half a second before you heard and felt the chaos erupting. You were moving within milliseconds of his command, making the mistake of looking over your shoulder. 

“Shit!” A second gator had—at some point—surfaced, its tail whipping side-to-side to carry it toward you at a speed you would have never been able to outswim. Clambering onto the shore, the weeds soggy and giving beneath your feet, you ran a few meters ahead, trying hard to ignore the sounds that echoed beyond what could be your approaching death. 

The smaller alligator met land with a speed you hadn’t known the creatures capable of outside the water, its four legs carrying that open maw toward you faster than you were prepared to counter. With your only choices being abandon Daryl or fight, you made the only one with which your heart could live. 

Waiting until the last second, just as the animal lunged for you, you leapt to the side, twisting your body to throw your hunting knife. Those lessons with Daryl had paid off. The alligator slid forward until the momentum waned before going still, your knife protruding from its left eye. 

There was no time to catch your breath. “Daryl!” Between the heavy splashing, you would catch sight of a tail or an arm, the glint of sunlight off a blade. He was fighting for his life and you had no idea how to help him. Did you go back in the water? It’s what you wanted to do. There were likely other gators being attracted by the frenzy. Maybe you could keep them—

“Y’alright?!” 

“Oh, Daryl, thank god.” He was already wading toward you, shaking out his left hand while his right still held his knife. There was a decent amount of blood hitting the water with each flick. “Where did—is it dead?”

The archer shrugged a shoulder. “Dunno. Ain’t waitin�� ‘round to find out neither.” 

You were already reaching for him before he stepped out onto the mud, your hands latching onto his vest to pull him forward into a kiss that had him gasping against your mouth before just as quickly settling to return the gesture. After a few breathless heartbeats, his forehead rested against yours.

“Fancy knife work there.” 

You opened your eyes to find his still closed but you knew what he spoke of without separating from him. “Learned from the best.” You peppered his lips with several more chaste kisses before finally straightening to go retrieve your weapon. “We should probably take a look at—” The words died on your tongue, dissolved by horror and fear. 

Why hadn’t you urged him away from the water? Why hadn’t he moved further on his own? As the strong jaws clamped down around Daryl’s lower leg, the answers you sought no longer mattered. The archer smacked the ground with a shout, attempting to roll over while reaching for his knife. A sharp pull on his leg foiled his attempt. 

“Daryl!” You leapt forward, grabbing for his hand. Your fingers brushed his just as he was yanked into the water, the gator letting go just long enough to seek a better hold, teeth sinking into the flesh of Daryl’s right thigh. He let out a pained yell that followed him beneath the tenebrous marsh. “Daryl, no!”

The surface bubbled and rippled before going still, your heart twisting before it sank. The swamps were silent as you stepped into the shallows, scanning, watching, praying. 

“Daryl.” You whispered frantically, taking another step into the water. If you could do something for Daryl then you’d gladly let death come for you. If you could do nothing, then it could come all the same. Your feet slid forward again, your eyes darting, desperate for just a glimpse of your archer. 

When the surface broke, it was a tail first, then the gator’s belly. Its jaws still held Daryl’s leg as it rolled, his body twisting to turn with the beast. He was alive, and he was trying to remain that way while keeping his limb intact. The gator rolled a second time with Daryl gasping in a frenzied breath before he was plunged once again. 

Gripping the hilt of your knife, you dove under, throwing any consideration of your own safety to the wayside. It was impossible to see below resulting in you reaching for either Daryl or the gator. When you felt something crash into your hand, you made a grab for it and rolled to the surface, quickly opening your eyes to find yourself holding Daryl’s belt. Bending at the waist, you wrapped your legs around him as the movement continued, the gator relentlessly seeking to tear the archer’s leg from his body. 

Above water again, you sucked in a breath and found your target, stabbing at the animal’s head with your knife. You felt it drive home and pulled it free as the rolls continued, repeating the action over and over with nothing but a prayer that you managed the kill and doing so without hitting Daryl. 

The momentum slowed before stopping completely, the water tinted red as you clawed your way to the surface, reaching down to grab Daryl before releasing the hold you had maintained with your legs. 

“Daryl.”

He broke the surface with an agonized groan, groping for you while you held on urgently. 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Backstroking while pulling him along, you managed to get him to the shoreline and struggled to your feet with your hands beneath his arms. You pulled and pulled, dragging him as far from the water as you could manage. He helped as much as he could with his uninjured leg, digging the heel of his boot into the ground and kicking back. “Let me see.”

The flesh of his thigh was torn, flayed at the edges of two wounds that were at least six inches long. They were deep but showed no bone. His lower leg was not unaffected but lacked the severity of the other injury. 

“Fuck.” You covered your mouth for a moment, watching him collapse onto his back, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. Shedding your bag, you first grabbed a bottle of water, setting to work at cleaning the wound. When he shot upward with a shout, you began to mutter a mantra of I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. 

“Goddamnit!” Daryl exclaimed and fell back again, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. The wound continued to bleed heavily, gaping open in such a way that seized you with panic, grasping for any remembrance of your medical training. 

“Stop the bleeding. Clean the wound.” You could attempt to stitch it later, once the blood clotted—if you could even manage to pull the skin together. Gauze would never cover it but you had little choice but to try, your clothing too wet with the filthy water to aid in staunching the flow. You prayed as you dug through your bag that the harder exterior of the medical kit had protected the contents. 

Your prayers were answered, the supplies were dry. With quick movements, you unbuckled your belt and pulled it free of the loops. Sliding it beneath his leg resulted in a groan and grimace of pain but you couldn’t stop, not until it was pulled tight and fastened above the wound. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You repeated as you released your makeshift tourniquet, satisfied with the visible decrease of blood flow. “You’ll bleed out if I don’t.” Grabbing another bottle of water, you removed the cap and quickly emptied it over the torn flesh, wincing in sympathy. Alcohol would have been preferred but much more painful. Still, you worked with what was available. 

“Do—do whatcha gotta do.” Daryl panted. He pressed his palms into the soggy ground and tried to push himself up, making it only to his elbows before he was out of breath. His left hand was still steadily weeping but at least he had managed to keep all of his fingers. “Christ.” He whispered, his wide eyes obtaining their first look at the wound. 

“I know.” You felt sick. What could you do beyond what had been done already? “We have to get out of here. Find the others and get back to Alexandria.” Square after square of gauze was applied before you wrapped the grizzly wound with the only roll you had to secure and press things into place. 

“S’gettin’ dark.” He commented, head tipped back. He was staring upward toward the canopy as his breathing slowed but failed to return to normal. “Can’t be walkin’ through this shit at night.”

“We can’t stay here, Daryl.” You argued. “There’s more, you know there are.” The swamps of Macon, Georgia were abundant with wildlife, including a healthy affluence of alligators. You were going to absolutely murder Rick for this mission when you and Daryl made it back. 

When. Not if. 

“S’try an’ find a place ain’t around the water.” He was still staring upward, dazed. “Ain’t got long to search ‘fore it gets dark.” When he didn’t make an attempt to move, you gathered all you could into your backpack, save for the knife you secured in the holster on your thigh. You even managed to put Daryl’s knife in its place on this good leg without any acknowledgment from the hunter. 

“Daryl.” You tried, watching the quick but shallow pants of his breath. His skin was still wet with swamp water, but was looking pale. “Daryl.” You attempted more forcefully. 

“Hmm?” He finally rolled his head toward you, the personification of calm. “Oh.” He seemed to finally catch on and started pushing himself upward, making it to a seated position only after you had grabbed beneath his arms and helped. Once it was clear he would not fold over onto his lap, you let go. 

“Gotta get you on your feet.” 

“Ain’t gonna get far.” The way he was behaving was beginning to worry you, his lack of panic—even pain.

“Daryl.” You crouched in front of him, taking another look at his leg. Red was already seeping through the bandage, a dark circle soaked into the soil below his thigh. “I need you with me.”  You said sternly, cupping his face with both hands. His gaze was cloudy, unfocused, and only seemed to clear the slightest fraction when you gave him a gentle shake. “Are you with me?”

He blinked, his brow furrowing. “Yeah.” He rasped. “Yeah, m’with ya.” Then he was actually trying to lever to his feet without your help, your hands frantically scrambling for purchase anywhere they could to provide support. To his credit, he made little noise beyond grunts and one sobbing rush of air once he was upright. 

“Okay, okay. Here we go.” He staggered into you while you assisted in draping his arm across your shoulders. “That wasn’t so hard.” You quipped, grinning up at him when those pretty blues glared at you. You had to keep things light. 

“Think—think you’re funny?” He grunted with the first supported step, his hand grasping for a firm grip on your shoulder. 

“I know I am.” 

“Gonna hafta—file a—a complaint.” 

The steps the two of you managed were small and hindered by the struggle of pulling along his right leg. Between blood loss and the tight tourniquet, it was amazing he could feel anything at all. Still, you trucked onward, boots sinking into the mushy ground. There was just too much water all around, too many threats. You kept your eyes peeled for danger, Daryl’s head now resting against the top of your own. He was getting weaker, slowing down, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep him going. 

When he began to shiver, it wasn’t a gradual transition. One minute he was simply a weight against your side and the next, he was vibrating and his teeth chattering. It was anything but cold. It could only mean one thing. 

“You’re losing too much blood.” You commented, not really with the intent of him hearing. If he did, he didn’t respond. 

The pale light that had been guiding your path had since receded before disappearing completely, leaving the two of you shrouded in darkness. Each step had to be calculated, a gentle touch of the toe of your boot to test the integrity of the ground before you would drag him forward. If you fell into the swamp water now, it would be impossible to pull him out. 

Glowing eyes surrounded you, the reminder that more of the apex predators awaited a single lapse in judgment, one mistake. 

“Talk to me, Daryl.” He was growing heavier and heavier, harder and harder to pull along even if the ground had been sturdy. 

“Called a—a death roll.”

“What?” You queried, truly curious about the topic even if you couldn’t pay him your undivided attention. You stepped across a downed limb, your hands never leaving him before you had to nearly drag him across after you. 

“What that—gator—what it did. S’a death roll.” He stopped talking for a moment, gaining his balance, or at least enough strength to keep him from toppling over. “S’how they—how they rip off chunks,” he sucked in a shaky breath, “to eat.”

The information sat like a stone in your gut. It really had been trying to sever his leg, less interested in killing him and more concerned with tearing off a hunk of him to swallow down. 

“Well.” It was the only thing you could think of to say. The silence ensued and dragged on, your hope being sapped out and left in the trail of disturbed mud his boot was carving with each pull of his useless leg. He was less walking and more limping along beside you in graceless movements that did little more than keep him moving. 

By the time the old cabin—more of a shack, really—came into view, you were barely holding Daryl up. Your strength was waning, your body exhausted. You could hear the moans and gnashing teeth of walkers stuck in the marsh, your consciousness just too lagged to give thanks for their inability to reach you and the archer. The very thought of defending the two of you in your current state made your body ache. 

“Daryl. Daryl, it’s a cabin.” You jostled him with your shoulder, relief flooding your senses when he raised his head, albeit slowly. His only reply was a drawn out hum. “We can make it. Come on.” Drawing upon your reserves, you pulled him along. “Hello?” You called, maneuvering Daryl up the dilapidated steps to the door. There was no response, no candlelight. Abandoned. Or so you had hoped before you heard a thump against the door that was followed by a snarling growl. “Of course!”

The walker—an old man—had a bullet wound through his cheek and you would have bet the entry wound was below his chin. He had missed. Maybe he had died quickly. You wished that for him. Without dwelling, you lured him out, keeping his focus away from the man you had placed on the floor of the porch, behind an old rocker. Your knife met the dead man’s temple at the top of the steps, the body toppling onto the ground and out of your way. 

“Done and done.” You nodded and sheathed your weapon, trudging tiredly toward where Daryl lay prone. “Hey, you still with me?” You patted the side of his boot on his good leg, chuckling when he gave you a weak thumbs up. “Let’s get inside.”

Easier said than done, but once the two of you were safe behind the closed door, you allowed your body the moment of rest it needed, sprawling out next to Daryl on the floor. He was still shivering, breaths shallow, and eyes barely open. Nope, nevermind. You were up immediately, searching for anything you could use. 

A dusty blanket, some dried meat, and a useless med kit were all you managed to scavenge but it was enough. At least for the moment. You wrapped Daryl up tightly inside the blanket after beating the dust from it outside. It would be enough to keep him warm. Your bag was situated beneath his feet, keeping the blood flow closer to his heart. And once you had his head on your lap, you set to work trying to get food and water into him. 

“You need to drink. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” You argued, brushing the sweaty strands of hair away from his face. “You’re already in shock.”

“M’fine. You have it.” 

“If you’re not drinking any, then I’m—”

He groaned. “Fine.” He accepted a few sips before turning away his head. Satisfied, you drank a few of your own and placed the bottle next to your hip. You only had that bottle and one other. That was a worry for another time. 

“Do you think you can navigate us outta here when the sun comes up?” You asked. You tore off a small piece of meat and tapped his chin. He didn’t argue and accepted the offering, allowing you to lift his head slightly so he could swallow. 

“Damn sure gonna try.” His voice was raspy and tired, his eyes remaining closed. The incident and injury had left him drained. You wouldn’t be sleeping that night, that much was certain. 

“Alright. Then you need to rest.” With the meat wrapped and inside your bag, you settled against the wall, humming and running your fingers through his damp hair. 

The cabin was small, everything in one room. A stove on one side, a broken bed on the other. You distantly wondered why anyone would want to live such an isolated life with nothing but beavers and gators for company. 

Daryl groaned from your lap, your expression falling when you saw the pain etched into his sleeping face. There was no way the man would be fit to lead the two of you anywhere. You’d be lucky if he was even still alive when the sun rose. Your best bet was to stay put, keep him warm and hydrated until the others found you. Maybe you could go out and—no. You couldn’t leave him behind. 

How would the two of you get out of this one?

[kyywritess]

CHAPTER 11: KNOW ITS FOR THE BETTER

pairing: aged up!katsuki bakugo x fem!reader

summary: After six intense years in Japan, YN LN has firmly established herself as a renowned gym owner. She's known by many pros for her charm, strength, and boxing abilities. She has a strong support system and amazing friends... her life in Japan was everything she dreamed it would be.

But everything changes one fateful night when a mysterious package appears on her doorstep. No note, no return address—just a plain box wrapped with a single pearly pink ribbon. As she unravels the contents of the box, she’s drawn into a dark, twisted mystery that seems to reach deep into her own past—a past she thought she had buried when she left her old life behind.

wc: 3.6k

an: Another cliffhanger I'm sorry, dont be mad at me.

---

If there was one thing Katsuki Bakugo wanted in his current life, it was you. After the car crash, rage consumed him, his mind bent on tearing apart the driver responsible. But everything shifted when he heard Kirishima's frantic voice calling his name. The look on Kirishima's face made his heart plummet into his stomach.

He had barely dropped the man he intended to pummel when blinding white lights flooded the area. Three cars screeched to a stop, surrounding him and Kirishima.

Then, a man stepped out—tall, pale, and with piercing green eyes that Bakugo could never forget. Moretti.

Instinct screamed at him to run to you, to grab you and flee. He tried, unleashing explosion after explosion, each blast aimed at Moretti and his men. But amidst the chaos, Kirishima had disappeared to get help, and Moretti’s men had reached the wreckage.

They were pulling you out of the car. Limp, lifeless. Blood poured from your leg, staining the ground in a deep crimson pool.

“Get in the car, or I shoot the girl,” Moretti commanded, his tone as cold as steel.

Bakugo froze. There was no real choice. His gaze locked on you—your ghostly pale skin, hair matted with blood and dirt. You looked strangely serene, as if you'd made peace with the horror unfolding.

He wouldn’t let them kill you. Not while he was alive to stop it.

So he got in the car, seething with suppressed fury as they bound a tourniquet around your leg and checked your pulse. The contradiction gnawed at him: Moretti threatened your life, yet kept you alive. Why?

Now he sat in a chair too small for his broad frame, wrists bound but mind racing. Across the room, you lay unconscious, your chest rising and falling faintly—a fragile sign of life.

Your skin was deathly pale, a dark wound visible just above the blindfold they’d placed over your eyes. The blindfold seemed ridiculous—after all, you’d been unconscious for hours.

For two excruciatingly silent hours, he hadn’t seen or heard anyone and it was driving him mad.

The warehouse they were in was heavily guarded. Armed men patrolled the perimeter like it was a military base. Inside the room, there was only one door and a single vent leading who knew where. Security cameras loomed over the room, scanning every corner—except behind him.

He flexed against the ropes, testing their strength. He had to get out, to get you somewhere safe.

It was painfully clear now that you weren’t working for Moretti. Guilt hit him like a sucker punch as he remembered his earlier accusations. He’d jumped to conclusions, faster than he ever had before.

The thought of you lying to him, keeping something so monumental hidden, had stung more than he’d imagined. But the sight of you now—broken, fragile—eclipsed his hurt.

If you both made it out of this, he’d spend every day making it up to you.

He knew Kirishima had to be rallying backup, but the real challenge was figuring out where they were.

And then there was James. Whatever your connection to him, Bakugo had to hope James had realized you were missing.

But right now, nothing else mattered except getting you out alive.

---

When you first came to, you were met with complete darkness. A coarse fabric was draped over your face, muffling your breath and adding to the suffocating sense of confinement. You tried to move, but your wrists were bound tightly behind you, the rough texture of rope biting into your skin. The faint ache in your leg brought the memories flooding back—the car crash, the chaos, and then... nothing.

The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the distant sound of dripping water. You weren’t sure how much time had passed, but the shift in the air told you all you needed to know: Moretti had found you.

The harsh scrape of a chair across concrete jolted you. You flinched instinctively, your pulse quickening as a familiar presence filled the room. That scent—carmel and musk, faint but distinct—was unmistakable.

“Stupid fucking chair.”

Bakugo’s voice cut through the darkness, low and gruff, filled with irritation.

Relief and dread tangled together in your chest. He was here. They had taken him too. Your heart sank at the realization. Not only had you been captured, but now the one person you’d tried to protect was caught in this nightmare with you.

You remained silent, your breathing shallow as you processed your surroundings. The pressure wrapped around your thigh was unmistakable—a makeshift tourniquet, crudely tied but effective. The pain was simmering, dulled only by the adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

The scrape of Bakugo’s chair yanked you from your thoughts.

“Stop. Head hurts,” you muttered hoarsely, wincing at the sound of your own voice.

The noise ceased, leaving the room to drown in silence once more.

“Fuck, you’re alive,” Bakugo muttered, almost to himself.

“Mmm,” you hummed, your mind still foggy. “How’d Moretti get you?”

“How’d you know it was Moretti?”

The words slipped out before you could think. “He’s notorious for tying people up in chairs. Plus, I can feel him.”

“Feel him?”

“Are you gonna keep asking questions?” you shot back weakly.

His voice darkened, low and dangerous. “Are you gonna keep lying to me?”

The accusation hit you harder than you expected, but now wasn’t the time to argue. “I only lied to you because I care for you.”

“Right.”

The weight of his skepticism pressed down on you. You needed to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“Do you have a blindfold on?”

“No, but hands are tied.”

The deadpan response caught you off guard, and before you knew it, laughter bubbled out of you. It wasn’t the right time, and you knew it, but the absurdity of the situation made your head spin.

“Glad to see you still have a sense of humor.” Bakugo snapped, his irritation palpable.

You struggled to catch your breath between fits of giggles. “I’m sorry—it’s not funny… it’s just—how did they even capture you?”

“They rolled up on us after the crash,” he admitted, his tone sharp. “They were gonna kill you if I didn’t comply. I had no choice.”

The laughter died in your throat, replaced by a lump of guilt.

“Yeah, not so funny now,” he added bitterly.

You bit your lip, your mind racing. There was only one reason Moretti would take Bakugo—it wasn’t just about you anymore. Moretti had been watching, studying you, and he knew exactly what buttons to press.

“Katsuki—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he cut you off, already piecing it together.

“Why?” you whispered.

"Cause I couldn’t stand there and watch another man take you. Even if nothin’ made sense,” he murmured, the softness in his voice catching you off guard.

“I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you,” you said quietly.

“Did—was anything ever real?”

The question hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. Of course it was real. The way your heart beat for him was real. 

“The way I feel about you is real,” you said, your voice trembling.

You could feel his eyes on you, even through the darkness. A smile crept onto your face despite the situation. “Stop staring at me like that.”

“Wha—”

“I have a lot to explain to you,” you said, cutting him off.

“Yeah.”

“Is Kiri okay?” You asked, redirecting the conversation again.

“Yeah, he was able to escape before they got to him.”

Relief washed over you. The plan you and Kirishima had made flickered in your mind. He’d be on his way to the cabin now.

“Good,” you muttered.

Bakugo spoke up, an unusual softness to his voice. “M’sorry. Thought you were working with him.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head even though you knew he couldn’t see it. “I’d never work for a person like Moretti.”

“Then how are you tied to him?”

“No relation. Just a scumbag I want dead,” you said bluntly.

“Tch. Tell me about it.”

“One day,” you promised, your voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll tell you everything. But right now, we don’t have time.”

The air shifted again, heavier now, as if Moretti’s presence loomed closer. You could sense it before it happened.

The sound of footsteps echoed from outside the room, growing louder. Bakugo stiffened in his chair, and you could feel his energy change, coiling like a spring ready to snap.

“Don’t fucking touch her,” he growled, his voice like thunder as the door creaked open and footsteps moved towards you. 

A pair of hands fiddled with the knot of your blindfold, yanking it away. Blinding white light seared your eyes, and you blinked rapidly to adjust. When your vision cleared, there he was: Moretti.

His piercing green eyes bored into yours with a predatory gleam, a smug smile spreading across his face. He looked older than you remembered, the years of prison etched into the lines around his mouth and eyes, but the malice was as strong as ever.

“Well, isn’t this a treat? Two of Japan’s finest, tied up like common prey,” Moretti drawled, his voice dripping with venom. “Dynamight, the explosive hothead. And Y/N, America's sweetheart. Tell me, do you think the public will mourn you more if I kill you together or one at a time?”

The tension in the room thickened like a fog, suffocating and heavy. Bakugo’s crimson eyes burned with defiance as he pulled against his restraints, the cords creaking ominously under the strain. “Try it,” he spat, his voice a razor-edged promise. “See how far you get before I blow your head off.”

Moretti chuckled, a low, mirthless sound that sent a chill down your spine. “Ah, there’s that famous temper. But let’s not forget who’s holding all the cards here, Dynamight.” He gestured to you, his fingers grazing your cheek in a way that made your stomach churn. “One wrong move, and she’s gone.”

Bakugo’s jaw tightened, his entire body trembling with barely contained rage. He wanted to lash out, to reduce the entire building to ash, but the sight of you—still pale, still weak—kept him anchored.

You shifted slightly, your hands numb from the ropes biting into your wrists. Despite the fear gnawing at your resolve, you forced yourself to speak. “You wont kill me.” Your voice was hoarse, but steady enough to earn his attention.

Moretti’s smug expression didn’t falter. If anything, his predatory smile widened, his piercing green eyes boring into yours with a sinister gleam.

“Of course, you’d say that,” he drawled, his voice low and venomous. “But let’s not play coy. I didn’t kidnap you on a whim. I know exactly what you know.”

You froze, the ropes biting into your wrists as your blood turned to ice.

“That’s right,” Moretti continued, circling your chair like a vulture. “You know where my daughter is. The one thing the police couldn’t break out of you, even when you testified. You kept that little secret buried, didn’t you? To protect her, I assume. But how long do you think you can hold onto it when his life is on the line?”

Bakugo’s eyes flicked toward you, sharp with confusion and fury. “What the hell is he talking about?”

Moretti’s grin widened as he watched Bakugo’s expression twist with confusion and rage. “You really don’t know, do you?” he said, a mockery of sympathy in his tone. “Oh, this is rich. Japan’s greatest hero, clueless about the woman sitting next to him.”

Moretti turned his attention back to you, his green eyes gleaming with amusement. “You didn’t tell him?” He leaned in closer, his voice dripping with mock disbelief. “You mean to say you’ve been playing the role of a helpless civilian this whole time? That’s cold, even for you, Nova.”

Bakugo’s gaze snapped to you, the weight of Moretti’s words settling between you like a live wire. “Nova?” he questioned, his voice low and dangerous. “What’s he talking about?”

Your stomach churned, but you kept your expression neutral. “Don’t listen to him,” you said quickly.

Moretti laughed, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. “Oh, no, no, no. Let’s not brush past this. Dynamight deserves to know who he’s risking his life for.”

He straightened, turning to Bakugo with an almost theatrical flourish. “Meet Nova, America’s former golden girl. Once a top-tier hero in her own right—complete with a shiny little quirk she’s kept hidden from you.”

Bakugo’s eyes widened slightly before narrowing into slits. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Moretti raised a brow, then gestured toward you. “Go ahead, ask her. Ask her about the years she spent hunting down villains like me. About the testimony that put me in prison. About the daughter she stole from me.”

“Shut up,” you snapped, your voice cutting through the air like a whip.

But Bakugo was already staring at you, his crimson eyes ablaze with confusion and betrayal. “Is it true?”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. 

Moretti clapped his hands together, delighted by the unraveling tension. “Ah, the sweet taste of betrayal. Isn’t it delicious?”

“Shut the hell up!” Bakugo snapped, his glare burning a hole through Moretti.

Moretti’s cold, predatory smile grew as he savored the moment, watching Bakugo struggle with the weight of his words. “And if you thought this was the worst of it, you’re in for a surprise, Dynamight.” He turned back to you, his gaze like a vulture eyeing its prey. “She didn’t just hide her quirk from you, or hide who she was. No, she faked her death.”

Bakugo’s eyes snapped to you, the fury and confusion in his gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. “You were the hero that died in the car accident?” 

Moretti’s laugh echoed around the room, harsh and mocking. “Yes, indeed. That little stunt she pulled after her so-called ‘hero career’ ended. She made everyone believe she was dead—her friends, her family, even the people she’d worked with. But the truth is, she’s been hiding from me. Hiding because she knows I’ll never stop hunting her. Not while I’m still breathing.”

Your heart hammered in your chest. This was worse than you could have imagined. Moretti was unraveling everything you’d fought so hard to bury. Every secret, every lie, coming to the surface in the worst way possible.

Bakugo’s gaze never left you, his expression a mixture of disbelief, anger, and hurt. “Why?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I had no choice,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to stay calm. “Moretti was looking for me. He had connections everywhere. I couldn’t let him find me, so I made them believe I was dead. I had to disappear. I couldn’t risk anyone else getting hurt.”

He leaned closer, his grin widening. “Your precious Nova here is the reason I rotted in prison for six years. She testified against me. She took everything from me.”

You struggled against the ropes, your voice steady despite the tremble in your body. “You don’t deserve to find her. After everything you’ve done, after all the lives you’ve destroyed, she’s better off without you.”

Moretti’s smile disappeared, replaced by a dangerous glint in his eyes. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Bakugo snarled, thrashing against his restraints. “You touch her, and I’ll kill you. I swear to god, I’ll rip you apart!”

Moretti glanced at him, amused. “Oh, its not her you should be worried about Dynamight. No, I’ll break her—piece by piece— as she watches, until she tells me what I want to know.”

He straightened, motioning to the guard still holding the syringe. “And when she does, I’ll kill her anyway. After all, she’s the reason I lost everything. Call it poetic justice.”

The guard stepped closer to Bakugo, gripping his arm, and panic surged through you. “Moretti, if you hurt him, you’ll never find her,” you said quickly, your voice rising.

That gave him pause. He raised a hand, signaling the guard to stop, and turned to you with narrowed eyes. 

“You know I’m the only one who knows where she is,” you said, forcing yourself to keep calm. “If you kill him—or push me too far—you’ll lose any chance of finding her. Forever.”

Moretti’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable. He leaned in close, his voice a low growl. “Then start talking. Or I’ll make sure you wish I’d killed you instead.”

Beside you, Bakugo’s crimson eyes blazed with rage and desperation. “Don’t tell him anything!” he shouted. “He’s lying—he’ll kill you no matter what!”

But you weren’t ready to give up. Not yet. You had to play this carefully, or neither of you would make it out alive.

Taking a deep breath, you looked up at him. “She’s dead.” 

Moretti froze, his eyes narrowing, his hand still suspended in the air, ready to give another order. The silence that followed felt like an eternity. Bakugo's furious protests faded into the background as Moretti processed your words.

“What did you just say?” Moretti’s voice was low, dangerously calm.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to hold your ground. “She’s dead. Milly’s gone.”

Moretti’s gaze turned icy, a flicker of disbelief flashing across his features. “You’re lying,” he hissed. “You’re just trying to buy yourself time.”

But the raw edge of fear in his eyes gave him away. He was already questioning everything.

“I’m not lying,” you said, your voice unwavering despite the terror clawing at your chest. “I knew you’d come for her. After I received your little ‘gift,’ I realized I had to act. She didn’t deserve a life with you as her father, so I did what had to be done.”

Moretti’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “What are you talking about? What did you do?”

“She’s in a place now where you’ll never reach her,” you continued, your words cold, resolute. “A place where you can’t hurt her anymore.”

Moretti’s expression twisted into a snarl. “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

The room seemed to grow colder at the intensity of Moretti’s roar. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, and his breathing quickened as his eyes locked onto you, as if trying to burn a hole through you with sheer force of will.

You held his gaze, knowing full well what you had just said would push him beyond the edge. “I did what I had to do,” you repeated, your voice firm even as your heart hammered in your chest. “She’s gone, Moretti. I made sure she was safe. You will never find her. No one will. She’s in a place where you can’t touch her anymore.”

Moretti’s chest heaved, his anger mounting with each word you spoke. “No,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. “No, you didn’t. You didn’t do this. You didn’t kill my daughter.”

“I did,” you said, the weight of your lies sinking deep into your chest. “I made sure she was free of you. From your cruelty, your obsession. I couldn’t let her grow up under the shadow of someone like you. You’re a monster, Moretti. And she didn’t deserve that life.”

Moretti’s face twisted in fury, his eyes wild with disbelief. He took a step toward you, the threat of violence hanging in the air. “You’re lying. You’re lying to protect yourself. Tell me where she is. NOW.”

The guard, still holding Bakugo's arm, prepared the needle, but you hadn't noticed. You were focused on Moretti—the man who had destroyed so many lives, including his own daughter’s. You didn’t back down.

“She’s gone, Moretti,” you repeated, your voice colder now. “I ended her suffering. And now you’ll never get your hands on her. Not now, not ever.”

The silence in the room was suffocating, thick with the heavy realization settling in Moretti’s mind. His jaw clenched, his muscles trembling with barely contained rage, but there was something else there, something darker: desperation. He had nothing left to hold onto.

“You think I’ll let you get away with this?” he growled, taking another step forward, his hand reaching out as if to strike you. But something in your eyes, something in your stance, seemed to hold him at bay. For a brief moment, the fury in his eyes faltered.

“You already lost her,” you said, your voice low, cold with the finality of it all. “And now, the only thing left to you is vengeance.”

The guard beside Bakugo glanced nervously at Moretti, who was seething with rage, but it was clear he was struggling to process the depth of what you had just said. His emotions were a storm, a swirl of grief and anger, confusion and disbelief.

“Take her down the hall,” Moretti commanded, his voice sharp and final as the guard moved from Bakugo to your side.

You glanced over at Bakugo, watching his face twist in confusion and fury as he processed the weight of your words. His protests grew louder, his anger mounting with each passing second. But the guard was relentless, yanking you to your feet and dragging you toward the door.

You didn’t know if you’d ever see Bakugo again, but in that moment, you knew this was the only way. Moretti would stop at nothing to get what he wanted—he’d torture you until you spoke. So, you had given him the answer he was desperate for.

Now, all you could do was hope. Hope that while Moretti took his time with you, it would give Bakugo the chance to escape, to find a way out before it was too late.

---

TAGLIST: @emmaafinchh@faetoraa@iissza@theasgardianmexican @cax-per

[goblinontour]

Tourniquet

to destroy, in essence, himself

part 2

warnings: angst, death (implied suicide), grief, some mentions of smut

word count: 3.1k

It had been years. God, how many years now? And yet, somehow, it still felt like yesterday. Every morning he woke up thinking about it, replaying it all in his head, like some film reel stuck on loop. You. Always you. He still didn’t think he could ever be the same as he was before you. The thought of you had become a constant companion, lingering like a shadow he couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried. He wished he could. Sometimes. But other times, the thought of forgetting you altogether, of erasing you from his mind, made him sick with guilt. He hated himself for ever thinking that. Of wishing you would disappear from his mind once and for all. 

What kind of person wanted to forget someone they loved? 

But you had come into his life like a storm. You swept in, disrupted everything, and then left, leaving pieces of him scattered everywhere, pieces he was still trying to gather up and make sense of. You came on like some plaything crippling his mind. He never knew how someone could take over his mind so completely, yet here he was, haunted by the ghost of you. You were in everything, even when you weren’t there. Especially when you weren’t there. At night, he swore he could still smell your perfume, that faint scent that used to cling to your skin, your hair, the pillow you once shared. The pillow wasn’t even the same one anymore, but it didn’t matter. It was like your memory was branded into everything. Into his sheets, into his thoughts, into his very being.

He used to change the sheets constantly at the beginning, desperate to rid himself of that reminder of you. Sometimes he’d strip the bed after just one night spent on them, throwing the covers into the wash, because your scent permeated and he couldn’t stand it. He was more so trying to scrub away at the memories like they were something tangible he could rinse away. But no matter how many times he cleaned them, your presence clung to the air, suffocating him. He couldn’t escape it. 

And he hated himself for it. Hated that he wanted to forget. Hated that he couldn’t. It was this constant push and pull inside him, this battle between the need to move on and the fear that moving on meant losing you for good. There was so much guilt. About that, but also about everything else. Every. Fucking. Thing.

He liked to tell himself that he had tried. In his heart, he believed he had. He had tried to be what you needed. He had tried to be the victim of all your hatred instead of that victim being yourself. He had tried to be your anchor, your calm in the chaos. Your tourniquet, something to stop the bleeding when it all became too much for you. He had begged you, begged you to take it out on him, to let him carry the weight instead of you. He would have let you break him if it meant saving you. He thought maybe he could handle it. He thought he was strong enough.

But he wasn’t. Probably not. Not even close.

Not as strong as you were.

And you didn’t even give him the chance. You never gave him that chance. It felt like you never believed in him, not really. He knew that wasn’t true, deep down. But it hurt too much. It was easier to tell himself that you didn’t trust him, that you didn’t want him to help. He built up walls of excuses in his mind until reality blurred and twisted, until the truth was something he couldn’t even recognize anymore. His reality melted into nothingness. 

And maybe that was the worst part of it all. Not that you had left, but that in the end, he wasn’t sure he even knew who either of you were. Not really. You were gone, and he was left to wonder whether you had ever truly been there at all.

He never wanted it to end like this.

Not like this, not with so many unfinished pieces scattered between the two of you. There were parts of you he hadn’t even had the chance to touch, parts he hadn’t uncovered, and that thought. That thought ate away at him. There had been so much more to know, so much more to share. He had thought you both had time. But you were gone before he could even understand you properly, let alone know the depths of you.

Not even close to how much he wanted. Not even close to how much he thought he would.

He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t. Why you would leave like that, disappear without a real explanation, without giving him something to hold onto. You hadn’t just left him. You’d left him with questions. Endless questions that had no answers, and it fucked with his mind. Why couldn’t he make sense of it? Why couldn’t he find some shred of logic in what happened, some piece of reasoning that would help him make peace with it?

It gnawed at him, the shame of not knowing. Of not understanding. He felt like he should have. If he really knew you, if he really loved you, wouldn’t he have understood? Wouldn’t he have seen it coming? That’s what the world would say, right? That people leave signs, that you should be able to see the fractures before they break wide open. But he hadn’t seen it. He didn’t see any of it, and that made him feel like a failure.

He felt ashamed of himself ever since. Ashamed that he hadn’t known you the way he thought he did, ashamed that he hadn’t been enough to make you stay.

And that shame had bled into everything. Into how he saw himself, into how he saw other people. He stopped believing in himself somewhere along the way. Lost any faith he’d once had in his own worth. The self-doubt crept in, made a home in his head. If he hadn’t been enough for you, then who would he ever be enough for? He didn’t even try to answer that anymore.

He didn’t believe in anyone, for that matter. Not really. Because if you could just do that, leave without a word, without giving him a chance to make things right, then who was to say anyone else wouldn’t do the same? It all seemed pointless now. Every relationship, every conversation, every attempt at connection. It was all just one long road to disappointment. 

How could you just do that? How could you leave him there, alone with his thoughts, with nothing but the memory of you to keep him company?

And how was he supposed to just…what? Get over it? Move on like it hadn’t happened? Like he wasn’t torn in two? Or three? Or a million pieces?

People said time would heal him. People said that all the time. But what did they know? He felt like a ghost, moving through the days like he was still alive, still functioning, but not really there. He saw people, heard their words, went through the motions of living, but none of it seemed real. He wasn’t real, not anymore.

Not since you left.

It was as if you had taken a part of him with you, something vital that he needed to exist fully. And now, without it, without you, he was just…hollow. There was no other way to explain it. He wasn’t broken in a way that you could see. He still looked the same on the outside, still spoke and laughed in the right moments, but on the inside, he was all empty space. A shell.

And maybe that was how it was going to be from now on. Maybe that’s what he had to accept.

That this was him now.

Because how could he ever be the same when you had been everything?

“Tell me if it hurts.” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath as he leaned over her, trying to focus, to stay present. But the second the words left his mouth, his mind betrayed him. In an instant, it was you he was seeing. You, beneath him. Your face, your touch, your voice. And the weight of it all crashed down on him, suffocating and inescapable.

Even with another woman in his bed now, her skin warm against his, her hands softly grazing his back, he was back in that place. Back with you. And in that moment, he hated himself more than he ever had. For leading her on, for letting her believe there was something more, something real between them when all he was doing was trying to fill the void you left behind.

That wasn’t his intention. He never wanted to put anyone through the mess he had become, never wanted to drag someone else into his brokenness. But he had convinced himself, just for a while, that maybe he could do it. Maybe he could make it work. She was nice. God, she was so nice. The kind of nice that made him feel guilty for even being here with her, knowing full well that his heart wasn’t in it. But she managed to make him smile. More than he thought he was capable of anymore. She was kind, and she made things feel light in a way that surprised him. 

For a while, that was enough. He managed to go through the motions, managed to keep the physical side of things at bay. But it had been a while, and even he could feel the tension building, the unspoken need hanging in the air between them. It wasn’t like he didn’t feel it too. The desire, the longing, the simple human need for it. For sex. For some connection. But every time they got close, every time it seemed like they might cross that line, something in him recoiled. He’d push it off with excuses, delaying the inevitable. He wasn’t ready. But how could he explain that without admitting the truth? Without saying your name?

Until tonight. Tonight, he thought maybe he could do it. That maybe he could forget long enough to be here, really be here, with someone else. So he let things go further. Let his hands roam over her skin, let himself get caught up in the moment.

“Tell me if it hurts.” he had whispered to her as he pushed inside for the very first time, his lips close to her ear.

And just like that, the past hit him like a wave. 

How many times had he said that to you? Those exact words. “Tell me if it hurts, baby, please tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.” He’d wrapped his love for you and offered it. He’d begged you. Every time, he begged. For you to let him in. Not just physically, but in every way. He wanted to know all of you, the hidden pieces, the locked doors. He wanted to understand you the way no one else had. He wanted to be the one you trusted with your pain, your fears, your scars. He wanted you to tell him when it hurt, and he wanted to be the one to make it better.

But you never did. You never let him all the way in, and now here he was, broken and aching, still trying to figure out why. 

His body was here, but his mind…It was somewhere else entirely. And he couldn’t even look at the woman in front of him. He couldn’t make himself focus on her, couldn’t pull his thoughts out of the past long enough to remember where he was. His gaze drifted off into the blur of his own emotions, clouded by memories and regret.

It wasn’t until she touched his face, her hands gentle but firm, that he realised he was crying. She gripped his chin, forcing him to look at her, and that’s when he felt the wetness on his cheeks, tasted the salt on his lips. He blinked, but the tears kept coming. 

“Hey.” she whispered, her voice soft but steady. “Stop. Look at me.”

He couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes, to acknowledge the confusion, the hurt that must have been there. But her grip tightened slightly, grounding him, and he had no choice but to face her.

That’s when he realised. He wasn’t just crying. He was sobbing.

A raw, guttural sound escaped his throat, a sound he hadn’t even known he was capable of making. And it all came crashing down on him. Everything he had buried, everything he had tried to forget. The memories of you, the loss, the endless, gnawing grief that had been eating away at him for what felt like forever. It was all right there, sitting in his chest like a weight he couldn’t carry anymore.

She didn’t say anything at first. She just held his face, brushing her thumb gently against his cheek, wiping away the tears even as they kept falling.

“I’m sorry.” he choked out, his voice breaking. He couldn’t even explain what he was apologising for. Whether it was for using her as a distraction, or for being too broken to give her what she deserved, or for still loving someone he couldn’t have.

She didn’t ask him to explain. She just sighed softly, her expression softening as she leaned in and pressed her forehead to his. 

“It’s okay.” she whispered, though they both knew it wasn’t. But there was nothing else she could say. Nothing that could make it right. So she just stayed there, holding him in the quiet of the room, letting him fall apart in her hands.

And in the silence, he realised just how broken he really was.

He’d softened inside her almost as quickly as the tears had started to fall. He felt the shift, the way his body gave up even before his mind fully registered what was happening. It was like his body had betrayed him, buckling under the weight of everything he’d been holding back. He hadn’t expected it. This sudden, overwhelming wave that hit him all at once. He never saw it coming. 

And it was the first time. The first time he actually cried since you. 

Not when he got the call. Not when he heard the words he couldn’t comprehend, the news that felt too unreal to sink in. Not at your funeral, when he stood at the back, too numb to feel anything, too shattered to even look at your coffin without feeling like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He barely made it through that day. He didn’t speak, didn’t cry, didn’t break. He couldn’t. 

Not in the days after, not in the months when everything had turned into a hollow blur, when your absence became a dull ache he carried with him everywhere. Not in the years since, when he thought he’d buried it all deep enough to move on, deep enough to function. He hadn’t shed a single tear through all of that. Not until now. 

Why now?

Why did it have to happen now, in the arms of someone who had nothing to do with any of it? Someone who had only ever shown him kindness, patience, understanding? She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve to be dragged into the wreckage of what you left behind to spoil and for flies to lay their eggs on like they did on you. He felt like the cruellest man alive for bringing her into it, for thinking he could pretend for even a second that this would be normal. That he could be normal.

He hated you for it. 

He hated you more in that moment than he ever had before. For all of it. For leaving, for the mess you’d left in your wake, for the hole you had punched into his life that he was still trying to patch up. And now, he hated you for making him do this to her. For making him drag another person into the chaos. For making him believe, even for a fleeting moment, that he was ready to be with someone else when it was painfully obvious that he wasn’t. 

She didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve to be with someone who was so completely broken. Some hollow excuse of a man who couldn’t even make love to her after wasting months of her time. Months of her life spent trying to bring him out of his darkness, months spent making him laugh, making him feel human again, and what did she get in return? This. A sobbing, trembling mess of a man who couldn’t even stay present enough to be with her.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. The shame, the guilt. It was too much. He could feel her eyes on him, her hands still holding his face, her thumb still wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop. She wasn’t angry. He wished she was. He wished she would push him away, tell him to leave, scream at him for wasting her time. But she didn’t. 

She just stayed there, her forehead resting against his, her breath steady even as his came in ragged gasps.

“I’m sorry.” he whispered again, choking on the words. They felt inadequate, but they were all he had. What else could he say? What could possibly make this right?

“I know.” she murmured, her voice so soft, it only made the tears come harder. 

He pulled away, rolling onto his back, his chest heaving as he stared up at the ceiling, blinking through the tears that blurred his vision. It felt like all the years of grief he’d bottled up, all the pain he’d refused to feel, had chosen this moment. this exact, cruel moment, to pour out of him.

Why did it have to be her? Why did she have to be the one to break the dam? She deserved better than this. Better than him. Better than the mess he had become.

“I can’t…” he started, but the words broke off into a sob. “I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure if she even knew what to say. But she didn’t move. She didn’t get up, didn’t leave him alone in the bed that now felt like a battleground between his past and his present. Instead, she just stayed beside him, quiet and still, as if she understood. As if she knew that this was never really about her.

It was about you.

It had always been about you.

And he wasn’t sure if he would ever stop hating you for that.

a/n: i know i posted earlier today but i just started writing this tonight and subsequently finished it and i want to get it out and get it out of my mind before i think about it too much. i’m not sure anyone would even be interested in reading it. it’s based off the song “Tourniquet” by Marilyn Manson and this is just what my mind made from listening to it. the song itself is really personal to me and this is what came from that so yeah. i’m not gonna bother with the tags i really cba rn. bye.

[darth-mortem]

Here is the first chapter of fic I write for PriceGhostWeek2024

“Bravo-6, what's your status?” Price heard in the earpiece of his radio and closed his eyes for a second, leaning heavily against the wall. “Bravo-6, how copy? Do you copy?”

“Affirmative.” The captain exhaled hoarsely, covering the wound on his thigh with his palm. “All units, move out from the facility to the exfil point. Don't wait for me. That's an order. Copy that?”

For a few seconds, the only sound in the earpiece was the crackling of interference, and then the battle group commanders began to confirm receiving the new order in turn. Even through the interference, Price could hear the desperation and disagreement in their voices, but the task was completed, the bombs were planted, the timer was started, and soon the entire complex, which the terrorists had turned into a secret base and ammunition depot, would explode. In addition, the storm was getting worse by the minute, and if the soldiers didn't hurry, the helicopter might not be able to pick them up.

“Rog.” The absolutely emotionless voice of Lieutenant Riley was the last to sound, and Price slid heavily down the wall to the floor, as if the realization that it was all over for him had only come now, and not before, when he had lost his battle group, when he had been shot, and when he was in a dead end, surrounded by enemies.

“Good luck, lads.” He said. “Bravo-6 going dark.”

You can keep reading here or on the Ao3

There was silence. No, of course, voices could be heard from behind the barricaded door, some clatter and noise, but it all came to the captain as if from afar. He sat there, thinking that he needed to put a tourniquet on and bandage his wound, but he didn't move. What's the point if it's all over in twenty minutes? Maybe it would be even better if he lost consciousness before everything exploded.

Suddenly, something changed outside the door. The angry voices turned into panicked ones, and then there were shots and screams of people who were obviously ending their lives in very painful ways.

Price gathered his strength and forced himself to open his eyes, fighting off the deadly cold that had already begun to stiffen his body. He thought again about the tourniquet, but before he could do anything, an explosion occurred. At first, the captain involuntarily shrank back, but quickly realized that it was not over. The timer on his wrist continued to tick away the seconds, and the room was filled with acrid smoke, from which emerged the burly figure of a man whose face was hidden by a blood-covered skull mask.

“Ghost?” Price wheezed in disbelief.

“Affirmative.” The lieutenant replied calmly, hiding the knife covered with blood in the sheath on his chest.

“What the hell are you doing? I ordered you to go to the exfil!” The captain tried to frown, but unexpected relief gripped him so hard that he involuntarily shivered. 

“Do you really want to discuss this now, sir?” Riley knelt down, opened the first aid kit, and began to quickly apply a tourniquet to Price's leg. “You can court-martial me. I don't care.”

Ghost took out an auto-injector, removed the cap, and injected the drug into the captain's thigh with a sharp movement. The pain and weakness receded, and he reached out and grabbed the lieutenant's shoulder.

“I will if these bloody bombs go off before we get out of here.” Price said with a crooked smile on his lips.

“Then we'd better hurry.” Ghost threw the captain's arm over his shoulder, jerked him to his feet, and they ran as fast as they could for the exit.

Price saw corpses. Lots of corpses. Twisted necks, broken spines, slit throats, faces turned into a mess; bone fragments and pools of blood; shell casings and throwing knives that Ghost had left in the bodies of his eliminated enemies in a hurry...

The captain read his classified file. He knew exactly what Lieutenant Riley had done in Mexico. But it was one thing to know and quite another to see how one man had methodically and cold-bloodedly killed everyone who stood in his way, regardless of the number of enemies or their weapons.

After another run, Price realized that they were close to being rescued but also that there was not much time left. He and Riley had to cross a huge two-level loading dock, and there were more than enough terrorists here. They seemed unable to determine the target of the enemy's infiltration of their base and found no bombs, but they decided to move their arsenal just in case and were now loading it onto trucks and ships.

Price and Riley looked at each other. They both knew that they couldn't let the terrorists carry out their plans, because that would mean the unit would have to go out again to eliminate them.

“We don't have much time.” Ghost said, looking at the timer. “But I can try to hold them off if you have my back, sir.”

The captain looked at his leg. The bandage was reddened with blood, but not as much as it could have been: the lieutenant had done a great job with first aid. Despite this, he could see how many enemies were down there, and at some point he wanted to say, ‘negative, let's just get out of here.’ If he had been alone, he might have done so, but now he had a lieutenant with him: the new guy in the unit, the one no one liked, the one who was the only one who had come back for him, his commanding officer, even though he had never given any reason for such affection.

“Go ahead, Ghost.” Price decided and held out his hand. “Give me your Remington and take my M4. I have two magazines left.”

“No need, sir.” The lieutenant placed his sniper rifle in the captain’s hands, and he was sure Riley smiled under his mask before rushing to the stairs leading down from the service bridges.

Ghost was a tall and burly man, but Price had lost sight of him by the time the lieutenant acted. When he saw the smoke bombs explode in three places, he pressed his cheek against Riley’s Remington butt and peered through the scope. The captain couldn't see what was happening through the smoke, so he concentrated on shooting the enemies that remained in sight. Riley probably had his thermal imager down and was using a knife or his Beretta M92 with a suppressor to stay invisible to the enemy until the smoke cleared. The captain was watching what was happening below so closely that he didn't hear the approach and jerked when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Now it's time for us to go.” Riley exhaled hoarsely, and Price noticed that he was now covered in even more blood; he could only hope that it belonged to his enemies.

Ghost helped the captain up again, and they ran for the exit. There was very little time left, so when something exploded behind them, Price involuntarily flinched, but from Riley's lack of reaction, he realized that it was his way of stopping the loading.

After leaving the base, the captain and lieutenant found themselves in the middle of a storm. With no more than seven minutes left on the timer, Ghost showed his feelings for the first time: he cursed and easily hoisted Price onto his shoulders, then ran to the exfil point as fast as he could. The captain realized that they were already too late, but he remained silent, focusing on staying conscious as the effects of the drug the lieutenant had injected him with were beginning to wear off.

Hour ‘X’ found the fugitives on the halfway. A bright flash cut through the thick veil of the storm, and Ghost managed to fall to the wet ground, covering the captain with his body, before an explosive wave of fierce power swept over them, scattering debris and branches of the few trees that grew in this place forgotten by God and the devil.

[itacats]

Rain of Shadows

FT: Simon x gn!reader

Warnings: Graphic depictions of interrogation and violence, Psychological manipulation and trauma, Moral ambiguity and themes of guilt, use of code name for reader, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

SUM: In the sterile confines of an interrogation room, lines blur between necessity and cruelty as your descent into darkness reveals a side of you the others hadn't anticipated. The weight of your actions fractures the team's perception, leaving the air heavy with unease and unspoken questions.

A/N: Let's explore the extremes of moral ambiguity and the toll it takes on the psyche. Writing this felt like balancing on a knife’s edge—delving into darkness but tethered to purpose. ⚔️🌑

Rain of Shadows Masterlist

Part 5 - A Descent into the Abyss

The interrogation room was stark and unfeeling, illuminated by the flickering glare of fluorescent lights that buzzed like an incessant reminder of the unnatural atmosphere. The metallic tang of blood and sweat mingled with the palpable tension that gripped the air. Bound and defiant, the enemy sat before you, his body battered but his resolve unbroken.

Captain Price leaned casually against the wall, his arms crossed, and his eyes locked onto the man like a predator assessing its prey. "You don’t understand the situation you’re in," Price said, his deep voice resonating through the room. "I suggest you start talking."

The man’s response came in the form of a sharp refusal, a spark of rebellion flickering in his bruised eyes. Price’s expression hardened, his patience thinning, but before he could speak again, Simon Riley—Ghost—stepped forward.

Ghost’s presence alone was enough to chill the air. His cold, unyielding reputation was earned, and every deliberate step he took was a reminder of what he was capable of. You watched as he began his work, his voice low and sharp, each word accompanied by a punishing strike. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed in the sterile room, but still, the enemy refused to yield.

A shadow passed over you—not fear, but something darker. You could feel the weight of the room shifting, the futility of Ghost’s efforts stirring something primal within you. It wasn’t frustration but a sick, thrumming anticipation. You exchanged a glance with Price, a silent question passing between you asking for permission, for approval.

Price sighed, the lines on his face deepening as if the weight of his decision was crushing him. "I hoped it wouldn’t come to this," he murmured, his voice heavy with resignation. "Do what you must."

The words were an unspoken release. A twisted thrill coursed through your veins as you stepped forward, the dim lights catching the cold steel blade you picked up from the table. Its edge gleamed, and so did your smirk as you addressed the room.

"Gentlemen, if you’d rather not see the extent of my expertise, now’s the time to leave."

Neither Price nor Simon moved, their gazes fixed on you. There was no turning back now.

You approached the bound man, crouching to meet his eye level. The defiance on his face faltered slightly, confusion and fear warring for dominance as he registered your calm demeanor.

"You know," you began conversationally, "this could all be over if you just cooperate. But if not…" You trailed off, running the blade lightly across the fabric of his sleeve. "Well, we’ll make a game of it. Call it… a puzzle. Isn’t that fun?" A soft chuckle escaped your lips, as the enemy’s brow furrowed, confusion mixing with dread.

His voice trembled as he replied, "You think you can break me?"

"Sweetheart, what I’m about to do is going to hurt you much more than it’ll hurt me, but just know that when it rains, it pours," you quipped.

You sliced through his shirt, the fabric parting like water under the blade. Each of the makeshift tourniquets you fashioned from the sleeves was fastened around his arms with practiced ease, cutting off the blood flow. 

You could hear the sharp intakes of breath from Simon and Price, confusion clouding their expressions. "I want information, and I’ll be damned if this guy can’t handle a little torture before I get what I want." You smirked, feeling a sense of control wash over you as you delved deeper. You could feel Simon’s gaze burning into your back, but you didn’t turn. This moment wasn’t about him.

The first cut was shallow, deliberate—a thin red line trailing down one of the enemy’s arms. He flinched, the sharp intake of his breath echoing louder than the blade’s whisper.

"Did you know," you mused, making another precise incision, "the human skin has about 2 square meters of surface area? That’s a lot of room for… exploration."

The man’s composure began to crack as you worked, each slice more deliberate than the last. The blade danced over muscle and sinew, peeling back layers both literal and psychological, a visceral truth of human fragility laid bare before your eyes. Each cry of pain only spurred you on, your commentary laced with dark humor, naming each muscle and bone you severed.

"Fascinating, isn’t it?" you murmured, carving a jagged line across his chest. “Your bicep here? It has two heads. I wonder how it feels when one’s—" You chuckled, "—not so connected anymore."

Behind you, the atmosphere shifted. Price’s stoic facade wavered, and even Simon seemed unnerved, his broad shoulders tense as he observed your work in silence. Their discomfort hung thick in the air, but you barely noticed.

The enemy’s defiance shattered completely as you pressed on, his screams turning to desperate pleas. He gasped out fragmented sentences, the information spilling forth like the blood from his wounds.

When his words faltered, you leaned closer, your voice a low purr. "That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

The man shuddered, his body trembling with shock and pain. He managed a feeble attempt at defiance—a weak glob of spit aimed in your direction—but it barely reached past his chin.

"Pathetic," you muttered, your voice dripping with disdain. Without hesitation, you raised the blade and drew it cleanly across his throat.

His body jerked once, twice, before slumping in the chair, lifeless. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the sterile floor with the weight of your actions.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the distant hum of the overhead lights. You turned to face Price and Ghost, your expression unreadable. The faint glint in your eyes spoke of something unspoken—a hunger that had been momentarily sated but lingered still.

Price’s jaw tightened, his gaze hard as he studied you. "You got what we needed," he said finally, though his tone carried a warning.

Ghost remained silent, his dark eyes boring into yours. There was no judgment in his gaze, only a quiet intensity that seemed to see straight through you.

You met their stares with a faint smirk, wiping the blade clean on a rag. "Sometimes, you have to embrace the darkness to protect the light," you said simply.

As you left the room, the bloodstains on your hands felt more metaphorical than literal—a mark of what you’d done, and of the line you’d crossed. Somewhere deep inside, you knew there was no going back.

Taglist:

If you would like to be tagged in this story, let me know!

@jessicab1991

@burningarcadething

Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!

[jasclearwaters]

Learn to Fly

Robert Irwin x Surfer! OC

Summary: After a life-changing event, Kendra is forced to adjust to a new reality. When an unexpected invitation from Robert Irwin arrives, she must navigate the challenges of recovery, her relationships, and what comes next.

Warnings: injury, emotional distress

Part One

If there was one thing I couldn’t live without, it was surfing. There was nothing like being on the water, just me and the waves, every rise and fall syncing with my body like it was all meant to be. Nothing else gave me that feeling. Nothing.

It was another typical day at the beach. Gabbie and I were out in the water, but we stopped surfing a while ago. Now we were just floating in the shallow water, watching my dad ride the waves with her older brother. Josh, on the other hand, was on the beach, all over his girlfriend Ashlund like usual.

"Do you think he's gonna be like this forever?" I asked, rolling my eyes at Josh and Ashlund, who were practically glued together. They’d been like this since they started dating. Josh didn’t want to surf anymore, didn’t want to hang out with Gabbie and me. It was getting old, fast.

“I sure hope not, ‘cause this is just gross,” Gabbie said, laughing at my exaggerated grimace. She knew all about my crush on him, even if Josh was clueless.

"I don’t get it. She's so boring. I never see them laughing together. We used to laugh all the time," I said, sighing as dramatically as I could.

“Don’t worry. He’ll come crawling back. We’ll just look like we’re having the time of our lives, and he’ll get jealous.”

I started to ask how we were going to pull that off, but Gabbie beat me to it. She splashed me hard enough to soak me from head to toe. Oh, it was on. We had this unspoken rule—we didn’t really care about winning, just about having fun. We went back and forth until we couldn’t anymore.

I glanced over at Josh again, but he didn’t even seem to notice us. My stomach sank. Gabbie caught the look on my face.

“Let’s just go to Kalypso’s without him,” she said, “and not bring him back a drink.”

It was the perfect plan. We were about to head back to shore when I felt something rough brush against my leg. Probably a sea turtle, I thought, but I didn’t think much of it.

Then I felt a pull. At first, I thought it was just one of those annoying pranks Malia, Gabbie’s niece, loved pulling—grabbing our legs to drag us under. But the tug wasn’t playful. It was strong and sharp, and when it yanked me under, the panic hit. That wasn’t Malia. That was a shark.

I looked down, and sure enough, it had a chunk of me in its mouth. I swung my fist, aiming for its nose, but when I made eye contact with its black, beady eyes, I froze. The shark twisted side to side like it was shaking a rope. And then I saw the blood. The water around me was turning pink.

I barely remember much after that, just flashes—Gabbie screaming for help, warning everyone about the shark. I could hear my dad and Joseph getting closer, their voices frantic as they yelled at Gabbie to get out of the water. I wanted to scream, too, but the pain was too much.

I could see Gabbie’s face, her eyes wide with terror. She looked at me for a split second, but then she didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her board and started hitting the shark with everything she had. It let go.

I didn’t feel the shark bite me. I didn’t even feel the pain anymore. I just felt numb. I didn’t feel anything when my dad and Joseph dragged me to shore or when Josh used his leash to tie a tourniquet around my leg. The leg I wouldn’t have anymore.

The ambulance came fast. I still don’t remember most of it. I held onto my dad like he told me to, but all I could think was that my surfing career—everything I cared about—was gone.

---

It’s been two months since the attack, and somehow, that wild moment turned into this whole movement. The clip Gabbie recorded in my hospital room was meant as a quick update for our friends—just a two-minute thing where I explained how I was fine, that it was just a shark doing what sharks do. But it spread faster than any of us expected. The local news picked it up first, then some bigger outlets, and soon strangers from everywhere were tagging me in posts, turning my words into some message about resilience and protecting marine life.

Nat Geo even reached out. Reporters called, organizations tagged me in shark conservation posts, and by the time I left the hospital, it felt like the whole world had an eye on what I’d do next. For a girl who just loved surfing, the attention was bizarre, but a part of me couldn’t help feeling proud. I’d gone through something brutal, and somehow, it had turned into something bigger.

Now I’m home. Dad and I walk into Kalypso’s, the whole place packed with people I know: the bar staff, some of Dad’s buddies from the fire station, the kids I used to teach in surf classes, even old high school friends. Everyone is there, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels almost normal.

Jake, Kalypso’s owner, is the first to spot me, pulling me into a huge hug. “There she is! The girl of the hour!” he says, grinning, and I feel that familiar warmth from all the years we’ve spent in this place. Soon, Dad’s friends are slapping him on the back, talking about how they couldn’t believe he’d raised such a “local legend,” while kids I used to teach surf lessons to run up for high fives, all excited and starry-eyed.

Then I spot Gabbie and Josh standing in the back, and they rush over. Gabbie hugs me so tightly I can barely breathe, her voice already breaking. “You have no idea how proud I am of you,” she whispers. Josh, who’s usually got a laugh or some dumb joke ready, just gives me a quiet hug, and I sense something’s off, but I brush it aside. I’m home, surrounded by the people I love. That’s all that matters tonight.

---

A few days later, I’m back at the beach, determined to get on my board again. The waves are small, nothing intimidating, and Dad’s here with me, steady and calm, like he’s always been.

But as soon as I try to paddle out, I feel the difference. My balance is shaky, my movements off. The prosthetic feels heavier, like it’s dragging me down, and each wave that crashes against me just throws me further off. I can’t get it right. Frustration bubbles up, and soon, I’m slapping the water, my voice shaking as I mutter, “Come on… just work with me here.”

Dad paddles over, giving me a steady look. “Take it easy, Ken. You’ve been through a lot.”

But the words just make me feel worse. I don’t want to “take it easy”—I want to feel normal again. My whole life, the ocean has been where I felt most at home, and now it feels like a stranger. I swallow back the frustration, watching the waves roll on without me, wondering if I’ll ever truly belong here again.

---

Later, as I’m heading back to my car, still damp and salty from the ocean, I spot Ashlund leaning against her truck in the parking lot. She watches me for a second, then pushes off and walks toward me with her phone in hand. She doesn’t bother with small talk—just holds it out, her face unreadable.

“Here,” she says, her tone flat.

I frown but take the phone, glancing down. A video is paused on the screen, and I already feel a sinking feeling in my stomach. I hit play, and there it is—Josh and Gabbie, on a beach, laughing together, her leaning into him. And then, clear as day, they’re kissing.

I don’t have words. Just this hollow feeling growing in my chest. I hand the phone back, and Ashlund raises an eyebrow, looking almost smug.

“Thought you’d want to know,” she says, her voice laced with something sharp.

I walk away, numb. For so long, I’ve been focused on staying strong, on pushing through the pain and finding my way back to the things I love. But this? This feels like a different kind of hurt.

---

That night, I sit alone in my room, staring at my surfboard, wondering if I’ll ever ride the waves the way I used to. I feel raw, as though the ocean has slipped away from me just when I need it most. And two of the people I thought would be there for me, are gone too.

Just as I’m sinking into that hollow feeling, my phone buzzes with a notification. It’s an email from a sender I don’t recognize, but the subject catches my eye immediately: “Steve Irwin Gala Invitation.”

I open it, my pulse quickening as I read the details. The invitation is to a gala in Las Vegas, celebrating wildlife conservation efforts, with Robert Irwin himself as the main speaker. They want me to come as a guest of honor, to speak on my story, and how it’s inspired others.

The ache in my chest lightens, just a little, replaced by a spark of excitement.

TAGS: @nicolej04 @honethatty12 @serenityisanerd @acdassenza @em-writes-posts @serenityisanerd @amanda08319 @x-d1vine @moonlighthycanith @hippiemuppet @sonthingwithl @ajuice-matts @lflores2008 @ac3may

Let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part

[sufrimientilia]

Choices

drugging | poisoning | cannibalism @augusnippets Day 13

cw: non-consensual drug use, addiction, IV drugs, see above

The lighter flicked once, twice, three times. It finally sparked to life with one final kiss against metal and lingered there for a long moment. Saline bubbled and boiled. Powder dissolved in one ugly dirty cloud.

“Do you remember the last time I shot you up?” the motherfucker asked. Like they were having a regular fucking conversation. “You were just begging for it. Tears, snot, and all.”

He shoved hard at the hands grappling him from behind. He already had half of the fight beaten out of him, and now the rest of his submission came from just sheer numbers. Maybe a gun or two pointed in his face.

Maybe a gun or two pointed at her.

“I guess back then you’d do anything for it.” A pinch of cotton thickened and thickened. The gentle slip of a plunger, fingers so practiced they might as well have done it hundreds of times. Golden amber started filling the syringe. “Simpler times, huh?”

“F-ffuck you! Motherfucker!” All those hands slammed him against the table at the start of his outburst and could barely contain him by the end of it. He grit his teeth and struggled, hard enough to be defiant but not hard enough to get himself shot. Sometimes it was a tricky balance.

“I’ll give you a choice. Just like always.” They were undeterred by his violent struggle, just like always. Nothing if not consistent. “This is for you, or it’s for her. You decide.”

The syringe glistened and gleamed, warm and vibrant. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even had a bump of the stuff.

The choice was an obvious one, because it always was. Always forced to make the hard choice, the obvious choice, the one they really wanted. Every single time. “Me, me—” he breathed out, the desperation coming a lot easier than he’d meant. “Give it to me. I want it. Please.”

Pleasepleaseplease. Burning on his tongue, burning on his skin.

He looked right at her. Wide eyes, pale skin, too many guns and too many men. It wasn’t like he had a choice.

He never had a choice.

The same blue rubber tourniquet, the same unnecessary flick against his bulging veins. All of them were scarred over by now. "So damn predictable. I know it's what you really want." Even the acrid breath at his ear tasted the same. "At least you have an enemy out of me, hmm? An easy excuse."

All those damn goons kept him pinned flat against the table as the needle went in. He watched it with a cruel sort of familiarity: his arm stretched before him, straight metal digging under flesh, the flush of blood drawing back into the syringe. Red sprouted and spiraled. And then the gentle push into his vein gave way to warmth, warmth, warmth, and he slipped melted and sunk all at once.

Oh. He’d be a liar if he said it didn’t feel good.

“No…” He could hear her begging and pleading for him. Maybe to him.

He wanted to tell her it was okay, it wasn’t a big deal. He was used to it. Something like ’mnnghghhh’ escaped him instead. It felt nice, too nice, and after a certain point even that was wrong. “No-…, ‘s too much,” he tried, nausea thickening and churning. But the plunger kept pushing. Pushing and pushing and pushing. “S…”

Too much, too much, too much. Twisting and spinning and spiraling until the pleasure turned sick. Too heavy, too violent. The goons let go, let him flatten against the table, left him limp and useless at the whim of one silly syringe left dangling from his forearm. The sight of it just thickened and blurred until it was one ugly blot of color.

“I thought your tolerance was better than that,” a voice said from somewhere far away. Far, far away.

Apparently not.

[guardian-of-da-gay]

Introduction

Sequel to Reunion

Read on Ao3

For Whumptober 2024 Prompt 25: Stitches

tw for permanent injury, amputation, language barriers, stranded

They didn’t cover what to do if you find an unidentifiable species bleeding out beside the road in the middle of the night in vet school.  Or at least, Maddie hadn’t gotten to that part yet.  But they’d covered some basics.

It was clear immediately that the front left limb was unsalvageable.  She wasn’t sure if it qualified as a compound fracture when whatever had broken the bone had also shredded the surrounding soft tissue, but she was sure that the fingers were cool and had no reflex response.  She twisted a hairband around the upper arm as a makeshift tourniquet to staunch the bleeding.  She called Dr. P while Tom drove them to the clinic.

She called Dr. P because he was the oldest doctor at the practice where she interned.  He was an institution, working at the clinic for decades.  He was beloved by all, incredibly smart, had seen everything, and could probably perform surgery in his sleep.  He was also a little bit senile and a lot in denial about it.

Maddie told him her pet monkey was mauled by a coyote.  He’d looked at the red, spiny creature in her arm.  At the strange clothes it wore.  The weird appendages hanging off its head and the protrusions from its knuckles.  And he’d just… nodded.  Sure, this could be a species of monkey he’d forgotten about, but he wouldn’t say as much.  Likely he’d forget the finer details by morning, bless his heart.

The technician, Jade, was another story.  She heard Maddie’s story and looked at her like she was crazy.  Maddie looked back as if to say ‘do you have a better theory?’  But she and Jade had bonded enough during her internship that she knew she’d keep quiet if Maddie asked.  Besides, while the creatures’ species was a mystery, its injuries were not.

Luckily Dr. P hadn’t forgotten how to perform an emergency amputation.  He let Maddie assist so she could learn.  He even let her help with the stitches.  It was an incredible experience that Maddie couldn’t enjoy at all because she didn’t know what this thing was, but it was definitely not a monkey.

“I don’t want to sound like Crazy Carl,” Tom said.  “But I genuinely think it’s an alien.”

He, Maddie, and Jade stood outside the open kennel.  Inside, the strange creature lay recovering on a blanket, over a heating pad.  An IV line connected to a bag outside the cage.  They’d bandaged the amputation site as well as they could.  They’d also had to shave and stitch up several deep lacerations across its face.  Maddie wasn’t sure what had caused its injuries, but she’d guess it wasn’t a coyote.  Maybe if she’d had Dr. P’s experience, she could make an educated guess, but he’d left surgery and promptly fallen asleep in his desk chair.

“It’s a boy,” Jade said.

“How can you tell?”  Maddie tipped her head to the side, examining the patient.  Another one of its (his?) oddities… it wasn’t very obvious whether it was male or female.

“I placed the urinary catheter during surgery.”

“Oh.”  That would do it.

“Do you have a theory of what he could be?”  Tom asked Jade.

She shook her head.  “Whatever he is, he’s not from around here.”

“Like–”

“Not like an alien.  Like an exotic.”  Jade didn’t seem convinced though.

“He was wearing clothes,” Tom reminded her.

They’d taken the clothes off for the surgery, but they were still sitting on one of the exam tables: two ragged sandals, a pair of torn up gloves, a little green, beaded necklace, and some kind of mask made of coconut bark.

“I’ll admit that’s weird,” Jade said.  “But lots of exotic owners are weirdos… Pretty much the more obscure the species, the more weird the owner is gonna be.”

“I mean…” Maddie tried.  “He’s not even proportioned like anything I’ve ever seen…”

“Some lemurs have pretty big heads and eyes.”

“Yeah, but that’s not a lemur tail.  And those claws?”  She pointed to the creatures’ little… hands.  “Those are for digging.  They look like mole claws.  Except with thumbs.”  She looked at Jade as if Jade could conjure answers for her.  “Thumbs!  And a primate shoulder joint complex.  But no visible ears.  Covered in spines.  And bright red?”

“And what are those things supposed to be?”  Tom pointed to the strange, boney spikes protruding from the thing’s knuckles.

“I don’t know!”  Jade threw up her hands in frustration.  “But it can’t be an alien.”

The non-alien jerked upright.  He opened his huge eyes wide, then scrunched them closed.  He listed to the side, blinking slowly.  Dr. P had sedated him as if he were a small primate, but maybe that hadn’t been the right amount.  It’d made Maddie antsy, but the poor little thing would have died for sure if they’d done nothing.

“Bi ‘e?”  The creature mumbled.

Maddie held her breath.  She looked at Tom and Jade and they shared her gaze.  That hadn’t sounded like an animal noise.

The little one lifted his head again and tried to force his eyes open.  He blearily took in the three humans looking in on him.

“Where am I?”  He croaked.

“Oh my God, I knew it!”  Tom gasped.

“I think I’m gonna faint!”  Jade announced, eyes wide as she stared at what was definitely not an escaped exotic pet.

“Go sit down!”  Maddie urged, but she didn’t watch to make sure Jade followed her suggestion.  She turned to the alien (!) and smiled.  “Hey, you’re somewhere safe,” she said.

The alien blinked hard and opened his eyes wide once more.  His purple (purple!) eyes flit around and he seemed to realize at the same moment as Maddie did that he was in a cage.

There was an explosion and suddenly Maddie was flat on her ass.  The alien shot past her like a bullet.  He hit the ground and skidded across the floor before he lost his balance.  He threw out his arms to catch himself, except he only had the one now.  He yelped as he toppled over and fell right onto its injured arm.

They all gasped.  Before Maddie could think of how much that would hurt, the alien shrieked.

He tried to get up, but fell over immediately.  A second try yielded a second failure.  Maddie leapt to her feet, but how could she help?!  The little alien became frantic.  He was… glowing.  Red electricity arced off his body as he flailed, trying to put weight on an arm that wasn’t there anymore.

Maddie ran toward him.  “Oh no, hey, stop–”  Everyone was doing the same: trying to talk, to calm the poor thing down, to get in there and stop him without getting too close to the bizarre lightning coiling off his body.

When the alien finally paused long enough to look and see the missing limb, the electricity stopped and he froze.  They all did.  Slowly the glow faded from his fur.  His rapid breathing did not improve though.  It grew faster.  He couldn’t seem to look away from the place where his arm had been.

Maddie clapped a hand over her mouth.  When they took the limb off they hadn’t thought he was a person.  But he was.  His expressions, so human, were easy to read as he flipped through several emotions at once: shock, fear, denial.

He looked away, then looked back at the stump again.  He looked up, eyes wide and fearful, pupils darting all around, taking in the three humans, the cages, his missing arm, the humans, the cages, the exit, his missing arm again.  His breathing became more and more ragged.  Brows scrunched down as his lips pulled taut.

He sagged, pressing his face into the ground.  Maddie made an hesitant move forward.  Had he fainted?  Then the little creature started to wail.  The sound triggered something in her.  It sounded like a child.

She looked at the tiny body with new eyes.  His proportions were so extreme, she’d assumed his species was just shaped that way but… but it made sense.  This was a child.  A child who had just woken up surrounded by strangers, in a strange place, with one arm gone.

Maddie looked to the others.  They returned her gaze, just as helpless as she was.  But Maddie couldn’t just do nothing!

She slowly approached.  One step, then two, then three.  The child flinched at the fourth.  He looked up, tear-stained fur flatted to his cheeks.  He gasped to see her so close and jerked back.

That frantic look crept back into his eyes as he shifted his weight onto his remaining arm and shoved away.  That got him onto his side.  He kicked with his legs and pushed away from her.  The glow began to grow beneath his fur again.

Maddie cast around for something–ah!  Towels were never far from hand in a vet’s office.  She opened a nearby cabinet and pulled out a big, fluffy one.  It wasn’t electricity-proof, but it was better than nothing.  She slowly approached the struggling child.  He watched her with round, teary eyes filled with dread.

“Mads–” Tom said.

“Careful,” Jade warned.

“It’s okay.” Her reassurance was for all of them, herself included, but mostly for the child.

He cringed as she draped the towel over him.  She slid a hand under his torso and could feel his chest shaking with suppressed sobs.  Very gently, she helped him to sit up.  The shaking eased just slightly.  Still he kept his chin tucked so the towel fell over his head and hid his sniffling. 

Maddie just let him sit for a moment.  On top of all the big things he had to be feeling, he was recovering from anesthesia and severe blood loss.  It was enough to disorient and overwhelm an adult, let alone a little child.

“It’s alright,” she said.  Could he even understand English?  He’d spoken some before, but obviously that wasn’t his first language.  “It’s going to be okay,” she said, keeping her voice soft and gentle, trying to put as much comfort into her tone as she could.  “Hey, it’s going to be okay… What’s your name?  Can you tell me your name?”

“N-no,” the little boy sniffled.

Was ‘no’ an alien word?  His name?  “You can’t tell me your name?”

He lifted his head so the towel slid back and showed his teary eyes.  “No, it’s mine.”

“Oh.”  Maddie glanced over at the other two as if they could explain this.

“Fairy rules?”  Jade proposed in a whisper.

“Oh, what if he’s a fairy?”  Tom asked.  The two women looked at him, unimpressed and he blushed.  “I mean, is that any crazier than aliens?  He speaks English and he glows.  He could totally be a fairy.”

“I am a echidna,” the boy said firmly.  “Echidna.”

Maddie nodded along like this made sense to her.  Really it was a funny coincidence that this alien (not a fairy, she refused to believe that was an option) shared the same name as another spine-y Earth species.  She had so many questions, but she had to focus to keep the kid focused.  Somewhere, someone must have been missing him.

“Where are the other echidna?”  She asked.

The child said nothing, just adjusted the towel to cover his head more.

“Can you tell us where your family is?”  She tried again.  Maybe he didn’t understand what she was asking?  “Are you lost?”

Still, she got no answer.

“Where are you from?”  Tom asked.  Maddie eyed him.  She wasn’t sure that was an important question.  But he quirked a brow at her.  He had an idea.

“F-far away.”

Tom nodded.  “Okay, how did you get here?”  Ah, there it was.  Maybe there was a ship somewhere waiting for this little guy.

“Ring.”

Or not?  “What’s ‘ring’?”  Maddie asked.

“Ring.”  The little boy peeked out of the towel and looked around.  “I…need a ring.”

The little one listed slightly and Maddie readjusted her grip.  “Ring?  Like… to phone someone?  Do you need us to call someone for you?”  How would they even do that?  They would do it.  She would make it happen.  But how?

“No.  Ring to go to a place.”

“Like a spaceship?”  Tom asked, unable to hide the excitement in his tone.

“No,” the kid said very firmly.  “Like a ring.”  He squirmed, fishing his hand out of the towel.  He held it up, his thumb and forefinger held about an inch a part, indicating something small.  “Like a ring.  To go to a place.”

“Like this?”  Jade held up her hand and showed the little guy her wedding ring.

“Not that ring.”

“But like this?”

He nodded and swayed a little in Maddie’s grip.

“How does a ring go to a place?”  Tom asked, like Maddie understood the finer points of alien travel.

“It is small.”  He held up his thumb and forefinger again.  “It is big after.”  He held out his arm and nearly lost his balance.  Maddie righted him.  The child sniffled as he looked down at where his left stump hid under the towel.  It took him a moment to gather himself.

“It’s big after…?” Maddie prompted.  The kid needed time to process, but she was acutely aware that she wasn’t qualified to help with that.  And she just kept thinking that somewhere his family must be worried sick about him.

“You go…”  He moved his hand across himself.  “The other side is a… a different place.”

“Okay,” Tom said, brow furrowed.  “Where is your ring then?”

“I have none,” the boy said.  “You have a ring?”

“Uh…” Tom shook his head.  “We don’t have rings to go to places.”

The towel slid back slightly.  “How... you to go to a different world?”

Maddie had a sinking feeling in her stomach.  “We don’t,” Tom said.  Judging by his expression, he had the same feeling.  “We can’t go to different worlds.”

The towel slid back entirely.  The boy looked between Tom, Jade, and finally to Maddie beside him.

Maddie winced at the fear in his eyes.  “We don’t have rings like that here,” she explained gently.  “We can’t go to different worlds.  We’ve never seen someone like you–an echidna from a different world.”

The little boy opened and closed his mouth, at a loss for words.  This close, Maddie could see the tears welling in his eyes.  “Trapped?”  He asked.

Maddie looked helpless to Tom, but of course he didn’t have any answers either.

“Someone will come looking for you,” she reassured.  “Your family will come find you… Your mom and dad?”

The little boy closed his eyes, tears leaking free.  He shook his head before pressing it down into the towel once more.  “None,” he said.  “I have none.”

[cartwrong]

Whumptober / Day 22 / Tourniquet

"Oh, that's not good."

“Roddy, that’s not fucking helping!” Shirley sneered, and River thought she might strangle the tech expert if her hands weren’t currently covered in River’s blood.

“What? It’s not,” Roddy said, offended as he turned a shade paler.

River didn’t need to be told things were dire; the pain and the large amount of blood staining his jeans were enough to tell him that. Well, that and the bullet hole in his thigh.

“Give me your belt,” Shirley yelled at the tech whiz, holding her hand out impatiently, leaving one still pressed against River’s wound.

“It’s Gucci,” Ho scoffed.

“I don’t give a shit. If you don’t give it to me right fucking now, I’m going to strangle you with it.”

It would be quite amusing to watch Shirley threaten Roddy’s life if River wasn’t also concerned about bleeding to death.

“You’re buying me a new one,” Roddy said as he reluctantly unbuckled his belt before sliding it from his jeans but holding on a second too long for Shirley to rip it violently from his hand. “That hurt!”

“Oh, does that hurt?” River yelled, pressing harder to the bullet wound in his thigh while Shirley wound it around his upper leg. “I’m sorry my gunshot wound led to a little rope burn!”

River groaned in pain, his vision going white as Shirley tightened the belt around his thigh, just above the hole in his pants, before inserting the empty clip from his gun into it and twisting.

“Fuck! Did you have to tighten it that much?” he asked once he recovered, his breath coming in heaving gasps.

“If you don’t want to bleed out, I did,” Shirley answered, and that was fair enough. “Where the fuck is the ambulance?”

As if on cue, Marcus returned, paramedics trailing behind him.

“Thank fuck,” Shirley said, waving them over. “Took you fucking long enough.”

“I couldn’t make them appear faster now, could I?” Marcus argued.

“Look at him, he looks half dead,” Shirley replied.

“I can hear you,” River slurred.

Shirley ignored him and turned to the paramedics checking her watch, “I just applied the tourniquet a few minutes ago.”

River found it more difficult to follow what they were saying as he realised the pain in his leg had begun to lessen. That had to be a good thing, right? Only now was he suddenly freezing, his body beginning to shiver slightly as the first paramedic, a man around his mum’s age, knelt beside him.

“Does he have any medication allergies?”

“Fuck if I know,” Shirley answered.

“No,” River said, his voice quiet.

“What was that?” the other paramedic, a woman a few years younger than him, asked.

“No,” River said, attempting to be louder.

He was getting tired now, and the paramedics were here, so maybe he could rest his eyes a bit.

“Wait!” he said, his eyes flying open as a surge of adrenaline coursed through him. “You should leave. Lamb–Lamb’ll be mad. Go.”

He tried to lift his hand and shoo them away, but his limb wasn’t cooperating. He tried again, his hand merely twitching on the blood-stained concrete beside him. Well, that was annoying. He tried, but he couldn’t make them move now; it was up to them if they didn’t want to be fired.

Again.

He let his eyes slip shut, the pain now almost gone, though he was colder than before.

“River, wake up!”

“Tired,” he mumbled.

The other voices blended together. Some he knew, some he didn’t. He hoped they were listening to him. Roddy Ho’s unmistakable voice was the last thing he heard before he succumbed entirely to the darkness.

“Can I have my belt back now?”