#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.

[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.”

[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

¹��⁾ 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

[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?

[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.

[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.

[secretboots]

♡ seen bits of the route where peter amputates one of Y/N's legs and my brain decided to blurb a bit on that ♡

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

fandom: your boyfriend

tags: HCs, word salad, disturbing themes (kidnapping, at-home amputation), graphic description of medical procedures, peter being peter, not edited b/c i'm too lazy to bother

he's read the relevant material. watched the videos, studied the basic techniques- so for a night, he can be a surgeon. for one night, he can be the man who manufactures the hurdle that keeps you safe with him. swallow the distant, queasy horror that comes at the prospect of hurting you, because sometimes, love hurts.

and then it heals. that's the deal, that is the living truth etched into every bone, every muscle, every fibre that makes peter dunbar.

love hurts. it heals, it frightens, it comforts, and you? you are love. at least, the closest to it he's ever been. perfection, resplendent, in human form.

so it's worth it.

it was worth preparing your room.

organising the instruments on your bedside table with a cold resolution settling heavy in his stomach, protecting your bed with a shower curtain stretched taut across the mattress, and laying you down to rest on that sterile field with all the tender care of a heartsick lover. brushing a kiss to your shin, a wordless apology offered to the part of you he has no choice but to part with. it hurts him more than it hurts you. he wants all of you, whole and undamaged.

it hurts him more than it hurts you.

you can't feel the tourniquet twisting, twisting, twisting into place around your thigh. you aren't forced to mark the tibial tubercle, or the anterior and posterior incisions. you can't feel when he makes his first cut, the way his soul shrieks for just a second of rational thought when he guides his vertical incision with shaking hands over the anterior crest of your tibia. identifying and misidentifying those perfect, delicate nerves and resecting them, dissecting muscle and ligating the thick, gorgeous tibial artery with a gasping prayer that the tourniquet holds.

but peter, he feels it.

he feels it when he pulls back the flap that will become the stump, when he marks the fibula cut and the saw whines to life. peter feels it, in his blood, when he saws through sweet tibia and blood-pinkened water speckles his face. he feels it, when he transects and tapers the masterwork that is the posterior musculature, brows pinched tight with the hope he's done it right.

it's amateurish, the way he closes the wound and prays to a power he's never believed in, that his stitches aren't so tight they rot the fatty stump of your knee. and he's sorry, you're beautiful, he loves you so much, and he's so, so sorry.

but the life he has laid out for you is one that comes with sacrifice.

so he can accept the fact that you screamed and sobbed when you woke up and the drugs wore off, though the sound of your voice so broken fractured his psyche into miserable, tiny little fragments that each cry their self-hatred and vitriol for what he's done. because he can fix it- fix you, you just need time to see! to understand! he can kiss away your tears and whisper his hollow apologies when he checks your dressing every day, and again when he feeds you antibiotics and checks your drain tube for the little markers of surgical complications.

he can hold you tight even when you punch and scratch and kick, and he can promise he buried your leg somewhere pretty, because there is no world that exists where peter handles any piece of you with anything less than love and reverence.

he knows it hurts, love, when you need to move. but movement is crucial to recovery, and the leg raises are a safe start to the long, beautiful road ahead. you're so strong, and it's okay to cry- his shoulder exists to catch your tears. you're doing so well, and it's for your own good. one day, when you understand, he can find you a pretty new leg, and then- and then! then, it will be like none of this ever happened. you'll walk, you'll run, you'll go outside again, one day. together. happy, and together.

but first you need to be honest. with him, with yourself.

you love him, don't you? he knows you do. you just don't know how it feels to love and be loved in turn. he's learning to cook, just for you! your favourite meals, so you don't need to worry about making them yourself. that's love. the way he holds you, like you're something precious and fleeting that he can't ever let go of. the way he dresses your residual limb and peppers kisses across your knee and helps you through the physio he'd researched just for you, because while that piece of you is gone, he loves you all the more for it.

you don't know what it means to love. but you'll learn.

for your own sake, you'll learn.

[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?”

[indigosunsetao3]

World War II AU

TW: Blood, medical procedures, medical inaccuracy

I literally dreamt of this scenario last night.

John Price is dragged into the medical tent by his team. Unconscious, bloody, and bleeding out as Gaz scrambles to tighten the belt on his arm to stem the flow. Beds are full with other injured soldiers who are screaming and groaning in pain. There’s nowhere to put Price as Soap runs ahead looking for a space.

Then you come around a partition. Frazzled, hair half undone from its nice bun and blood smeared all over your uniform. You see the injured man and zero in on him before scrambling for a folding table. He’s too big for it but it’ll have to do.

You set it up with a grunt and it seems the men have figured out what you’re doing without saying a word. People bustle by in the chaos, no one even batting an eye as Price is heaved up on the table that bows under his weight.

“Get his things off,” you order as you look for gauze. “Everything,” you tack on as you pat yourself down for scissors and hand them to Ghost. “How’d it happen?”

They give you a quick recap, it’s the same story as all the other men that had poured in that morning. Ambush, bombs, flyover planes. Doesn’t matter really, but asking for information is so ingrained you do it without thinking.

No gauze. The medical supplies had been depleted before this mass casualty. Shit. His blood is dripping down his arm already puddling on the floor.

“Rip these,” you snap as you grab the curtain of a partition and pull it off in one go, the rings popping and flying. “Long strips,” you shove them at Soap who follows instructions. Handing you long strips that you turn into a tourniquet.

“When I say tighten you tighten,” you instruct Gaz as you set up the knot and twist a discarded pen into it. “I’ve got to pinch it off,” you mutter and before any of the men can react you plunge your fingers into the large wound on Price’s arm and dig.

You don’t have time to flinch, to think, as you probe. The unconscious man groans the only sign of alertness from him this whole time. It’s hot and slick as you feel but you find it and catch it before it retracts further to where a tourniquet would do nothing.

“Now!” You shout and despite his shaking hands Gaz twists. He continues to tighten as you hold tight feeling the pressure start to drop as blood flow is cut off. “Keep going,” you tell him, watching as the cloth bites into John’s arm and visibly dents his bicep. He’ll have to have surgery as soon as possible if he were going to keep the limb.

“Blood type?” You ask as you slide your fingers out and absently wipe them on your shirt.

“Mine,” Soap answers as he moves to pull off his vest.

“I’ll need all you can give,” you answer as he follows you without instruction deeper into the tent.

“Bleed me dry,” Soap answers as you tug out a wooden desk chair for him to sit on.

“Careful what you wish for,” you answer as you search for tubing and collection items. You aren’t gentle as you jab him, you feel him flinch as you dig to find the vein but he doesn’t say a word. “Stay here I’ll be back.”

John is still unconscious but he’s been relieved of all his clothes, a towel for modesty across his hips. He’s covered in bruises, cuts, and old wounds but nothing major. You feel along his body for any breaks but find none and no signs of internal bleeding.

“Doctor will be by shortly,” you state wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. “He’ll need surgery soon.”

“What can we do?” Ghost asks as he shucks the cut-off clothes under the folding table right into the pool of blood.

“For him? Nothing now,” you say. “But you can help me. We need to make more room,” your eyes dart to the entrance of the medical tent as another truck pulls up with more injured.

And they do. They help you shift down beds, rip more sheets for bandaging, and move soldiers around the tent. Soap is dead on his feet from the amount of blood you took but he continues to assist in the chaos until it’s finally quiet.

Hours later as you sit on an empty crate half dazed John is wheeled back into the tent. He’s still out from surgery but it was a success. He’ll keep his life and arm. And despite the exhaustion, you get up to tend to him. He’s your patient and you’re going to see him through.

“I’m fine,” you mutter as you clean an area out for his wheeled bed.

“You’re not,” Gaz answers just as tired as he helps.

“You all need to rest not me,” you insist as you prop up John’s head before a hand gently grabs your wrist. Soap is staring at you pale as death but determined, nodding his head toward the exit for you to leave and rest.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead. I wasn’t brought over here for nothing,” you mutter but as a chair is dragged over you collapse into it. You can monitor John from a chair surely. He’s asleep after all and will be for a while yet.

When you wake up sometime later John is up staring at you, his men scattered in close vicinity. Gaz leaned up against your chair on the floor, Soap sitting knocked back against a tent wall and Ghost standing at the head of the bed filling John in on what happened.

“Good to see you awake,” you answer with a tired grin.

[daddyy333]

Overworked | CW!Bucky Barnes x y/n

if you’d like you can reblog my original work, but please don’t post it without credit. if you take inspiration from my ideas please tag me, I’d like to see how someone else would write it

word count: 2.5k

warnings: reader isn’t really taking care of themselves properly, exhausted reader, fighting, reader is stabbed, mentions of blood, reader almost dies, reader has surgery, ?

summary: You haven’t been able to catch a break for weeks, and know all the stress has caught up to you and one mistake almost got you killed, putting the man who harbored a massive secret love for you through absolute hell.

doesn’t feel like my best work to be quite honest I’ve just been so busy these last couple weeks so I’m trying to do what I can

You groaned, slamming yourself against a wall to miss the bullet being shot at you. This was the third mission you’d done this week and you were exhausted. Your hearing was slightly muffled in your right ear and you can’t see that clearly, probably from being hit with the handle of a gun twice.

You kept being put on missions so frequently these last couple weeks because of your skill, and you didn’t think you could say no so you had no choice but to do your job. It was killing you though. You were tired, you were hungry, and you were in so much pain.

You yelped as the asshole hydra agent tried to grab you, to be fair you were standing there with your eyes closed completely out in the open like a dumbass but you couldn’t help it. You whimpered and kicked your leg back, making his knee buckle as you turned around and twisted his arm before slamming him against the wall, assuming that knocked him out,

You gasped as you felt his knife enter your stomach, the pain making it hard to even think. That’s what you get for assuming. “God damn it! Seriously??” You said, punching him in the face. Why did he have to do that?

You grabbed the knife and pulled it out, stabbing him in the dick. You groaned as you kept moving, taking down 5 more agents before it was finally clear. You winced, leaning against the wall as you panted harshly. You sniffled, gulping as you reached down to rip part of a man’s pants off and try to stop the bleeding with it.

You covered it up with your vest so no one would be concerned before you rigged the place with bombs and blew it up. You got back on the small ship they sent you on and headed home, finally.

You talked to Steve and Nat for a bit and spoke with Fury briefly before you finally got to go up to your shared floor with Bucky and relax. Bucky was still awake, sitting on the couch with a look of worry on his face.

You didn’t see him, though, because it was almost completely dark except for the lamp in the living room but you were struggling to see in general. You whimpered as you sat down, groaning softly.

“Y/n,” he said softly, his voice shaky and you gasped, standing up and throwing the remote at him. “Shit! Bucky, what the fuck?” You said, sitting back down and letting out shaky breaths.

You sighed heavily, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “What happened?” He asked and you cleared your throat. “That sorry excuse for backup was knocked out in a minute so I had to do the entire mission with no help” you said, realizing that you must’ve bled through your “tourniquet” because he was looking at it.

You took a deep breath and stood up, mumbling something about getting sleep. You breathed shakily as you made your way to your room. You were sweating like crazy, and your heart was thumping in your ears.

You worked your suit off with shaky hands, realizing the tourniquet fell loose. You whimpered and grabbed a towel off the rack pressing to your wound as you took off the tourniquet. You nearly screamed in pain, biting your hand to stop yourself.

You felt dizzy, so you had to trade your hand for your bottom lip if you wanted to keep standing. A tear rolled down your face as stars filled your vision. You blinked a few times as you tried to stay awake, breathing becoming harder.

Everything was going black and you groaned. “God da- mmh” you said before you passed out, falling to the ground.

Bucky was already in the hallway where your bedroom was, paranoid that something was wrong. Your breathing was irregular the entire time and he could hear your erratic heartbeat, not to mention you looked as pale as a ghost and you were sweating buckets.

As soon as he heard that thump he ran inside your bedroom, knocking on the bathroom door furiously. “Y/n! Y/n? Are you alright?” He asked and he got no answer.

He opened the door and was stopped by your foot. “Christ, why didn’t you say something damn it” he mumbled, moving your legs so he could get in. He moved the towel and his eyes widened, he didn’t understand how you were walking and managed to keep talking earlier with a wound like that.

He wrapped the towel around your waist, tying it to try and slow the bleeding before he picked you up and ran to the elevator, willing it to go faster than the speed of light to get to the medical floor.

He’d never admit it but he was totally in love with you. You’ve supported him through everything since he escaped Hydra. You’ve taught him everything that’s new in the modern world and never once made him feel stupid or less than for not knowing. You even moved into the second bedroom on his floor without hesitation and would stay with him when he had nightmares or couldn’t sleep.

You were soft and gentle with him, something he hadn’t experienced in decades. He adored you, and it hurt to see you so weak and so close to death. He would never let himself love you, but that doesn’t mean he can survive without you.

As soon as the doctors started taking care of you and he couldn’t do anything else for you, he felt tears fill his eyes. His throat felt tight and it hurt as well. He didn’t understand what was happening, he doesn’t cry. He’s never been allowed to.

He ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He fell back against it, a whimper escaping his lips. He groaned, the tears falling down his cheeks before he could stop them. He’d seen you overwork yourself these last few weeks, he’d seen how exhausted you were and how you just needed a break. He knew he should’ve stopped you and he should’ve taken care of you like any good person would but his dumbass was too stupid to do what he should’ve done weeks ago.

It took him almost an hour to calm down, he just couldn’t get that image of you on the bathroom floor out of his head. It scared the shit out of him and he knew you already killed the person who did it but he wanted to do it himself. He was so angry and so scared all at the same time.

He asked the nurse what was going on and they had to send you to a hospital because it required surgery. Surgery.

He went back up to your floor, breaths shaky as he saw the blood on the floor and the little bit that got on the couch and he scoffed. He sat down on the couch, letting his head fall back and staring at the ceiling as he tried to get that image of you out of his head.

This was his worst fear, truly. He worried every time you went out on a mission if you were going to come back to him. It never even crossed his mind that he could be the one to find you dying or dead.

He was checking his phone every 5 seconds, begging to get a call from someone telling him you were okay. He felt nauseous thinking about what life would even be like without you.

He let out a shaky breath and stood up, going to your room. His shaky hands cleaned your blood off the bathroom floor, picking up your room for when you got back.

He then showered himself, as there was blood on his arm and on stomach from it leaking through his shirt. He was exhausted by the time he got out so he tried to sleep and instead spent 3 hours watching the alarm clock, willing it to be time for his morning workout.

He couldn’t take it anymore and got up around 4am and headed down to the gym to train. It took him entirely too long to get through his regular workout with him running to check his phone after every set and nearly tripping over his own feet if there was a notification of any kind.

He made himself breakfast, only being able to stomach half of it. He still felt nauseous and it had been hours, he knew the feeling wouldn’t go away until you were back on this floor of the tower, preferably in his arms, safe and sound.

He busied himself with cleaning the house top to bottom. He did all of the laundry, including yours. He didn’t realize so many hours had passed when he passed by the clock in the living room, his heart dropping when he realized he’d been cleaning non stop for 4 hours.

He ran to the couch, quickly feeling through every cushion to find his phone. He groaned when he finally grabbed it and saw no texts saying you were safe or calls from anyone either. He laid down for a moment, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

The exhaustion was taking over and he couldn’t help it as he dozed off. Not that he knew it, but he needed the rest. He needed it so bad that even 7 messages and 5 calls couldn't wake him up.

He heard the door slam and instantly shot up, looking around. He cleared his throat, rubbing his eyes and standing up. He yawned as he turned off the T.V, his jaw dropping and eyes widening as he saw you coming into the living room, leaning against Steve mostly as you stumbled into the apartment.

He nearly tripped and ate the floor with how fast his body flung itself to get to you, squeezing you into a hug. You hissed, squeezing his waist. “Bucky- ow!” You said and he instantly backed up which almost made you fall forward.

“I- I’m sorry, I just- I was really worried about you” he said and hugged you again. He couldn’t help it. At least he was gentle this time. “Bucky, I’m fi-” you said before he interrupted you.

“Don’t you dare. I’m the one who found you on that bathroom floor, you certainly weren’t fine” he said and you sighed. You were still so exhausted, but the safety you felt in Bucky’s arms made it better.

Bucky looked over at Steve, who was smirking. “I’m just gonna leave your stuff here. Take it easy, alright?” He said and you hummed. Bucky held onto you for a few more moments before he pulled back. He sighed and brushed your hair out of your face as he asked “can you walk?”

“Yea. I just have a small limp, apparently I sprained my ankle at some point but it’s fine” you said and sighed, disappointment evident in his face. He helped you to your bedroom, sitting you down and quickly checking your stitches.

“You shouldn’t have been out on that mission,” he muttered as he stood up, grabbing your phone for you so you could check it. You took a deep breath, run your hand through your hair before you said “I have a duty to fulfill, I can just say no”

“There’s an entire group of other people who could’ve done it right upstairs” he said, arms folded as he leaned against your dresser. He shook his head and said “I should’ve stopped you,”

“Bucky, what- why do you care so much?!” You said and he groaned. He ran his hand over his face, trying not to snap at you. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I care about you and I have feelings? I’m not blind, y/n, I see the exhaustion in your eyes. You’ve gotten more injuries these past few weeks than you have in years, I checked your file. You’re overworked and it’s going to get you killed. You got really damn lucky this time, who knows how it’ll go next time?” He said, voice shaky and chest heaving.

“God, you sound like you’re in love with me or something-” “maybe I am!” He yelled, throwing his arms up dramatically. Your breath hitched, your head shooting up to look at him.

He closed his eyes with a heavy and regretful sigh, his shoulders dropping. “What did you say?” You asked, your voice shaky. He licked his lips, a nervous habit he had. “I…I am. I have…feelings for you” he said quietly.

You could tell he obviously didn’t mean to say that and wasn’t ready in the slightest to admit this. You stood up with a soft grunt and he looked up, about to make you sit down again but you were already walking towards him.

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him in close. His heartbeat was fast and his breaths were shaky and uneven. He placed his hands on your waist carefully, not expecting you to hug him at all.

You didn’t care that he wasn’t hugging you back, you needed this from him. He trusted you. He trusted you and he loved you and he just opened up to you and told you something huge. “Thank you,” you whispered.

“F-…For what?” He asked and you sighed. You took a deep breath and said “for trusting me” He chuckled nervously and wrapped his arms around you, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

You could tell he was still really tense, and you wondered if he was uncomfortable. “What’s wrong, Buck?” You asked, looking up at him. He looked down at you and said “it’s just…do you feel the same?”

“Absolutely. I’m sorry- I-I thought I already told you” you said and giggled, of course you were that stupid. He blushed slightly, a small smile creeping onto his face. You’d seen so many emotions from the otherwise stoic Bucky you knew and it made your heart flutter.

He pulled you into his chest again, the tension slowly leaving his body. He closed his eyes, taking in this moment. He felt a warmth in his chest he hadn’t felt in decades, he felt like he was home.

You were ready to spend the rest of your days loving and taking care of Bucky. You’d never felt for anyone else the way you did for Bucky. You knew you’d always love him no matter what happened. You’d always love the subtle ways he shows how he cares for his friends, the way he remembers even the tiniest things about you, the way he tries to pretend he isn’t bursting with joy inside even with rosy pink cheeks.

He pulled away carefully and that smile was still there, you felt like you had butterflies all over. “I love you, Buck” you said softly. He had a new life in his eyes as he said “I- I love you too”

He never thought he’d actually admit his feelings to you, and it’s the scariest thing he’s ever done but he felt so relieved at the same time. You were it for him. Even if he lost everything tomorrow and everyone turned on him, as long as he had you it was all he needed.

Taglist: @high-functioning-lokipath

As of now l'm writing for

Eddie Munson

Lo’ak

Neteyam

Sebastian Stan

Bucky Barnes

CW!Bucky Barnes

Chris Evans

Steve Rogers

Ari Levinson

So just comment the taglist you want to be added to and l'll add you :)

[jinxedruby]

Whumptober Day Nineteen: Blood Trail/Abandoned Cabin

Featuring Hyrule and Time.

Heads up for major injury and some violence in this one.

AO3

First part | <- Previous part | Next part ->

-------------------------------

Hyrule woke to something jabbing uncomfortably into his ribs. He peeled his eyelids apart, the world swimming slowly into focus before him. He blinked a few times, pulling in a shaky breath as his vision cleared. Boots with toes pointed skyward formed from the blobs of colors before him, trees sprouting somewhere beyond them. Something squeezed his hand, twisting his fingers together. He groaned, pushing himself up with trembling arms.

His left hand landed in something warm that oozed between his fingers. He blinked, looking down at his hand to see his fingers sunk into a pool of blood. He jolted, eyes widening. He got his knees underneath him, pushing himself up off of the armored body he’d fallen across. As he did, he got a full view of the gaping stab wound in the man’s leg, a makeshift tourniquet twisted around the limb above it. A dark pool of blood soaked into the grass beneath the man. Hyrule, abruptly remembering what he’d been doing before passing out, raised a hand over the wound. Deep red blood seeped from the wound still, so he clearly hadn’t been successful in stopping the bleeding like he’d been trying to. He started to reach for his Life spell despite the magic exhaustion pulling at the backs of his eyes. The grip around his other hand tightened, cramping his fingers together almost painfully. He dragged his gaze over to see a gauntleted hand wrapped around them, the man tugging clumsily but insistently on them.

“S-stop,” Time said, slurred and stilted. The colored markings on Time’s cheek and forehead stood in stark contrast to the white pallor of his face.

Hyrule began to shake his head, returning his attention to the wound. “I have to stop the bleeding or-”

“Won’ good us… if both… both dead,” Time murmured. His brow furrowed as if he’d confused himself with his broken phrasing.

Hyrule pursed his lips. Time’s tugging on his hand grew more insistent. Hyrule huffed, reaching for his pouch. He had a suspicion he’d already searched, but maybe he didn’t have enough time earlier, maybe he did have a magic potion-

“Trav’ler!” Time rasped.

Hyrule stiffened and spun, yanking his shield off his back. He lifted it just in time to block a lizalfos’s sword where it’d been aimed to run through his back. He shoved the monster away and lunged to his feet, unsheathing his sword. The lizalfos jumped backwards, the sword glancing off the front of its chestguard. Hyrule followed up with a thrust. His sword tore through the lizalfos’s arm, making it twist to one side with a screech. It planted a foot and kept turning. Hyrule didn’t notice the tail whipping around until it cracked across his face. Pain exploded in his nose, the force of the blow knocking him off his feet. He fell over Time, landing heavily on his back on the man’s other side.

He sucked in a breath, face pulsing, hot blood streaming from his nose. He forced himself up onto his elbows in time to see the lizalfos lift its sword high above its head, poised to stab Time. With a roar, Hyrule dove forward. He plunged his sword through the lizalfos’s middle. It shrieked, tumbling backwards with Hyrule. He yanked his sword free, black blood splattering across the blade and pouring from the monster’s wound. He didn’t wait to see if it’d survive a wound like that and tore his sword through its neck, severing its head.

The motionless body crumpled to the ground. Hyrule turned, breathing hard, gaze sweeping the surrounding forest for more enemies. A horn blared and his blood ran cold. He whirled to see another lizalfos some distance away, sounding a battle horn. Screeches rose from all around them, some distant, some far too close. Hyrule’s heart thudded wildly against his ribs, eyes widening. The lizalfos blew the horn again and he snapped to action, closing the distance between them in several long strides. The monster faltered in the middle of its call, staggering back. Hyrule drove his sword up under its breastplate and through its heart before it could react. He didn’t wait for it to fall, snapping back around and sprinting to Time. He skid to a stop beside him, throwing his sword and shield into their places on his back. He moved around behind Time and lifted up his shoulders. Time groaned and he stammered out a hushed apology, looping his arms under Time’s and around the man’s armored chest. He clamped his hands together then dug his heels into the ground and began to haul Time backwards. Time groaned louder, twitching hands coming up to grasp at Hyrule’s.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Hyrule hissed, blood roaring in his ears. He kept his neck twisted around to watch behind them as he dragged Time along. The shrieks of monsters continued around them, fueling the adrenaline in Hyrule’s veins. Pain pulsed in his probably-broken nose, the taste of copper filling his mouth as blood flowed across his lips. He spat it out, legs burning as he dragged Time as fast as he could.

His boot skid through a loose patch of dirt. He grunted, nearly losing his balance. He stopped for a moment, readjusted his hold on Time’s limp form, the man having gone motionless at some point. His heart squeezed but he could only hope Time was merely unconscious. He tossed a glance ahead of them. Twin gouges extended from where Time’s heels dragged through the dirt. A dark scarlet line painted one track, matching the blood soaking Time’s leg.

A monster gave a sharp cry, far closer than the rest. Hyrule clenched his teeth and resumed dragging Time. His neck ached as he twisted it around to watch behind him. Adrenaline thrummed in his veins, pounding behind his eyes. He heard the distant crashing and snapping of monsters storming through underbrush, closing in on their location. No doubt following the trail of Time’s blood. Hyrule spat blood from his mouth again, desperately searching for some way out.

An odd shape between the trees caught his eye. Hoping for at least some kind of cover or vantage point, he veered toward it. He nearly fell again, a yelp dying in his throat as his muscles burned from the strain. A few more steps and a ramshackle cabin came into view. Hope surged in his chest.

A lizalfos screeched. Hyrule whipped his head around to see the monster pointing at them through the trees. This one appeared larger than the others Hyrule had seen, with an axe tied to the end of its tail. A second lizalfos appeared, then a third. Then another and another and Hyrule cursed, struggling to drag Time faster. His arms cramped from holding so tightly, breath coming in quick gasps. The cabin drew closer. So did the sound of the lizalfos sprinting through the underbrush. He hazarded a glance to see how close the monsters had gotten. Panic seized his throat at how much ground the lizalfos had covered in such a short time. His heels plowed into the dirt as he shoved himself backwards. The muscles in his thighs screamed past the muffling of the adrenaline.

His back rammed into the cabin’s door. Gasping, he dropped Time to turn and throw it open. He grabbed Time by his underarms and hauled the man into the cabin. The moment Time’s boots crossed the threshold, Hyrule set him down and lunged for the door. He wrenched it closed and yanked the bolt into place. Not a moment later, a loud thud crashed from the door’s other side, making it jolt in its frame and bang against the bolt. The old wood of the bolt cracked and Hyrule inhaled sharply. Desperately, he cast a glance around. His eyes fell on a heavy-looking cupboard sagging beside the door and he dove for it. He shoved one shoulder against it and dug his boots into the ground. It screeched across the floor, leaving white scuffs in the wood. He pushed it in front of the door as the banging continued, the lizalfos trying to force its way inside.

Once the cupboard proved to hold the door shut, at least for the moment, Hyrule staggered to one knee, panting. Red beads dripped from the tip of his nose and splattered onto the floor. He took a deep breath, dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, and forced himself to his feet again. The crashing against the door continued as he stumbled over to Time’s motionless form. Weak, raspy breaths came through Time’s parted lips, the sound rattled and strained. Hyrule’s hands shook as he examined the tourniquet, making sure it had held up through the dragging. Seeing that it had, he quickly rifled through his pouch, desperately praying a green potion would be in there somewhere.

A loud crack sounded behind him. He flinched, whipping his head around to see the blade of an axe jutting through the door. A muffled growl seeped through the door and the axe wrenched free, leaving behind a split in the wood. The axe slammed into the door again, creating another split and Hyrule shoved his arm into his pouch up to his elbow. He wracked his brain for a solution as the axe tore free again, taking a chunk of the door with it. He probably had just enough magic left for one final Shield spell and nothing else. Casting that on Time would do nothing to save him from his wound. He could cast it on himself and try to fight all the lizalfos. But based on the amount of grunts and hollers from outside the cabin, the number of monsters had multiplied by a lot. Even if he did manage to defeat them all, that would take minutes that Time didn’t have.

The axe crashed through the door again, sending bits of wood flying. Hyrule covered his head with his arms as splinters showered over him. He lowered his arms, eyes wide to see a hole in the door. A lizalfos’s head filled it, one round, yellow eye peering through at him. It gave a shriek when it saw him, moving away. More screeches joined it, sharp and loud with victory. It whirled and the axe broke through the door again.

Fingers wrapped weakly around Hyrule’s wrist. With a start, he snapped his head around to see Time, eye open just a slit, gaze cloudy but fixing him with a firm stare.

“Traveler,” Time breathed. Hyrule had to lean closer to hear him over the cacophony of the whooping monsters. “If you can… can ge’ away-”

“No,” Hyrule said sharply. “No, I’m not leaving you-”

“Trav’ler, please-”

“I’m not giving up!” Hyrule snapped. He gently but firmly pulled his wrist from Time’s grasp, pushing himself to his feet. “Neither can you.”

He ignored Time’s next protest, drawing his sword and squarely facing the door. His gaze flicked to the blade of his sword then to the metal of the lizalfos’ tail axes and breastplates. Any way he sliced it, he didn’t have enough magic for Thunder. Not as he always used it, anyway. But if he could concentrate it… He let out a shaky breath, struggling to steady his nerves. He was all too aware of Time’s metal armor. If he did this wrong, he’d hit Time. His hand faltered as he lifted his sword. He cast a glance back. Blood slowly puddled beneath Time’s leg, his face a sickly white, bangs plastered to his face. Pressing his mouth into a grim line, Hyrule turned back to the door. If he didn’t do this, Time would die anyway. So would he.

The axe tore through the door again, widening the hole. Monsters screeched, claws digging at the edges and ripping the door to pieces. One pummeled ahead of the rest, hacking away at the cupboard. Hyrule tightened his grip on his sword. He reached for his magic, felt it well in his fingers. The cupboard broke with a loud CRACK. The lizalfos forced its way past. Hyrule roared from his belly and lunged forward. He ducked under the lizalfos’s swipe. He drove his sword between the monster’s ribs. Then he cast Thunder.

Instantly, he knew he used too much. The magic sucked out of him, taking his breath with it. Lightning crackled at his fingers. Frantically, he mentally forced it into his sword. The blade flashed a blinding white. Fire raced up Hyrule’s arms and his scream harmonized with the lizalfos’s. The monster convulsed as lightning coursed through it. Then the lightning exploded, turning Hyrule’s vision white. Monsters shrieked in pain and death. The thunderclap burst violently in his ears, loosening his teeth, shaking the ground and the very air. Something detonated in front of him, he tasted burnt hair, and the world shut down.

****

A low-pitched whine filled his ears. For a while, he could do nothing but listen to it. His mouth tasted like copper and burnt hair. His whole body ached, dull pain throbbing behind his brow and in his nose, timed with his heartbeat. Pale light bled through his closed eyelids. He struggled to pry them open, a spike of pain in his head rewarding his success. He narrowed them with a hiss but tried to ascertain his whereabouts anyway. He remembered being in the cabin, but blue sky shone overhead, dimmed by treetops stretching above him.

“Traveler!”

A head of long blond hair popped into view, wide blue eyes staring down at him.

“Hey, can you hear me?” Wild asked. A hand enveloped one of Hyrule’s and it took him several seconds to connect it to Wild. The cook’s voice sounded quiet and distant beneath the whining, but still audible. Hyrule nodded slowly.

A relieved smile split Wild’s face. “Oh, thank Hylia. Guys, he’s awake!”

The reminder of the others sent a jolt through Hyrule. He tried and failed to sit up, heart thudding against his ribs. Wild pressed a hand against his shoulder, keeping him down with a soft whoa, whoa.

“Where’s Time?” Hyrule asked, voice stuffy through his definitely-broken nose.

“He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s right over there!” Wild answered quickly, pointing to Hyrule’s right. Hyrule turned his head. Sure enough, Time lay on his back several paces away, stripped of his armor. The tourniquet had been replaced by clean gauze winding around his leg. His face appeared closer to its normal color, but his eye was still closed.

“We used a fairy on him as soon as we found you guys,” Wild explained. Hyrule continued watching Time’s chest steadily rise and fall. “Couldn’t do much about the blood loss, but… it- it was enough.”

Hyrule let out a soft sigh of relief, rolling his head back to watch the sky again. Wild still leaned over him, a grin widening on his face.

“You really fried those monsters good.”

A crooked smile grew across Hyrule’s lips and Wild laughed lightly.

“Collector just about had a conniption, though. Said something about your magic being beyond exhausted.”

Hyrule’s grin faded. “I did what I had to.”

“Oh, I’m not judging,” Wild said quickly. “Just trying to help you prepare for the chewing out in your near future.”

Hyrule huffed a laugh, closing his eyes. He opened them again, gaze darting over Time’s weak but alive form. “It’s worth it.”

[sixhours]

bright spots - chapter 6

Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | In progress

Rating: Teen Words: 2.1k Series tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Joel & Ellie, Joel Miller, Ellie Williams, Marlene, canon divergence, hospital AU, medical stuff, blood, hurt/comfort, angst, canon-typical violence, vomiting, implied rape/sexual assault, I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3

Joel

Nine appears to be the magic number. Nine days since they stumbled into the Fireflies’ domain and got flash-bombed for their trouble. Ellie must be considered well-rested, because that morning, the doctor himself makes an appearance alongside Marlene, the older nurse, and two soldiers. Marlene introduces him as Dr. Anderson.

Joel doesn’t know what he expected when the man walks into the room. He just knows he doesn’t like him.

He’s slight and pale, tired eyes sunken into his head. His clothes are clean but threadbare and ill-fitting, and something about that sets Joel’s teeth on edge. They haven’t even started yet and the man looks weary, plainly put. Haggard and exhausted, instilling no confidence.

Worse, he doesn’t bother acknowledging Ellie. He’s frowning at something on a clipboard as he talks in clipped tones with Marlene and the nurse, something about samples and a schedule and lab assistance.

“Think you should at least explain what’s gonna happen to her,” Joel cuts in when he can’t hold his tongue any more.

The doctor looks up as if surprised to see him, frowns at the interruption.

“We need to establish a baseline now that she’s had some time to settle in. We’ll want to measure other things, of course, but for now, it’s the routine stuff. Cell counts, blood sugar, iron levels. We might test her plasma, and eventually we’ll want a bone marrow sample. Nothing nefarious.”

Strange choice of words.

The man doesn’t offer further explanation, doesn’t wait to see if either of them has questions. Finished with his business, secure in the knowledge that his staff has their orders, he turns away and leaves the room as if he has somewhere more important to be.

Yeah, Joel really doesn’t like this guy.

And then the nurse is putting a tourniquet around Ellie’s upper arm. Joel can’t help but think it’s all for show. Flanked by her guards, Marlene is hardly there in a medical capacity. So the first blood draw happens under the watchful eye of one nurse and a small militia. As though Ellie’s blood needs a fuckin’ police escort.

And who’s protecting Ellie?

He is, he realizes with a twist in his gut. Like Marlene said, he’s on the payroll, complicit in what happens over the next however many weeks and he’s supposed to just…let it happen. 

Ellie peers over her shoulder at him then, something questioning, almost pleading in her eyes. The look is so unfamiliar, it takes him a long moment to place it.

Is this okay?

He remembers that look on Sarah’s face, always a cautious kid, always looking over her shoulder at him and waiting a beat before throwing herself headlong into the thing. That pause said “This is good, right Dad?” and Joel always marveled at how she trusted him so completely, the twenty-something dumbfuck from Nowhere, Texas who got his girlfriend knocked up when she was nineteen.

Ellie was nothing like Sarah that way. She’d had no one to look back to and therefore no reason to ask for reassurance. She’d forged ahead on her own power, knowing the only one who’d be looking out for her was her. He saw it time and time again on the road, every time he pulled her back from a ledge or stopped her from running into a building they hadn’t cleared. She had a fierce and foolish bravery and never once had she let Joel’s worrying and fretting for her safety slow her down.

But today, she pauses. She asks him with her eyes, asks the same dumbfuck from Nowhere, Texas who managed to lose the most precious thing he’d ever known, a broken man given a second chance in the form of a silent question.

This is good, right?

Joel makes the decision. He can’t tell her no, he can’t deny her anything as much as his instincts are screaming for this to stop.

I’ll follow you wherever you go.

She was wrong. He was always the one following her.

He gives her a subtle nod, meets her eyes. I’m with you.

She turns back, squares her shoulders, and sticks out her arm.

“I’m ready.”

Ellie watches in fascination as the needle pierces her skin, seems almost thrilled when the nurse has to try again because her veins are so small. There’s a tiny, delighted gasp when the vein is found and blood spurts into the vial, a soft so cool whispered under her breath. Joel isn’t normally queasy around needles, but Ellie’s lack of self preservation borders on obscene.

It’s over in less than two minutes; there’s a bandage at the crook of her arm and the nurse turns the vial a few times before sticking it in a little tray.

“That’s done,” she chirps, and then the team is gone, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.

Joel knows this won’t be the vial that makes the cure, but there’s still a weight to the moment. Ellie stares at her bandaged arm, draws her fingers over the gauze lightly, thoughtfully, as though the fate of the world hinges on this moment. Maybe it does.

He watches as she seems to come back to herself, turning to him with an expression that’s all teenage bravado.

“Dude, look,” she says, grinning, holding out her arm. “Dinosaur band-aid.”

Ellie

So far, being the world’s only immune person is about what Ellie expected. They take a lot of blood, and she likes watching the red liquid spurt into the little tubes–it’s kinda like Joel’s gas siphon, but cooler. The nice nurse, Nurse Joanna, is gentler about it, and always prefaces the draw with just a little pinch in warning. Nurse Cooke goes rough with the tourniquet and doesn’t say anything, just jabs her until she finds a vein.

Plus, they have fancy dinosaur band-aids. Fuck yeah.

She imagines them putting all her blood into a magic machine that spins it around and takes out the immune parts and stuffs them into vaccine shots. It’s a silly thought, she knows, but she doesn’t have much basis for comparison…and she has way too much time on her hands to dream up stupid shit.

They do more tests–Marlene calls them neurological evaluations and cognitive screenings . They’re boring as fuck, but less boring than sitting around in her room and reading dumb magazines, so she cooperates and counts to ten and answers the same questions over and over again.

At least Marlene humors her when she has time. Occasionally Ellie walks down the hall to her office, usually when Joel is otherwise occupied–so, sleeping. He said he trusts her, but that frustrating need for his approval has her sneaking out of their room regardless.

Today she leaves him snoring in the chair by her bed with his chin tucked to his chest and wanders Marlene’s way, bypassing the guards to knock at the threshold of her office.

“Come in.”

She pokes her head in the door as Marlene looks up from her paperwork, arching a brow. “Does your guard dog know you’re here?”

Ellie shrugs.

Marlene snorts, but she nods to the chair across from her desk. “Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping we could…talk. About my mom.”

“What did you want to know?”

Everything , Ellie thinks, but she looks at her fingers, picking at her cuticles.

“I dunno. You were her best friend, right? So I figure if anyone can tell me stuff…”

She trails off.

Marlene sighs and sits back in her chair, abandoning her papers for the time being. “Anna and I were…very good friends even before the outbreak. We grew up together.”

“And she was a Firefly, too?”

Marlene nods. “We were both from Boston, so when everything went to shit and FEDRA took over, it was…personal. It was our home. We wanted to protect it.”

“Was I born in Boston?”

“No, you were born outside the QZ, in a safe house.”

“Can’t have been very safe if my mom got bit.”

Marlene smirks. “There aren’t many safe places left in this world…you know that. This hospital is probably one of the most well-protected compounds in the country, and we’re still at risk every day.”

Ellie thinks of Jackson and bites her tongue. “Why was she out there in the first place?”

“Well…you know how things are in the QZ. When you were born, the situation was particularly unstable. And as a Firefly, Anna was considered a criminal. She couldn’t give birth at a FEDRA hospital or she would have gone to prison, and we needed time to obtain forged identity papers for you. The plan was for her to stay at one of the safe houses for a few months after you were born, then we’d find a way to smuggle you back in.”

“What, like…supplies? Like chicken and pills and–”

The stuff Joel used to do , she stops herself from saying.

“Everyone has a price. FEDRA will look the other way if you can get what they want, and we had connections throughout the QZ on both sides. It’s never black-and-white, Ellie.”

She looks down at her hands in her lap, thinks of Riley. It’s okay that you don’t know everything.

“The night you were born, our group was delayed getting out, so Anna had to make the trip alone. Normally that wouldn’t have been a problem…but she was already in labor when she left, which slowed her down. We think she came across a runner,” Marlene’s voice drops, sadness creeping in. “Wrong place, wrong time. By the time we found her, she’d already been bit.”

Ellie’s eyes widen, some distant understanding beginning to click into place. “Wait…was she bit before or…or…”

“We don’t know for sure, but…we think before. Dr. Anderson thinks the cordyceps has been with you since birth.”

“So she turned?”

“No,” Marlene says softly. “We found her before it happened.”

Ellie swallows hard, unsure if she wants the answer to the question she’s about to ask. “Were you the one who…y’know…”

“Yes. We have that in common, Ellie,” Marlene murmurs. “I’m sorry it happened that way. Riley was a good kid. I’m sure she was…grateful to have you with her at the end. You did her a kindness.”

Ellie thinks of her best friend, of the cold metal weight of the gun in her trembling hand and the sound of–

She shakes herself out of the memory before it can consume her, clears her throat and schools her face into an expressionless mask. She’s not having this fucking conversation. They wouldn’t have been in that stupid mall in the first place if Riley hadn’t…if Marlene hadn’t… fuck .

“But you can do what I couldn’t,” Marlene says, eyes shining. “You can make their deaths…mean something. Anna’s…and Riley’s.”

Ellie looks down, feels the pressure like an ache in her chest.

“What was she like? My mom, I mean.” 

Marlene softens, genuine sorrow in her voice. “She had a great sense of humor. We laughed a lot…especially in the early days. Before the outbreak, she was…light. Pure light. She’d do just about anything to make someone smile.

“And after the outbreak…she was badass,” she says, smiling a little. “She was quick with a knife. Always preferred them to guns if she had a choice…I used to give her shit for her aim, but she wasn’t that bad. I think it was a matter of principle. She treated enough gunshot wounds, lost enough friends to bullets…she didn’t like the damage they could do.”

“So she…killed people?”

Marlene arches an eyebrow.

“You said she was a criminal, so–”

“I said she was considered a criminal, by FEDRA. Your mom was a nurse, Ellie. She was a healer.”

“Oh…”

“In FEDRA’s eyes, she helped the wrong people and that made her a terrorist. She killed to defend herself. She killed to protect her friends, her family. Same as you.”

Ellie sucks in a breath, blows it out again.

“Like I said…nothing in this world is black-and-white,” Marlene murmurs. “We’re all just trying to survive. But I hope…with the work we’re doing here…we can make that a little easier for everyone.”

Ellie creeps back to their room after their conversation, finds Joel still snoring. She crawls into her bed and curls into a ball and pulls the covers over her head, even though it’s barely dinnertime. She doesn’t think she can eat, anyway; thinking about Riley has curdled her stomach. When Joel stirs, whispering her name with a tentative hand to her shoulder, she pretends to be asleep.

It’s so little, but it feels like so much. She thinks of all the things that happened to bring her to this point; her mom and Riley and Marlene and Joel and her immunity, everything irrevocably entwined, knotted together.

It can’t be for nothing.

Ellie lays awake that night thinking of her mother, picking apart each new fact, turning them over and over in her mind, trying to imagine this stranger who brought her into the world. She falls asleep looking for herself in the pieces.

[kait-bait8]

The thing I love the most about the Hunger Games is Katniss’ character arc.

Katniss Everdeen in book 1 is like Harry Potter in book 7. That is to say, the Katniss we follow in THG is the strong and resilient fighter. She is brave and selfless and tough and she digs deep despite tremendous pain. She has already overcome the loss of her father and the dire circumstances of her youth. And the 74th Hunger Games should have been her boss fight.

The end of THG shows us a Katniss who is a champion, a winner, a Victor. It feels like we are at the triumphant end of a story. Until she is told that the Capitol is not happy.

In Catching Fire we learn about Katniss’ nightmares. We learn that she sometimes can’t look at Prim without seeing Rue. We see her relationships begin to strain and change.

Katniss finding out that she will be going back into the games is one of my all time favorite scenes. Because in THG Katniss is in Survival Mode from the second she steps onto the platform. She holds back her tears and tries to look indifferent for the sponsors. But in CF she shatters. She flees. She cries and drinks and screams. She isn’t strong or resilient or even a little brave. And you just don’t see heroes react like that in other stories. But you can’t tell me it’s possible to read that scene and not feel your own stomach twist at the thought of that reality.

When Peeta hits the barrier and his heart stops Katniss loses it. It’s clear she knows about CPR from watching her mother, the same way she knew about blood poisoning and tourniquets in the last games, but it doesn’t even occur to her until after Finnick starts kissing Peeta. She isn’t sharp and quick and able to think on her feet. She is desperate to keep Peeta and the rebellion alive and that is it. People say that the victors keep Peeta alive because “if they didn’t Katniss would kill everyone and then herself” but Katniss knew her fate. She knew she wasn’t going to survive the arena. And she knew a life without Peeta was pointless. She would have “stopped living” like her mother.

When Katniss is rescued and Peeta is not, there was no “what is the plan? How are we going to get Peeta back? How are we going to save him?” There was only enough energy and emotion to try to claw Haymitch’s eyes out.

And then we get to Mockingjay. I’ve heard people complain that they couldn’t get through the book because it was just Katniss sleeping all the time. But of course she is sleeping all the time. Of course she can hardly qualify to be a soldier. Of course she finds solace in Finnick and his rope tying.

She doesn’t assassinate President Snow on her rogue mission. She gets her friends killed. She can’t even save Prim. Katniss gets knocked out and wakes up with the War already won. She secures the safety of Panem for a time by killing Coin but even that is the act of someone who no longer cares for her own safety and well-being.

I’m not saying she doesn’t do anything, she does an incredible amount for her mental/emotional state. But she isn’t Strong or Brave or Resilient. She doesn’t dig deep because even if she did there wouldn’t be anything left. She is completely broken.

That is what makes her epilogue so beautiful. Because at the end of her story she isn’t a Victor. She isn’t The Hero. She just, learns to be okay. She falls in love and finds peace and happiness and safety. I don’t know if I would say that she ever becomes unbroken but she picks up the pieces she can salvage and does her best with them.

Katniss Everdeen’s character arc is not one of Strength. There are many strong characters. It is a study of weakness and the beauty and love and community that comes from weakness.