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marvelstoriesepic · 6 days ago

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Whumpcember (day 15)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: Broken glass

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: slight mentions of panic attacks; crying; Bucky being a sweetheart because I love him so much

Author’s note: This got unnecessarily long somehow. Again, this was meant to be a shorty. Also, I was in my feels when I wrote this. Anyway, thank you for reading!

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

The final box of Christmas decorations thuds to the ground as you let it down with a heavy huff. You straighten up your back with a grimace, rolling your shoulders.

You might think as an Avenger, carrying a few boxes, would be an easy task. After all, you are trained to thrive under the most punishing conditions, with sharp skills and boundless stamina. But after hauling all those cartons stuffed with tinsel, garlands, and ornaments up from the storage room to the towering Christmas tree in the compound’s common area, you are left panting like you’ve just run a marathon.

It’s almost laughable. Thankfully, you are alone for now. Sam would have a field day, smug grin plastered across his face at the state you’re in.

Wanda, Natasha, and Clint meant to help you with this but they were all still glued to the desk, writing reports, but Bucky is supposed to be back from his latest mission any minute now and you wanted to do this nice thing for him at least. He did sound a little worn out on the phone earlier when he called you to tell you they were on their way back.

So perhaps decorating the Christmas tree would lift his spirit a tiny bit. It’s the first step in what you hope will be a cozy and inviting scene - something Bucky might walk into and, for once, not feel like a soldier returning from a war zone but a man coming home.

The tree is a statement, of course. Tony insisted on it. It’s so tall, it might even brush the high ceiling of the room and there is no way you’ll get some ornaments all the way up without risking your life. And Bucky would definitely not brighten up if you tried it out.

So you’ll absolutely be needing Wanda’s help sooner or later. With a flick of her wrist, she could make this whole thing a hell of a lot easier but you don’t have the time to wait until she is done writing her report.

You let your eyes roam over the many ornaments lying neatly in the box before you and one of them immediately sparks your attention. Your fingers brush against the delicate surface of the red ornament placed almost carefully beside the others.

Its glass is smooth and cool, the color a deep crimson so much more in depth than all the others. You hold it up to the light, turning it slowly, marveling at how the glow from the tree’s string lights catches on its curves and the unique and detailed pattern all across.

It’s heavier than expected, the weight surprising for something so fragile. The gold clasp at the top gleams faintly, tarnished just a little with age. A thin ribbon dangles from it, curling at the end like it has been tied and untied countless times.

There is something about it, some intangible quality that draws you in - a sense of history, of significance.

And then it happens.

The ribbon slips from your grasp, too quick for your fingers to snatch it back. If you weren’t so enamored with the beautiful piece, you would have gotten access to your reflexes a little earlier.

It’s too late now though, and you can only watch in stunned silence as the ornament tumbles to the ground, the crimson surface catching flashes of light as it falls.

It hits the hardwood floor with a sound that is both sharp and final - a crack, then a splintering.

Disappointed in yourself, you crouch down to the shattered remains. Tiny shards of glass fan out like a constellation, glinting under the glow of the tree. The ornament is no longer whole, splintered into different-sized fragments.

Annoyed that you were so stupid and careless to let this special ornament fall to its devastation, you begin to pick up the many red pieces into your palm.

It really was unique. It would have looked great on the tree-

Your movements freeze. Your heart leaps to your throat. A rush of panic claws at your chest and rises up to your ears where it floods and pounds tremendously.

Rebecca B.

It’s a name ingrained into the largest surviving piece of the glass - a faint, looping scrawl. Clearly written by hand.

Rebecca Barnes. The realization makes you weak in the knees and you fall back onto your heels, your ass hitting the floor with a thump.

This isn’t just some random ornament. This isn’t another piece of holiday cheer to hang on a tree and forget about for the rest of the year after packing it back into boxes to store it in a corner of the storage room.

This ornament belonged to Rebecca Barnes. Bucky’s sister. Something Bucky kept all these years, hidden among the other decorations like a relic of a life he’d lost long before his own had been ripped apart.

The air around you feels heavy. The smell of pine from the tree now stings in your nose. Your heart might actually have fallen along with the ornament because it too is shattered in pieces.

The shards tremble in your palm and you stare at them along with the rest still lying helplessly on the ground, as if there is actually something you can do right now to go back in time and not pick it up ever again, just to make sure.

But there is nothing you can do.

Your heart breaks even further at the thought that Bucky might have put it here deliberately. Maybe it was an attempt to move forward, to share the memory of his sister. Maybe he thought the ornament didn’t belong in some dusty package hidden away, but out in the open, a part of the holiday warmth he’s been so hesitant to feel. Maybe it was his thought of remembering her with someone else this time, instead of alone.

This would be such a huge step for him. And you would feel so proud if you weren’t on the verge of a panic attack.

Because it’s broken, divided into so many pieces. You just dropped something so carelessly that probably meant the world to Bucky. And, god, did he deserve the world. But you took it. You contorted the precious memories of his little sister. Unwillingly, of course. But that doesn’t make you feel any better right now.

You have known Bucky for a few years now. Though knowing him feels like a word too shallow for what you share. You never labeled it, both of you walking the fine line, and never crossing it.

But you see that Bucky trusts you - the kind of trust he doesn’t hand out freely. And for good reason, after all. In fact, you’re not even sure he’s ever given it to anyone else in quite the same way, not even Steve. And that’s saying something.

You see it in the small things, in the way his guarded demeanor softens when it’s just the two of you, the soft smiles that seem to be reserved for you. It’s the kind of friendship where silence doesn’t have to be filled, and words don’t have to be spoken to be understood.

He lets you sit with him on the couch in the living room on nights when his past pulls him under and doesn’t allow for him to get some shut-eye. You are usually awake yourself, sometimes just running on adrenaline after coming home from a mission and accompanying him silently. He always seems to linger out here when you are away on a mission anyway, so you usually meet him here after getting home, watching his shoulders slowly droop and his back rest more comfortably against the back of the couch.

You are the first at his bedside when his nightmares claw at his mind. You’ve seen him at his most vulnerable - shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked chest, hair plastered to his face, his breaths coming in uneven gasps as you help him fight to pull himself out of his memories.

Those nights, you never push him to talk. You don’t ask him to explain or tell you what he saw. Without a word, you would hand him a glass of water and wait while he drinks, his hands trembling so slightly it makes your stomach feel heavy every time. Sometimes you tell him to breathe with you, in and out, until the panic subsided and his shoulders stopped shaking.

You were never sure how much touch he needs in those moments so you usually stay at a small distance from him, but it seems your presence alone does wonders.

When he would be ready, he always searched your face so long and intensely, before croaking out a heavy but meaningful “Thank you.”

And his small acts of kindness always fill you with a jittery feeling that makes your knees weak and unfortunately doesn’t help at all when fighting against Natasha in the ring.

Just a few weeks ago, Bucky spent an entire Saturday afternoon fixing the squeaky hinge on your bedroom door because he heard you muttering to Wanda about how annoying it was.

He never even told you he was going to do it. You just came back to your room later that evening to find the door silent as a ghost. It took a whole week for you to find out how this happened. And it wasn’t him, who told you. It was Clint, who saw him walk around with a toolbox and a satisfied smile on his face that Clint, as he told you found a little terrifying.

Additionally, he always seems to know when you need a break during training sessions, tossing you a water bottle before you even realize how tired you are. Or he would plant himself wordlessly between you and your opponent for the day, with his arms crossed and a chastising glance at you when you’ve been fighting for hours without acknowledging the way your movements already grew sluggish and wobbly.

You are always aware when his hands linger on your shoulder a second longer after a sparring match, his metal fingers cold but careful, as if he’s memorizing the feel of you there. Or the way your stomach twists when he catches your eye across the room, and for just a moment, it’s like the rest of the world falls away. And the way he talks to you, even when people are around, his voice lower, softer, words chosen with an almost uncharacteristic care, makes you feel like you’re the only person he truly is interested in talking to. You also love the nights he shows up at your door with takeout, wordlessly handing you your favorite meal, and striding into your room to settle at the foot of your bed with a contented sigh.

Through it all, however, was always this persistent question you had. The one that molded into an ache inside your chest. Because what if? What if you took one step closer and stopped holding back? What if you risk everything you have with him now for something more?

But right now you feel like those questions don’t hold the same energy anymore. The same weight. No, they just got weightless. Pointless. Because you just ruined everything without even risking it.

You just destroyed something that can’t be fixed with glue and an apology. It can’t be fixed with you sitting with him and comforting him in the dark while his mind goes to the same cruel place like many times before.

This feels like you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross.

The wrong line.

Shaking hands pick up the largest fragment, the soft loops of her name still visible through the fractures. The sharp ends bite into your palm like the memory of something sacred that’s been lost. You don’t feel the sting. You don’t feel the sensation of the few droplets of blood sliding over your palm where the ends nicked your skin.

The only thing you register is that this foolish mistake might actually unravel everything you’ve built with him.

He let you in, further than anyone, but that doesn’t mean he won’t push you back out if you give him a reason. And this definitely feels like a reason.

Your mind presents you with his reaction when he comes walking in here and sees what happened.

At first, there’d be nothing - just the stoic silence he uses to sink into, the kind that makes it impossible to tell what he’s thinking. But you’d see it in the smallest of things - the way his jaw tightens just enough to be noticeable, the flicker in his eyes that he’ll try to hide but won’t be able to, the stiffening of his shoulders. And then the desolation, like a tide pulling back just before it crashes. You wonder if he would say anything at all, or if the silence would hang heavy.

You swallow hard, begin to feel the sting behind your eyes, and try to force the lump in your throat down.

You’ve worked so hard to be someone he could rely on, someone he could trust in ways he hasn’t trusted anyone else in decades. You’ve sat with him, listened to him, stayed silent with him. Learned to know him so well, you even memorized the subtle shifts in his expressions, the things he won’t say but still lets you feel.

And now, here you are with broken glass in your hands and a painful feeling in your chest, terrified that this could be the moment that shatters the thing between you.

He might pull away, retreat behind those walls he’s spent years building. What if he doesn’t let you sit with him anymore. Or what if he does, but his shoulder would only grow more tense. What if he starts holding back, measuring his words, locking the parts of himself away that he once entrusted to you?

The idea of losing him - not just losing him, but losing this connection, this unspoken, almost-more-than-friendship thing that you’ve both been too afraid to name - makes your breath catch and something rise in your chest that might be bile.

A sob comes out instead.

It comes out like a wound ripped open before it could begin to heal. You press a quivering hand to your mouth, in hopes of muffling the sound, but it’s no use. More broken sobs come anyway.

You try to pull yourself together, to force the tears back, but your body feels so weak under the guilt and shame.

More parts of the broken ornament bite into your skin, red droplets welling up and sliding down your skin, pooling at the curve of your wrist, before falling soundlessly to the floor.

Pain should ground you. It should pull you out of this spiral, force you to snap back to some semblance of control. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t do anything at all.

Instinctively, your hand gives way, the pieces tumbling from your fingers and scattering across the hardwood once more.

You only sit there, frozen, your breath hitching and catching in your throat as tears streak down your face, warm and unwelcome. You can’t stop them.

You’re not supposed to be this weak. You’re not supposed to break down like this, over something so small. And yet that makes the sobs only harder to contain. Because this isn’t small - not to Bucky. And that’s the part that leaves you as shattered as the crimson glass. Perhaps as shattered as your relationship with the person you fell for as hard as the ornament fell to the ground.

It’s Rebecca. His sister. His past. His grief. It’s a tiny piece of his life that he trusted enough to bring out of hiding, to put here with the rest of the world, in the open where it could be seen. Where it could be touched. And you touched it, only to let it fall. Only to ruin it.

Shame knocks down on you so hard, you draw your knees up to your chest, curling into yourself as though you could make yourself smaller, invisible, anything but this.

You don’t even know what to do with your blood-streaked palm, only letting it hover in the air, the shallow cuts glistening under the still-glowing lights of the tree. It’s a mess. You are a mess. Curling your fingers into a fist, you wince in pain at the stinging of the cuts but you leave it like that.

Perhaps you are overreacting, sitting here on the floor in the common area of the compound with a bleeding hand and the shattered remains of Rebecca Barnes's memory, but you feel so helpless and remorseful, you can’t really think straight at the moment.

The sound of the elevator is faint, but it’s enough to reach your ears. You freeze. You just sit there, knees drawn to your chest, blood smeared across your palm, the shattered glass of the ornament glittering like broken stars on the floor.

You are tear-streaked, trembling, your chest still hitching with uneven breaths and Bucky just got home.

Those approaching footsteps are so familiar to you, you would always recognize his gate. Usually, it’s comforting, grounding to know he got home and would leave you with relief in your chest.

But there is no place for relief in your chest right now.

His footsteps sound normal, steady, perhaps a little hurried but he hasn’t reached this room yet.

You don’t look up. Instead, you bite your lip to stop the sob that threatens to escape. The shame is too sharp, cutting deeper than any piece of the ornament and making your heart bleed as well.

Maybe if you stay still, if you stay quiet, he’ll miss you somehow.

But then his steps come to an abrupt halt and you know you are screwed.

Burning tears spike once more and the sob breaks free.

“Woah, hey-” he calls out, so urgent, so worried.

Bucky is across the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees in front of you with a speed that catches you off guard.

“Sweetheart, hey.” It falls from his lips so softly, so worried, it nearly breaks you all over again.

Tears fall more freely at the kind of tenderness in his tone and suddenly his hand is cupping your face, thumb, and knuckles brushing the streaks of wetness from your cheeks.

But they keep coming.

“Look at me, please! Doll, look at me,” he murmurs, his voice impossibly gentle, but dripping with so much concern. His metal hand is on your face as well and he tilts it upward, guiding your gaze toward his.

His brows are drawn so deeply, lips parting slightly as he studies your face - the tear tracks, the desolation in your eyes, the shame and guilt, the trembling of your shoulders.

You can’t look at him. Can’t bear to see it. So you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping you’ll ever be able to forget that look on his face. Not when you know what’s coming. Not when you know what you have caused.

Just wait until he sees it, you think. That look will change.

“No,” he whispers, his voice so soft again, but there is a firmness in it. The pad of his flesh thumb smooths gently across your cheek again, while his metal fingers move to your hair. “Hey, no, don’t do that. It’s okay. Y/n, it’s okay!”

You shake your head quickly and try to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a choked sound, half-sob, half-breath. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t know what this is about.

You want to stay hidden behind the veil of your closed eyes, safe from not seeing what you know will be there in perhaps seconds when he figures it out - disappointment, maybe anger, the grief of what you’ve broken.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart, please.”

There is something in his voice you can’t ignore. It sounds unshakable and steady, yet fragile and thick.

Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes flutter open to meet his, but when you do, you freeze.

Because he already knows.

He looks at you. Just looks, but you see he already put the pieces together. He saw the shards scattering around your knees. His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it but he looks at you with an intensity that is new to you. There is that understanding in his eyes. But it’s so soft. So gentle.

There is no anger, no frustration, no disappointment.

There is nothing of the reaction you had feared for.

Yes, there is pain in his eyes as well. It’s unmistakable, flickering in the soft blue of his irises. But it’s not the pain you expected.

It’s not for the ornament. It’s not for what it meant.

It’s for you.

You can see it in the way his brows crease, the frown that tugs at his mouth. And the way he never once lets his gaze stray to the shards on the floor. All he looks at is you.

Bucky keeps his hands on your face, continuing to swipe over your cheeks like he’s afraid you’ll crumble if he lets go. Then, his thumbs still, resting against your cheekbones, his touch so achingly gentle that it only makes more tears fall.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, and the word cracks, quiet and uneven. He still doesn’t look angry. He still doesn’t look disappointed. He looks devastated - not for what you’ve done, but for what it’s done to you.

Your lips tremble, barely able to form words.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Come here.”

Baby definitely is a new one. It’s something he’s never called you before. But there is no time to linger on it, no chance to unpack the flutter it sparks in your stomach because he’s already pulling you toward him.

His flesh arm wraps around your body, tugging you against his chest, while his metal hand finds its place at the back of your head, cold but reassuring fingers threading through your hair.

He lets you cry against his chest. Cradles you so tightly to him, you might actually get worried about your ribs, but it feels so good. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his heart is pounding. The fabric of his tactical suit presses against your skin, rough and worn from the mission he just came back from, but it grounds you to some extent.

“It’s okay. Just breathe, alright? Breathe,” he keeps whispering, exaggerating his breaths against your body to invite you to follow his lead. You try.

“I’m so sorry,” you sob, the words spilling out in a choked, broken rush as you bury your face in his chest. The tears won’t stop, soaking into the dark fabric of his suit.

“Shh,” he keeps on with his soft voice. His arm around you tightens, holding you closer, while his metal hand stays solidly at the back of your head. His fingers brush through your hair in slow, soothing motions. “Don’t be. Don’t you dare be.”

He continues murmuring to you when you try to apologize again, his voice low and warm. He talks so calmly and sure, you feel something inside of you churn.

Bucky tilts his head slightly, resting his cheek against your hair, and you feel the warmth of his breath as he talks to you.

And yet, biting guilt gnaws its way through your ribs. You feel terrible - worse than terrible - because it should be you comforting him, not the other way around.

It’s him who lost something precious, something you had broken. And here he is, holding you, brushing tears from your face, whispering words meant to stitch you back together.

But somehow, he doesn’t even seem to care. He holds you like you are the only thing that matters right now.

Remorse burrows deep, heavy, and shaming, until it pulls you back to yourself - slowly, shakily, but enough to loosen the sobs caught in your throat.

You sniff and take a breath, a real one this time, ragged but yours.

Then, you shift in his arms, gently pressing against his chest to put space between you. His hold loosens, slowly, with a hesitation that tugs at something in you. As if he is reluctant to let you go. Still, he relents.

His flesh hand slides away first, but his metal one lingers, brushing through your hair one last time before settling on your shoulder. He keeps you close, his thumb brushing absentminded sweeps across your sweater.

His gaze never strays and it’s heavy. You can’t meet his eyes for long. They’re too full of that care you don’t deserve, the care he shows you in so many small gestures all the time.

So your gaze falls to the floor, but then you freeze again.

The broken shards that had glinted so mockingly against the floor just moments ago are gone. Instead, settled carefully on the coffee table as though it had never fallen at all, is the ornament.

Whole.

It takes you a moment to process it, to trust what you’re seeing. The cracks are gone, smoothed over seamlessly. The gleaming red glass catches the light of the Christmas tree, its golden little details shining like something out of a memory, timeless and unbroken. As beautiful and aesthetic as before.

For a moment, you even wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then you notice Wanda standing at the far side of the room. Her hands lower slowly, the telltale red glow of her magic fading from her fingertips.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t step closer - just tilts her head slightly, offering you the faintest, knowing smile. Her eyes are warm.

God, of course. You should have thought of that. It even makes you feel a little ridiculous. You live together with people who possess supernatural abilities, powers beyond comprehension. You should have thought of Wanda. How her hands could have mended it back together in seconds.

A choked breath stumbles out of you, somewhere between relief and disbelief. Bucky follows your gaze, his brows furrowing, only to soften when he sees the ornament resting perfectly intact on the table. He stares at it for a moment.

But then he looks back at you and his sweet smile could melt any ice this winter has to offer.

His flesh hand moves a few strands of hair out of your face and tugs them tenderly behind your ear. His hand stays on your cheek. “Told you it’s okay.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I still broke it,” you say, words slipping out quietly, somberly. Your gaze remains fixed on it. Wanda seems to have slipped out again.

“Stop,” Bucky cuts in, his voice more firm than before but still gentle as always. He shakes his head, moving closer to you again, gaze fixed on you.

You feel his hand brush against yours, but then his shoulders stiffen up. He stops. His eyes catch on something and his expression shifts in an instant.

“Jesus-” His frown deepens, something like a shadow crosses his eyes. Sharp eyes lock onto the red streaks lining your palm, the cuts where the shattered glass had broken your skin.

You hadn’t even realized you were still holding onto the pain - too caught up in everything else to notice the dull throb of your hand or the sting of the scratches.

“You’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?” The words are a quiet exhale, soft but weighted. There is no reprimand in his voice, no anger - only concern coloring every syllable.

His thumb ghosts over your wrist, careful not to brush against the cuts. His intense gaze flickers from your injured hand to your face, searching your expression.

“It’s not a big deal-”

“Don’t.”

Bucky shakes his head. His jaw tightens and he exhales sharply through his nose. It’s not frustration - not with you, anyway. It’s something deeper, something that seems to pain him in his chest as he studies the scratches like they’re a personal failing.

“Bucky,” you say while trying to pull your hand back from his grasp when he tilts it more toward the light to get a better look. As if he hasn’t the eyesight of a super soldier.

“Doll. Let me see.” His lips press into a thin line, the faintest hint of exasperation ghosting across his face.

The sigh you let out drags down your chest and you don’t resist when Bucky keeps cradling your bleeding hand and studies the scratches. His brow is furrowed in concentration that feels too much for something so small.

You want to tell him it’s fine, that this is nothing, but the words die before they reach your tongue.

“Let’s get you fixed up,” he says tightly, the tone of his voice all business and leaving no room for argument.

But you shake your head. It’s your fault the ornament broke in the first place. You’re aware it’s whole again, but it was in shambles just moments earlier and you cut yourself thanks to your own stupidity.

“Bucky, you just got back from a mission-” you protest, your voice quieter than you’d like.

“Not too worried about myself right now, doll,” he interrupts, his voice insistent but warm. The hint of steel beneath his words not directed at you but at the way your guilt is still in control, trying to downplay yourself.

“Come on.” He says it softer now, but before you can argue any further, he’s already moving.

Without so much as a pause, Bucky stands and scoops you up into his arms as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You barely have a second to process the shift, before you’re pressed securely against his chest.

“Bucky!” you exclaim, startled, your uninjured hand reaching for his shoulder to steady yourself.

“Relax, doll. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost amused, though his expression remains calm, focused.

You sigh again, but there is a laugh on your breath. “Buck, I can walk. You don’t have to-”

“Not hearing it,” he says simply, almost flatly. He just continues striding along the halls with you in his arms. His steps are heavier, but you know it’s not because of your weight. He holds you like you weigh nothing at all. “You’re hurt.”

That doesn’t sound like a plausible explanation to you, since you’ve come home with way worse injuries from missions over the last months alone. But the gruffness of his voice, the one that always accompanies him when you’re injured, no matter how small - the seriousness, the concern - it shuts you up for the time being.

You let your head rest against his shoulder. He smells a little like gunpowder and dust, but you only latch onto the parts that are him and breathe them in.

“I didn’t mean to break it, Bucky,” to whisper, gaze dropping to the tightly pressed ball that is your bloody fist. “I’m so sorry.”

You feel the intake of Bucky’s breath against your body and his eyes warmly falling down on you. You don’t meet his gaze.

“You didn’t break anything, sweetheart.” His voice is like velvet, brushing so softly against your skin. So reassuringly. So profoundly gentle. “You’re okay, doll. We’re okay. I promise.” His hands curl tighter around you.

You blink, your head tilting to glance up at him, and your breath catches when you meet his gaze.

It is intense. His brows are pulled together - not with anger, but with concern. Like the only things he cares about right now are the tears that linger in your eyes and the way you’re still trying to curl in on yourself, still letting your body slightly shake with the guilt that he refuses to let you carry.

Something stirs in your belly. Something flutters, as if thousands of tiny wings brush against the walls of you, demanding to be seen. To be felt.

Because you let your mind spiral so much earlier, bracing yourself for a reaction of disappointment, frustration - that flicker of something unnameable that might pull the two of you apart.

But it still isn’t there.

Not even close.

It’s the opposite, really.

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ghostf1ux · 21 days ago

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"Who the Fuck are you Calling a Twig?"

Day 1: Broken Bones

Word Count: 3.8k

TW/CWs: Broken bones, drug talk/usage, Venom, guns, graphic violence, graphic injuries, general DCU-ness

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“Wow, boys, you really know how to make a guy feel welcomed.”

Jason's dry words echo mechanically through the warehouse, making it impossible for the men below to figure out its origin. He counts fourteen masked heads crowded around a large moving truck that whip around at the disturbance. Nine of them brandish some kind of automatic rifles– the others seem to just have handguns. Nothing he isn't used to.

“Who's there?” One of them calls out hesitantly, nerves clear by the way their voice wavers with the question. He smirks.

Much to Jason's amusement (and maybe disappointment) they never just look up. Despite years of Batman and his flock swinging around Gotham, its population, home to some grade A dumbasses, have never learned to just look up.

“Damn, guess I'm gonna have to get some more heads,” Jason sighs, shifting from his crouched position in the rafters to one knee. He continues without answering the question. “So, here's the deal: you take yourselves, sans your drugs as well as your dignity, and skedaddle. In return, you retain use of all your limbs for the foreseeable future.”

Personally, Jason thinks this is a good deal. He understands that these guys are probably just trying to get by, so he'd rather not have this turn into something more than it needs to be.

Plus, he was looking forward to an easy night.

The goons all look between each other, conversing quietly. Jason notes the way some of them shift uncertainly, glancing around despite the weapons in their hands trained on the surrounding shadows. It's a little pathetic.

Finally, one speaks up.

“How about you try saying that to our faces, or are you too chicken?” The goon near the driver's seat of the truck tightens his grip on his rifle, before motioning to the others to start searching the warehouse. Jason decides to call him the leader of this little ragtag group of thieves, though he isn't sure exactly who they're stealing for. His intel only pointed to there being a pretty big load of Venom that was missing from a drug bust he had orchestrated weeks ago.

“You aren't from around here, are you?” Jason drawls curiously, tilting his head in consideration. Of course, the voice modulator makes it come out a whole lot more menacing, the effect made worse by the fact that they still haven't found him, despite how some of them have spread out. The immediate effect it has on them almost makes Jason laugh. Almost.

“What's it to ya? We ain't stayin’ for long,” a different voice answers. Jason stands, silently prowling the length of the beam he's on until he finds a group of four guys loosely tucked behind a stack of crates.

“No, you aren't.”

He grins, and drops.

The first two guys are on the ground before they even notice he's there. He rips the rifle out of one of their hands to use as a bat to strike the third, putting him out instantly with a resounding crack. He uses the momentum to launch a high back hook kick at the fourth, who slams into the stack of crates and then crumples to the ground.

He manages to clip three more in the shoulders before gunfire is raining down on the crates between Jason and the truck. He thinks he hears shouting somewhere behind it, but it's unclear.

What he definitely hears is the start of a truck engine– listen, with how many god damn trucks he hears in this line of work, he can practically tell you the specs just based off the starting sound of the engine– and the squealing of tires against cement floors.

Swearing under his breath, Jason turns to dive through another barrage of bullets, racing through the maze of bullshit strewn about. He doesn't have time to worry about the hired guns getting away, what's important is getting that Venom before it can end up on the streets. His streets.

He fires a few shots blindly behind him– a twisted bit of satisfaction making him smile at the sound of bodies dropping on the floor with pained yells and swears– before whipping out his modified grapple gun, aiming for the ceiling above a hole in the upper wall– looks vaguely like it was exploded– above the exit the truck is taking off towards.

He grins when the line pulls taut and he's yanked past the truck– tracking his speed– tracking his trajectory– flying upupup–

And releases at just the right moment to fling himself through the hole and into the moist Gotham air. The truck pulls out far below him, gaining speed, but it isn't enough. He's too good at sending himself flying for anything else.

It's a hobby he takes great joy in.

Jason unsheathes one of his many knives mid-air, turning his body to dive and land in a roll on top of the hood of the moving truck. His speed and momentum was accounted for– he supposes he should thank Bruce's numerous lectures about thinking before pulling stunts like this– even if the rain wasn't as he tumbles over the roof of the storage and onto the hood over the driver and passenger seats themselves. Slamming the blade of his knife through the roof, he scrambles for purchase despite the way his weight wants to send him barreling past the windshield.

Fortunately, he recovers before they can start trying to shoot what little of him they can see (he has the ruined edge of his bowie to thank for that) and he swings around to kick the passenger through the window– wait, wasn't this guy on the driver's side? Why is he in the passenger seat instead of driving–

But the goon doesn't knock the driver off course with the force of his kick that should've sent both out the driver's door.

The truck barely swerves. It only registers several seconds later why, when his ankle is grabbed and nearly fucking crushed.

See, a funny thing about hindsight is that it doesn't fucking help you. Ever.

That's what Jason thinks as he's ripped from his handhold into the tight front seat. The minimal skin of the leader goon he can see bulges with muscles that weren't there before, a yellow tinge to his veins just barely visible in the low light. His eyes are wild and bloodshot, pupils blown with the drug coursing through his system.

This is why Jason hates Venom. All it does is make his life– well, second life– harder.

Hm. Maybe he should call for some backup.

Jason considers this a moment before he grits his teeth as he's forcefully curled up and pushed against the windshield, the slowly cracking glass under his hands bracing against it like gunshots in his ear. It's taking nearly all of the strength in his legs to push back against the force and he's still losing, slowly, painfully folding up despite his joints grinding together.

A flash of metal (a gun, his mind supplies oh-so helpfully) in his peripheral catches his attention. Reflex and a burst of adrenaline makes him twist over the center console– fuck that stick did not feel good digging into his lower back– to wrestle the gun out of the driver's hands.

This time, the truck swerves. The gun goes flying– Jason thinks it ends up on the ground on the passenger side– before a sharp explosion of pain in his head nearly makes his vision go blurry. In reality, his head was just slammed into the steering wheel.

Maybe that shouldn't be said as nonchalant as it is, but… well. He's had worse.

He scrabbles against the body under him in the tight space, reaching for his thigh holster blindly. He manages to find it and draw the weapon in the tight space, but the leader– the guy high on Venom– snaps his arm like a twig before he can fire.

Jason hears himself scream and drops the gun– unable to do anything but scramble for something to stop the blinding pain– vaguely hearing unintelligible yelling that doesn't quite resonate in his mind– he feels himself get jostled around in his desperate movements–

And suddenly he hears shattering glass.

And suddenly he's in the air, all sense of direction lost.

And suddenly everything goes white when his body decides it's a good idea to shoulder check the ground– leading with his snapped arm.

He tries to curl up in a ball out of reflex– protect his vital organs– but the street (when did they turn on to a street?) has different plans for him, apparently.

His vision still hasn't returned when creaking metal bends– groans– breaks–

He can only let out a hoarse, breathless shriek when cold, wet, sharp weight falls on his chest and legs– nearly cracking the asphalt below him. Something in him– several somethings, he thinks– grinds and pops and snaps–

His breath is ripped out of his chest again as he gasps for air, this ever-present weight crushing him until his bones grind into dust and all that's left is squished, soupy remains.

Despite this, the first thing Jason can actually register when his ears stop ringing and his vision fades back in from the white it was before is his heartbeat and the blood roaring in his ears. It's like he can feel the rapid pulse of his life force in his whole body, desperately trying to do something– keep him alive, probably. Though he can't quite say for sure from what.

Then he feels the cold spatter of raindrops on his face. Distantly his mind tells him that his helmet is broken from when he got his face bashed into a steering wheel. Yeah, that sounds about right to him. But his face shouldn't be as warm as it is. Something warm is on his face. Steadily dripping down his cheeks, his chin, his neck– maybe it's starting to gather underneath him? That would explain why his neck and back feel wet.

Burning rubber assaults his senses, something more toxic hidden beneath it. There's smoke, and coppery tang of something he's intimately familiar with that would normally make the acidic green flames in him sing–

Blurry shapes begin to take form next. Lights, blinding lights– but not many of them close. Tall walls flanking the road he's on, panes of glass between them. Distantly recognizable, to the part of his brain that's still muddled. Trash. Trickles of rain in the street flowing into gutters along the sides. The far away lights reflect on the dirty water, keeping his attention on them. Distracting him.

Focus, Jason, a woman's voice cuts through the fog, silky-smooth but commanding all the same.

Assess, find an exit, another voice follows, this one gruff and deep. Masculine. It makes the fog clear rapidly in a way nothing else can.

Fuck, okay.

Jason's vision sharpens, fully registering the vehicle he's looking up at. He doesn't dare move his head, that deep voice vaguely rattling off possible head and neck injury procedures somewhere in the back of his mind.

Assess. He's on his back, trapped under a large vehicle. He's on the street, probably still in Crime Alley. No one is around, as far as he can tell.

The truck is on its side, the only saving grace for Jason's life. The side mirror is crushed directly to his left, between his chest and his arm, but it adds at least a little bit of leverage that keeps the full weight of the vehicle off of him. On top of that, his left arm– mostly uninjured, from what he can tell– is free.

Experimentally, he tries to move his hand.

He sucks in a sharp, white hot painful breath at the lightning bolt of pain shooting up his arm– it hurts like a bitch, but it isn't broken. His wrist might be fractured. Moving his arm fully doesn't hurt nearly as much as his wrist.

His chest protests though, loudly. He has to bite back a whimper when the truck seems to sink into him– that had to be his imagination, right? Surely this can't be how he goes; crushed to death under a fucking truck full of–

Something.

Something important.

Focus, Jason. What's the situation?

Right.

The roof of the truck is digging into his chest, but his stomach has a lighter weight on it. At least, comparatively.

But then the lower edge of the window– broken, shattered window– digs into his right hip and the upper area of his left thigh. He manages to wiggle his toes, but the motion sends sparks of pain flaring up and down both legs, all the way up his ribs.

He can't even feel his right arm where it's trapped under the edge of the roof and the side edge of the window.

Something tells him he really doesn't want to.

Glancing around, he sees his gun has fallen conveniently about arms length away on his left side. He doesn't try to reach for it. He wonders if he'd actually be able to get it if he tried. It's an expensive gun, he had it custom made as part of a set and it'd be really annoying to have to get another one–

Focus, Jason.

Shit, this is a bad situation, even by Jason's standards.

From what he can gather, there is no way to get out of this. Not by himself. He knows he's forgetting something. Something important. Something that can help him. But the thoughts slip through his fingers like smoke.

Fuck, he could really use a smoke right now.

Smoke.

Crushing weight.

Bones shattering under metal–

Waiting–

Pleading–

Alone–

No. Wait.

That's not right.

Someone was coming for him, then.

He's not alone. Not anymore.

Focus, Jason. What can you use to increase your chances of survival?

He slowly raises his free hand to a small switch on the unbroken side of his helmet. It's awkward and god does it hurt but–

“Need– need hel– help,” Jason manages to croak out, arm falling helplessly back onto asphalt. Copper drips into his mouth. He forces himself not to gag.

“What the fuck?”

“Hood?”

“Where are you?”

“What happened?”

“Hood are you okay?”

Voices clamber loudly over each other, but Jason is just focused on his rattling, forcefully shallow breaths. They all blur together into a cacophony of noise. That is, until one much deeper than the rest speaks over them.

“Hood, what happened?” the voice growls. Distantly, he recognizes it. The same one in his mind that echoed lessons from years past. Batman. Bruce.

Dad.

“I– I can't–”

Jason's words are starting to stutter and slur, becoming harder to form. The dots of his thoughts struggling to connect into lines.

“Robin, report,” the same voice barks, sharper this time. It pulls him back to a time before he had all the issues he has now. The words come tumbling out without him even thinking about them.

“Trapped– Venom bust– was chasing, got– got pulled in close– truck flipped– ‘m trapped– can't– breathing is–” the words get stuck in his throat, shallow breaths speeding up. The movement forces pained whines from his throat.

He doesn't have the breath for those right now.

“Oracle, send the coordinates. Nightwing and Red Robin, get to Hood. Robin and I will stop by the cave to get the materials needed to stabilize him,” Batman finishes. His voice is clipped. Controlled. Some part of Jason wonders why.

“Affirmative. ETA four minutes,” A younger voice– Tim, Jason's mind reminds him– answers immediately.

“Make it two,” Batman snaps.

“We're coming, little wing. Just gotta hold on for us, okay? We're gonna get you out.” Dick's voice is assuring, gentle. It's the one used for victims. Usually Jason would snap at him for using it on him, but at the moment, he can't really find it in himself to care.

All he can care about is the slowly increasing pressure pushing down on his–

Well. His everything.

“T's like– like the world– world's worse f– fuckin’– weighted blanket,” Jason finds himself saying out loud. A sardonic chuckle escapes him, which is a huge mistake because now he wants to sob.

He blinks back the burning tears before they can escape. He thinks, at least.

There's a small, sharp intake of breath before someone talks again. A woman, this time.

“I can't find him on cameras live, since Crime Alley is pretty spotty, but I found the footage of the crash. Hood, you need to be on the lookout for whoever was in the passenger seat. It looks like he got thrown from the truck, but if he was on Venom then he might get back up. You need to focus until Nightwing and Red can get there.”

Focus, Jason. Who can still hurt you?

“T– tall order there, Barbie,” he manages, glancing around. It takes him far too long to clock a peculiar lump on the ground about fifteen yards away.

A moving peculiar lump on the ground.

Jason blinks rapidly up at the sky, cursing every god that may or may not exist.

“Do you see him, Hood?”

“Yeah,” Jason breathes out, barely more than a whisper. His eyes trail down to his gun laying on the pavement. He almost whines with how far away it seems.

“Is he moving?”

Jason can only manage a vaguely affirmative hum as he begins dragging his arm towards the gun. Every muscle, nerve, and bone in his body screams at him to stop. To rest.

He chokes down a sob when only his fingertips brush the cool metal of the barrel. He reaches further and nearly screams, but manages to drag it close enough to get a good grip on it.

“Almost there, little wing,” Dick whispers, his voice taut with pain and worry.

Jason turns his gaze up to the man now hobbling towards him, sporting a bloody grin.

“Caged birdie all alone… shouldn't have bitten off more than you could chew,” the man chides menacingly. The zombie stumble he's got going on also isn't really helping.

Suddenly he's closer. Too close for comfort.

Jason raises the gun, putting all his effort into maintaining his steady aim. Only a small tremor betrays the agony his wrist is in.

“Twenty seconds–”

The man steps closer, picking up something off the ground with a pained grunt.

“Maybe this'll finally teach you a lesson about sticking your nose where it don't belong.”

There's a glint of metal.

A gunshot.

And then nothing.

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

“--onna need the plane–”

“--wing, you with me?”

Gentle words coax Jason back to consciousness. Chatter continues in the background, but Jason is only aware of the pinched face of his brother above him. Despite the domino mask, he can see tear tracks on his cheeks.

Or maybe it's just the rain.

It's always raining in Gotham.

“Jay, come on, you gotta focus. We're gonna get you out you just gotta stay awake for a little bit longer,” Dick reassures despite the pained look on his face. He's trying not to worry Jason. He doesn't know if it's working or not.

“H– hurts,” Jason whines.

“I know, I know. I'm gonna take your helmet off, alright?”

Moments later there's a hiss of air before Dick gently works the broken helmet off Jason's head, setting it aside. He moves Jason's head into his lap, gently carding through the sweat-soaked curls.

It's comforting. Distracting.

It almost makes Jason forget how much pain he's really in.

“Ho– how–?”

“B's gonna bring the plane around, and we'll hook the truck onto it so he can lift it off you,” Dick explains. The waver in his voice is there, betraying his anxiety at the situation despite his calm demeanor, but only the people close to him would ever be able to make it out.

Dick turns away to talk to Tim. Jason isn't paying attention. There's something else. There's a flaw in the plan. One only he knows about, because they can't see inside the truck. Not without putting more weight on him.

Focus, Jason.

Weight.

A smaller weight.

Blood pooling.

But not his.

“Bod– body–” Jason rasps, quickly getting both boys’ attention.

“It’s fine, it was life or death. B won't be mad,” Tim offers him a reassuring smile. Jason grimaces, nearly shaking his head before thinking better of it.

“T– two. Stom– stomach.”

Dick furrows his brow, before his eyes widen. Tim seems to come to the same conclusion.

“Fuck, okay.” Dick rakes a hand through his damp hair, turning his gaze up to the sky as he takes a deep breath.

“B? Addition to the plan: Robin will need to repel into the car. There's another body in it, on Hood. We won't be able to get him out until it's gone…”

Jason lets the noise fade into the background, content to focus on Dick's fingers brushing through his hair rather than literally anything else. It's nice. The only nice thing in the cacophony of terrible no good awful things that make up his life right now.

But eventually, all good things must come to an end.

Distantly, he hears more talking. Organizing. Directing.

A weight gets lifted off his stomach.

Something hooks under his left arm. Someone else's arm, probably.

And then–

Well, being unaware of anything around you, thrown into a pool of evil magic battery acid mixed with mountain dew, and then subsequently ripped apart before being put back together was a really shit experience overall.

Being beaten nearly to death with a crowbar, then blown up and suffocating on smoke had been pretty terrible too.

This–

He won't remember being awake for this. It'll be a hole in his memory, one his brain will refuse to fill in… probably for the rest of his life. He'll think he passed out just before Bruce and Damien got there, and woke up safe and sound back at the Manor.

But his brothers won't be so lucky.

They'll never forget the piercing shriek that made all of them lock up as soon as the truck began to be lifted.

They'll never forget the wailing sobs that wracked the mangled body as pressure continued to be lifted.

They'll never forget the screams that echoed off the surrounding buildings when he was dragged off the asphalt and onto a stretcher.

They'll never forget how his teal, bright teal eyes finally rolled back and they had to see how both legs were nearly crushed and torn to shreds, chest still never fully expanding to get oxygen that was so desperately needed, how a piece of bone stuck so far out of his forearm that bent in a ninety degree angle right near the middle, on top of a shoulder that was so clearly out of its socket it probably shouldn't even still be attached.

But Jason wouldn't remember.

He'd remember knowing that whenever he woke up, he'd be out. He'd be safe.

And for now, that was all he needed.

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just-here-for-the-whump · 16 days ago

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@whumpcember24 Day 7: Kidnapped

Supergirl 1x10 Childish Things

#whumpcember24 #whumpcember24 day7 #kiddnapped #whump #supergirl #winn schott #jeremy jordan

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whump-imagines · 12 days ago

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Mugging

Eddie x reader

WC: 1500 ish

Warnings: mugging

For @whumpcember day 10 "let me help you" and for @hurtcember day 10 touch aversion... nothing like last minute. Ha.

You were walking to your car after leaving dinner with a few of your friends when, suddenly, you were yanked into an alley and shoved hard into a brick wall.

Stars danced across your vision from the impact. “What the–?” you asked, confused.

“Give me your phone!” The man in front of you shouted.

You froze, finally realizing what was happening. You started to shake your head and then a fist connected with your face and you cried out in pain.

“Phone! Now!” He shouted again.

Finally, you got your hands to cooperate and you pulled the phone from your back pocket and reached it towards the man. He yanked it from your hand hard enough to throw you off balance.

“Please, just let me go,” you begged.

Another punch landed to your face and then a kick to the side of your knee that knocked you to the ground. You tried to curl into a ball so you could protect your head. Next, your purse was yanked from your shoulder before he kicked you hard a couple times in the side.

You whimpered as you tried to curl further into yourself. You barely even registered the sound of retreating footsteps. Not daring to risk moving, you lay there curled in a ball for several minutes.

Everything hurt. You knew moving was only going to make it worse but you knew you needed help.

Slowly, you managed to push yourself up to a sitting position. Then eventually you managed to get all the way upright. You were dizzy and winded and needed to lean against the wall for support.

With one final, painful, deep breath, you pushed off the wall and started walking. You limped your way to the end of the block and looked around. When you didn't see any people you pushed forward another block, then one more.

When you made it to the next intersection you looked to your left and spotted a fire truck in front of the fire station you had forgotten was there. You sighed in relief and turned in that direction.

About half way down the block, someone came out of a building right in front of you. You froze before you started taking small steps backwards. “Hey, you okay?” the stranger asked.

You only managed a tiny nod as he approached and reached out a hand like he was going to touch you. You backed away faster as you managed to find your voice. “No!”

“Alright, I'm sorry,” he raised the offending hand in surrender and backed away. He got into a car on the curb but didn't start the engine.

You tried to walk as quickly as you could manage away from the stranger and towards the fire station.

When you were about twenty feet away from the truck, a dark haired man rounded the front end and spotted you. Despite knowing that was your intended destination, you couldn't help but to shy away from the man just as you had a moment ago.

He took small steps towards you. “Hi, sweetheart, can you tell me what happened?”

You glanced between the fire truck and the design on his shirt. Finally you decided to answer. “I, um, I was j-just walking,” you gestured back the way you'd come. “Then the alley. A-and he took my phone. Er, I think I should call someone…”

He slowly took a few more steps, closing the distance between you. “My name is Eddie. Can you tell me yours?”

Before you could answer, your knees buckled and you crumpled. Eddie moved quickly, catching you before you could hit the ground.

Even with nowhere to go, you tried to shy away from him.

“Its okay. You're safe,” he assured you. “Let me help you, okay?”

Just then another firefighter rounded the front of the truck. “Eddie, what's taking you so– Oh.”

You whimpered at the closeness of another person. Eddie just squeezed your hand reassuringly.

“Buck, go grab Hen and Chim and have Bobby call Athena, please,” Eddie requested before turning back to you. “What's your name?”

As you gave him your name, he shifted you to the ground so his hands were free. You winced at the sudden shift in position.

“What hurts?” he asked, taking your hand.

A tear slipped from your eye and you hiccuped a painful breath. “Everything.”

“Okay, just try to take some deep breaths for me.” He took a couple slow breaths for you to follow. “That's good. Now, there are about to be a lot more people out here. I know you're scared, but all of them just want to help you. Okay?”

You nodded trying to stay calm. “Okay.”

“And I'll be right here with you, too.”

Next thing you knew, there was three more people beside you and more lingering near the fire truck. You started to panic and everything started to spin.

Eddie squeezed your hand almost painfully. “Breathe, sweetheart. Slow breaths.”

You locked eyes with him and tried as hard as you could to block out everyone else around you as they poked, prodded, and shifted you.

A woman leaned into your line of sight. “I'm going to give you something for the pain. Are you allergic to any meds?”

You start to shake your head but then stop yourself. “Uh, just that dye stuff they use for those scans things.”

“Okay.” She twists a syringe into the IV line you hadn't felt them put in and pressed the plunger. Within seconds your pain eased.

They quickly had you loaded onto a stretcher and pushed you into the ambulance that had been moved closer.

Eddie kept his promise and he stayed by your side all the way into the emergency room. Then there was another round of new people and you panicked again. Eddie was trying to calm you down as you suddenly felt like you were floating before everything went dark.

The last thing you heard was Eddie whispering, “You'll feel better soon.”

The next morning you were picking at a crappy omelette and drinking mediocre, watery orange juice when there was a knock at the door.

The nurses had been coming in after knocking without any acknowledgment on your part so you assumed that would be the case but the door didn't open.

Brows furrowed in confusion, you shouted, “Uh, come in.”

The door cracked open and Eddie poked his head in. “Good morning.”

You smiled. “Oh, Eddie. Hey. I thought you were a nurse.”

He pushed the door open further and joined you in the room. He set a stuffed purple dinosaur on the bed by your hip. “I almost grabbed a bear, but I decided to go with the less traditional option.”

You picked it up and ran your hands over the velvety soft fur. “I love him. Thanks.”

“How're you feeling?” he asked, glancing at the screen beside the bed displaying your vitals.

“Sore, mostly,” you started. “But they've got me on the good pain meds. Otherwise, the broken ribs alone would be unbearable, I imagine. Not to mention the sprained knee, the concussion, the face, and the stitches from the surgery they did to fix my kidney.”

“Ouch. I'm glad the meds help. Do you mind if I hang out for a while?”

“Please do.” You gestured to the chair in the corner. “You can move that closer… if you want.”

He pulled the chair over next to the bed and sat. He took you hand in both of his and squeezed gently like he had the day before. And just like the day before a sense of safety washed over you.

“Thank you for coming to visit me.” You smiled shyly.

“I couldn't leave things the way we did,” he explained. “I needed to know you were okay.”

“I'm getting there.”

“I was also wondering if maybe once you're feeling better you might want to get coffee or dinner or something…”

You nodded overly eagerly, immediately regretting the action when pain shot through your head and you winced.

“Are you okay? Do you need me to get a nurse?”

“No, I'm fine. I just moved my head too quickly.” You rubbed your temples to ease the ache. “But, yes. I'd love to do dinner or coffee. I'd offer to give you my number but I have to get a new phone first.”

“Good. I can't wait,” he pressed a light kiss to your knuckles. “Maybe you should try to get some rest.”

“You have lots of good ideas.” You smiled and shifted to find a comfortable position. You closed your eyes for a second before snapping them open again. “You'll still be here when I wake up, right?”

“I promise.”

#eddie diaz x reader #911 fanfic #9 1 1 x reader #whumpcember24 #day 10 #hurtcember2024

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azuriewillow005 · 11 days ago

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Yo guys back with more whumpy drawings

Whumpcember day 8, prompt: "No. Not like this"

This is at the end of How to Seize a Dragon's Jewel, book 10 when my boys reunite

No one dies guys don't worry

I also have a short drabble for it on AO3 @-@

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61253422

I'm so normal about these two heh

#httyd books #hiccup horrendous haddock iii #fishlegs no name #whumpcember24 #whumpcemberday8 #no one dies guys don't worry :D #fanfiction #fan art #my art #How to Seize a Dragon's Jewel

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serickswrites · 16 days ago

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Please, Stop

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, forced to watch, blood, physical violence, unconsciousness

"Please, stop," Caretaker begged through their tears as they watched Whumper backhand Whumpee. They had sat uselessly in the chair Whumper had bound them to as they watched Whumper beat Whumpee for what felt like hours.

Whumpee fell back, only to be yanked back into place by Whumper. Whumpee squealed with pain as Whumper gripped them tightly. Whumper raised their fist and punched Whumpee again. "PLEASE!" Caretaker yelled as they watched the blood flow from Whumpee's nose and mouth. Their eyes were unfocused as Whumper shoved them to the ground. Whumpee groaned as they landed.

"Why would I do that?" Whumper sneered. They kicked Whumpee hard in the face, sending Whumpee flying once more. Whumpee didn't move as they lay sprawled on the floor.

"Please, Whumper, they're hurt. Please, please just give them a break. Please, stop," Caretaker sobbed. Whumpee had to be ok. Whumpee had to be ok. They had to find a way to get Whumpee out of here.

"I know they're hurt. That's kind of the point." Whumper kicked Whumpee again hard. Whumpee didn't cry out. Whumper grabbed Whumpee by the hair and dragged them to sitting. Whumpee's head hung limply in Whumper's grasp. "It's no fun to beat you while you're unconscious though," Whumper said as they violently threw Whumpee to the ground.

"No!" Caretaker shouted as Whumpee's head bounced off the tile with a sickening crack.

"They're breathing," Whumper sneered, "what are you complaining about. I haven't killed them," Whumper said with a sadistic smile. "Yet."

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat @artisticdemon

#serickswrites #whump #whump community #whumpblr #whump writing #tw captivity #tw restraints #tw torture #tw blood #tw forced to watch #tw physical violence #tw beating #tw unconsciousness #whumpcember24 #whumpcember24 day 6 #prompt: “please stop”#queue

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katyawriteswhump · 17 days ago

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sleigh bells ring, I'm not listening! (steddie holiday drabble/bingo/whumpcember)

For @steddieholidaydrabbles day 5 prompt, Winter Sports; my first @steddiebingo fill, ‘Dustin Henderson,’ and @whumpcember day 21 prompt, ‘bruises.’ (It was originally day 5 prompt, concussion, but I ended up sparing the boys that for once!)

WC: 977; Rating T; CW: None; Tags: established steddie, mild whump hurt/comfort, fluff. Maths terms provided by my partner. I have no idea what they mean and have doubtless misused them.

Summary: Steve loves all sports. Apart from winter sports. So, when he’s literally dragged from bed to go sledding with Dustin and Eddie, he’s surprised when it turns out rather magical…

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

“Remind me why I agreed to this?” Steve trailed a sled along the snowy track. He glared hotly at Dustin, then pleadingly at Eddie, who trudged on his other side. “It’s too cold for anything other than fucking… sleep.”

Eddie smirked. He didn’t look as miserable as Steve, which was annoying. Dustin, meanwhile, was having none of it:

“Dudes! This is your once-in-a-lifetime embarkation on a voyage of mathematical curiosity. Today, we’re exploring chaos theory! Mandelbrot bifurcations! Feigenbaum constants! You’re never gonna paddle those icy waters alone.”

“You wanna stick a pin in that balloon-head?” Steve asked Eddie, “or should I?”

Eddie laughed then sneezed dramatically. Steve stopped dead. “You know what? I love sports. Apart from winter sports. Skiing. Luge. Skating. All that shit. Hate it.”

“You worship at the altar of ice-hockey,” pointed out Eddie.

“Whose side are you on?” Steve nearly yelled: I’m not being dragged into this by a pair of sport-hating geeks! Instead, he mumbled, pathetically, “Wanna go home.”

By now, they’d reached Hawkins’ top sledding slope. A smattering of kids zoomed down the super-compacted ice. Eddie regarded the scene with a misty smile, which shocked Steve out of his grouchiness.

“I’m in, Henderson.” Eddie’s smile evolved into a full-on-adorable, dimpled grin. “I got great memories of this spot—me, mom, and a big-ass tea-tray. Who needs a goddamn sled?”

“We do.” Dustin whipped out a stopwatch. “We’ve a shitload of interesting variables at play here. Let’s go.”

‘Science’ commenced. Dustin sledded first, then Steve, who gritted his teeth and endured. Eddie went last, screaming his way down the slope…

“…like a little girl,” said Dustin to Steve, super-earnest. “A little girl who’s in need of hugs, Steve.”

“Bullshit on so many levels.” Steve pointed to a nearby grade-school sledder. “She isn’t screaming. And my boyfriend’s scream is totally metal.”

“Okay. Just, y’know…” Dustin mumbled behind his hand, as Eddie approached with the sled. “He needs more hugs.”

Steve wrinkled his nose. Huh?

After several more runs, Dustin leafed through his notebook. “Interesting data. Now, both of you—on the sled.”

Steve planted frozen fists on his hips: “No way. Not big enough.”

“It’s fine,” said Eddie. “Totally bigger than mom’s tea-tray.”

Steve silently surrendered yet again. Eddie treasured memories of his mom, who passed when he was young. This clearly meant a lot to him, as well as Dustin, so Steve took pole position to steer—as much as anyone could with a dumb rope. Eddie perched behind, wrapping his arms around Steve, notching his chin on Steve’s shoulder. It was super-cosy, and… yeah, super-nice. They didn’t usually get this close in public, plus they’d avoided showing affection in front of their friends lately because—

“Ready?” yelled Dustin.

Steve’s nerves jangled. Eddie yelled: “Hell, yeah! Steddin’ with the Devil!”

“3, 2, 1, GO!”

Heel-power propelled them off. Wind whooshed through Steve’s hair, while Eddie unleashed his most deafeningly ‘metal’ scream yet. It was a bumpy ride, but mega-fun. Steve found himself grinning madly, though fearing for his hearing, and then:

“Shiiiiit!” He spotted the rock way too late. On impact, the world flipped, and he was thrown from the sled, landing heavily on his side. He suppressed a whimper, because something else mattered way more:

“Eddie?”

His heart lurched to his throat, pounding madly even after he spotted Eddie lying in the snow. Steve scrambled up, limped gingerly over: “You okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

Steve nodded.

Eddie finished his snow-angel and sat up, shaking his hair like a wet dog: “Mom said it ain’t sledding till you crash.”

“All good, gentlemen?” panted Dustin, skidding to join them.

“Apparently.” Steve dumped his bruised butt down next to Eddie.

“Great,” said Dustin. “Why aren’t you hugging?”

“Uuuuuuh, should we be?”

“Yes!” shouted Dustin, and it all blurted out. Apparently, ‘science’ had a secondary agenda. “You used to be all lovey-dovey smoochy! Lately, you’ve hardly touched. I figured if I got you squished on a sled, adrenaline rushing, old magic might rekindle?”

Steve merely gawked at Dustin, whose recent weirdness began to make sense. Eddie, meanwhile, threw his arms around Steve’s neck and spoke between bursts of crazy laughter:

“The issue here, Dustin Henderson, is lack of Party communication. We stopped touching, because Max said we made her wanna hurl. Mike complained it was creepy! We’re still in love! I mean, when you thumped on our door today, we were totally fu… cuddling.”

“Oh,” said Dustin, visibly brightening. Eddie resumed cackling into Steve’s shoulder. Steve took his cue to fling both arms around Eddie and burrow close for warmth.

Once back home, they got dry and toasty, gently kissing each other’s more visible bruises. Eventually Eddie, stretched out on the bed, noticed Steve’s slight limp. “You got another bruise to show me, Baby?”

Steve tugged down his pants, revealing a mottled rainbow-spectrum of colors spreading up his thigh and ass-cheek to his hip. He coyly arched a brow. “Honest to God, today was a blast and totally worth it… but, yeah, that spot requires serious kissing better.”

“Looks too sore even for kisses.” Eddie flung open his arms. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t you dare be. It was my shitty steering.”

“C’mere. Right now.”

Steve obeyed, rolling back into the enthusiastic lovemaking that science and goddamn Henderson had interrupted. He bitched about his bruise, but only slightly—especially as Eddie lavished extra care on nearby areas, with lips and tongue, to distract him.

“Sledding again tomorrow?” suggested Eddie, much later, while they snuggled inside watching fresh snow falling.

“You are joking, right?”

“Don’t worry, Stevie. Your ass is safe… though maybe not from me.”

Eddie’s answer segued into a sweet, lingering kiss, which Steve returned enthusiastically. He’d learned important shit today about his two favorite people. Eddie loved sledding. And Dustin loved his friends loving each other. Steve still blindsided himself, breaking the kiss to whisper:

“Maybe more sledding next week?”

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

tags: @wheneverfeasible 💚 My stranger things fic on AO3

#steddie #steddieholidaydrabbles #steddie holiday drabbles #whumpcember24 #steve harrington whump #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie fanfic #steve x eddie #steddie fluff #steddiebingo #established steddie #dustin henderson

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whumperwithwings · 2 days ago

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Whumpcember 2024 Day 20

20: 'Please leave'

Caretaker gave Whumpee's door a second glance, straining their ears to hear noises coming from just beyond it. The noises sounded like weeping, and the echoed just loud enough throughout the hallway for Caretaker to push open the heavy piece of wood, grateful that it was unlocked. Whumpee was sitting at the foot of their small head, head in their hands as they shook. The wooden floor creaked as Caretaker walked over it to sit by Whumpee's side, placing one hand on the nearby bedframe as they put their over hand on Whumpee's shoulder.

"Oh my- Caretaker, why are you here?" Whumpee exclaimed, shimmying away from Caretaker and out of their reach. Tear streaks were visible on their face as they looked up into Caretaker's eyes, more vulnerable then Caretaker had ever seem them before.

"I heard crying. Are you alright, Whumpee?" Caretaker reached out their hand for Whumpee to take, but they didn't accept the offer.

"Please leave, Caretaker. My..." Whumpee trailed off, looking down at themselves. "...state. Is none of your business. Please." Whumpee looked back up at Caretaker, eyes brimming with tears.

Caretaker looked back at Whumpee somberly. "Of course. But I'll be right down the hall if you need me, okay?"

#whump #whumpblr #whump blog #writers on tumblr #writing #whump community #whump prompt #whump writing #whumpee #whump scenario #whumpcember #whumpcember24 #whump caretaker #whump challenge #whumpcember2024

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whumpisgoodwhumpislife · 22 days ago

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WHUMPCEMBER DAY 1

Broken bones

Tw blood, violence

- PLEASE PLEASE PL-

Whumpee's frantic pleas were lost in a gut-wrenching scream as whumper's hammer crushed his second shin. He couldn't even beg anymore, his throat raw as he screamed again, writhing against the straps holding him down. His face was covered in tears and snot, his eyes tightly closed as he tried to process the pain. Both his legs were broken, and every little move was sending jolts of agony through his lower body.

Whumper put down the hammer and approached, cupping whumpee's face in his hands.

- Oh sweetheart. You look so adorable, all scrunched up like that.

Whumpee hiccuped, his gaze hazy and unfocused. He tried to look up at his legs, but all he could see was red. Crimson red everywhere. Another sob shook his body as he stuttered:

- W-Why ? I... I d-di... Did everything y-you wanted me t-to !

His captor cooed, and brushed a sweat-soaked lock of hair from his face.

- Oh my dear that's right, you've been so perfect lately. That's why we don't want you trying to leave, mmh ?

Whumpee didn't answer, but shut his eyes again, tears streaming down his pale cheeks.

So much red.

#whumpcember24 #whumpcember #whumpcember24 day1 #whump writing #whump community #whumpblr

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letthewhumpbegin · 21 days ago

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After the Fight - a Gladiator II fanfiction

Fandom: Gladiator II Characters: Lucius, Ravi Prompt: this was written for day 1 of @whumpcember 2024, prompt: Broken Bones. Word count: 2379 Warnings: contains descriptions of broken bones, injuries and (painful) wound treatment.

Ravi saw it immediately in the way Lucius stepped out of the arena. Apart from the usual cuts and bruises from another life or death fight, there visibly was something more going on. It was in the way Lucius held his left arm and clutched it protectively close to his body, refusing to move his hand in any way or form. All in all, Ravi concluded, this didn’t promise much good.

Ravi waited until things had mostly quieted down again in the catacombs of the Colosseum, before he approached Lucius’ cell. Lucius sat on the chair by the little desk, with his back to the cell’s door, hunched over and visibly uncomfortable.

"Can I come in?" Ravi knew he didn’t have to ask, but he respected Lucius too much to just barge in. Lucius half-looked over his shoulder, but made no attempt to get up or even move at all. "You don’t have to ask." Ravi unlocked the cell door and stepped inside, dragging a second chair in with him. He set the chair down beside the desk, opposite Lucius.

Lucius silently watched as Ravi sat down. Both men stared at each other for a short while. Ravi couldn’t help but notice how dejected Lucius looked. The look in those blue eyes was full of pain and misery. He sat hunched over, his posture lacking any of the usual confidence and power. He might have won the fight out in the arena today, but it had clearly taken a lot out of him.

"Show me." Ravi spoke softly, friendly. He didn’t even need to ask if there was an injury or whether Lucius was in pain, because that much was already written all over Lucius’ face. Lucius slowly held out his left hand to Ravi. A grimace of pain accompanied his every move. Ravi whistled softly through his teeth at the sight in front of him. The injury was instantly clear. Lucius’ hand was swollen, with two fairly deep lacerations and dark bruising to the back of it.

"Pretty, huh?" Lucius mumbled defeatedly. "It's a nasty injury, I agree." Ravi looked up. "But nothing I can’t help with. Although…" "It will hurt." Lucius finished the sentence before Ravi could. "Yes." Ravi nodded. "Sure." Lucius scoffed sarcastically. "I really don’t mind more of that."

Ravi felt sorry for Lucius. He would never willingly hurt him, but these wounds needed treatment. Infection always was a big risk, and Ravi would do everything in his power to prevent that happening to Lucius.

"I need to get some things to treat this." Ravi disappeared momentarily from the cell. Lucius took a deep breath and slowly let it go. This injury was a nasty one, surely one of the most painful ones he’d ever sustained. He rested his face in his uninjured hand, closing his eyes. For a moment, he just focused on the ache of his bruises, the sting of the many cuts, and the excruciating throbbing of his injured hand.

"Are you alright?" Lucius startled from Ravi suddenly placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t even heard Ravi come back in, carrying an armful of supplies. "Yeah." Lucius nodded wearily. "But I’m… in a lot of pain." "And I’m going to have to hurt you some more," Ravi said apologetically, "but I promise you it will make it better in the end." Lucius sighed defeatedly. "I’m hoping for that."

Ravi motioned for Lucius to give him his injured hand again. Lucius obliged, but visibly trembled as Ravi took his hand. His breath caught high in his chest in anticipation of the fresh pain he knew was coming. "Try to relax," Ravi said softly. Another shiver ran through Lucius. "I can’t."

Ravi carefully moved Lucius’ hand to rest flat on the tabletop of the little desk. He inched closer to have a good look, before gently pressing and feeling different parts of Lucius’ hand and fingers. Lucius squeezed his eyes shut and did his best to keep his breathing level, as even the slightest and gentlest touch from Ravi caused him such pain that it left him seeing black spots. "Can you feel this?" Ravi softly squeezed Lucius’ forefinger. "Unfortunately I can." Lucius answered through gritted teeth.

Ravi sat back in his chair. "Take a breath for a moment." He could see Lucius was struggling with the pain, and the last thing he wanted was him to pass out from it. Lucius blew out a shaky breath. "Was that it?" "No, not even close," Ravi answered, "I can confirm that you broke your hand, though. Which means that I need to try and set the bones, and those lacerations need cleaning and a few stitches."

Deep down, Lucius had already known he’d broken at least one bone in his hand. He had heard it happen out in the arena, but he still had had a little hope that Ravi would come to a different conclusion. Now that he had actual confirmation, Lucius groaned under his breath. This was going to hurt… even more.

"Take this." Ravi handed Lucius some Devil’s Breath. Lucius hesitated. He didn’t like how the Devil’s Breath made his mind foggy, but the amount of extra pain treating his injuries would cause made it very tempting. Ravi watched him silently, simply raising one eyebrow at Lucius’ hesitation. Finally, Lucius accepted the Devil’s Breath and took a deep inhale of the stuff.

Ravi gently took Lucius’ hand in his. "Ready?" "No." Lucius tensed up at the mere thought of what Ravi was about to do. "But get it over with. Quickly, please." Lucius closed his eyes. He tried to focus on the effect the Devil’s Breath had on him, but nothing could fully numb the pain he knew was coming.

Ravi’s fingers glided gently over Lucius’ hand at first, but even that made Lucius tremble with pain. "Deep breath." Ravi lingered on a spot somewhere in the middle of the back of Lucius’ hand. Lucius inhaled another lungful of Devil’s Breath. It was as if Ravi had been waiting for that moment. In sync with Lucius’ inhale, Ravi pressed down two fingers hard on exactly the spot which hurt Lucius most.

Even the Devil’s Breath did nothing to mask this kind of pain. Lucius screamed out, doubling over and trembling with the most excruciating pain he’d ever felt. He had sustained plenty of injuries in his life, both minor and major, but nothing had ever hurt him like this. The world swam around Lucius. He had trouble keeping his whimpered breaths level, and he honestly believed he would pass out right then and there.

"Stay with me." Ravi’s voice was calm, as he gently let his hand rest on Lucius’ back. "I’m trying…" Lucius’ voice trembled. "I’m trying…" "I know," Ravi soothed, "deep breaths, deep breaths. You’re doing good." "That hurt," Lucius gasped in between panted breaths. "I hate to tell you that I’ll have to do that one more time." Ravi sounded genuinely sorry. Lucius groaned, but he, too, knew it had to be done. "Go ahead." He dipped his head once to give his permission. Ravi gave Lucius a soft pat of encouragement on his back. "I’ll make it quick."

Ravi placed two fingers on the same spot on the back of Lucius’ hand. He pressed down gently at first, but steadily increased the force of the pressure. Lucius groaned and whimpered loudly, shaking all over in pain. He did his best to keep it together, but he couldn’t take much more.

"Stop, please, stop…" Lucius finally whimpered. It was just too much. "Almost…" Ravi kept his composure and didn’t stop the treatment. "Because… that’s it!" He pressed down even more firmly on the back of Lucius’ hand, until a nauseating cracking sound could be heard.

Lucius fully screamed out now, doubling over in pain once more. His vision swam around him as he swayed in his chair. "Easy." Ravi steadied Lucius by quickly grabbing him by the shoulders. "Breathe." Lucius took a few trembling breaths, before sitting a little more upright again. "Ow…" He mumbled sarcastically. Ravi chuckled wryly. "Sorry." Lucius blinked slowly. "That wasn’t all, was it?" His voice sounded weary, exhausted. Ravi shook his head. "But the worst is over. I need to clean those cuts." He motioned to two fairly deep lacerations on Lucius’ hand. "And put in a few stitches." "Alright." Lucius’ breaths were still rather heavy and uneven as the pain was still hard to deal with.

Ravi rummaged around through his supplies, until he found the flask he was looking for. "Vinegar." He announced as he pulled the cork out of the flask. Lucius smiled softly. "I know that stuff by now."

Ravi poured a generous amount of vinegar over Lucius’ hand. Lucius had been prepared for it, because he knew how it stung on open wounds, and this was nothing compared to the pain of Ravi setting his broken bones just now. Lucius winced nonetheless, face screwed up in discomfort.

Ravi gently dabbed at the wounds with a cloth to make sure they were properly clean. Lucius watched him silently. All his energy was spent, and he felt like he could collapse at any moment with exhaustion. "Just a little longer." Ravi spoke without looking up. He felt Lucius’ energy draining. "I know." Lucius mumbled wearily.

Lucius followed Ravi’s every move as he measured out the thread for the stitches. "I still don’t understand why you’re helping me," Lucius mumbled suddenly. He liked Ravi, trusted him with his life by now, but he couldn’t wrap his head around why Ravi willingly chose to keep working around gladiators after gaining his own freedom. Ravi glanced at Lucius over the needle he was attempting to pull a thread through. Lucius stared back, eyes becoming slightly unfocused with his exhaustion and the effects of the Devil’s Breath.

"I got out." Ravi answered after a full minute of thought over his answer. "I’ve been through a lot, seen a lot, but I got my freedom. I want to give others that same possibility, too. And if I can make sure that they don’t die of their injuries first, then that’s what I have to do." Lucius pondered over that answer. He felt like it was the first time that Ravi truthfully answered that question to anyone. "But why take an interest in me?" Ravi chuckled. "Because there is a lot you’re not telling me, I can feel that. Maybe I’m intrigued, maybe I’m crazy for it, but I genuinely feel there’s a destiny you have to fulfill."

The truth lingered on Lucius’ lips. He wanted nothing more than to tell Ravi everything, but he couldn’t. It was too dangerous, not only for himself, but surely for Ravi, too. And Lucius would not take the risk of endangering Ravi’s safety. "You’re right in more ways than you know," Lucius finally said. Ravi smiled crookedly. "I thought so."

Ravi held up the needle and thread. "Sorry to hurt you one more time." Lucius groaned in pain once again as Ravi set the first of the stitches. It hurt, but somehow this pain was bearable to him. He had had plenty of stitches done by Ravi by now, so he might have just gotten used to it. Lucius watched Ravi work. "Thank you for helping me," he said softly after a while of silence. Ravi shrugged. "My pleasure."

Lucius winced painfully as Ravi bit through the thread after applying the last of the stitches. "I’ll just put a splint on your hand, and then we’re all done," Ravi announced, "you should get some sleep." Lucius yawned. After the bones of his broken hand had been set it hurt less, but his hand still throbbed painfully. The Devil’s Breath took the sharpest edges off, but the pain had worn him out completely. The foresight of getting some sleep was a real blessing to him.

Ravi took two small pieces of wood, which he gently placed against the back and palm of Lucius’ hand, securing them in place by wrapping a bandage around the hand and wrist. "Not too painful?" Ravi asked. "Everything is painful right now," Lucius mumbled. Ravi slowly shook his head. "I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do about that." "That’s alright." Lucius slowly stood up from his chair. Immediately he swayed dangerously on his feet. Ravi was quick to jump up, too, and steady Lucius to make sure he wouldn’t go crashing to the floor.

Ravi guided Lucius the few steps it took to the bed, and gently helped him lie down. "Take it easy, you’re alright." Ravi soothed. "Get some sleep." Lucius lay down on his back, pulling the blanket over himself with his good hand. He was so worn out and exhausted, from both the fight in the arena and the pain of his injuries, and he felt like he could sleep for ages.

"If you need anything, I’ll be right outside." Ravi gathered up his supplies and made to leave. "Ravi?" Lucius stopped his friend from walking away. "Yes?" Ravi turned back. Lucius hesitated to ask the question. "Will you… will you watch over me as I sleep?" Ravi didn’t answer immediately, but finally nodded his head. "Of course. Just let me get my book." Lucius hummed softly and closed his eyes. Sleep was dragging at him already, and the thought that Ravi would stay with him soothed him.

"Asleep already?" Ravi returned to the cell with a book in his hand, and sat down in the chair again. "Almost," Lucius mumbled barely audible without even opening his eyes. "Don’t fight it," Ravi said softly, "just give in to it. You need the sleep."

Lucius willed all the pain and aches to the back of his mind. Instead, he tried to focus on the comforting things around him: the occasional soft rustle of Ravi’s robes, the sound of a page turning, and the feeling of the blanket covering him warmly. The calm energy Ravi oozed from just sitting by his bedside, reading a book, wore off on Lucius. He felt himself slip into the arms of sleep more and more, until, finally, he gave into it.

Lucius slept, and with Ravi watching over him, he knew he was completely safe.

#gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #lucius verus #ravi #paul mescal #alexander karim #gladiator 2 fanfic #gladiator ii fanfic #gladiator ii fanfiction #gladiator 2 fanfiction #whump #whump writing #whump fanfiction #whump fanfic #whumpcember24 #whumpcember24 day 1

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marvelstoriesepic · 9 days ago

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Whumpcember (day 12)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Zombie apocalypse au)

Prompt: I have nowhere else to go

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: Enemies to lovers; zombies; mentions of murder; blood; death

Author’s note: This got a little too long for a fic that was initially meant to be a Drabble but I couldn’t bring myself to let it end earlier. And this was quite fun, since I’ve never written something like this before.

[Divider by @sweetmelodygraphics ]

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

Your side is stinging terribly, pulsing with every unsteady step.

Your legs fail at mimicking a normal stride, falling back into a limp.

Your hands tremble, defying every command to just stay still.

Your lungs sear with every breath, dragging air like fire down a raw throat.

Your head swims in chaotic loops, spinning with images and echoes you can’t escape.

Your shoulder and back throb from an impact you took earlier, sharp pain shooting up your spine with every jolt of your uneven stride.

The enormity of what just happened refuses to fit neatly into thought.

The sun is not even all up in the sky and your day already took a turn so cruel, you are teetering on the edge of collapse.

You stopped keeping track of time since this whole apocalyptic shit began but it's safe to say that you just lost everything you had in the span of maybe three hours.

You are exhausted. You are tired. You are in fear. You are in shock.

Acknowledging all of that is dangerous right now.

The world feels off-kilter.

Nausea rises again. Though there is nothing left in your stomach. You already emptied it on the forest floor before you stumbled into the trees, desperate to escape.

The acrid taste still lingers at the back of your throat.

The trees around you sway in your periphery, tall shadows painted in moonlight. It’s not the wind that makes them sway. It’s your vision. Branches claw at the sky like the dread claws at your resolve.

Your body is screaming at you to stop and collapse into the dirt, but you know if you let it, you won’t ever stand back up again.

You have to keep going.

You have to press on.

Your world has crumbled into rot and hunger, and all you have left is the instinct to run.

Run and survive.

Whatever that means now.

You have no sense of the distance you’ve put between you and the nightmarish scene you had to leave behind, no measure of the miles your aching legs already crossed.

You don’t know if they are right behind you. If they’re even coming for you.

It was barely dawn when they came.

It wasn’t a warning shot or a distant sound that reached the camp first. No, it was the impact.

The sound of boots trampling through the undergrowth, bodies charging through the trees, wild shapes silhouetted against the rising sun. Barked commands that carried no meaning, only menace.

You had barely time to register what was happening when they were already in the heart of the camp.

They scattered supplies, spilled meager rations into the dirt, kicked apart the fire pit still faintly glowing from the night before when your small group all sat in a circle around it.

With the first scream, violence erupted.

Blades flashed and mocking laughter rang out from all sides as you heard your companions cry out in terror and pain.

They scrambled from their makeshift shelters, some clutching weapons, others still groggy, confused, unarmed. There was no time to gather thoughts, no time to plan. The raiders were already upon you, tearing through tents and slaughtering everyone in their way.

You watched as Caleb lunged for them, but they cut him down before he even reached anybody.

You tried to get little Benjamin to safety but he got ripped away from you in a matter of seconds and you only felt the slash of a knife against your side.

You heard the guttural sobs of Jonna and her wide eyes as she couldn’t tear them off the lifeless body of her husband. You tried to reach her, grabbing her and getting her away but before you could, she got hit and fell. Just like her husband had moments earlier.

The thud of bodies hitting the ground, the clash of metal, the desperate screams of the people you knew and trusted, cutting off as quickly as they began, the splattered blood everywhere across the ground, slick on leaves, staining clothes of people who’d been alive only seconds earlier. Blood that is all over you, painted in your hair, in your face, on your hands-

You heave the bile against a nearby tree.

Your throat burns. The images burn. The memories burn.

The world is already torn apart as it is but they ripped at everything you had fought for.

You were pinned on the ground at one point. Brutally shoved down and the impact took your breath away. However, you were able to move out of the way of the knife that was meant for your face and instead buried into the ground. The surprise of your attacker weakened his hold on you and you were able to flee, but not without taking a few more hits.

Your friends were dead. Everything was destroyed.

So you ran.

You ran, stumbled, fell, scrambled up, and ran again.

You wondered if the raiders stayed to strip your makeshift camp bare or if they followed you. The last one alive. The one that slipped through their grasp.

Or maybe they’ve decided you’re not worth the effort, and your life hangs by nothing but chance.

After all, you feel death knocking on your door. And it will kick it in, hinges breaking and wood splintering if you don’t open it yourself.

But you won’t.

You push on. You will push your body to its breaking point.

Even if your mind shatters way before your body does.

Because you know you will crumble if you allow your thoughts to win over your body.

You just lost everything you had.

Your group was only on the move.

The camp was supposed to be a fleeting thing. A place to catch your breath from traveling. This morning you were all supposed to pack what little you had and keep moving and get closer to the sanctuary you had spoken of. A place you were going to build. A place where no raid, no nightmare, no lifeless beast could touch you.

So, if you had risen earlier, broken down the camp faster, perhaps this wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps your friends - the few people who so graciously took you in almost two years ago - would still be alive.

You don’t even know who the marauders were. They came out of nowhere.

A realization makes your blood run cold.

Something you remembered only now.

The sounds.

You heard it between the screams of your friends at one point. Low, throaty, and too familiar. The kind of sound that makes your pulse rise and pricks the back of your neck.

It was the sound you learned to fear. The sound your world had been drowning in for years now.

The sound of the dead - those shambling remnants of humanity, curses to wander the earth as mindless husks.

You remember the way they started moving so differently than when they came into your camp - some of them sluggish, others unnervingly erratic.

And you begin to wonder. Perhaps they had been bitten before raiding your camp.

And perhaps that’s the reason they came. They knew their time was up. They probably felt the infection eating at them, death clawing closer. Maybe attacking your group was their last violent eruption of humanity, the last thing they did with a conscious mind before they fell to the disease that had already claimed their souls.

They didn’t have anything left to lose. No loved ones to mourn. No future to fight for. Just an empty void ahead. A transformation into something even crueler than the monsters they already were. Perhaps they wanted this last conscious act to mean something. To carve their names into the memory of the world before they became nothing more than rotting corpses, stumbling through the dirt without a single thought in mind.

It makes you sick.

If they wanted to be remembered, they succeeded. You will remember. You will remember the massacre, the destruction, the screams, the wicked laughter that curdled your blood.

You will remember them because the screams of the people you came to love and trust have planted themselves into your chest and they won’t ever leave.

Maybe that’s what they wanted. To leave a mark, no matter how meaningless, no matter how vile. Or maybe they simply wanted to take something beautiful and shred it before they joined the walking rot.

Either way, they are gone now and you are left.

Alone.

You are left alone.

On the way to the one place you never thought your feet would lead you to again.

The one you meant to leave behind. To forget. To never return to. To move on.

Though you have to admit to yourself it never worked as well as you had hoped.

It has been two years since you left.

Two years of telling you to lock those doors with memories you tried to forget for so long.

And now, the thought of going back lets dread curl around your chest. It’s the dread of walking into a place you don’t know if you’re welcome anymore. The dread of facing what you left behind - facing who you left behind.

But there is also a flicker of something else. Something that feels too fragile, too dangerous to name. You tell yourself it’s nothing - just a memory, nostalgia - but you can’t quite smother it.

Because those people were your family once. Before you left, before you found the group you traveled with these last two years, they were your everything. Your friends, your loved ones, your sanctuary.

They were the ones that held you together when the world fell apart, the ones who gave you a purpose in this now purposeless society.

You left them behind to find something that you lost again just earlier.

The new group you had come to call your own, the people you fought beside, laughed with, dreamed with. All gone. Taken from you in a single, brutal morning. By people you couldn’t even take revenge on anymore. By people who aren’t even people anymore.

And you know your new companions never replaced your first family but they were home nonetheless.

But now, you have nowhere else to go but the place you called home first.

Though, would you really be welcome after all this time?

Would they let you in? Would they open their gates and arms for you?

Would he let you in?

Because truly, that is the only question that matters. You know the hearts of the others, know that they would be happy to see you again.

Sam, with his wide toothy grin. He’d throw his arms around you and clap you on the back and tell you something that would make you laugh despite everything.

Steve, with that glint in his eyes. Because he never truly believed you wouldn’t return.

Wanda, with the tears in her gaze. She’d pull you into her embrace, whispering how she’d prayed for this and never given up hope.

Natasha, with her amused smirk. She’d stand a step behind with her arms crossed and tease you that it only took two years for you to miss them enough to lose all the dignity you could hold onto and came back.

And all the others who would greet you with happy smiles and tears and hugs. Because that’s who they are. Who they’ve always been. They are pure love for those they call their own.

And you have been one of them.

Of course, your sight would first be met with concern at your condition, but the joyful reunion would eventually happen. Banner would fuss over you but keep the worry out of his calm hands and voice like the professional he is. Tony would bark orders, his mind already working ten steps ahead. Peter would hover nearby, ready to help, ready to do whatever was needed to put you back together.

You imagine how they would patch you up, make sure you didn’t collapse right there at their feet. They’d press water into your hands, bandage the gashes, stitch the torn skin. They would give you time to breathe, to settle.

A smile almost manages to spread over your lips but the exhaustion in your bones tugs the corners of your mouth back down.

And there is this one person you’re not sure about. What will he do when he sees you? What will he say? Will he say anything at all?

There is a reason you left, after all.

The community you all lived in was a big one with men and women and children and elders all sharing a beautiful and vast space.

You had all agreed on not having a single leader to rule but rather having the few most trusted people who started this whole thing to do councils every so often.

Once, you were one of them.

You would meet up, usually when the night had already started, discussing and making decisions - everything involving supply runs, how to keep the walls protected, how to celebrate a birth or mourn a loss, and so on.

Bucky was a part of that as well.

And that’s where the trouble lay.

You two never really seemed to see each other eye to eye. You would fight and banter - him calling you stubborn and reckless, you calling him pragmatic and intolerant. The disagreements were constant, heated, and sometimes public enough to turn heads and the other council members to end up disappointed and helpless.

It went on like that for years. Though the day it all fell apart will forever live in the cracks of your mind. Guilt never dulls no matter how much distance you put between them and yourself.

It was a supply run. Something that’s been routine by now. A scavenging mission into hostile territory, dangerous but necessary. Food was running low, medicine almost gone.

You were walking through the woods - a sector closer to dead zone, but Bucky and you were both fueled by anger at the other’s stubbornness to pay attention to the little group of people you took with you. They were good at ignoring your bickering.

“We do it my way. Slow, methodical. We’re not losing anyone because of some reckless stunt.” His tone was flat. Final.

“I’ve never put anyone in danger, Bucky,” you defended with fire in your voice.

Bucky’s voice was hard. “You charge in without thinking, every single time-”

“Yes, and I always do that alone, Barnes. Don’t you think I know the risks? I wouldn’t ask anyone to-”

“Damn it, Y/n,” he cut off, voice sharp. “It’s bad enough that you do it-”

“If we only ever go slow, people will starve. We can’t afford to waste time, Barnes. You want to lose them sitting on your hands instead of taking a risk? That’s on you, not on me.”

Bucky talked lower then, harshly.“That’s not taking a risk, Y/n! That’s fucking suicide.”

The actual mistake was in the silence that followed. No compromise, no meeting of minds. Just the brittle quiet that stretched between you both and the tension that lingered even over the other group members walking with you.

Bucky’s jaw was tight, his steps heavy. Yours were no lighter.

It happened fast. As it always did. One moment, the woods were still, only the crunch of the leaves underfoot and a few insects in bushes and trees surrounding you.

The next, groans split the air, coming from every direction - shadows lurking between trees, their figures misshapen, their eyes empty.

There were too many of them. That was clear from the first breath, but you didn’t have time to process it, to count.

You shouted for the group to move, to break toward the clearing just ahead and they started rushing away until Bucky’s voice rose behind you. His commanding tone seethed in your veins.

“No! Fall back - circle to the ridge!”

But the clearing was closer. The clearing was safer.

So you said as much.

But that’s all the hesitation it took for the dead to gather closer. Close enough.

You lost precious time, precious ground. The damage had already been done.

Two people didn’t make it. Two lives, lost in the spaces between your choices.

The argument that followed was like nothing before. No banter. Not bickering. It was an unfiltered and ugly thing, charged by your guilt and his. Words were thrown, accusations hurled. It was awful.

And when the shouting stopped, there was nothing but silence. Thick. Unbearable.

Neither of you could let go of your anger, your grief, your pride long enough to see that you’d both failed them.

That day something shattered in your connection. Whatever that had been. The tension that always accompanied your relationship. It felt corrosive. Wrong.

And that’s when you made the decision. The decision to leave, that now led you to come back again.

Will he resent you? That thought is a blade that has turned itself dull from too much use, yet it still cuts at you in ways you can’t dodge.

You imagine him standing there, arms crossed, his face as unreadable as it would be stoic, staring at you with the fire that always burned behind his eyes.

Will he even let you step inside? Or will his anger boil over and turn you away, pushing you back into the wilderness you barely even escaped from?

Will he relish in your brokenness, in the way life has stripped you down to your very bones? Will he find satisfaction in seeing you this fragile, this vulnerable, clinging to scraps of pride as your body barely holds itself together? The image of his piercing gaze, not softened by time or mercy, sends a shiver down your spine.

But it also just might be your body starting to give out, you realize when more shivers whack your form.

You push on.

And you wonder. Could there maybe also be relief in those eyes, hidden behind the mask he always wears so well. Relief that you’re still alive, that whatever dark roads you’ve walked since haven’t claimed you completely.

Or would that relief be poisoned by something bitter - the satisfaction not of your survival, but of seeing you humbled, seeing you brought low enough to crawl back to him, back to the home you lied to yourself you were fine living without.

You picture his face shifting. A flicker of something softer crossing his features before he buries it deep. Will it pain him to see the bruises painted across your skin, the blood that’s long since dried on your hands and clothes, the tremble in your limbs while you stand before him like a ghost returned from the grave?

Will he turn you away, disgusted not by your injuries but by the weakness they represent?

You wonder if he’d speak at all. Silence, from him, could be worse than anger. After all, anger means caring. You don’t get angry if you don’t care.

So, perhaps you will be left to fill the empty space with your many regrets and guilty feelings.

Maybe he won’t even look at you. Don’t throw you a single glance, his gaze fixed somewhere distant.

But your conscience can’t help but imagine things.

Because what if he’d feel something he wouldn’t dare admit, not even to himself. That the faintest pull of relief isn’t for the pain you’re in, not for the way life has broken you, but that it is for the simple fact that you’re here, alive, breathing. Maybe that relief would be buried under layers of what he’d felt for you all those years. But it would be there.

Honestly, you don’t think you will ever get an answer to any of those questions. Because you feel your mind start to drift too much. As if the images in your head start to turn into dreams and your body is luring you into sleep to live them out.

You’re giving up.

And you are still not close enough to your old and now only sanctuary despite walking and dragging your frail form for hours and miles on end.

Your head is spinning, images and voices now blurred and upside down and all wrong.

Not even noticing you stopped dragging yourself forward, you start to lean the whole weight of your body against a nearby tree.

The bark is rough against your skin, scraping through fabric, digging into bruises, and tearing them raw. It should hurt. You know it should hurt, but it barely even registers anymore. It’s just another sensation - one more thing slipping away.

Your eyelids droop. They feel so heavy. The forest is shapeless around you, just a mess of color and shadow.

Your breaths come shallow and uneven, lungs forgetting to do their job. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you know this is it. This is where you’ll stop, where you’ll finally collapse and leave it all behind.

And the thought somehow isn’t as terrifying anymore. There’s a strange, unfamiliar peace blooming in your chest. You think about how your body would lie here, half-curled in the dirt, skin pale and bloodied, eyes forever closed.

Bucky might find you.

One day he might stumble upon your corpse on the ground. Maybe he’ll kneel beside your lifeless form, the frown on his face deepening, lips pressing into a grim line. Maybe he’ll tell you that he was right. That you were reckless and should have listened. Maybe his voice will tremble just a little.

The bickering you shared will follow you even into death.

The thought makes you want to laugh, but your body is too far gone for that. It’s barely your body anymore. It’s a shell of nothing. The world tilts, spins, then tilts again. You feel yourself begin to let go.

You won’t wake up. Not this time. And somehow, that’s okay. The peace blossoms brighter in your chest, warm and soft, as if the weight of the world is finally lifting.

You lost everything you had. And not even just today. You lost it two years ago when you decided it was the best to leave your home.

Your eyes slip shut and you don’t try to press them back open again. Your body is slumping to the ground, bark scraping against you, the ground rushing closer. The cold earth is pressed against your face. Your breath falters and slows.

Your body feels dead by now but your mind still blinks with awareness. And funnily enough, it can’t seem to let go of Bucky. His sharp face. His strong voice, the cadence of it so deeply carved into your memory that it echoes so clearly as if he were sitting right beside you.

“Y/n!”

“Shit, Y/n!”

It calls your name. The sound so urgent and frantic, it pulls you back for a fleeting second, though you are sure none of your muscles even twitch.

You are actually impressed with yourself. His voice sounds so real, so vivid. How is your mind able to conjure something so precise on the verge of unraveling completely? It’s him, down to the inflection, the roughness, the bite.

But you know it isn’t really him. That wouldn’t make any sense. Your mind is exaggerating. You’ve blown the image of him out of proportion, dressed him in a panic he wouldn’t wear for you, not for this.

If he found you like this - broken, slumped, slipping away - perhaps his voice wouldn’t even crack.

The day you said your goodbyes, Bucky wasn’t even there with the others. He wasn’t there when you hugged Sam, his arms lingering around you. Not when Steve couldn’t evoke a smile that wasn’t tight or sad. Not when Wanda touched your cheek with shaking fingers, her tearful eyes searching you for a reason to make you stay and telling you you’d always be welcome to come back home. Not when Natasha ordered you, not to get yourself killed out there, what was a little too late now.

You didn’t really expect him to come. Actually, it was better this way, you had thought. Cleaner. No last harsh words, no heated standoff, no last-minute chance for him to dig deep again.

Some stubborn, foolish part of you had hoped of course.

But that was when you saw him as you made your way to the gates.

He stood at the edge of the grounds you were about to leave behind, hidden in the shadows of bushes and trees. His arms were crossed over his chest, his figure rigid, his face set in stone.

You willed not to let your heart clench, but it did. You told yourself he was just there for a final gloat, some grim satisfaction in watching you go. In seeing you lose.

But his eyes held yours. So unwavering and intense. It burned through you. His features were dark, but also, he did stand covered in shadows. However, there was no smirk, no triumph, no venomous parting shot.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t step forward, didn’t say a single thing. He didn’t do anything but hold your gaze as if daring you to be the one to break it.

And you did.

You had a new life to attend to.

And you didn’t look back when leaving.

Still, you felt the burn of his eyes on you, so much more intense than ever before.

You guessed he dropped that stoic, seemingly unhappy mask the moment you were out of sight. Maybe he even threw a silent celebration, relieved to finally be free of you, of the friction you brought into his life.

But the small annoying voice in the back of your mind whispered something else. Something that actually made you consider turning back around before you got ahold of yourself again.

It told you that maybe his expression had stayed dark long after you were gone. That maybe his gaze lingered on the empty path where you’d disappeared. That maybe his arms stayed crossed, not to shield himself from the cold but to stop himself from reaching out.

And your brain now doesn’t seem to have any doubts either because you might actually feel hands shaking you, gripping your face. There weren’t many times when you came in contact with Bucky’s hands, and only fleeting and unintentional, so you don’t know if your conscience got the feeling of his hands on you right but you relish it anyway.

You hope he’d worry. You hope so much. Why, you don’t even know. It’s not like it matters anymore. But you need him to worry.

You need him to feel something sharp, something visceral. You need the cracks in his stoic armor to show and your name on his lips to sound like a prayer instead of a reprimand.

“Stay with me, Y/n! Come on!” It’s a snarl and a plea at the same time.

His voice is pulling you back - or maybe it’s pulling you under. You can’t really tell the difference. It is the kind of sound that is too rough to be tender, too desperate to be cruel.

His voice gnaws at something in your awareness, steering something deep in your bones.

Hell, your dying brain is doing a hella good job.

The world shifts again. Or maybe it’s you who shifts. The sharp bark of the tree is gone suddenly, as though the earth has abandoned you. Or perhaps your body just lost any kind of sensation, because there is nothing solid beneath you anymore. The ground is gone.

Free fall grips your stomach for a second, and panic sparks weakly in the recesses of your mind. But before the fear can take root, you feel something else. Something warm.

Not the feverish heat that’s been chewing at your skin for hours. Not the sticky warmth of blood still drying against your ribs.

No, this is something different. Hard, but not unkind. Solid, but not unforgiving. It presses against your body, and for the first time in what feels like days, it doesn’t hurt.

You don’t know what is happening. You only know you want more of it. Tilting your head as best as it would go, you lean into it as much as your useless limbs allow, seeking that warmth like it’s the only thing keeping you from succumbing to nothingness.

And then the pieces click together.

You’re being carried.

There is an arm under your legs, another braced firmly around your back. The grip is strong but it is trembling faintly against you.

You are cradled against something warm, something alive. And there is a pounding against your ear that is way too rapid to seem healthy.

None of this makes sense, not really, but the sensation of movement - the sway and jolt of steps, hurried but careful - tells you that you’re not imagining this.

Someone has you. Someone’s carrying you.

Your battered mind, of course, latches onto Bucky again.

Your brain shapes the thought of him so effortlessly. Some part of you knew it could only ever be him. You picture his face, sharp and shadowed, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark and heavy with something you don’t dare name.

“Damn it, stay with me! Stay awake!”

Is this him saying that? Or is this your mind still indulging in the vivid fantasies from before? Perhaps this wasn’t your mind all along. Perhaps all of this wasn’t a fantasy of your brain. This was him.

You feel the tight hold with which he is gripping you, how it feels less like he is carrying you and more like he’s keeping you from slipping away entirely.

It doesn’t seem like the Bucky you knew. The one who looked at you with barely concealed irritation, who argued with you until you were both red-faced and seething.

But then again, maybe it does. Maybe this is the same man, stripped bare of all his armor, his stoic resolve fractured like you had imagined. Maybe this is what he looks like when he doesn’t have time to mask the cracks.

The thought makes your chest ache. Or maybe that’s just your ribs - stabbed, bruised, barely functional. You can’t tell anymore.

You want to open your eyes, to confirm what you already know, but your eyelids are heavy, unwilling.

You want to reach for him, to feel with your hands that his worry really is your reality and not all in your head, but your arms hang limply at your sides. Useless.

But your face is pressed against his shoulder. The speeding throbbing of what you assume to be his heart is still in your ear and it makes this so much more real.

“Don’t you dare die on me now, Y/n! Not after this.” His ragged words send swaying currents through the still waters of your fading consciousness. “Not like that! Not after I’ve been looking for you for two damn years!”

Wait.

What?

The words ring like a bell, too loud, too pronounced. You feel yourself struggling with comprehending the meaning of this but the shock still rushes up your spine.

Bucky was looking for you. He didn’t celebrate your departure. He came after you.

You left two years ago. Bucky started searching for you two years ago.

“I should’ve stopped you. Fuck, I should have stopped you. I never should’ve let you leave.” His voice is a single crack. So much remorse seeping into his tone, it even latches onto your chest.

“God I’m so sorry I let you leave. I’m so sorry for everything, Y/n! There’s so much I gotta tell you. So much I gotta make right. So you don’t get to do this, alright? You don’t get to die on me!”

His voice doesn’t sound like him at all. The Bucky you remember used measured words, calculated, controlled. Doubt again creeps in that this really is real and not just your mind all up in shambles. Because there is so much pain in his voice. Pain you never saw inflicted in anything he did. Or said. Not to you at least.

Your body jolts in his grip, caused by his hands. He might have tried to shake some life back into you but his hands don’t stop shaking. They are trembling so heavily, as if he’s terrified you’re going to slip through his grasp at any second. As if you’re going to die in his arms. Maybe you will.

“You’re staying with me, you hear me?” he continues, low voice filled with gravel, so wild and anguished. “There’s so much I need to tell you. So much I need to say. But I can’t-” his voice gives out and you basically hear him trying to hold himself together. His breaths are uneven and broken. “I can’t do it like this. No, not like that. So you gotta pull through. You can’t leave me before I get the chance to tell you. Can’t die on me now that I’ve finally fucking found you. You can’t, Y/n! Please! Stay with me. Just stay.”

You try to open your eyes. Try to let your fingers twitch. Try to open your mouth. But there’s nothing.

You can’t tell him that you’re trying. You can’t tell him that you want to hear what he has to say. Can’t tell him that you’re clinging to his every word. Can’t tell him that you’re fading away.

Only a broken exhale slips through.

His arms tighten, pulling you impossibly closer.

He’s pushing himself. His muscles strain and coil, his body still trembles against you. His voice is breathless and full of despair..

“Stay awake! Look at me. Just- please open your eyes. Just for a second. I need to see them. Need to know you’re still in there, okay?” His words are torn, pulled apart, and put together in a desperate attempt. Tears fill his voice. “You always had to prove me wrong, so do it again. Fight. Fight, Y/n! Please!”

Bucky makes it sound like it could actually be easy. But unfortunately, it’s not. His voice is more distant now. Perhaps it’s giving out. Perhaps it’s the hope that leaves him, taking his voice.

Yet, you’re trying to hold onto it. You’re trying so much.

If he says more, you don’t catch it. You don’t catch anything anymore. You think you might be okay with that. Because even if this isn’t real - even if this is all just a fever dream conjured by a dying mind - you think it’s a good way to go.

Sheltered in warmth. In motion. In the arms of the one person you never thought would come for you.

156 notes · View notes

ghostf1ux · 12 days ago

Text

5 Times Jason Saved his the Flock and 1 Time they Saved Him: Gasoline and Guns Don't Mix

Day 5: Fire

Words: 2.4k

TW/CWs: Guns, Violence, Fire (this one is pretty tame compared to my other fics)

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Jason hums idly to himself as he walks up to the back entrance of the building, hands shoved in the pockets of his black leather jacket. His footsteps are light despite his steel-toed boots, though his presence is more clearly announced by the subtle little clinks of the two links of chains resting on his right thigh.

The Clocktower looms over him, casting a shadow despite the gloomy sky providing scant light. He comes to a stop outside the secret entrance, inputting his numerical code, eye scan, and thumb print before the door slides open with a hiss.

The tower is still and nearly silent, only disturbed by the quietest of clink clink clinks in time with his steps. You'd never guess the information tech vigilante backing the Bats was ever holed up here, diligently working away at her massive computer setup all day and all night.

Which brings Jason to why he's here. He has a day off, for once. No cases need his immediate attention, he's uninjured (minus some minor cuts, scrapes, and bruises), and he's, most importantly, bored.

Babs has been helping Batman and his flock for a long time, and in doing so, has managed to fall into the same overworking-themselves-to-death pitfall the rest of them are usually in.

So Jason has decided to intervene.

A little birdie (Red Robin) had mentioned something about a high profile case that was requiring all of both his and Barbara's attention to figure out the culprit and track them down. With emphasis on the tracking them down part, figuring out who they were looking for didn't take all that long. They'd been working on this case for almost a week now, and with Babs also working on other cases, as well as helping the flock out at night and running the Birds of Prey, Jason was willing to bet she hasn't gotten any kind of break, or rather, hadn't given herself any kind of break.

So today he decided to pop by, drag her away from her screens, and drop her in front of another one in the form of a movie and late lunch. There was a new movie that came out recently that had actually caught Jason's interest, so he figured Babs might be interested as well.

He twirls his bike keys around his finger as he steps in the elevator, waiting for it to take him to the top of the tower. Out of habit, he glances around in a quick assessment of the elevator.

It's a good thing he did, because otherwise he never would've noticed the dent in the top left corner of the elevator wall.

Squinting up at it, it's immediately obvious that there used to be something there. He doesn't know for sure what it would've been, since he's rarely in here, but knowing Babs and knowing the placement, it was probably a camera. A camera that's distinctly no longer there.

Jason draws his gun from wear it sits tucked into his waistband, the metal a familiar weight in his hand. With the other he pulls out his phone, sends a quick text to whichever family group chat comes up first, not even paying attention to who may or may not be in it.

If only they didn't have like seventeen of them.

He steps to the side as the elevator slows to a stop, using the reflection to see out the door while he hides around the corner.

The reflection is blurry, but there's one vaguely humanoid form at the end of the opening room from the elevator, waiting outside the door to the more apartment-like room that hid Oracle's real workspace. It doesn't look like the guy is looking, so Jason unsheathes the dagger he always has strapped to his ankle and throws it.

It hits its mark with a quiet squelch, the goon’s body hitting the floor with a thud muffled by the carpet.

Jason carefully steps out, checking the corners before walking around the edges of the room. He sticks to the shadows just in case the other cameras aren't disabled, and avoids the triggers for the traps that may or may not still be there.

Putting his ear to the door, he doesn't hear anything on the other side, so he crouches down to the guy he got with his dagger. It hit center mass, just like he planned, though it was a little closer to the center than he probably should've aimed. If the guy's wheezing is anything to go by, he probably punctured a lung.

“Oi, asshole, what the hell are you and your boys doing here?” Jason growls, slapping his face a few times to get him to focus. He just glares at Jason, who sighs. “Where is she?”

When he doesn't answer, Jason puts hand over the guy's mouth and twists the dagger. His scream is muffled against Jason's hand, which he just tilts his head condescendingly at.

“Shut up, it could be a lot worse. Now tell me where she is.”

The goon points unhelpfully to the door before passing out. Jason rolls his eyes, kicking him over to the side. The guy is probably going to die, but honestly he could care less about that right now.

He rips the dagger out of the guy's chest, holding it ready in his left hand and keeping his gun in his right. He's got near perfect aim with both hands, but most people go for the right hand first if they see it holding something and he would take a knife in close combat over a gun any day.

He opens the door, thanking Babs mentally that she doesn't have creaky doors, and peeks through the crack.

Through the reflection on the window, he can make out Babs looking almost bored tied to her wheelchair and being held at gunpoint. Almost. The tension in her shoulders gives away her stress– but not from the gun, she's too familiar with being held at gunpoint for that. Her focus is lasered in on something else. She's facing away from the door towards the exact opposite wall, with the barrel of a gun being pointed at her from behind. She's far enough away from the reflection that makes Jason's mental map place her in the middle of the room, which means the guy holding the gun is practically right in front of the door Jason is right on the other side of.

He toes the door open another two inches, enough that he can see a little more but not enough that a passing glance will see anything wrong.

Immediately he gets a whiff of gasoline, along with a glimpse of the other door opened to Oracle's workspace.

Ah, so that's what she's so worried about.

Babs lets out a huff, tapping her nails against the arm of her wheelchair.

“You're not going to find anything!” She calls ahead of her. So there's more in there, probably trying to go through her systems.

“Quiet, bitch,” the one behind Babs snaps, flicking the barrel of his gun against the side of her head. She only glares, but in turning her head she ends up catching a glimpse of the window. Her eyes widen minutely, but that's the only tell before she's back to playing the victim.

“You two seem pretty focused with fumbling around with my system,” Babs continues despite the previous threat, “You could just untie the rope from my wrists and let me help instead of pouring gasoline everywhere.”

Jason grins when Babs passes him a glance and the slightest of nods. So there are two in the other room that are focused, huh?

He opens the door just wide enough to slip through and stalks up behind the first goon, the one holding the gun to Babs’ head. Without so much as an escaped gasp Jason has him in a sleeper hold and is gently lowering his unconscious body to the ground.

He passes Babs the dagger so she can cut herself free, then starts to move to wheel her out before she shakes her head, then jerks it towards the computers. Jason raises an eyebrow, gesturing between her, the clearly gasoline soaked floor, and the two men too focused on her screens to notice them. Her jaw clenches and she sends her signature bat-glare at him and–

Wow, she is scary. Jason actually backs up a little under the force of her glare. He forgot how scary she can be. Okay.

He allows himself to roll his eyes and silently mock her while she can't do anything about it before walking up to the two guys and knocking their heads together. The first guy collapses with a groan, the other guy just stumbles back while holding his head. Jason doesn't give him more than a second before he's blitzing him with a punch that breaks his nose and a hook that knocks him out cold.

He shoves his hands back in his pockets and spins on his heel back to Babs.

“So, Barbie, what was that all about?” Jason asks innocently, jutting his hip out to make his stance more comfortable. Barbara wheels herself in, glancing around.

“Somehow they found me, wanted to find and erase something in my systems. Never specified what, though. Also never found it.”

“And the gasoline?”

“A back up plan,” she replies tersely. Jason hums.

“Well, this has all been really fun, but I came here to invite you to a movie and it starts in like twenty minutes.” He leans down to fold his arms on the handles of the chair when Babs sighs. “Cmon Barbie, it's been forever since you've taken a break. And we haven't made fun of a movie together in a long time.”

“...Fine.” She folds her arms across her chest and leans back in the chair, making Jason straighten with a gleeful smile, starting to wheel her out.”

“Fuck yeah. And I texted one of the group chats awhile ago, they can deal with all this shit,” he mentions, waving vaguely behind them at the bodies as they pass into the lobby room. Babs looks down at the first body. Jason follows her gaze, then shrugs. “I was in a rush, it's fine. Speaking of, can I have my knife back?”

She hands it back to him with a disappointed huff. He wipes it off on the dead guy's jacket and tucks it back into his boot before continuing on their way to the elevator.

Of course, it's when he hears the telltale sound of a safety being clicked off that he realizes his mistake.

He can't react before a wave of explosive heat sends both him and Babs careening forward, slamming into the opposite wall. Jason more than Babs because he was closer and she had a wall of muscle protecting her.

It takes him a moment to get his bearings after that, when his vision finally starts to focus and the ringing in his ears dies down. All he registers is the searing, oppressive heat bearing down on him from all sides. It makes him sweat uncomfortably and his lungs struggle to draw in enough breath– no, wait, that's the smoke. Smoke was coming from the fire.

Fire.

Gasoline.

Clocktower.

Babs.

“Barbara!” Jason shouts, or at least he thinks he shouts. All he can see is the blinding light of the fire where it's burning away the gasoline and spreading to every other flammable object in the vicinity.

“Over- over here!” Her voice finally filters through the roar of the fire, but he can't pinpoint its location. Soon the ringing subsides, but it's just replaced by his heartbeat.

Jason opens his mouth to shout again but breaks out into a cough when he inhales a lung full of smoke instead. If only smoking cigarettes actually helped him build up a tolerance to something like that.

A dark blob moving catches Jason's attention, and then he realizes it's Babs. Not too far away, in fact, just separated by a small trail of fire caused by gasoline that was trailed after them when they left.

Fuck he was careless and let his guard down. And now all of this is going to be destroyed because of him.

He pushes himself to his feet and jumps over the fire, coming to Barbara's side.

“Are you okay?” He asks, quickly checking her over for injuries. She shakes her head, raising her hand towards Jason's face. He finds himself involuntarily flinching away from the contact, a guilt stabbing him in the gut at her wounded expression.

“You're bleeding,” she states instead. Jason shrugs.

“Not the first time, won't be the last.” With that he works his arms under her legs and back to lift her bridal style, looking around for the exit. The elevator probably wouldn't be working due to the explosion, which just left the stairs.

Jason groans internally as he starts making his way there, dodging flames expertly and only breaking out into short coughing fits.

Eventually he manages to get the door open, but not without nearly sacrificing his boots because of how hot the handle is and the fact that he had to kick it open.

He races down a few floors before finally taking a second to breathe and figure out what the hell he's going to say.

“...Barbie?” He starts hesitantly, looking down at her. She has a conflicted expression when she meets his gaze, but he can't quite figure out why.

“Yeah?” Jason glances away.

“I… I'm sorry. That was… reckless. Should've been more thorough,” he finally gets the words out, keeping his eyes on the steps ahead as he continues down.

“Well, yes, but I didn't notice either. This isn't all on you, Jay,” Babs reassures him. It does little to actually soothe the guilt and blame clawing at him, but he nods anyway. “I have backup servers anyways, it'll just be annoying to reset up everything physically, but I can just make Tim and Bruce do that.”

Jason chuckles at that, but doesn't comment further.

Once they're closer to bottom after a long stretch of silence, Jason finally clears his throat awkwardly.

“...So. About that movie.”

“Might as well, not going to be much help here.”

“Should I let them know we made it out?”

“Nah, let's see how long it takes for them to find us.”

#jason todd #red hood #batfam #whumpcember #whumpcember24 #whump #angst #ghost writing #whump prompts #batman #oracle #oracle dc #barbra gordon #babs gordon #batgirl

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