#it went so deep through him it probably could have punctured a lung but u know.

[raytm]

gepard landau felt the foreboding attendance of death for years. an acrid tang of iron in his mouth, the lances of agony across the faces of his comrades as their limbs were wrested from their bodies, bloodied streaks of red in the snow. it beset his nights with harrowing memories, screams heaving from gasping lungs, the gossamer film of white eyes that stared out into the fray, sightless. It had marked him for a fleeting life the moment he had marched out into those desolate plains, a legion of soldiers at his flank. he had thought of it many times, but a captain was not afforded the benignity of choosing his own death.

when it comes its advent is undulating roars of fire, withering skin that curls in on itself, brittle and black. it’s his comrades dying one after the other in quick succession. he has enough time to seize an opening, to give them the opportunity to rally their remaining forces, to gasp in respite and arm themselves for the onslaught. he had not left home that day knowing it was the final time, had not greeted familiar faces at the barracks and warmed his hands around a blazing flame knowing that would be his last day. when he braces for impact, serrated limbs ending in hooked talons, he spares a solitary, fleeting glance over his shoulder and commands his men to retreat. they look upon him, astonished, exhausted, covered in slick sweat and drying blood. there’s an understanding that passes between them, wordless and pervading with the knowledge that he would not be following them.

the blunt impact against his shield is so immense that it sends shudders to his bones, his teeth clacking, a lance of excruciating pain surging through his arms, burying itself in his shoulders. he sinks his boots deep into the snow, ice swelling upwards as he was plowed backwards, his entire body keens beneath the force. the monster opens its jaws, rows of serrated teeth incandescent with heat, its eyes buried deep into its carapace skull. It retracts its long, spinose pincer and brings it down again, the pressure fractures bone, he can feel the pain of it towing him backwards, forcing his senses to remain alert, to push back against the barrage of strikes. its frustrated wail carries on the wind and the next time it withdraws, inspecting him with its bulging, rotating eyes, he launches his counter attack.

the shield wedges itself under the creature’s limb, a strident crack of impact that has the monster reeling, ice burgeons from the wound, rushing up its flesh, solidifying around it. gepard heaves a searing breath in, all of his mustered strength going into holding it in place, suddenly, a sharp, blinding agony erupts from his shoulder. it had brought down its other claw, punctuating the juncture between his throat and shoulder. blood rushed to the surface, blistering against his cold skin, surging from the wound, filling the dip of his collarbone, sousing his proud, white clothes carmine. he is the last bastion between this monster and his men, so he endures with unfaltering resolve. the ice is like a starved beast, rapidly swallowing the creature, limb after limb, until it splintered the hard, outer shell of its skull and the pincer embedded in his shoulder went limp.

he sinks to his knees, it were as if all the vigour had been drained from him, his shield hitting the ground, burying into the snow. he presses his hand to the wound, staunch the blood, he remembered that, even in the amorphous haze of his wavering consciousness. but it keeps flowing, the gash is so deep it’s carved past bone, if he were to wrench it from his body it would tear open a gaping fissure in his skin.

it was cold, belobog was always cold. beside the gargantuan corpse the captain sits upright, his back flush to the jagged husk, sheltered from the wind. It was cold, it was always so cold. he had held his gloved hand against the wound until it was sodden, until his arm was heavy, until he could hold it up no longer. he yearns to keep his eyes open, the bleary winterscape feels so vast when it’s so very empty. his blinking is somnolent, the world an indistinct smear of ice and blood. if he waits here, someone will return, someone will find him. he tells himself that is why he waits, sits in silent vigil, that he will close his eyes for a moment - then awaken when someone arrives. however, when they arrived, desperately plunging through the snow, it was already far too late. the captain was cold to the touch,  delicate fractals of ice clinging to his lashes, to his hair, turning his skin to an icy pallor. he had not known it would be his last day when he joined his men on the battlefield, but there was pride in knowing he had saved them.

[la-fille-en-aiguilles]

The Bucket List or “Oh my Dear Lord”

Matt Murdock x Female Reader 

Request: AH I SAW U WERE TAKING REQUESTS FOR MY BOI MATT AND I HAD TO DO ONE! so what about “Well, looks like I can scratch that from my bucket list” - “Who the hell puts getting arrested on a bucket list?!” and like he’s the (female)reader’s defense attorney but they already know each other? idk lol but tysm in advance, i hope this helps your writers block

A/N: Thank you SO MUCH for your request, sweetheart! Here’s some Matt Murdock for you, involving some blood and sexual tension 😈  I’m so very sorry it took me forever. I got a bit carried away there, but I hope this piece lives up to your expectations! Also, look at me, using two prompts from the list, bam bam!  The reader’s family name / surname is given in this story ;)

(May contain mistakes, author’s not a native speaker)

Foggy!… Foggy!… Foggy!… Foggy!…

The pain was unbearable, striking hard and deep, and everywhere at once. Bitter blasts cut through his bones as he tried to focus on finding the wound. Not with his hands - those would not obey, completely numb and useless. 

It must have been his shoulder, he realised, closing his eyes. He couldn’t keep them shut for long, though - his head was spinning, so much worse than after a dozen shots of that eel booze of Josie’s. 

He opened his eyes and managed to slightly turn his head to the left. The pungent smell of blood left him wincing and swearing under his breath.

It was his goddamn shoulder alright, a jugged piece of glass sticking from right below his collarbone. The ragged tissue around the wound burned, and as seconds passed, the pain amplified, jarring and brutal. Blood oozed down his chest almost lazily, his Daredevil costume soaking it up.

Foggy!… Foggy!…

Matt spit out a curse, feeling the taste of blood on his lips. Excruciating pain shoot through his chest as he tore his phone out of a thigh pocket, hitting the green answer button with his thumb.  

“Now is really not a good time, Foggy,” he huffed, trying to prop himself higher against the cold metal door, leading back inside the building. The sky and the ground changed places as he tried to inhale deeper… He only hoped his lung wasn’t punctured.

“Matt, you need to get to the station. Like right now.”

The panic in Foggy’s voice made Matt’s insides turn clockwise. A lump rose in his throat, urging him to get rid of whatever he ate for dinner earlier. 

“What…?” he forced himself to speak, but only ended up coughing hoarsely, blood rolling over the edge of his lips and dripping down his chin. 

“They’ve got their hands on Woods,” Foggy whispered, dread choking him. “She’s under arrest”. 

Greeting his teeth, Matt growled as he stood up, using his free hand for balance. Unsteady on his feet, still leaning on the door, he gripped that piece of glass and tore it from his body. It fell on the ground with a muffled cry, shattering in pieces. Matt bit down on his lips, keeping the involuntary scream in, hissing in pain. He pressed his free hand to the wound, blood pumping out through his fingers, painting them stark red.

“I’ll get there as fast as I can”, he rasped. “Don’t let her speak with anybody until then. Not a goddamn soul”. 

“Understood,” Foggy swallowed frantically, as if he were drowning. “Please, hurry!…”

Dropping the call, Matt kicked the door with all the force that was left in him, pain and rage sending his heart and brain in the overdrive. The sound of his boot hitting the metal resonated in his head like a bell’s tolling in an empty church. 

…Goddammit, Y/N! He told you to run!

†††

The smell of barbecue chips and cigarette smoke intensified as soon as he stepped into the precinct. Gripping his cane so hard his fingers hurt, Matt made his way down to the reception desk, his stroll a little too quick and confident for a blind guy. He turned a couple of heads on his way, but it came to show that a hard expression of silent, barely contained fury was the best deterrent to stupid questions. 

As soon as he spotted Murdock, Brett sighed and pushed his way towards him through the crowded corridor. 

“Why, dear Lord, why when something happens, you three are always involved?” Brett grumbled, planting himself in Matt’s way. 

Should this have been another time and setting, Matt would probably choke out a muffled laugh; but all he could think of right now was getting to the interrogation room, and seeing with his own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.

“Where is she?” he cut to the chase unceremoniously, cocking his head to a side. 

Brett raised his eyebrows at his tone, but refrained from commenting it. 

“Don’t bullshit me,” he muttered, his hands diving in the pockets of his uniform. “You and Nelson are here so much, you probably know the entire place like the back of your hand by now”, he stepped aside, clearing the way down the corridor. “I told Hoffman he won’t get a word out of Y/N Woodsley’s mouth as long as her usual pair of lawyers is involved”. 

Matt gritted his teeth, but said nothing, hurrying down the dim corridor instead.   

“…Are you insane?!” He had heard the indistinct screaming from outside the station, but only now, up close, it seemed to really speak to the thunderstorm raging inside of his chest. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed!…”

“Well I couldn’t just stand there, Foggy, could I? That psycho with a badge has almost put a hole through his head!…”

Anger rang through Y/N’s voice like bullets falling on the ground. Matt could hear her heart beating double time, sensed the faint aroma of her sweat, mixed with blood and the remnants of her neroli perfume. She wasn’t afraid. She was pissed, mad out of her mind, as she slapped her hand against the entrance door, before pressing her forehead against it. 

“Whoever that guy is, he saved Karen’s life!…” she murmured. “I don’t regret shit, and I’d do it all over again”. 

As soon as Matt heard her move sufficiently far from the entrance, he inhaled deeply, the inside of his chest burning up like a fuming volcano. All he wanted to do was scream, but he was pretty sure he’d end up vomiting all over the place because of the escalating pain, hitting his body in waves. 

As soon as he opened the door, the room fell scary silent. Foggy’s rugged, infuriated breathing and a small drop of sweat rolling in between Y/N’s breasts was all he was able to catch, before her quiet voice filled his ears. 

“I swear, Matt, I can explain.”

His lips stretched out into a thin line, he made his way to the chair next to Foggy’s.

“…if I had a dime every time I heard that”, he whispered, disappointment lacing every word. He sank down into the uncomfortable chair, painfully slow and careful. He could hear - more like sense, really - Y/N bit on her bottom lip nervously, and Matt knew her eyes were glowing with guilt. 

While all he could think of was she could have been dead right now, and it would have been all my fault. 

“I was out with Karen and my good friend Jessica - we were at Josie’s to down a couple of beers.. Argh!…” submerged by the need to hide her face, Y/N rubbed her hands on her forehead, leaning down on the table with her elbows. Her nail must have scratched a cut that went from her temple to her eyebrow, a sharp breath escaping her lips. “I was tired and a little pissed at my editor for blacklisting my article on the Russians, and I wasn’t having fun. Felt like peeing on everyone’s parade, so when the clock struck midnight I decided to call it a night”.

She paused, trying to search her best friends’ faces, staring sternly at her. Rolling her eyes at their judging you expressions, she combed her fingers through her hair, pushing those messy strands to a side.

“I took the corner of 51th and 11th, when I heard some commotion at the docks. I marched straight towards Hudson… The alcohol making me fearless, I don’t know… I spotted three police cars outside that whitewashed building at the Piers 92/94, the old industrial glass warehouse, you know?… Everything seemed calm, and I felt stupid just standing there in the middle of the road, so I turned around and stumbled towards the park… But then I heard a window shattering. It was…” 

She paused, swallowing, trying to keep the undertones of awe and excitement in her voice at bay.  The notes that Matt hated with every fiber of his beaten and bruised body. 

“It was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, Matt. He just jumped through the window on the second floor, landed on his goddamn feet like a cheetah, bullets wheezing all around him, like some kind of a deadly rainstorm… I just…” she stuttered. “I just couldn’t look away.”

“Gooddamn it, Woods…” Foggy groaned, burying his face in his hands in a fit of despair. “Sorry, Matt”, he peaked at Murdock through his fingers.

“Can you imagine the kind of story that could be?” Y/N brushed his exclamation away impatiently. “I was close enough to take photos, I could have caught the Devil in action, it could be all over the news the next day, especially if I pulled all the information I collected on that shady warehouse in these past few weeks!” As Y/N’s confidence grew, Matt’s heart was shrinking into a tiny nubbin. “This could be my chance to prove that the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was on our side all along!…”

“What happened next?” Murdock interrupted drily, clutching his fists under the table.

Y/N sighed, her puffed-out chest falling down. She shot a glance at the camera in the right corner of the room.

“It’s okay, Woods, it’s off”, Murdock spoke a little impatiently, sensing her discomfort. “Please, go on”.

Y/N just stared at him in disbelief for a moment, probably thinking something along the lines of well damn, Murdock, for a blind guy you sure are insightful. 

He almost chuckled. If only you knew, princess. 

“Not what, who,” she growled quietly, suppressing her anger, seeping through the pores of her soft skin. “Detective Hoffman happened. He dashed out of the building like the goddamn place was on fire… He stopped by the cars, his gun loaded and ready. He didn’t shoot to stop or injure, he shot to kill, I know what I saw. It was a miracle the Devil actually managed to dodge his goddamn bullets!”

“No kidding,” Foggy snapped, and Matt instantly felt his gaze, burning holes in his head. “And then what? You just thought, hey, I better join the party before they run out of ammunition! Wouldn’t want to miss all the fun!”

“No,” Y/N challenged, the waves of anger she emanated hitting Matt like an avalanche. “I watched for as long as I could, until eight more dirty cops emerged from the building, attacking the Devil like a bunch of hell hounds! I had to do something before they made sure the man could never walk the Earth again! He put up quite a fight there, but when I saw Hoffman thrust a goddamn shard of glass the size of my arm through his chest…”

“Say what?!” Foggy boomed, nothing short of a nuclear bomb. He stared at Matt open-mouthed. “Jesus Christ! But how the fudge…?”

“What Foggy is trying to say here,” Matt cut in, kicking his best friend under the table to shut him up - Nelson gasped at the impact. “Is how the fudge did you think you could help him?… You could have ended up in a body bag, Woods, not in this interrogation room!…”

All-consuming silence settled over the three of them - Foggy was still nursing his leg, while Matt found himself involuntary soaking up the desperation with which Y/N was defending him, the Daredevil, without knowing who he was. He would rather die of glass and bullets than put her in danger, and he hated himself for having had involved her in this. 

And at the same time, sensing her warmth, her resolute desire to make Foggy and him understand that she cared for the Devil, and that they ought to, too, all he wanted to do was to just let go. To stop hating himself because of what he wanted. To absorb her determination, to accept her care, to savour it!… 

Nothing so wrong had ever felt so right, and his thoughts… They were tearing him apart.

“I fired a warning shot at Hoffman,” Y/N murmured, her lips barely moving. “The bullet must have scratched his thigh… Distracted him for long enough, so that the Devil could take the upper hand…”

Matt heard Y/N heartbeat, loud and clear. Nice and slow, it showed that she wasn’t afraid. His own heart, however… Murdock felt it bash against the walls of his ribcage so loud, he was sure both Foggy and Y/N could hear.

“He screamed at me to run, when he saw me… He was furious - not that someone decided to interrupt his little kick-ass session, but because it was me.”

“That’s bull, Woods!” Foggy exclaimed, sounding like a man desperately catching at straws. “Just listen to yourself! How would the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen know who you are?…”

Unblinking, Y/N stared at him for a solid minute, crossing her hands on her chest. Blood thumped in Murdock’s ears, his forehead dotted with crystal beads of sweat - the pain in the shoulder never ceased, and just when he thought he could handle no more, Y/N’s lips slowly parted, releasing, it seemed, his greatest fear. 

“He called me by my name, Foggy.”

As soon as the words filled the air around the three of them, like bonfire smoke, the time seemed to dissolve into itself, shapeless and inconsequential. Matt lost his breath, the realisation brought to light suffocating him.

“He must have recognised you from the Bulletin or something,” Foggy muttered in response to Y/N’s confession, throwing Murdock a lifeline. Matt nodded at him gratefully, his throat tight. “Now, if you ran just like he told you to, why the hell are we here? How did you end up in police custody?…”

Y/N let out a deep sigh, dropping her head in between her hands on the table. 

“They caught up with me on the corner of 12th and 46th”, she said. “And no, before you ask, I didn’t have that gun on me,” watching the question forming itself on Matt’s and Foggy’s faces, she beat them to it. “I… discarded it”. 

Chewing on his bottom lip, Matt considered the situation for a moment. Hoffman, or one of his lapdogs must have seen her run; it did not help that he willingly gave them her name, in his outburst of anger and panic. But unless they had tangible proof that she was the one firing that warning shot, they didn’t have jack on her. Even a testimony of an eyewitness would not be enough to prove she was involved in that mess he so carelessly created. 

It was all his goddamn fault!…

“Okay…” Foggy drawled out, thinking out loud. “That means the only thing they have on you…”

“…are words,” Matt finished for him, his head turned in Y/N’s direction. “Possibly an eyewitness, but with that alone they won’t be able to prove anything - the night is dark, and I hear the street lamps at the docks are rotten”. 

Y/N worried her bottom lip with her teeth, listening to him intently. 

“Then why and on what grounds are they detaining me?” she finally asked, sounding like she already knew the answer. 

Foggy and Matt exchanged heavy glances. 

“They can keep you in custody at least for the next 24 hours, and trust me, they are going to try and push the bail option off the table”, Foggy reasoned, his eyes switching between Y/N and Matt. “They think you know who the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is”, he added, his voice barely perceptible.

“Do you?…” Matt urged under his breath without missing a beat, leaning closer to Y/N. A waft of his spicy perfume washed over her, mixed with a salty, metallic odour that she couldn’t quite place. She lost her train of thought for a moment, watching her reflection in his glasses, his eyes hidden behind their usual red armour. When she really thought about it, she could count the times she had basked in their hazel glow on one hand. 

With a sharp bob of his Adam’s apple, Matt swallowed, his face unreadable. 

“Um… hello, Matt, have you met me?” Y/N gave Murdock a sceptical look, her voice dropping a couple of octaves. She threw her hair back, instinctively moving towards him. “I’m a journalist, I don’t keep secrets. My job is to uncover them. Especially ones of this caliber”.

Bittersweet relief rolled over Matthew in a cool wave, spreading from his feet to the tips of his ears. He couldn’t help but chuckle at Y/N’s uncannily fitting choice of words. She was right, of course; revealed, this secret would shoot to kill, far more dangerous than a loaded gun. 

“Here’s what happens next,” Matt interlaced his fingers, joining his hands together on the table. “We’re going to have a word with Hoffman, and then we’re posting bail. Unless they have other ways to track down Daredevil so they can bring him to court, chances are you won’t even have to face the jury.”

“Peachy,” Y/N muttered under her breath, absentmindedly feeling for the cut on her forehead with her fingertips. Both Matt and Foggy were already getting on their feet. “At least I can scratch that from my bucket list…”

“Who the hell puts getting arrested on a bucket list?!” Foggy mused, staring at Y/N in disbelief. 

She rolled her eyes, rubbing her cheeks lightly with her fingertips. 

“Not getting arrested, Foggy, this isn’t my first rodeo,” she released an impatient breath. “Getting in trouble for helping Daredevil. Now that’s something I’d write down in my journal if I’d had one,” Matt heard her smile, her voice englobing him like a cashmere blanket. “Thank you for taking care of me, you both. You really don’t have to post bail, though…”

Matt’s body grew stiff. He leaned on the table separating them, with his hands biting into the wood. 

“We know for sure that Hoffman’s on Fisk’s payroll, Woods. And he won’t stop at anything - and I mean anything - to make you talk. I could never…” he stuttered, biting on his bottom lip hard, the eyes behind his glasses drilling a hole a couple of inches above Y/N’s head. “We’re posting bail”, he declared assertively. “Fight me.” 

Tense silence surrounded Matt and Y/N, as they just gazed at each other, the air around them buzzing with emotion and intent. Something was happening between the two, something mysterious and possibly life-changing, their bodies speaking in a language only they could understand. Y/N brushed her fingers against her lips - Matt rolled his tongue against the inside of his right cheek - and Foggy suddenly felt wrong trying to decipher whatever they were conjuring up, without as much as a touch. 

Clearing his throat, Foggy motioned towards the door. 

“I’m going to speak to Hoffman and start the paperwork. We should be all out of here in couple of hours, tops”. 

“And then we’re walking you home”, Matt pushed away from the table. Y/N sighed, half-opening her lips, and his entire body seemed to react to the nearly imperceptible sound: his skin shivered and his heart picked up some.

“Okay,” she said, her voice even, still looking at him. “I suppose I owe you this much”. 

†††

The rain was falling thickly as the three of them made their way out of the stuffy police station; the sky was still dark, with an occasional flash of lightening splitting it in two, three, four uneven cobalt blue parts. Crackles of thunder rolled across rooftops to the pattering of hefty raindrops, resonating in Matt’s feverish mind. 

Pain still gnawing at the corners of his mind, he realised he had never done such hard thinking as he did now, falling a bit behind Foggy and Y/N. Something was off, he could sense it. Ever since that tense moment they shared in the interrogation room, Woods had been unusually quiet, compliant and overall so unlike herself, agreeing to do just as Foggy and him told her, without even trying to put up a fight. At first, he thought that maybe she was tired - she, too, had a hell of a night, he had to remind himself. But then he sensed her stare from across the room as he talked to Hoffman - a stare that left his skin burning, his body vibrating under those restless interrogative eyes. 

Both Foggy and Y/N stopped just outside the heavy doors, waiting for him to catch up. Just as Matt stepped outside, he allowed himself a deep breath, despite the pain in his chest. The air seemed charged with electricity, and the humidity pressed down, suffocating him… Y/N’s eyes settled on his face, and he felt her hand wrap around his wrist. Still watching him closely, she interlaced their fingers. Her fingertips danced over his maimed knuckles… His breath hitched. Swallowing hard, Matt slid his hand out of her grip, adjusting the collar of his shirt. 

Good God! Had she figured it out?…

He was a goddamn mess, wasn’t he?

“As much fun as this had been,” Foggy spoke, pretending not to have noticed his best friends’ antics. “I’ve got to go. If I leave now, there might still be a chance for me to enjoy my night of mind-blowing sex and cuddling with Marci”. 

Y/N chuckled at his words. Matt barely raised an eyebrow. 

“Well, don’t let us stop you,” he said, notes of accusation tingling in every sound. 

He heard Foggy let out an exasperated breath, his heart beating faster than normal, and realised he was in this alone. 

Not that Matt could blame him. He was the only one responsible for this mess and it was up to him to deal with the consequences. 

“See you tomorrow, Fog,” Matt added, patting his best friend on a shoulder. Clearing his throat, Foggy gave Y/N and him one last look before darting to the nearest waiting taxi. 

“Stay safe, and vigilant, both of you.”

And just like that, Matt found himself alone with Y/N, in the very situation he dreaded from the minute he dropped Foggy’s call earlier that night. 

“You don’t have to walk me home”, Y/N spoke calmly, stepping out into the rain like this was the last thing that bothered her. “I’m sure you have better things to do”. 

The words felt like a slap, but Matt refused to acknowledge whatever meaning she’d put into them. He followed her into the rain, not batting an eyelid.

“I’m walking you home, Woods,” he sounded serene as he spoke; maybe a little too serene, but it was too late to do anything about it. “Don’t make me break my promise”. 

“Fine,” she shrugged, stretching her hand out to him. Water rolled down her face, soaking her trench, the smell of her neroli perfume intensifying as Matt stepped closer to her. She took him gently by the elbow, leading him down the glowing, wet street. 

The night was silent, save for a siren roaring a couple of blocks ahead. His body stiffened as he first heard its wailing sound; it took a soft squeeze of Y/N’s hand to get his head back in the game. He needed to win. So that his secret identity remained secret, and Woods remained oblivious to his late night shenanigans. 

“How are you holding up?” Matt ventured, mindlessly falling in line with Y/N’s steady pace. He felt her shrug as her hand slid higher up his bicep, creating friction. Matt bit the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore her soft breaths, interrupted by the whispering sound of rain crushing against her damp skin, small drops rolling down the curve of her breasts…

“I’m fine,” she answered, her voice smooth and soft, like velvet. “I am more worried about Daredevil, he got hit pretty deep with that shard of glass…”

With his breath hitching, Matt noticed a change in her heart’s rhythm - it slowed down, but it thumped louder now, wilder. 

“I’m… Well, the night is a blur now, you know?… But there’s one detail that bothers me, I can’t seem to wrap my mind around it…”

“What is it?” Matt turned cold with irrational fear, suddenly realising they weren’t walking anymore. 

Wherever they were, this wasn’t Y/N’s block - it just didn’t smell like it. 

Concentrating, Matt caught a whiff of Indian spices through the tantalising veil of the neroli perfume… That neroli perfume, dear Lord, it was driving him insane, pushing his thoughts in all the wrong directions… Smelled like gas, too, there must have been a gas station within a 30-metres radius… And camomile detergent…

And then it hit him - it’s her who walked him home. They stood just beside his building, but why did she…?

Y/N’s hands landed on his shoulders, cutting his flow of thoughts short - she stood facing him now. So achingly close, it felt like there were not much of that buzzing hot air between her soul and his. Before he could remember how to breathe, Y/N’s fingertips caressed his his cheeks, moving smoothly up until she reached the wet cold metal of his glasses, pulling them away from his face. Matt looked steadily at her lips, his eyelashes begging for her touch. 

“The moment I fired that gun,” she whispered, water rolling down her lips and chin. “I swear I saw Daredevil flinch, he dipped his head a little to a side… His deep red mouth moved, and I could swear I saw those lips before…”

Her fingers moved across the skin on her chest, breaking water patterns… Just like she was breaking his will, pushing him to surrender.

Matt groaned barely audibly, his brain electrified. Helpless and intoxicated, with her scent sending him in a heady trance, he let his hands find their home on her waist, his touch gentle, worshipful.

His cane fell on the ground, and neither of them noticed.

“…He turned his head my way and it was like he saw me. And the next thing I know…” 

Matt’s body was hard, pushing against her soft breasts. He didn’t want to leave marks, but he couldn’t let go of her. Rain hit her cheekbones, and the water splashed against his nose and lips. He was losing it. Losing control.

“And the next thing I know, he screams - Run,” she dipped her head, her breath burning the skin on his neck. Matt crushed a groan in his throat, grabbing her arms, holding her in place.

“Run, Woods, run!”

The wind held its breath. A stillness fell over the street. The silence got torn apart by a low rumble of thunder. 

It felt like the ground underneath Matt’s feet was crumbling, and the walls he had spent so much time building around himself tumbling to the ground. Like he just stood there, breathless, holding up the roof, so that the weight of the truth didn’t crush his life-outside-Daredevil-duties, the life he fought so hard to hold on to. The life in which Y/N loved and trusted him.

He really blew it, didn’t he? A single second, a fleeting-moment kind of realisation, a mind-numbing moment of fear… All it took for his life to go down in flames of hell. 

Everything stopped. His heart came to a screeching halt. 

“Y/N, please,” he muttered, licking the water from his bottom lip. “Please, just let me…”

Her lips obliterated his every thought, swallowing the words off his mouth. Matt’s brain was instantly on fire - but her lips were cold, and the cool relief spread in waves all over his body, soothing all the parts of him that’d been on fire for too long.

From then on, everything accelerated, happening in a flash. Y/N pushed her fingers through his mane of damp hair, Matt groaned, his head falling back. Their bodies were aligned, her nipples cold against his chest…  

Y/N lips were Matt’s salvation and his torment. Exhaling frantically into his mouth, Y/N bit on his bottom lip, letting him feel her teeth, her need, her gratitude… She let him name it. 

“Oh my… dear Lord,” Matt growled, the feeling of diving headfirst into an erupting volcano with her, finally kicking his common sense into submission. With a jerk of his bruised body, he hoisted Y/N up, guiding her legs to wrap around his waist. Kissing her mad, kissing her senseless, he made his way up the porch and into the building, the door slamming shut behind them. 

The explosions of thunder continued to drown Hell’s Kitchen in the most deafening racket; but even its uproars could not hide the sounds made by two lovers, moving against each other, feeling each other… Loving each other like they’d never loved before.   

See the list of the prompts here & request the hell outta them 😈

[suits]

closer to fine.

Can be read here on ao3

Words: 7.3k, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Relationship: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier

Fandom: IT 2017, IT 2019

Rating: Explicit

Tags:  Hurt/Comfort, Hospitals, Temporary Amnesia, Post-Break Up, Breaking Up & Making Up, Angst with a Happy Ending

Summary: Richie gets his heart broken on a Thursday.

Richie gets his heart broken on a Thursday. He can’t even say he’s surprised. Confused, maybe. Definitely dejected. But not surprised. He's always had a hard time holding on to the good things in his life, so why should Eddie be any different? That doesn't make it hurt any less, though.

He wishes he could say it starts out like any other day, but something like dread makes a home somewhere deep in his chest when he's woken up at noon by two text messages from Eddie.

12:14 - Baby: We need to talk. 12:14 - Baby: Can I come over?

Nobody likes a "we need to talk" text, but cryptic undertones aside, since they started dating all those years ago, Eddie has never once asked for permission to come over.

He tries to brush it off. “It’s probably nothing.” Richie thinks to himself, laughing at his inane ability to jump to the worst possible conclusions, ever. “There’s plenty of shit he could want to talk to me about in person. Maybe he wants a dog, a little Pomeranian or something cute like him, or maybe he wants to move in together, or maybe he’s ready to take our relationship to the next level, or maybe...”

Richie sends back a quick “of course. see u soon” before he forgets, then busies himself with taking a quick shower and making a breakfast smoothie for the two of them.

It's 12:47 when Eddie knocks on his door. Eddie never knocks anymore. Richie gave him a key years ago so that he didn’t have to.

He opens the door warily, stepping back to let Eddie inside. His Eds was wearing a knit cap, and scarf to combat the harsh winds, and Richie was pretty sure that those were mittens on his hands, God his boyfriend was the cutest. “Eds,” Richie greets, going in for a hug and kiss, but Eddie shakes his head, grimacing a little. He steps back to put a little bit of space between himself and Richie.

“Let me start off by saying that I love you.” Eddie mumbles, staring at the carpet.

“Okay?” Richie prompts, confused. His eyes search Eddie’s face. “Eds, come on, my floor isn’t that interesting. Please look at me.”

Eddie does, and his eyes are wet with tears that haven't yet spilled over. ”And I know that you love me,” He continues.

“Yes,” Richie nods emphatically, “more than anything.”

Eddie takes a deep, shuddering breath before soldiering on, “But this isn’t working out anymore. We’re,” He gestures between the two of them “not working out.” He doesn't say much more than that, doesn't try to explain himself. Richie wouldn't have wanted to hear it, anyway. “I’m sorry.”

It's one of the rare occasions that Richie Tozier has nothing to say. He nods slowly, mouth agape, like he wants to speak, but no words will come out.

They spend seconds or minutes, Richie has no idea, just looking at each other. Richie’s eyes were desperate and imploring, Eddie’s, glazed and distant. They're only standing a couple of feet apart but Richie's never felt further away.

Eventually, Richie breaks the silence, gesturing towards his kitchen. “Smoothie?” he offers weakly.

Eddie just looks at him some more. His eyes are sad, but his face is determined. He sighs once, and shakes his head ‘no’ before he turns on his heel and leaves. Richie can only stand there and watch, dumbfounded, as the love of his life walks out of his front door, and out of his life.

”But you love pineapple and spinach.” Richie whispers to the empty room.

He doesn't get a response.

+

Desolation and depression were old friends of Richie’s; in the sense that even if he could find a way to forget about them, ignore them, avoid them all together, all it took was one bad night and they were back in his life with an intensity like they missed him. They were good to him like that.

“ S' good to me. Than' you.” Richie slurs to his empty bedroom. “I missed you guys, too.”

He might’ve had too much to drink. It's been a while since he drank alcohol, and it's just really hard to keep track of how much you've drank when you’re not actually trying to keep track. The only thing Richie knows for sure right now is that he needs a lot more alcohol to make it through the night.

Richie checks his phone for the time, ignoring the unopened text alerts he’s been getting for the last two and a half weeks it’s been since Eddie dumped his ass out of the blue. It reads 1:17am, which means that he has about forty minutes until the dive bar closest to his place starts locking up.

It's a 15 minute walk, but he makes it there in 10.

“Richard.” His bartender (and sorta friend) Monty greets him when he stumbles through the door, limbs awkward and uncoordinated. “This is the fifth time I'm seeing you in as many days... and you look worse every single time I lay eyes on you. Anything you want to talk to me about? I can have this place cleared out in five minutes flat, just say the word.” A couple of people in the bar look up at that, but he pays them no mind.

Richie's touched. If he wasn't so fucking drunk already, he would've sat down and had a heart to heart with Monty about how the man he thought he’d marry someday just up and fucking walked out on him. But alas.

“Monty...Montague...Mont Everest... Mont-pel-er... You know like the capital of Virginia?”

“Vermont, but continue.” Monty corrects playfully, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“You say potato. Anyway, as much as I'd love to wax poetic about the five foot six inch cutie that broke my heart, I'd much rather forget that the last two weeks of my life even happened. What’ve you got for that?”

“Prayers, Richie. Lots and lots of prayers. But in the meantime,” he slides two glasses filled with something brown and strong towards Richie.

+

Had Richie not been such a fuck up, he never would’ve went to the bar that night. Had Richie not been so goddamn stupid, he probably would’ve noticed the group of men lurking in the alleyway across the street early enough to avoid them.

Had the alcohol not effected his judgement and sense of self-preservation, he wouldn’t have felt so tough, he wouldn’t have opened his mouth, he wouldn’t have started that fight.

Had Richie Tozier not been Richie Tozier for once in his life, he wouldn’t be laying on his back in a barely lit alley at 2:30 in the morning with at least a couple of cracked ribs, a possible punctured lung, and a head injury that was bleeding steadily.

Richie doesn't bother calling for help, wouldn’t be able to get the words out anyway.

He can't help thinking that if this is it for him, then there are worse ways to go.

“Worse than bleeding out in alley surrounded by trash and piss and shit and God knows what else? Richie that's disgusting.” a familiar voice in his head reprimands.

“Chill... Edward...Cullen,” Richie rasps, wincing in pain. It’s the last thing he remembers before the darkness overtook him.

+

Eddie makes the biggest mistake of his life on a Thursday. He never should’ve picked up his phone and texted Richie that morning, stressed off his ass, and mad at the world. He shouldn’t have put on his stupid coat, or got in his stupid car, waited in stupid traffic, to show up at boyfriend’s apartment to break up with him. And for what? Because Eddie was feeling insecure about how Richie felt about him? Because Eddie was worried (for whatever fucking reason) that Richie would get tired of him? He feels so fucking stupid.

People always assumed that Richie was the impulsive one in their relationship, acting before reacting. But Eddie knew firsthand that Richie is, and always has been, more calculated and levelheaded than he could ever dream of being. It took a lot to get Richie riled up, especially since he’d stopped drinking, but Eddie was constantly on a short fuse.

“Such a little ball of fury, you are.” Richie would tell him, pinching his cheeks. “Not enough room in your body to hold all your anger, Eds. So cute.”

“I’m not a little ball of fury and I'm not fucking cute, Richie!” He would yell back. And Richie would just smile at him like Eddie had just proved his point.

Eddie misses him the second he walks out of the door.

He decides to call Bill when he gets to his car.

"Hey Eddie, what's up?" His best friend greets, and the words come pouring out before Eddie has a chance to stop them. He talks until he's out of breath, and then he talks some more. He would've kept talking, too, if—

“I’m sorry,” Bill interrupts, “I must’ve misheard. You did what?”

“I broke up with Richie.” Eddie repeats, irritated.

“That son of a bitch—did he hurt you? Do you need me to—” But Eddie nips that one in the bud real quick.

“No, Bill, he didn’t hurt me. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Bill’s voice sounds confused, “Then why?”

Because I’m a mess with chronic anxiety and self esteem issues and twenty-four years worth of emotional baggage and Richie deserves so much better than me? He thinks but doesn’t say.

“I don’t know, Billy. I really fucked up this time.”

Bill doesn't agree nor disagree with that statement. Instead he says, “It’s okay. You just need to figure yourself out, Eddie. Take some time to think about what you want, that's the most important thing. You have to be your first priority, or you'll never really be happy.”

“How’d you get so smart, huh, Big Bill?” Eddie asks, genuinely grateful that he has such a patient and protective best friend.

“Someone in this group has to be.” He chuckles, and Eddie curses him playfully.

They talk for a little while longer; about school, and work, and Bill’s upcoming date with Stan. After saying their goodbyes, Eddie's surprised to see that he feels a little bit better.

Bill's right; Eddie needs to figure himself out, get his head right. He knows it's gonna take a long time but he owes it to himself (and hopefully, someday again, to Richie) to be the best version of himself.

+

After a couple of days of moping and self-pity, things are starting to look up for Eddie. He isn’t necessarily enjoying “single life” but he's beginning to relish spending time on himself. He even takes a couple of days off from work to focus on his self care. He buys ginger tea and detoxifying face-masks and everything.

It's been two weeks and three days since their break up when a call wakes Eddie up out of a restless sleep.

“What?” he grouses at the unknown heathen who likes to call people at — he squints at his phone screen — 4:16 in the morning.

“Edward Kaspbrak?” A female voice intones.

“Speaking. Who is this?” He asks, immediately more alert.

“Marianne Nelson from Silver Lakes Hospital. There’s been an accident involving a Richard Tozier, and he has you listed as his emergency contact. How soon can you be here?”

+

Gays can’t drive, my ass Eddie thought as he pulls into a parking spot. He makes it to the hospital in record time and barely breaks any traffic laws to get there. No use to Richie if we both end up in the ER, he reminds himself.

Let it be known that Eddie Kaspbrak hates hospitals. Has ever since he was a kid. It's 100% due to the fact that his mother made him spend more time in emergency rooms and clinics than he did at school or with his friends.

That’s all behind him, though, at least for the moment, because the only thing on his mind right now is getting to Richie quick as possible. Marianne wouldn’t tell him anything over the phone, so he's completely in the dark, has no idea what kind of condition Richie is in.

“Edward Kaspbrak.” He announces when he reaches the receptionist's desk. “I’m here to see Richie Tozier. He’s my b—” Eddie cuts himself off. “I’m his emergency contact.” After his identification is verified, the receptionist politely gives him directions to Richie’s room.

Eddie doesn't exactly jog there, but it's a close thing.

He’s seen Richie sleeping in the past, countless times, but he's never looked so small before. And so pale. Richie's hooked up to all types of IVs and machines, he has cuts and bruises littering his face, and part of his head is shaved—but despite it all, he still looks very much like the boy that Eddie fell in love with so many years ago. He'd be reminiscing if he weren't so fucking scared.

“You can go in.” Calls a kind voice from behind him. Eddie nods without even looking to see who the voice belongs to, before he steps into the room and shuts the door softly behind him.

Eddie’s heart was going to beat out of his chest. Is that even possible? He thinks hysterically, then laughs a little, completely on edge. At least I’m in a hospital and they’ll be able to fix me right up. Good as new.

He makes himself as comfortable as possible, folding like a pretzel in the hospital chair. The room has magazines and a TV—for entertainment or distraction, he isn't sure—and there's coffee right outside the door if he needs it, but Eddie isn't planning on leaving any time soon. He stares at Richie’s sleeping face and hopes to God that he's resting well. “I’ll stay with you forever if you’ll let me." Eddie says, barely loud enough to be heard over the ventilators. “I'm so sorry, I won’t ever leave you again.”

He doesn’t get a response.

+

The first time Richie wakes up, he notices the lights. Too much, too bright, he thinks. They make his eyes sting and his head hurt, but he's out again before he can say anything about it.

The second time, Richie's more alert. He hears the steady beeping of machinery, smells the overpowering scent of clean, sterile. He can’t turn his head, though, can’t get his eyes to focus on anything, and before he knows it, they're fluttering shut again without his permission.

The third time Richie wakes up, there are big, brown eyes peering down at him. He recognizes those eyes before he can focus on the face they belong to. Eddie. Those heavenly brown eyes blink in surprise before they disappear from his line of sight. Richie vaguely hears yelling, but he can’t make out the words.

Next thing he knew, there're people all around him, nurses and various hospital personnel writing things down, and poking and prodding at him.

“Richard,” a voice that isn’t Eddie’s calls, “You won’t be able to talk just yet, but blink twice if you can hear me.”

Richie blinks twice, confused.

“Good to have you back with us, Richard. Do you know where you are? Blink once for no, twice for yes.”

Richie blinks once.

“You’re in the hospital. I’m Doctor Hasaan. You got pretty banged up the other night, but we’re going to take care of you. You’ve got some broken ribs, a subsequent punctured lung, and a pretty nasty concussion. Do you remember what happened?”

Richie blinks once.

“There was an accident, Richard. A pedestrian found you in an alleyway downtown, and called 911. I’m not surprised you don’t remember any of it, you hit your head pretty hard and your blood alcohol level was high when you were brought in." And that can't be right, Richie hasn't drank in years.

"Are you in any pain right now?” Dr. Hasaan questions.

It’s almost as if his question brings all of Richie’s sensory neurons back to life, and he's only just began to notice the aching pain in his head, throat, and chest.

Richie blinks twice.

“Alrighty.” The good doctor says, “We’ll give you something to help with that.” One of the nurses puts something in his IV. “Try to rest, Richard. We’ll have that tube out of your throat in no time, and you’ll feel much better once you can breathe properly on your own. Is there anything we can get for you right now? To make you more comfortable?”

Eddie, he thinks, bring him back in.

Richie tries to blink twice but his eyelids are so heavy, and then, in the blink of an eye, he's asleep again.

+

Richie wakes up with a start. His chest is tight and his throat is on fire and he can’t fucking breathe. He feels like he's drowning. Is he dying? Richie weakly struggles for a minute with the IV in his hand before a soft hand on his arm stops him.

“Richie, calm down.” Comes an angelic voice. He knows that voice. He loves that voice. “You’re panicking, it’s okay, baby.” The angel soothes.

Delicate hands hover around Richie’s face like they want to caress him, but are too afraid. God, what he wouldn’t give to have those hands on his face.

It takes him a second, but Richie is eventually able to come back to himself, focus his eyes on the man standing beside him, focus his ears on the steady beeping and mechanical breathing of the machines surrounding him.

He carefully reaches one trembling hand up to his mouth, onto the uncomfortable tube that was forced down his throat. Eddie gently slaps his hand away from his face.

“Don’t touch it, Richie. Relax, okay? Let me see if I can get your doctor in here.”

A couple of minutes pass before Eddie comes back into the room, smiling widely, while Dr. Hasaan follows a few paces behind him.

“Richard,” greets the doctor when he walks in, “Great news. We’re on pace to get you extubated today. I’m sure that thing must be bothering you, huh? The ventilator’s providing minimal support now, so most of that breathing is all you, kiddo."

Richie gives two shaky thumbs-ups, careful not to jostle the I.V. too much, lest he upset Eddie again.

+

It's got to be the most uncomfortable moment of Richie Tozier’s existence. The process doesn't take more than a minute or two, but there's a lot of choking, gagging, and saliva sucking—and not even in the fun way. Once the tube is out, though, Richie only feels relief. And a little sore.

“It’s all done, Richard, you did great.” The doctor praises, as he discards some tools onto the table beside him. “Hold still now, I’m going to insert an intranasal cannula, just to be safe...”

Richie lets the doctor do doctorly things while he lets his eyes roam around the room. They settle on Eddie, who’s been hovering anxiously on the other side of the bed. He's wearing a too big hoodie and a pair of skinny jeans. His hair is curly and unkempt, so unlike Eddie. His face looks relieved, but his eyes are so tired. So sweet staying here with me, Richie thinks.

“Alright. Why don’t you try and say a few words for me? It might be uncomfortable at first, but the more you work at it the easier it’ll get.” Dr. Hassan states reassuringly.

“Just like...the first time...I gave you... sloppy top...right, Eds?” Richie croaks, then he threw a wink in his boyfriend’s direction.

Eddie’s face twists in a strange combination of horrified amusement. He looks like he wants to laugh—or maybe cry—but instead he just purses his lips together and shakes his head. Richie grins back.

The doctor rolls his eyes and asks if Richie felt up to answering a few procedural questions.

"What's your full name?"

"Richard Tozier."

"What year is it?"

"2019."

"Who's the president of the United States?"

"I know...but don't make me say it."

“Excellent, Mr. Tozier," Dr. Hasaan chuckles, "you’re well on your way to health. Your lung and ribs should heal on their own in a couple of weeks, but there's no reason for us to hold you hostage here any longer. Your short term memory should come back to you gradually. You're set to be discharged no later than tomorrow afternoon. Because of the severity of your concussion, however, I'm going to ask that you have another adult at your home to monitor you for 48 hours."

"No problem, doc... I got my... Eddie Spaghetti to take care of me." Richie smiles as wide as he can without his lips cracking due to lack of hydration.

He doesn't notice the way Eddie's eyes shift guiltily to the floor.

+

Eddie might've been driving too cautiously.

"Eds...I know you're worried...but you might actually...be driving in reverse." Richie complains as another car speeds past them.

Eddie ignores him and grips the wheel tighter. I've hurt you enough already, I can't do that to you again Eddie thinks. What he says is, "Yeah, and if I speed up and hit a pothole and your stupid ribs slip and puncture your stupid lung again, then you'll be mad at me."

Richie laughs, but it's bitten off like it hurt him, and Eddie winces. "My Eds...always...so damn dramatic."

They spend the rest of the car ride in relative silence, save for the quiet humming of the radio, and Richie's occasional labored breathing.

"Oh, fuck." Richie voices miserably when they arrive at his complex.

"What?" Eddie asks, worried. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay, Eds." Richie reassures, "I just remembered...that I live on the third floor."

Oh, fuck.

"I'm not carrying you up three flights of stairs because your landlord is too cheap to get the elevator fixed." Eddie says, mostly serious.

"You couldn't...carry me up those stairs...to save both of our lives...Spaghetti head." Richie jokes, "Come on...little man...we've got some...climbing to do."

+

Eddie might not've had asthma when he was younger, but it sure as fuck felt like he did now.

Carrying their bags and about 30% of Richie's body weight feels like a workout, but he feels guilty almost instantaneously when he hears Richie struggling to catch his breath.

"I'm sorry, baby." Eddie says, forgetting himself for a moment. He rubs his hands up and down Richie's back soothingly. "You okay?"

"Fine, Eds. Let's keep...going."

They make their way down the hall to Richie's door, where Eddie reaches under the "did you call first?" welcome mat to retrieve the spare key Richie keeps hidden there.

"Where's yours at...Eds? Need me to...get a new one made?" Richie asks, gesturing to the spare key in his hand, and Eddie blanches.

"No? No, I just left mine at my place. I'm an idiot." He lies, and Richie just looks at him kind of odd.

"That you are...Spaghetti Head."

Once they're inside, Eddie helps Richie settle comfortably onto the couch, before going to Richie's bedroom to drop off his bag.

"Bring me...my heating pad, please, Eds?" Richie calls with some difficulty.

"Yeah, sure, Rich!" Eddie calls back, but when he steps into Richie's bedroom, his heart hits the floor.

Now, Richie isn't the tidiest person alive, so Eddie's used to picking up after him a bit; sometimes folding his laundry, but it's never been like this before. There are empty bottles of alcohol littering his floor, half-empty food containers left open, clothes thrown haphazardly over almost every surface. This, Eddie knows, is what depression looks like for Richie. This is what it looks like when he's given up.

"I did this." He gasps quietly to himself, looking around the room in horror. "I did this."

"Eds?" Comes Richie's worried voice from his position on the couch. "You get lost?"

"Just gimme a minute, Richie!" He snaps, way harsher than he intends. Then much softer, "I'm sorry, babe, please just give me a minute, okay?"

Richie doesn't say anything else, and Eddie pulls himself together long enough to go to the supply closet and retrieve Richie's heating pad.

He hands it to Richie wordlessly, and Richie mutters a quiet "thanks". He looks at Eddie like he's a puzzle to be solved, and Eddie can't take it.

"What do you remember from before?' He asks, avoiding Richie's questioning eyes.

"From when?"

"What's the last thing you remember, Rich? Not... not in the hospital, but before that. What's the last memory you have of--of us together?"

There's a pause, and Eddie can see the gears working in Richie's head.

"Oh, I don't...I can't...um...I don't? The movies?" Richie tries. "We went to see that scary movie you wanted to see. The one...with the clowns." He looks so proud of himself, and Eddie's heart just shatters.

+

Richie's used to his boyfriend being weird; and usually he loves it, but there's something about the way Eddie's been acting since they left the hospital that has his hackles raised.

"Am I...missing something, Eds?" Other than the obvious, he doesn't add, "What's the matter?"

Eddie still looks crestfallen when he answers. "That was over three weeks ago, Rich."

"Yeah?" He asks, and Eddie nods miserably. "Holy fuck. I mean...we knew that there were...holes in my memory. Doc said...things'll come back on their own." He tries to sound reassuring, but Eddie's still frowning hard.

"Yeah, I know but...that's not...it's just that, um, I don't really, um, and—"

"Woah, dude, are you...having a stroke?" Richie interrupts, and Eddie puts his head in his hands and sighs.

"God, shut the fuck up, Richie, this is really hard."

Richie bites his tongue. "What's hard, baby? What's got you...so upset? Eds...whatever it is...it's okay. Talk to me."

"It's us, I mean, you and me, we're um," a pause, "we'renottogetheranymore." He finishes quickly.

That's a silly thing to say, Richie thinks. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Eddie starts, "that you and I aren't together anymore. We're broken up."

The sharp pain in Richie's chest has nothing to do with his broken ribs.

"I broke up with you?" He asks dejectedly, "Eds, I'm—" but Eddie holds up a hand and cuts him off.

"No, Richie, I broke up with you."

And there it is. Richie feels it like a punch to the solar plexus. Thats why Eddie's been acting so strange, keeping something like this from him.

"I don't...why?" He demands, chest aching to keep up with the heavy pounding of his heart.

"It doesn't matter, I should've never done it, I'm sorry—"

"It fucking matters!" Richie explodes. With great difficulty, he stands up off of the couch—wincing in pain during the process—so that he's looming over Eddie. "It matters." He tries again.

Eddie just stares up at him from his spot on the sofa. He shakes his head 'no', like he's resolved on keeping his mouth shut, and the anger is drained from Richie as quickly as it came.

"Why are you...here, Eddie?" He asks, exhaustedly. Just Eddie this time. Not Eds, not baby, just Eddie.

"Because you're hurt, and I need to make sure you're okay, and I—"

"Let me...guess. You feel...guilty?" Richie laughs mirthlessly. "Get out."

"No, Rich, c'mon, I'm here to help you."

"Just, go, Eddie. I'm going to go...take a very careful shower...and by the time...I get out...I want you...out of here."

"Rich—"

"Out, Eddie."

He walks carefully to the bathroom without waiting for a response.

+

Eddie doesn't leave. Fuck that, he thinks. Instead, he takes on the harrowing task of cleaning Richie's bedroom which he's labeled "The Depression Den" in his head. He starts with the clothes: grabbing piles and piles from the floor and Richie's bed and discarding them into their respective hampers. Once he's done with that, he takes care of the disposable trash; putting everything into bags that'll need to be tossed sooner rather than later. Lastly, he works on the beer cans, and liquor pints that are scattered all around the room. God, Richie must've really been on a bender. Eddie swallows his guilt for the time being and gets to working on separating glass from aluminum to recycle.

The shower's still running by the time Richie's room looks presentable. Eddie carefully, quietly places his ear up to the door. He can hear Richie humming softly and takes that as a sign that he's okay in there.

He makes his way to the kitchen to rummage through Richie's cabinets, trying to find something to cook for them, but Richie's cupboards and refrigerator are bare and depressing looking.

Take out doesn't sound so bad, Eddie thinks.

+

He's just getting off the phone with the Thai place when Richie comes into the living room

"You're still here." Richie croaks. His skin is still pink from his shower, and he's wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of Spiderman boxers. He's still a head taller than Eddie, but he looks so small, so young.

"Yeah, Rich, I know you're upset, and I understand its a lot, and I'm s—"

"You're still here...you didn't leave." Richie's voice cracks. "You didn't leave me." He takes a hesitant step towards Eddie, expression vulnerable. And oh, fuck, if Richie starts crying its going to set Eddie off too.

"I promised you I wouldn't." At Richie's confused glance, he elaborates. "When I got the call that you were in the hospital, I was so scared. They wouldn't tell me anything and I-I thought the worst. I thought I'd lost you. But then I went to your room, and you were sleeping. You were cut up and bruised," He eyes the healing bruises across Richie's face, desperately wanting to reach out and touch him "but you were alive. And I thought to myself 'I walked away from the best thing in my life, because I was scared.' Truth is, I didn't know what scared was until I saw you lying there, so still...so pale, machines breathing for you. So that night, I promised myself and you that as long as you'll have me, I'll be here. I won't ever leave you again. As long as I'm welcome in your home, and...and in your life, I'll—"

"Stay."

"What?" Eddie asks, eyes wide.

"Please...even if it's just for tonight...just, stay."

So Eddie does.

+

Richie does a lot of healing over the next couple of weeks. None of it is easy, but that's to be expected. He gets short tempered, and emotional as his memory clears, which the doctor tells Eddie is a "completely normal response to being concussed," but Eddie thinks it's more than that. Richie slowly begins to ease himself back into daily activities like driving, and grocery shopping for himself, relying on Eddie less and less with each passing day.

Eddie tries not to let that worry him.

It's a fair question, and one that needed to be asked, but it still makes Eddie choke on his coffee when Richie asks "So, why did you break up with me?" one day when they're sitting on the couch, watching TV with the volume down low.

"Um, Richie, I-" Eddie starts, then stops.

"Yeah?" Richie raises his eyebrows expectantly, the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips.

Eddie sighs. He owes Richie an explanation, he owes him the truth. "I was scared." Okay...so...baby steps.

"Of...?" Richie prompts, impatient now.

"You leaving me? I know it's so stupid, now, but at the time I thought you would get sick of me, and you didn't l—" he cuts himself off but its too late.

He doesn't miss the way Richie inhales sharply, and flinches like Eddie just slapped him.

"You thought I didn't love you?" Richie sounds so lost.

"No! I mean, yes, but no! I know that you loved me, remember? I told you that, and I knew it, it's just that, with my anxiety and everything, uh, it's like my head...was playing tricks on my heart and I had to leave, because if you left me I wouldn't be able to take it. And I know that's not an excuse, and I don't mean for it to be. I just, I never meant to hurt you, I swear. If I could take every word back, I would. I never- I'm so sorry."

"You're so fucking stupid." Is all Richie says, then louder, "God, you're so fucking stupid!"

That's fair, Eddie thinks.

Richie puts his hands on Eddie's shoulders, lowering his head until they're eye level. "I have never. Ever." He punctuates each word with a gentle shake to Eddie's shoulders, "Loved anyone the way that I love you. Not even close."

"Richie, I'm so-" Wait. "Love?"

"Yes!" Richie cries, exasperated. "Love, dummy. I love you! I never stopped loving you. Even when I was drowning myself in a bottle," It's Eddie's turn to feel like he just got slapped. "All I could think about was you. You, Eds. You're it for me, I think."

Eddie freezes, feels the tears well in his eyes before he can do anything about it. "You called me Eds." He cries, tearfully.

Richie grins in triumph. "I knew you fucking liked my nicknames!"

+

"God, I missed this." Richie moans in between kisses. He's got Eddie pinned down on his bed, breathless and panting beneath him.

"Richie, please." Eddie whimpers.

"Please what, baby?" He teases. "You want something from me, you ask for it."

Eddie squirms underneath him, dick already hard and leaking. "Please fuck me. Need it, need you." And Richie groans, grinding his hips down hard, eliciting a shaky moan from Eddie.

"Mmm, not yet, baby. Gonna take care of you. I'm gonna worship every inch of you."

Richie takes his time taking Eddie apart, finding all the spots that drive him crazy, and playing with them until Eddie's a writhing mess underneath him.

"Alright, Eds. Face down, ass up. C'mon chop, chop."

Eddie opens his mouth like he's about to retort—probably to tell Richie to stop ruining the mood or something—before he thinks better of it. He does as he's told, stripping down completely naked before laying face down on the mattress.

Richie hums in approval, kisses his way down Eddie's shoulders, along his spine, feels the tremors that are coursing through him.

"Please, Richie, I need more" Eddie whines, rocking his hips back.

"I know what you need, Eds. Let me give it to you, okay? Gonna make you come so hard. On my tongue and fingers, then on my dick, okay? You just gotta take it." He says it casually, like he's discussing the weather, and not taking Eddie apart piece by piece.

Eddie just whines again, and Richie smirks before he flattens his tongue, licking over Eddie in broad strokes before pressing his tongue inside. Eddie nearly shouts, hole fluttering around Richie's tongue.

There's nothing particularly romantic about the way Richie eats him out. It's wet, and sloppy, and Richie's got spit dripping down his chin as he licks into Eddie until Eddie's trembling at the intensity of it.

When Eddie's whines start getting high and needy, Richie takes pity on him, adding a finger in alongside his tongue, and Eddie groans appreciatively, fucking himself back onto Richie until he adds another.

When Richie crooks his fingers purposefully, searching out Eddie’s prostate, Eddie whimpers pitifully and tries to shift away. “Richie, please…” he begs, but Richie just pulls his mouth away and shushes him, keeping his fingers deep inside.

Richie knows Eddie simultaneously loves and hates getting his prostate fucked. Hates how vulnerable it makes him feel, how it leaves him shaking and non-verbal, even after he's come. Loves it for the exact same reasons.

“Relax, baby,” Richie soothes, placing a comforting hand on Eddie’s hip. "I got you."

Eddie forces himself to relax, and soon enough, he’s whining and sobbing, fingers twisting the sheets, begging Richie for more.

"Good boy." Richie praises. He’s careful when he does this, not exactly gentle, but he doesn’t want to go too fast or hard and overwhelm Eddie, so he keeps his strokes long and purposeful, fingers brushing expertly over Eddie’s prostate. Eddie's hips keep shifting, like he’s not sure if he wants to get away from the sensation or get more of it, so Richie tightens his hand on Eddie's hip, effectively stilling him.

He keeps up his methodical torture for minutes, or hours, or days, before Eddie's granted any reprieve. Even if it weren’t for the almost hysterical whines Eddie’s emitting, the way that he’s clenching around Richie’s fingers, shaking like a leaf, would be enough to alert Richie that he’s close. He keeps Eddie hanging there on the verge of orgasm for a long time, drawing it out of him slowly, so slowly, with precise fingers pressing rhythmically against Eddie’s prostate. “Touch yourself, baby, you’re doing so good, make yourself come.” Richie urges, using his free hand to massage Eddie’s perineum when Eddie brings a shaking hand to his own leaking dick. It’s over pretty quickly after that.

Eddie’s uncharacteristically quiet when he comes, and Richie would be worried if not for the way Eddie’s muscles had locked up so tight before he started trembling something fierce.

Eddie had stayed like that for a few long moments, could do nothing but shake and gasp as his orgasm worked through him in a way that looked almost painful.

When it's over, Eddie drops like a stone onto the mattress, still trembling. Richie's quick to gather him in his arms, rearranging them as best he could so that Richie was against the headboard and Eddie’s head was resting on his chest. That's when he notices the tears tracks running down Eddie's cheeks as the man in question struggles to catch his breath. He runs soothing fingers through Eddie’s hair, waits for him to come back to himself.

"Oh my God," Eddie whispers, moments later, once his soul is back in his body.

"Okay, baby?" Richie asks, genuinely concerned, as he wipes at the tears staining his boyfriend's face.

"More than," Eddie gasps, "It's just a lot."

"Hmmm." Richie hums in agreement. He gives Eddie a couple more minutes to recover before he rearranges them again. This time, with Eddie on his back, legs spread wide around Richie's hips. "I'm not done with you yet."

Eddie looks up at him, eyes wide, and Richie grins. "Told you I was gonna make you come on my dick tonight. You want that, baby?"

Eddie nods enthusiastically, then gasps in shock when he feels Richie's open palm connect with his cheek.

"Use your words, Eddie. You want my dick, then beg me for it."

"Please, Richie, oh my God, please I want your dick, please give it to me, I need it." Eddie's shameless now, past the point of caring what comes out of his mouth.

"That's good, baby. I'll give it to you." Richie says, reaching into his nightstand for the box of condoms they never use anymore.

"Rich...what? Why?" Eddie asks, dubiously eyeing the box in his hand.

"Eds..I..if there was any-" But Eddie cuts him off, head clearer than it's been since they started.

"There was no one else, Rich, I swear, I didn't. You're it for me, too."

"Yeah?" Richie asks, tossing the box somewhere in the corner of his room, smiling down at Eddie.

"Yeah, stupid." Eddie promises, and Richie just has to kiss the grin off his lips.

-

Richie takes his time pushing in, making sure Eddie feels every inch of him until he bottoms out, hips flush against Eddie.

"Gonna make sure you feel how deep my love goes, baby. Never gonna have to worry again." Richie promises.

"Oh, my God." Eddie whimpers, eyes rolling back as Richie starts to fuck into him slowly.

It's so good, too good, and it's not long before Eddie's hard again. Richie takes notice and doubles his efforts, going from thrusting into Eddie to grinding their hips together, dick a constant pressure against Eddie's prostate. It's too much, too fast, and Eddie damn nears screams.

"Feel good, baby?"

Eddie doesn't respond. Just keeps making these little "ah, ah, ah" sounds like he's about to sneeze. "Oh, fuck, Richie, how are you doing this to me?"

He's crying for real now, taking big, sobbing breaths as his hands frantically grip the pillows, the bedsheets, the headboard, his own hair, anything he can to ground himself against the pleasure that's threatening to overwhelm him completely.

"Don't do that, baby, you'll rip your hair out." Richie chides, dropping to his elbows so that he can detangle Eddie's hands from his hair, and twine their fingers together.

He never once breaks stride, going back to fucking into Eddie deep and slow, each thrust bringing Eddie closer and closer to that point of no return.

And surely Eddie's going to explode. Surely, the human body isn't meant to withstand this kind of pleasure.

"You're so fucking good, Eds." Richie's pace is starting to get falter, tell-tale sign that he's close. "Gonna come for me again?"

Eddie nods senselessly, beyond words. He's pretty sure he's drooling.

"Then do it, Eds. C'mon." And Eddie's right there, so close to the edge, back arching completely off the bed as Richie takes him higher and higher and—

"That's it, baby, you're right there, God, I love you so much, Eddie."

"Say it again." Eddie gasps, fresh tears spilling over.

"I love you." Richie repeats.

"Again."

"I love you."

"Again, again, again!" Eddie shouts as he starts to come, untouched, across his and Richie's bellies.

"I love you, I love you so much, baby." Richie groans, and tumbles over the edge right alongside of him.

+

Eddie's nervous as Richie drives them to the restaurant; some overpriced Italian place that Mike wants them to meet at. It's not like he and Richie were avoiding the Losers; they still talked on the phone a couple of times a week, but in the light of recent events they had, admittedly, been spending a lot more time with each other. It's been the best and happiest weeks of Eddie's life, and that makes his decision ten times easier.

Months ago, Bill told Eddie to take some time to think about what he wanted.

He picked out a ring that very same day.

What he wants is Richie, always and forever. He's known that for most of his life.

He just hopes that Richie feels the same way.

+

The ring is heavy in Richie's back pocket as he and Eddie walk into the restaurant that Mike picked out. The rest of the Losers are already there, talking animatedly amongst each other. The conversation stops when they get to the table.

"Well I'll be damned." Mike says, like he didn't expect them to actually show up, he's grinning though, and Richie smiles back.

"Richie Tozier, back from the dead!" Bev exclaims, jumping out of her seat to hug him. He squeezes her tight, lifting her off her feet as he twirls her around. She laughs brightly, and it hits Richie like a brick to the face how much he loves this group of people. How, since they were kids, their little group of outcasts has been his one constant. Something he could always run to.

Bill and Stan smile at him knowingly, and he winks back.

Richie's always had a hard time holding on to the good things in his life, but as he looks around the table at all of his friends, at the man he hopes says yes tonight, Richie finds himself smiling at the realization that he's there's no way he could ever let this go.

[freyaadlcr]

ello gavnah! i’m olive and i’m 23 and i was born at the tender age of zero. i’m from boston and my hobbies include watching true crime docs and asking people riddles from my cave under the bridge! I don’t have any other clever greetings today so i’m gonna cut to the chase: i’m so excited to be here and plot with u all! put the plots in the bag, walk away, and no one gets hurt. yeet. anyways here’s freya’s pinterest for the Vibe and I’m so excited to play her!!!

( ✩ - KATHRYN NEWTON, CIS FEMALE, TWENTY ONE, SHE/HER ) have you seen FREYA ADLER around campus lately? SHE is a JUNIOR studying as a MUSIC MAJOR. they remind me a lot of wine dripping off your chin, ripped fishnet tights, laughing when you feel like crying, probably because they are GREGARIOUS & MERCURIAL. SHE is living in MONTGOMERY on FLOOR 14 at the moment! ✩ olive, 23, est, she/her. –

21 years old!! From NY!

Her parents were wannabe hippies who missed the days of the 60’s. In their twenties, they met riding around on a bus through all of America, living on the vinyl seats and smoking weed as they traveled

Freya was an accidental pregnancy and so they left the bus life and moved in with her maternal grandparents, got part time jobs and eventually moved to a small apartment on their own

They never wanted to be parents and never saw themselves living a typical lifestyle, so Freya got the message pretty early on that she wasn’t wanted. They were never unkind or abusive, just generally uninterested in their daughter. She was like an awkward antique coffee table from your relatives, something that you aren’t quite sure what to do with but know you can never get rid of

Like seriously she might as well have been a piece of furniture to them. They spent most of her childhood in the basement smoking weed and playing The Grateful Dead while she cooked herself meals of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches

Her dad worked as a party clown and her mom was a bus driver so she got picked on a lot in school ghgfdsdfg

Has an intense and burning desire to be loved because she never got it from them!! She made up for her lack of love by throwing it in any direction she could. She’s always been pretty popular at school because she’s kind to everyone and has an ability to make anyone feel comfortable around her

She found in school that she has a fantastic talent for anything artistic. Painting, sculpture, photography, she does it all. Also plays guitar and piano!!

When she was 13 her parents accidentally got pregnant again and gave birth to her little brother Alistair, called Ali for short.

Her parents actually tried to be good parents for Ali which?? Pissed her OFF!! Like, they went to every parent teacher conference, nurtured him, were just AROUND which was heartbreaking for Freya to watch

She wanted to hate Ali just bc of this but she really couldn’t… there was something special about him and he was incredibly smart. Started reading at age two, and was a mathematical prodigy in the way that his older sister was an artistic prodigy. By age four Freya and Ali were having intense intellectual debates and she just found him incredibly fascinating, as well as kind

Loved her little brother to pieces!! When she got her driving license she volunteered to drop him off at primary school every day and they rocked out together to all her favorite songs and she taught him the words to David Bowie’s Heroes

But then the accident happened, and Freya’s life was upended. Ali was kneeling down in her parent’s driveway, out of sight as their mother was backing up and leaving the house. She hit Ali and his lung was punctured by a rib. He was rushed to the hospital but he didn’t make it.

The family split after that like a dropped snowglobe, the emotional shards of Ali’s death exploding in its wake. Her father left, unable to even hold their mother’s hand during the funeral. He blamed her for Ali’s death even though it was an accident.

Freya’s mother fell into a deep depression that she’s never shaken. Her grandparents moved Freya and her mom back into their mom, and her grandparents are now the full-time caretakers for Freya’s mother. She wanders around most days in a drugged haze clutching Ali’s baby blanket with a bathrobe on.

As soon as she could, Freya got out of the house. She applied to NYU, packed her bags and got out. She still doesn’t like to talk about her family

Umm despite the tragedy she’s remained a really kind, positive person?? Her motto is “always be a little kinder than necessary.” She’s actually super embarrassed about how much she cares for everyone dfhgfds

Is a bit inspired by Noora from SKAM in that she’s not a fan of dating and keeps her walls up!!

She loves vintage t-shirts, converse, mom jeans, plaid skirts, red lipstick, big sweaters, pastel colors and her mom’s old Doc Marten boots from the 80’s

Doesn’t really drink to get drunk, but she does love drugs!! Of all kinds!! Mostly weed, but occasionally for big parties she’ll drop acid, or she’ll get high when she’s in a creative rut and needs to just go hog wild and paint sdfgfds

If she does drink it’s something sugary that tastes like fruit

Um will sleep with ANYONE

Can also get along with anyone tbh

Stubborn! As! Hell!

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

Her bandmates. She started a band her first year of uni and they play mostly die bars and pubs, but they’re together all the time. Bonus points if there’s some bandmate sexual tension??

Art friends! People who get together to create, pull all nighters working on projects, support each other through their art coursework

The Serena to her Blair. Give her a messy friend that she’s always picking up from the bar at 3 AM in her pajamas bc they called in the middle of the night and needed Freya to get them out of a jam sdfgfds

A bad influence! Someone who’s like c/mon Freya having a third drink won’t kill you. Live a little. Let your hair down.

Childhood friends from NY! Maybe people whose parents knew each other, or someone whose parents kind of took Freya under their wing bc her parents were so absent

Friends, best friend, ride or dies, friends who are like siblings to her, maybe someone with an unrequited crush on either side??

Someone she used to date but pushed them away when she started to fall in love bc she’s afraid of getting hurt!!

[therainroguefanfiction]

🔥 ℝise Ⱥbove I̾t ◈ Chapter 045 [Abuse of Power]

📑 Table of Contents | ◂Backward

Word Count: 3,332

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

〈“Will anyone come forward? Who is to blame? They’ve all tried to hold me down, but now I’ve turned it all around. Got the hope I need to get off the ground, stay alive and try another day.” Vickeblanka, “Black Rover”〉

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

What an insane fucking aura Stain has… such strength, such conviction. He needs a serious fucking chill pill, bro. Izuku’s body shook in fear against me, his wide eyes trained on the hero killer. Even the fucking pros are frozen in shock and fear. For fuck’s sake, do I have to do everything around here?

I pushed Zuku to the side and rushed forward, twisting my body to slam my leg against his stomach. What little bit of consciousness he had left fled his body as the knife clattered to the ground, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull as his body fell to the ground.

“That ain’t it, chief,” I grunted. “You say only All Might is allowed to kill you? That’s a wet dream because that blonde idiot would never kill anyone for any reason. The fucker ain’t got it in him to do so. And besides,” I smirked, holding up my hand as flames swirled against my palm. “Allowed to kill you? I’d like to see you spout that crap when you’re locked up with the worst of the worst!”

“J-Jen…” Izuku squeaked.

I glanced at him and sighed, lowering my hand. “But it’s not like you can hear me and I’m way fucking overdue for some fucking sleep. Release,” The sound of shattering filled the night air as my torn and burnt school shirt returned to my body. Deadpool, I’m coming to see you, bud.

“Jen!”

“Winchester!”

Darkness.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

I stared out the window, watching a bird hopping from branch to branch. Although Hosu general had a few healers on their staff, they are nothing compared to Gran, so most of my injuries hadn’t been fully healed.

The door slid open and a thin man in a white coat stepped inside, his grey-blue hair slicked back. His name is Akashi, the doctor that’s been tending to me since I arrived. He glanced up from the clipboard, his blue eyes meeting mine. “How are you feeling, Miss Winchester?”

“Like I got ran over by an eighteen-wheeler twice and then he did a u-turn and did it two more times.”

He sweatdropped. “That’s oddly specific…” He cleared his throat. “Would you like to know the extent of your injuries before we took care of you?”

“Yeah, why not.”

“Your left shoulder was broken, along with several ribs, one of which nearly punctured your lung. The puncture wound on your stomach was the worst of your injuries, it was quite deep, but your quick thinking at closing the wound prevented you from bleeding out. There will be a nasty scar once it’s fully healed, though. For the future, when you get stabbed by something, don’t pull it out.” Akashi deadpanned.

I returned his pointed look with a blank one. “Yeah sure. Walking around with a piece of fucking glass sticking out of my fucking torse is totally a fashion trend I want to start.”

He ignored me, returning his eyes to the clipboard. “Other than that, there were various cuts and bruises across your body, but nothing serious. We fixed your shoulder, so you should be able to use your arm, but I suggest you take it easy since it’s not fully healed.”

All things considered, not too bad, I guess.

“You can come in now,” Akashi called out.

The door slid open and the short man, Gran Torino, stepped inside. “Come on, girl. The chief of police needs to talk to all of you at once. Let’s not keep him waiting.”

I groaned in protest. “Ain’t it easier to bring them to me?”

“Easier for you, maybe.” He grunted, folding his arms over his chest.

Che, no sympathy for the wounded. I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The cold shot through my socks as soon as I touched the linoleum floor. Thankfully, the nurses had changed me into pants and a shirt instead of those horrendous hospital gowns because I ain’t about that life. Gran Torino led me down the hall to a room where two men stood. One I recognized – it was the guy that had tried to take me to the hospital.

His eyes met mine and he rushed forward, relief on his face. “You’re okay, I’m so glad!” The relief quickly switched to disappointment. “I trusted you to go straight to the hospital. What were you thinking? You were already badly injured and then you went after the hero killer. You could have died, do you understand?”

I scratched my cheek. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I don’t regret it, though. I’d do it again.”

The second man cleared his throat and holy fucking salsa dancing chimichangas is that a dog on two legs?? Why is this bitch so goddamn tall?? “We should scold them together, woof.”

Bro, he just fucking barked, I can’t.

Gran Torino nudged me forward and I reluctantly tore my eyes from the dog, entering the room. All three boys snapped their heads to us.

“Jen!” Zuku sprung off the bed, stumbling with a squeak. I rushed forward, catching him with my good arm. He buried his face in my neck, arms tight around my waist. “We were so worried… they wouldn’t tell us where you were or if you were okay.”

I hummed, running my fingers through his hair. “I won’t die so easily, not when I have so many brats to look after.” I helped him back to his bed before sitting on the side.

Gran Torino stomped forward. “Idiot! I could yell at you for hours right now!”

“Yeah… I’m… sorry…” Zuku mumbled, looking down at the covers in shame.

“But before I do, you’ve got a visitor. This is Hosu’s chief of police, Kenji Tsuragamae.”

The tall dog entered the room on cue, his hands in the pockets of his suit pants. Todoroki and Iida immediately stood up and Zuku struggled to do the same. “No, please stay seated, woof.”

I held my breath to prevent myself from laughing. I mean come on, can you blame me? He’s a fucking dog for fuck’s sake and he keeps barking! What even is my life?

“So, you’re the U.A. students that brought down the hero killer, huh?”

“We are,” Todoroki responded hesitantly.

“Stain has some serious injuries,” he continued. “Severe burns and several broken bones. Right now, he’s in the hospital under strict guard, woof. Here’s a lesson you should have already learned – when quirks became the norm, the police force sought to maintain the status quo. It decided we wouldn’t use quirks as weapons.”

What the fuck is the point, then? If you got a bitch comin’ at you with the intent to kill, you can bet your ass I’mma use my quirk as a fucking weapon.

“That’s when heroes came in. They could do what we couldn’t – if they were licensed, of course, woof. It would be impossible for the police to condone the use of deadly quirks. After all, we’re here to stop such harm from being done. The only reason the pros can use their powers now is because of the strict code of ethics that the early heroes chose to abide by.”

I scratched my cheek. He just started talking and my brain is already starting to hurt. This mutt is throwing information at me like I’mma be graded on it. He should be thanking us for doing what he failed to do, but I get the feeling that ain’t gonna happen.

“That’s why it’s against the law for un-certified people to use their quirks to cause injury. Whether you were up against the hero killer or not, none of you have the authority to harm a villain. That means the four of you, and your supervisors – Endeavor, Manual, and Gran Torino – are sure to receive harsh punishments for this gross abuse of your powers.”

Todoroki beat me to the punch, his voice angry. “Now wait a minute. If Iida had not stepped in, Native would have been murdered. And if not for Midoriya, both of them would be dead. No one even realized that the hero killer was in Hosu. Are you saying we should have just stood back and watched people die?!”

“Calm down,” Zuku held his hands up.

“No, he’s fucking right.” I snapped, glaring at the mutt. “The whole fucking reason we’re training to be heroes is to use our fucking powers to save people. What kind of hero turns their back when someone is about to fucking die, huh?! You’re damn fucking right I used my quirk to harm that fuck and I’d do it again!”

“Jen…”

“So, it’s okay to break the law as long as it goes your way?” His eyes narrowed.

“But, sir -” Todoroki clenched his teeth. “Isn’t it a hero’s job to save people?!”

“This is why you’re not a full-fledged pro yet. It’s obvious U.A. and Endeavor haven’t been teaching you near enough. What a shame.”

Oh no, he fucking did not just go there.

“You damn mutt!” Todoroki spat, stepping forward.

“You’ve got some nerve, you fucking dog.” I snarled. “Insulting U.A. like that. U.A. is the fucking best school, full of people that actually give a damn about others!”

“Todoroki! Winchester!” Iida cried out. “Listen, he’s right!”

“Stop right here, kids.” Gran Torino held his hand up to prevent us from getting any closer to the dog. “You wanna hear him out to the end.”

The mutt continued, “What I’ve said is the official stance at the police department, but any punishment would only be necessary if this went public. If it did, you’d probably be applauded by citizens everywhere, but there’s no way you could escape from being reprimanded. On the other hand, we could say Endeavor saved the day.”

I glanced at Todoroki, seeing his body tense up. Personally, I don’t give a fuck about getting credit or not, I’d much rather prefer not to be in the limelight. But Endeavor getting the praise? Really?

“Stain’s burns would support this story completely and we could pretend you weren’t involved, woof. Thankfully, there were very few witnesses. This could be the last you heard of any punishments. It would mean no one would know about you, though. You’d receive no acclaim at all. The choice is yours.”

Why does this sound too good to be true, huh?

“Personally, I know where I stand.” The mutt held his thumb up, tongue lolling out of his mouth. “I don’t want to damage any promising young careers. Not for a mistake like this.”

“Bitch, huh?” I deadpanned. “You just fucking said – and it wasn’t a mistake, bro!”

“Either way, we have to take responsibility for being negligent supervisors…” The man, according to Iida was called ‘Manual’, hung his head in shame.

Iida approached him and bowed at the waist. “I’m sorry, I should have listened.”

Manual lightly karate chopped his head. “Yeah, you caused us a lot of trouble. Remember that, and don’t do it again!”

Zuku lowered his head. “And… I apologize, as well.”

“Me too,” Todoroki bowed, mumbling reluctantly.

Gran Torino looked at me expectantly and I stared back. “Well, I ain’t fucking apologizing. I don’t regret my decision to step in and help them. My goal is to protect these brats, no matter what it costs me. Was it stupid and reckless? Maybe, but I still stand by my decision. I would rather rot in a cell for the rest of my life than live with the thought that I didn’t protect them when I could have simply because of a stupid rule. Not only that, but that first fucking battle left me no choice. She was after me like a fat kid after the last fuckin’ twinkie.”

“Jen,” Zuku sweatdropped.

Gran Torino grunted and in the blink of an eye, he was in front of me, his foot in my stomach. The air left me as I stumbled backward into Todoroki’s arms, clutching my stomach. “Toshirnori was right about you, we have our work cut out for us with you. You should have accepted my offer!”

“You fucking moldy ass shrimp,” I wheezed in pain.

“I know it’s not fair,” the mutt spoke up. “You won’t enjoy any of the fame and praise you probably would have received otherwise but at least,” He bowed at the waist, his arms straight at his sides. “Allow me, as the chief of police, to thank you.”

“You know, you could have started with that…” Todoroki murmured, glancing at me.

“For fucking real,” I muttered. “Being a hero ain’t about fame. Who fucking cares if we get praised? That’s the whole reason Stain even exists, ain’t it? People are becoming heroes for the fame and the cold hard cash, not because they genuinely care about others. They don’t want to help people, they just wanna help themselves.”

He hummed thoughtfully as he straightened his body. “Perhaps, but I personally believe that good deeds should be rewarded, woof.” I clicked my tongue and looked away. “Now, I must return to the station and I ask that you accompany me there, Jen Winchester.”

Zuku tensed up, his eyes darting between us. “Wait, is she in trouble? Now that I think about it, you didn’t mention a fourth supervisor, why is that? Who did she intern with? I don’t remember anyone mentioning it. Plus, she was badly injured when she arrived on the scene. She said something about the first battle, what did she mean by that?”

I sweatdropped at his muttering spell, walking over and resting my hand on his head. “Don’t worry, Zuku, they just need to ask me some questions about somethin’ I saw before the battle with Stain. Heal up well and I’ll see the three of you back at school, alright?” I headed for the door but paused. “Can one of you get ahold of Katsuki and let him know I’m alive?”

“I will,” Iida responded.

“Thanks,” I grinned, closing the door behind me.

⊱ ────── {⋅. .⋅} ────── ⊰

Kenji opened a door, motioning for me to step inside. “What here, we’ll be with you shortly, woof.”

I grunted, stepping into the bare, cold room. The door closed behind me and an uncomfortable silence settled over the room. The thick walls blocked out the sounds of the police station. After leaving the three boys, he had checked me out of the hospital against the doctor’s wishes and drove me straight to the Hosu police department.

I fell into the metal chair with a sigh. The metal table is bolted to the floor so it can’t be moved, and another chair sat on the other side. A bright, fluorescent light sat in the middle of the ceiling, directly above the table. The wall behind me was almost completely covered by a thick black glass – a two-way mirror. Geez, why I do I feel like a fuckin’ prisoner right now?

The door opened and I lazily glanced over. “Hello, Jen Winchester.” The man smiled, closing the door behind him. “Do you remember me?”

He does look familiar, but, “Nope.”

He sat down across from me. “We never officially met. My name is Naomasa Tsukauchi.”

“Ah,” I sat up, smacking the table with my right hand. “The fucker that said the teachers saved us at the USJ and completely undermined the fact that the students fought hard as fuck.”

“Right…” he sweatdropped, his smile turning sheepish. “Sorry about that.”

“What are you doin’ in Hosu?”

His smile dropped. “We found the pro hero Caraphernelia. Another student from U.A. arrived a day late for his internship and when he stumbled upon the scene, he called the cops. After informing U.A. of this, we learned that two students were due to intern with her. And then U.A. got the call from the hospital about you and the others.”

“Wait, who was the other student?”

He shuffled through the papers in his black folder. “Regina Reggian, a student from general studies.”

Are you shitting me… that fucking kid.

“I need you to tell me exactly what happened,” Naomasa said seriously, giving me his full attention. “No detail is too small.”

I leaned my head back to rest against the chair, closing my eyes. “It started after Aizawa announced that we’d be interning with pros. During lunch, I got a text message from an unknown number. It told me to choose her agency if I wanted to learn about my mother.”

“I see. And did you tell anything about this message?”

I thought about Kat for a moment before shaking my head, “Nah.”

“So you chose her agency. Then what happened?”

“The first floor was completely devoid of life, so I went up to the third floor where I was told to go, right. Everyone was already dead when I got there. I was about to call someone, but then they showed up.” I scowled.

“We found the phone pinned to the wall, but it was destroyed so we couldn’t determine the owner.” He mused, scribbling on his notepad. “Can you describe who showed up?”

“Kurogiri, the warp gate from the USJ incident and some rodent fuck. He wasn’t at the USJ, at least not from what I saw. He looked like… if you took a shit ton of different rodents and fused ’em together.”

“The League of Villains… Did you fight them?”

I scowled, remembering that mutt’s words as I smacked my hand on the table. “The fucker attacked me, so I defended myself. What, was I supposed to just let him spear me like a fucking kebab instead of using my powers?” His lips twitched up but he said nothing so I continued. “I tried to leave because I didn’t like my odds and there wasn’t anyone to protect so I had no reason to fight, but that misty fuck is pretty smart and he got me.”

“They took you,” he concluded, tapping his pen on the pad as he watched me with thoughtful black eyes.

“Yeah,” I leaned back in my chair. “They chained me to a fucking chair in a room without a window or even a clock. And it was so dusty. What if I fucking had asthma, huh? I doubt the fucking League of Villains has an inhaler on standby, but that raspy fuck could probably use one.”

“Did they say what they wanted with you? Why they took you?”

I tried to keep a blank look on my face, but my eye twitched, making him raise a brow. “I forgot to mention – I’m pretty sure that bitch was workin’ with ’em.”

He nodded. “We have confirmation of that after searching her office.”

“They tried to recruit Stain, too, but he refused.”

“I see,” he scribbled the info down. “Anything else or are you done avoiding my question?”

I groaned, setting my chair down so I could lean on the table. The cold metal felt good against my skin. “Tomura Shigaraki and Kurogiri apparently both had feelings for my mom and since she’s dead, I’m the next best thing, but their boss had other plans.” My hand lifted to the pendant, my fingers curling around it. “He wanted this.”

“Why didn’t he just take it instead of taking such a big risk?”

“Can’t,” I glanced up at him. “I mean, you can take it off me, sure but it’ll always come back. It’s got some sick attachment to me. Tried to get rid of it so many fucking times as a kid, but it was always back around my neck when I woke up.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “That’s interesting,”

A knock sounded on the door and a woman poked her head inside. “Sorry to interrupt, detective, but there are two men here demanding to see Winchester. One of them is claiming to be her father.”

We exchanged a confused look.

My father? It’s gotta be Toshi, right? But… he’s never introduced himself as my parent before. And if it actually is him, he wouldn’t be demanding to see me, that ain’t his style. What the hell.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

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[miobambiino]

WIP thingy for musicalluna

(This is my first go at fanfic and it’s pretty terrible atm so excuse any spelling errors and bad grammar but I’m trying my best lmao 🙃 I’m procrastinating from exams I’m sure u understand the feeling)

-

“I’m holding you to this, Wilson.”

Clint’s quip only served to deliver himself a considerably sized handful of snow from Natasha and a long-suffering sigh from Rhodey, who was largely consumed in a startlingly orange SHIELD-issue puffer jacket he’d picked up before everything went to hell on the jet.

Clint had his arm swung round Sam’s shoulder, Steve on his other side, helping the injured man trek through the snow.

“Gee thanks, Barton - hey, next time, I won’t step in to shove this goon out the way a hail of fire. You’d be cool with that, right man?” Sam shot back without much heat, gesturing toward Steve who was supporting most of Sam’s weight on his side. Not that it was particularly strenuous for him, being a super soldier and all.

“’M'not a goon,” Steve mumbled through a barely concealed smirk, “I could’ve handled it jus’ fine.”

It was supposed to be a straight-forward operation: get in, retrieve the data from the hydra outpost on the Winter Soldier project, and get back out. Sure, they hadn’t been cocky about it, they prepared well and took the necessary precautions; what they hadn’t counted on, however, were the agents to be armed with extra-terrestrial weaponry. Tony had marked it up to being modified Chitari weaponry. Apparently not even S.H.I.E.L.D had the scope to track down every piece that went missing from the Battle of New York - alien weaponry tended to sell fast and at insane prices on the black market.

The mission had gone as expected up until Hydra pulled the big guns out, literally. Hydra had concentrated their efforts to strike-team alpha - Steve, Bucky, and Sam. Since the loss of their asset, Hydra have been particularly keen on getting their hands back on a super soldier, or two. Sam had only just managed to swoop down to push Steve out of the way of a blast that would surely have immobilised him for the rest of the operation - only in doing so did he crush his left arm under his own and Steve’s weight at an unnatural angle.

Hydra weren’t incompetent, they knew how to launch an attack. Agents had hounded on each division of the team like a pack of ravenous dogs. By now, they knew what to expect from the Avengers, and were merciless with their approach. Rhodey and Tony had been disabled by an intense EMP developed for their suits especially, delivering excruciating electrical shocks through them, weighed down by motionless tonnes of metal. Sam had a clean break to his arm, and Clint wheezed with each step he took. Possible broken ribs, Steve had thought - praying it wasn’t a punctured lung too. Himself and Bucky weren’t badly off, though both exhausted enough that the trek in the middle of knee-deep snow was taking its toll. Besides, neither of them had particularly fond memories of the ice.

After hastily retrieving the data they had come for, they withdrew to the quinjet. The jet wasn’t much better off than they were, and in the mist of the battle, they hadn’t noticed a one piece of critical information.

There was a stowaway onboard.

-

“Fall back!” Steve hollered which holding Sam to his side, who had taken on a sickly grey tone to his skin. The break was bad, and Sam was only dimly aware of the situation going on around him.

Steve had his back, though. I’m gonna be okay

Natasha and Clint turned on their heel every so often on their sprint back to the jet, firing minimal but fatal shots to their attackers who were starting to get desperate. Usually, Hydra wanted to keep most of them alive; Avengers made for spectacular bargaining chips - or so they assumed, since it wasn’t like they’d ever managed to hold on to one very long (Bucky’s time as the Winter Solider doesn’t count).

Bucky was waiting for them at the bay doors, watching his teammates’ backs as they drew nearer to the jet, using a sniper-rifle to pick out hydra agents who were getting too close for comfort. Clint and Natasha eventually joined him, Nat starting up the engine ready for a hasty retreat.

“Colonel! Can you manage?” Steve had yelled over his shoulder as he neared the bay doors with Sam. Rhodey and Tony were a few short paces behind, both armed but weighed down by the armour they hadn’t been able to scramble out of in time.

“Worry about yourself, Rogers!” He shot back with gritted teeth; though the prosthetics wrapped around his legs allowed him to move his legs again, it wasn’t exactly easy sailing running through snow while under fire.

They all reached the bay doors, Tony and Steve scrambling on as it began lifting off the ground - they’d wanted to get Sam on first, Rhodey heaving him up from inside the jet. Steve hauled himself up with a grimace, automatically reaching for the scruff of Tony’s undersuit and yanking him the rest of the way up unceremoniously too.

That earned him a steely glare from Tony, who shrugged off Steve’s arm and stood up just as the bay doors firmly closed behind them with a small hiss.

“I’m capable of managing myself, thanks.” Tony breathed out as he brushed past Steve towards the cockpit where Nat was driving the jet forward. Steve watched as the smaller man sauntered off and hefted himself into the co-pilot seat, tapping in co-ordinated for the nearest landing zone occupied by friendlies. Steve huffed out a barely suppressed sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose firmly, pursing his lips tightly together.

“Didn’t say you were, Stark.” He said, mostly to himself. Since the ordeal with the accords, the team had shoddily come back together for ‘the greater-good’, as out by Agent Hill. Hydra may have crawled back into the shadows they had come from, but they were certainly no-less of a threat than they had been before. If anything, their recent losses to Cap and his team made them itching to strike back, harder and more efficiently. Steve was so tired of fighting them, a bone-deep kind of tired that permanently was etched into his features.

Cut off one head, two more shall grow in its place

A stifled groan escaping Sam’s lips drew his head out of the back of his mind - somewhere he was venturing far too often these days, and he came to his side.

“Hey listen man, I know I fucked up a bit back there, I wasn’t thinking straight. It really could of gone better-”

“Don’t- just don’t put this on yourself, Sam” Steve cut in, “the op was going to hell before you were down, we-”

This time it was Sam that cut him off, “I don’t regret doing it, hell, I know it was going to shit before I went and broke my damn arm, but still, I held you and Buck back. Pro'ly would’ve gone better if I landed right but,” Sam hissed as Steve wrapped up his injured arm, but carried on a beat later, seemingly ignoring what was bound to be an apology from Steve, “but, like I said, I’m not going to be sorry for saving your ass - again”

That earned a snort from Steve, who finished up wrapping his arm when Clint plonked himself down on the bench opposite Sam. The archer tisked as he adjusted his quiver, loosening it up off his shoulder, shaking his head slowly, “Can’t take this guy anywhere,” he drawled playfully. Sam eyed him dubiously, a quirk playing on the corner of his mouth. “See, if you landed on your own two feet instead of - you know - your fuckin’ face, we might’ve had a slightly smoother exit back there.”

Clint was clearly joking as an effort to ease the sense guilt he and Steve both knew Sam was harbouring. He’s saved Steve and probably actually given them a great chance of getting out alive - two super-soldiers is better than one, after all. Though, Sam had felt particularly useless while he was consumed in agony and had to rely on Steve to keep his head on straight while they made their escape.

“C'mon Sam, don’t flatter yourself, you aren’t all that hard to carry you know” Steve smiled at his friend, who returned the expression albeit slightly twisted in pain. “And he landed in his arm, not his face, Clint.”

“Huh, why’s it look all funny like that then?” Clint asked, feigning genuine curiosity. Sam merely rolled his eyes, nonchalantly taking his right combat boot off to throw at the archer’s head.

“Violence is not key” Nat’s voice rang from the front of the jet, not taking her eyes off the windscreen for a moment while she steered them away from any immediate danger.

They hydra outpost was desolate and practically impossible to reach on foot. Out in the wilderness of Norway, it had been hard enough locating the outpost which - like most of hydra’s bases - was underground. The landscape was covered in a thick layer of snow, making the mountains in the distance barely visible through the snowfall which was beginning to pick up at a reasonably worrying pace.

“We’re low on fuel, Tony, is there anywhere we can set down in range or do I just land us in the next clearing?” Natasha’s face was set with grim determination. She was the same after every mission, only tending to her own injuries until they were definitely out of the fray; not that she ever let on to anyone she was hurting. That had been one of the first things trained out of her - showing weakness.

Tony huffed in frustration, and smacked the dash fruitlessly when the systems wouldn’t cooperate properly. This was his tech, damn it! It should be fully operational no matter the weather - snow storm be damned.

“Nada I’m afraid,” Natasha tossed a glance his way and a frown made its way between her brows.

“'Nada?’ Seriously?” Tony just nodded in response, glancing back with a tight-smile when Rhodey appeared over their shoulders.

“God, don’t pull that face, it’s not near as assuring as you think it is.” Rhodey laughed softly, then directed his attention to Nat.

“Systems aren’t fully functional, though you’ve probably figured that out for yourself.” The man said as he shuffled into a seat behind them, leaning forward into their space from his seat. “Must’ve become compromised by stray shots from the agents back there. Best bet is to land somewhere far enough away from that mountain range - we need a signal strong enough to get back a message to base to come get us out of here.”

Natasha nodded, and began to open her mouth when a loud electrical whine sounded from under the jet. After a moment the whine grew into an even louder blast that thrummed through the belly of the jet.

Steve and Bucky shot up from where they stood, only to stumble when the jet shuddered unnaturally. Clint reached across towards Sam and strapped him in, despite the other man’s protests, and gripped firmly onto one of the bright yellow handles swinging idly from the ceiling of the jet.

“What the fuck was-” Clint’s surprised outburst was interrupted with the unmistakable sound of metal groaning underneath them.

Not a moment later the right engine startled to a halt, sending a few of them sliding into the opposite wall. The jet veered downwards, and alarms began blaring throughout the jet, seeing streaks of red lights across the interior.

Steve barely had a second to bark out a command to hold on before another blast rung through the jet, and the second engine failed on them. Steve felt his stomach suspended until it made a sickening drop and the jet plummeted downwards. Natasha unbuckled herself from the pilot seat, and in an instant as lunging behind the cockpit, hauling Tony with her and pushing Rhodes backwards with the force she exerted. Tony yelped before springing into action and holding onto his best friend, dragging them both to the back of the jet where Barnes was currently punching in an emergency code to open the bay doors.

Nat knew just as well as Bucky that they had a better chance of survival making a jump for it out the bay doors than being in the cockpit, where they’d most likely be skewered by the glass of the windshield when it shattered on impact.

The doors hissed open and immediately the team were encompassed my the freezing-cold air whipping through the door. Bucky grabbed onto one of the yellow handles with this metal arm and craned his head out the door, judging the drop distance from the falling aircraft.

His head whipped back to face the team, faces set determinedly, and yelled over the loud whistle of air around them.

“We gotta jump on my count or it ain’t gonna be a pretty landing!” He bellowed at them, while Steve approached him, gripping into his friend’s shoulder giving a reassuring squeeze.

“On his mark!” Steve repeated behind him, while Nat pulled Sam to her side, bracketing her body against his to insulate the fall in the hope of avoiding injuring his arm any more that it already was.

Tony felt Rhodey’s arm wrap around his side and pull his securely against his side. He wasn’t taking any chances of loosing Tony out in the middle of nowhere. Again.

Then Barnes issued the order, and they jumped.

-

More to come and this hasn't been edited yet but I'm trying therefore no one can judge me 😂 this is dedicated to my one of my absolute fave fanfic authors @musicalluna who's work I've been reading for years, but this is the first time I've made a blog to write too 🕊this will be eventual stevetony and buckynat

[eludum-a]

[survivorverse drabble that i’ve had in my head for a while. blood and death tw. its during the tragedy what do u expect]

When the call first went out, Future Foundation employees had begun evacuating the settlement. A few volunteered to stay behind and pick over the place, looking for stragglers, knowing they risked their lives if the warning was inaccurate and the raid began earlier than expected. They were lucky to have any sort of warning at all.

Of course she had stayed behind. She was busy helping a young girl onto the last helicopter, its blades already whirring, when somebody broke through the barricade, charging her. Her training kicked in, thankfully. She narrowly avoided a knife to the face. Their assailant was ragged, clothes threadbare-- probably doing this for the chance at a decent meal after the settlement had been looted.

Now’s not the time for sympathy, slowpoke!

They came for her again. The girl behind her was screaming something, and it was then that Chiaki realized there was a second person on the pad now. They’d snuck up behind her while she was preoccupied, and now they lunged for the child. Without time to think, all Chiaki could do was grapple with the stun gun on her belt and press a jolt of electricity to the young man she was wrestling with currently.

The helicopter lifted off the ground, the crackle of her stun gun covered up by the sound of its blades as it took off. The man who had attacked her collapsed, writhing and then falling still.

Her instincts were poor. Reflexes in real life were poor compared to those in her games. Her first thought was, I’ve been left behind. Wide eyes followed the helicopter as it grew smaller and smaller. Her second thought became, they did the right thing, and her third... a searing white-hot pain in her thigh and hip stopped her in her tracks before she could move again. As that happened, the stun gun was knocked from her hand to the ground. For some reason, all she could do was taunt herself as she whirled around. Idiot! She knew she would be too slow to reach it in time to defend herself.

The second attacker was an older woman, facing her with a shiv she seemed to have crafted herself. There was blood on it-- her blood. Chiaki didn’t know how deeply she’d cut, and she didn’t need a third reminder to stay in the moment. Her only weapon left was one she was loathe to use, but she hated the idea of being stabbed to death just a little bit more.

So she drew the pistol out, her hands shaking as she pointed it at the woman. “Stand down,” she ordered, mouth dry. “Please.” Don’t make me do this. Don’t make me do this. So many times they’d been warned that some people had gone mad with the strength of the Tragedy, no longer concerned about their safety or others’. They, much like the Remnants, simply wished to tear and consume.

So the woman ran directly at her, and Chiaki didn’t even have to think before her finger squeezed the trigger. She was prepared for the kick, but she still took a step back as the bullet punched a hole in the woman’s chest. Her aim was true, but she underestimated her opponent.

The woman, badly injured, merely flinched before closing the gap between them in a mere few seconds. There was another flash of agony in her side, but her blood sang in her ears and the reality of it seemed far away. Without blinking, she raised the gun again and this time put a bullet in the woman’s head, just like she’d been taught. Blood splattered over her due to their proximity. The woman gaped and gasped like a fish out of water. Then she collapsed, and Chiaki was just barely able to step away as the woman-- no, the corpse-- fell to the ground and lay there unmoving. Blood seeped out of the back of her head.

For a moment, all she felt was relief. Then, in her dying throes, the woman spasmed. Horror rose as Chiaki watched her expire there on the ground, and before she knew it she was on her knees, gagging, stomach thankfully empty because she hadn’t had time to eat before the evacuation. When she opened her eyes again, she was confronted with the pool of blood that was gathering underneath her. Her earlier wounds dripped down her stockings into her shoes. They squished unpleasantly.

What if that had been one of them? She reviewed the way the light had died in her eyes just before she collapsed, playing it over and over again in her head. What if that was Mioda-san? Or Koizumi-san? You killed her. The strength drained from her body. You said you could do this. You said, if the Neo World Program didn’t work, you’d find and kill each and every last one of them so they can finally rest and the world can heal. You can’t do it, can you? Her stomach flipped, and she dry heaved once more. Too weak. You’re too weak.

She pictured her friends, gasping there on the ground as the last of their life left them, her standing over top of them. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her hands balled up into fists. Without thinking, she slammed them into the ground and was startled by the pain that climbed up her left side and went tearing straight through her spine out her mouth as she let out a strangled scream.

That shiv was still there, buried in her side, perhaps two or three inches deep. The reality of her situation sunk in-- there was no way out. Her only hope was to find a place to hide, and even then, if she didn’t get first aid soon, she’d die. Maybe she’d die anyway. Maybe in a few moments, she’d be coughing up blood, the foreign object buried in her abdomen puncturing her internal organs.

Down below the landing pad, she could hear more screams and shouts coming from the invaders. Fighting over the loot, most likely. 

All of her frustration bubbled up, and she pounded the ground again and again, letting out a short but loud yell that came from the center of her stomach. Don’t bottle things up, Nekomaru had taught her through example. If you’re hurting, just let it out. Her vision blurred at the thought of him, so she reached up to wipe her eyes with her hand and came away with blood. Not her own, thankfully.

“I’ll figure this out,” Chiaki croaked to herself. I will. I’m not going to let this be the end. I have too much left to do.

Step one: Stand up. Get out of here before that man regains consciousness.

Step two: Find the first aid kit in the infirmary downstairs while somehow avoiding detection.

Step three: Find a place to wait this out.

Step four: Try not to die.