#maybe the ringing of the bullets hitting the ground or something

[wxywardsun]

What if your red dead online character witnessed or heard about the blackwater massacre either through word of mouth or maybe even a newspaper article or (probably the scariest option) hearing everything go down depending on where they are. It’s not entirely impossible since red dead online takes place a year before the main story of rdr2. I don’t know,just something to think about

[luvendiary]

undercover / s. reid

spencer reid x reader

summary: after you take a bullet for spencer he has to reevalue certain aspects of your relationship. warnings: mentions of blood, angst to fluff.

Red and blue tinted your vision. The sound of sirens faintly rung in your ears. But what you were paying the most attention to were his eyes. His mouth appeared to me moving but you could not make out what he was supposed to be saying.

You felt yourself smile idiotically up at him. You were so tired. You were going to close your eyes for a second. Maybe that would stop that worried look on his face. After all, he had always talked about how you spread yourself too thin, never enough sleep and all that.

“No! Open your eyes!” you heard him call out to you faintly. Under other circumstances you would be able to ignore him -like when you were late for work and he would pepper your face with kisses all the way down to your shoulders. Mumbling light praises. He would insist for you to wake up then. 

But you had the feeling these were not normal circumstances.

“Spence…” you grumbled as you tried to swat his hand away, but you soon realized your arm would not move. It was too heavy. Alarm bells started going off in your brain. And you could hear everything more clearly now. The ringing in your ears now gone, and instead all you could hear were the screams of your fellow teammates and the sound of shots being fired. Several ones at that.

You had been shot. You remembered now. The suspect had raised his gun, aiming directly at Spencer. Without hesitation, you shoved him out of harm's way. The bullet that should have hit him struck you instead, and you immediately collapsed to the ground.

Spencer, ever so good at reading people’s body language, noticed the panic settled in your eyes. The tiniest glimmer. 

“You’re doing so good,” he reassured as he positioned himself in front of you. “Just stay awake for me, ok?”

You nodded, or at least tried to. He got the message.

You tried to reach out for him, but your hand would not cooperate, your fingers could only twitch. He reached out for your hand and slowly caressed it. “Don’t tire yourself. You need to stay up, remember?”

It was hard to remember. Your vision was getting blurry and you saw shadows of people passing in front of you. You could faintly make the outline of one of the local police men lying head-down in his uniform, right in front of you. His gun just out of reach.

He needs his gun, you thought. He can’t defend himself without his gun.

A faint whine escaped your throat, and you were vaguely aware of the fact that a warm liquid seemed to be accumulating in your mouth.

You coughed, without much ease as you slumped over yourself, Spencer holding you up.

“No no no,” he whispered. 

Something was wrong. But amidst all the chaos you couldn’t put your finger on what it was. You coughed again, the coppery taste of blood filling your mouth. The panic that flickered in Spencer’s eyes told you what you already suspected—this was bad. But you forced a small smile, for him, because if this was the end, you wanted him to remember you smiling.

“Help is coming,” he murmured, but everything went black.

-

You woke up to the steady sound of a heart monitor and the harsh white lights of what could only be a hospital room. Your throat was dry, and every muscle ached, but you were alive. 

Spencer sat in a chair beside your bed, his head resting on his folded arms, eyes closed in exhausted sleep. You tried to sit up, but a sharp pain coming from your chest immediately stopped you from doing so. The slight movement was enough to stir him awake. His eyes snapped open, relief flooding his face as he leaned closer.

“Hey,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “You scared me.”

A weak smile formed on your lips. “Didn’t mean to.”

You could see him trying to hold it together. Trying no to cry, but his glassy eyes betrayed him.

“Hey, it’s alright,” you whispered as you reached out to cup his face with one hand. He immediately melted into it, placing his own hand on top of yours and allowing himself to be held by you. “I’m here. I’m fine.”

“I just…” he stared, his voice cracking. “I don’t know what I would have done if I lost you. And it would have been my fault.”

You smiled at him, teary eyed. “It’s ok not to know everything, Spence. Despite what you might believe.”

You were trying to comfort him, but guilt gnawed at your insides. You’d been reckless, too confident in your ability to handle the situation. And you had put Spencer in danger. 

Memories came back to you like flashes. Spencer positioning himself in front of you, shielding you from the shooter. The dead cop lying face-first on the ground. In your state of delirium you had not been able to recognize the horrible reality of the situation. But now, with the sterile lights of the hospital looming above you, everything was clearer.

“I was careless,” you murmured. “I should’ve been more careful. I wasn’t thinking—”

“We should tell the team,” he interrupted.

“What?” 

“We should tell them about this. About us,” he clarified, as he softly kissed your palm.

“Spence, are you sure?” your voice was raspy.

The decision to maintain your relationship secret was out of pure professionalism. You didn’t want to deal with the strange change it might have brought to the team’s dynamic. 

“I kept thinking about losing you. You were there, eyes closed, and I just thought, ‘what if they never open again?’” his thumb brushed your cheek. “I kept thinking about everything I would have done differently. And it all came down to this. I don’t want to love you in silence.”

No more secrets. No more lame excuses for leaving early. No more trying to sneak secret touches beneath the table. No more pretending.

“Maybe we should think about this more,” you said. Your eyebrows were scrunched, searching for something behind his eyes. A glimmer of doubt maybe.

“I’ve thought about it enough,” he responded decisively. His gaze was unwavering. “I know what I want. But, I understand if you’re not ready. I just don’t want to keep you a secret anymore. You deserve more than that.”

You allowed a moment to pass between you two. Staring up at him, still looking for any indication that this was just an impulse. A rush of the moment. But there was no storm in his eyes. Just beautiful calmness. 

“Alright,” you whispered after a second. “Let’s tell them.” 

He smiled down at you, ever so sweetly, and pressed his lips to your forehead. 

It was the most tender of moments, or it would have been if it weren’t for the gasp that came from the door and the following clang of a metal tray falling to the floor.

Penelope Garcia, at a loss for words (for once), stood near the doorway. The jell-o that was supposed to be your food now splattered on the floor. 

“Oh, my god…” she breathed out. A dramatic pause between each word.

“Garcia, we can explain,” Spencer reassured her, trying to get to her in a few strides.

“Oh. My. God,” she repeated once again as she backtracked. Slowly leaving the room.

Once she was gone, you were both left in silence staring at the door. A soft giggle escaped your lips, followed by a pained groan, which had Spencer rushing back to your side. 

“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about actually telling them anymore.”

[majestyeverlasting]

Nello! I have a request/suggestion for a Bucky drabble-y something if you'd like it. Maybe he's on a mission or there's an attack and it's going *very* poorly for him but he gets saved by a sweet civilian who's probably hopped up on a LOT of adrenaline

𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐲 | 𝐛.𝐛.

A/N Thank you so much for this request, anon! Bucky isn’t on a mission, per se, more like he ends up making a certain situation his “mission.” 

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader 

Summary After an unexpected and intense fight, you’re the kind stranger who comes to Bucky’s aid. Except, you can’t shake the pressing feeling that you’ve seen each other once before. [fluff, angst, firing of a weapon, 2.6k]

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Darkness hangs over Hell’s Kitchen as the heavy beat of Bucky’s heart drums on. The high-pitched ringing in his ears nearly drowns out the trudge of his boots against the sidewalk. Each labored step sends another wave of pain radiating through his ribcage. By now, he’s far enough away from Nicolo’s Bistro to be seen, where police and ambulances are finally pulling up with glaring halos of red and blue, sirens wailing. 

As Bucky turns into a dingy alleyway, he finally allows himself to release the pathetic grunts that have been attempting to claw out of throat since the moment he left the establishment. The pungent smell of garbage rides on the breeze as he presses his back up against the cool brick wall, sliding down until he hits the pebbled ground. 

He can’t remember the last time being off his feet felt so good. That’s all he’d wanted upon entering the bistro earlier. To sit down and have a meal before venturing back to Brooklyn. 

𝟷 𝙷𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙿𝚁𝙸𝙾𝚁

The table he’s given along the front windows gives sight to the evening bustle outside. There’s a dim ambience to that place that’s homey and charming. Basil and garlic linger in the air. A waitress with a long jet-black ponytail takes his order of carbonara and the house red. Just as she leaves, three men in fedoras enter, with hard eyes and strong noses. 

A wary feeling flutters in his gut. 

Rather than being seated in the main dining room, they’re escorted into the back by a worker. Nicolo, the broad-shouldered owner of the restaurant, is no sooner notified of their arrival. The look of dread that washes over his face is Bucky’s second clue that something is amiss. But there’s an eerie calm that follows.

Halfway into his meal, hushed, angry voices finally emit from the back room. The only reason Bucky can hear them is the serum’s heightening of his senses: 

Nicolo’s voice registers first, “Sobrini, please, there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“No, it’s well past time,” comes a gruff, thickly accented voice. “I invested in this shithole and haven’t seen anywhere near what I’m owed.” 

“It’s coming—please, there has to be a better way,” Nicolo reasons. “There are customers out there.”

“Too bad I don’t give a fuck.” 

That’s when a lone warning shot rings out. 

A few patrons jolt in shock, heads whipping around. You startle as you take a sip from your bubbling glass of champagne, sending the liquid running down your chin.

Bucky's on his feet in an instant, “Everybody out!” 

The moment you slip out of your booth, the confrontation spills out into the main dining area as Nicolo backs out of the room with his hands held up in surrender. All three men are stalking towards him, and the bulkier one—undeniably Sobrini—has a revolver drawn. 

“Now they all get to see your brains being blown out,” he quips.

 Bucky wastes no time rushing to the owner's defense, sprinting over to Sobrini, and using his vibranium hand to block a bullet when he pulls the trigger. Nicolo's face flushes with relief as he gratefully runs for the door, steering other frantic patrons out along the way. 

With Nicolo gone, the group of mobsters redirect their anger to Bucky and his daring boldness. 

“And who the hell are you?” Before Sobrini can pull the trigger again, Bucky disarms him with a few swift swipes and blows, bending the gun out of shape before letting it clink to the ground. 

“Mikey, Vinny!” Sobrini growls. 

Like two mad dogs given attack orders, the other men launch forward to gang up on Bucky. They’re stronger than he’s expecting—too strong. Super soldiers. Glasses and plates crash from the tables as Vinny, the taller of the two, kicks Bucky square in the stomach, sending him staggering backwards. He’s quick to recover, promptly delivering his own series of strikes in retaliation. 

Heart hammering in your ears, you help usher the last of the patrons and employees outside. When you dare to look back in, Mikey has managed to get Bucky in a chokehold from behind. Only then do you notice the glint of his vibranium hand as he pries at the man’s thick forearm.

As Bucky coughs for air, realization dawns on you like a rushing tide. For a flicker of a second, he catches your eyes in the doorway before managing to free himself from the hold.

A second wind finds him as the brawl becomes a fierce three-on-one ordeal.

Nicolo pulls you away from the door for your own safety.

It’d been two years since Bucky’s last fight, and he hated that this made a part of him feel alive again. 

𝙱𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝚃𝙾 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃

Just as his eyes begin to flutter closed with exertion, he hears a soft, urgent voice that he thinks he’s imagining. It prompts him to remember that he’s seated in a dirty alleyway, propped against a wall. 

“Are you alright?” Your eyes dart over his bruised face, split lip, and bloodied knuckles. “Don’t close your eyes, stay with me.” You gently pat your hand against his stubbled cheek. Some of his long, dark hair is matted to the sweat on his face.

The only reason you knew where to find him is because you’d watched him stagger from the scene after neutralizing the three intruders in a feat of athleticism if you ever saw one. Your own hands are still buzzing with adrenaline. 

He manages to meet your gaze, but his bloodshot blue eyes never focus. You can see that he’s trying, which only makes concern swell in your chest all the more. 

“You need to go to the ER,” you say, brows furrowing. That seems to shake him a bit. 

“No…” he trails off, then coughs, wincing. “No doctors. Please.” 

You pull your lower lip in between your teeth as if debating to heed his request. Looking out to the street, you see that nobody has taken notice of the two of you.

You then say, “Can you walk? My place isn’t far.”

•••

Climbing the stairs is the hardest part. Despite your offer to lean his weight on you, Bucky stubbornly relies on the railing for all four floors. By the time you unlock your apartment door and usher him inside, he realizes he’s made a mistake. He should’ve insisted he’d be fine, that after the initial shock wore off, his body would begin to mend itself back to wholeness.

Except, he can’t remember the last time someone had spoken to him so sweetly. 

As selfish as it was, it felt good to be on the receiving end of genuine concern. Nowadays, people just assumed he was okay because he was the Winter Soldier, and that’s what the Winter Soldier was supposed to do—dust himself off and get back up. Yet here you were acting like he was someone worth being taken care of.

He all but collapses onto the couch once you lead him over to it. In the back of his mind, he worries about getting it dirty, but you don’t seem to care as you flutter out of the living room.

The air smells faintly of cinnamon and vanilla, and small decorative pumpkins sit on the windowsill. Pain pulses in his neck as he takes a better look around, but he does it anyway. The entire space is modest and cozy, clearly lived-in and well-loved. 

By the time you come back, he’s dozed off, thick thighs spread and chin tucked down to his chest. This happens sometimes—his body crashes into sleep to facilitate healing. It only occurs when he feels safe. Otherwise, the rush of adrenaline keeps him wide awake. 

He can just barely register the gentleness of your movements as you tilt his head up to dab away the blood with a cool towel. You continue on like that, cleaning up the wounds that broke the skin, which thankfully aren’t too plentiful. Occasionally, his eyes flutter open, but you never ask him any questions or force him to talk. A comfortable silence settles between you until all the dried blood is gone.  

An hour later, he wakes up, finding that he’s stretched along the entirety of the couch with a blanket draped over his frame. His pain has subsided immensely. As he sits upright, he notices that you’re curled up in the accent chair. A special news report drones low on the TV.

“All the men have been taken into custody,” you tell him. Bucky eyes flitter over your face as you speak, realizing that his mind is finally clear enough to welcome the whispers of recognition. 

He’d seen many people over the course of his long life, and your face was among those he’d never be able to forget. 

You continue as his heart rises into his throat, “They don’t know it was you who saved everyone,” you say, toying with the hem of your sweater. “If they do, they haven’t said your name.” 

The air goes dead silent for a fleeting moment.

“You know my name?” It’s a question he already knows the answer to. 

You study his face, handsome even with the bruises. “James Buchanan Barnes, the Asset, the Winter Soldier…” 

He swallows thickly, abruptly standing to his feet as guilt and shame churn in his stomach. “Thank you for your help, but—” 

“Please don’t go,” you insist. It feels like you’re staring straight through him.  

“I have to. I’m sorry.” He weaves towards the door, heat rising to his cheeks. 

The events of an afternoon from many moons ago come rushing into the forefront of his mind. First, a group of suited men barking orders as he listened with emotionless eyes. Then the glint of his metal arm wrapped around the neck of a S.H.I.E.L.D. contractor on Park Avenue. As the man strangled out pleas, your cries joined in, begging for the life of your friend to be spared—

Bucky thinks back to earlier when he was being choked, the sense of helplessness.

You stand from the chair but don’t follow after him. “Did you want to take a shower at least?” you offer, hope infused into your words. It only made sense considering the sweat and grime still lingering on his skin. 

The thought of a shower sounds too good. But not here, not now. He never should’ve come. 

—As the contractor had gripped at his Bucky’s arm for mercy, he remembered glaring over at you. The mask concealing the lower half of his face hid his snarl, but his glare could cut stone. Except, you weren’t made of stone. You were skin, and bone, and desperation. It ended up being your fear-ridden eyes that did all the cutting.

It was as if you were wordlessly pleading, please, you don’t have to do this. Like you could see that he was trapped inside the prison of his own being. 

But by the time his hold went slack around the man’s neck, it was already too late. His body slumped lifelessly to the ground. 

“I forgive you," you call out right as Bucky steps into the hallway and is seconds away from closing the door.

That stops him in his tracks and sends a chill through his bones.

“Please don’t go,” you say, much softer. 

•••

Tucked away in an old journal, was a list of amends Bucky was supposed to make. He’d managed to cross off all those names. But there’s no way he’d ever be able to account for every life he changed, every friend and family member he snatched away from people he would never even come to know.

This reality weighs heavy on him as he stands in the steamy bathroom, a towel wrapped low around his hips. Sometimes he didn’t recognize himself when he looked in the mirror. Faint knocking sounds at the door.

He clears the thickness from his throat, “Yes?”

“Special delivery,” you say lightly. “My neighbor had some clothes to spare.”

When he opens the door, your eyes flick to his torso, the bruising along his ribcage. There’s a dusting of hair on his chest, and a line of it that leads down from his bellybutton. It takes a second for you to register that he isn’t wearing his vibranium arm. Maybe it's because of the steady, broad way he’s standing there as if the limb isn’t gone at all.

He accepts the clothes, “Thank you.”

Bucky doesn’t close the door as he turns to set them on the sink. In the process, you notice there are old scars on his back with dark new bruises mixed amongst them. Before you can stop yourself, you step forward, brushing over his shoulder blades with tentative fingers. He straightens, briefly closing his eyes at the tenderness. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” You begin to back out of the room. “I have painkillers if they’d help.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m alright.”

“I’ll let you get dressed then.”

Moments later, Bucky finds you in your room seated on the side of your bed. Your startle, swiping at the tears beneath your eyes before turning to look at him. When he sees that you’ve been crying, he feels like the worst person in the world again, an awful feeling resettling in his gut. 

“I can go,” he says. 

You shake your head and pat the space beside you. 

Bucky lingers in the doorway until giving in. The mattress dips as he sits, making sure to leave ample space between you. Even then you can feel the warmth of his proximity, smell your body wash on his skin. Neither of you say anything for a while. 

“Why are you doing all this?” For such an imposing man, his voice comes out small. 

“Because I see you.” Bucky swallows at your words, gaze remaining on the floor. “I saw you eight years ago, and I see you now.” 

He realizes then, that if he truly wanted to, he would’ve left already. He didn’t know what he wanted, what more he was expecting. He’d already taken enough—your friend, your resources, your time. 

“You know what I believe?” Bucky waits for you to continue. “That you’re a good person,” you say solemnly. 

“You didn’t even hesitate back at Nicolo’s. You stepped right up.”

“It was nothing,” he lightly dismisses.

“Nothing?” 

Bucky looks over at you, and you raise your brows. “It was the right thing to do,” he finally says. 

“And you easily could’ve just walked away.” 

He gets your point then. The plates of his arm whir softly. 

“I was angry at you for a long time,” you admit. “Even though I knew who you were, the control you were under.”

“I’m sorry—”

“And the more time that passed, the more I realized my anger wasn’t entirely fair,” you say. “Life’s not fair. But staying rooted to the same spot doesn’t do anyone any good.” 

Bucky doesn’t pull away when you reach over and take his hand in yours, gently running your fingers over his bruised knuckles in a mix of sympathy and wonder. He watches as you flip his palm face-up, tracing the lines with a delicate touch. He feels it all the way up his arm, the gesture painfully intimate. Having seen each other at your lowest, most vulnerable moments has a way of knocking down walls. 

“Ask me why I’m doing all this again,” you say.

Bucky meets your gaze. “Why?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Outside, distant sirens wail into the Manhattan night.

-

Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think. 

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[cherbii]

PUDDIN’

ft. Toji Fushiguro

summary -> you called yourself insane for falling in love with the murderous psychopath, until you became like him!

warnings -> Joker!Toji, Harley!Reader, language, violence, murder, graphic murder, dead dove do not eat, smut! p in v, choking, riding, knife play, blood kink. mdni.

The city never slept and neither did you, not with Toji by your side. It started like a fever dream—one second, you were patching up some two-bit gangster in a back-alley clinic, and the next, you were running for your life, blood on your hands, laughter in your throat, and a maniac with the sharpest grin you'd ever seen leading the way.

Toji Fushiguro wasn't just trouble; he was the whole damn apocalypse wrapped in a leather jacket and bad intentions. And you were the idiot who fell for it. The night you met, the sky bled neon, rain slicking the pavement as sirens screamed in the distance.

You should've gone home early, should've ignored the desperate pounding at the clinic door, should've known that a man who smiled through a bullet wound wasn't normal. But Toji waltzed in like the devil himself, bleeding from his side, grinning like he'd won the jackpot, and you—stupid, stupid you—had let him sit on your operating table like he owned the place.

"Yer a real doctor or just playin' dress-up?" he asked, voice all gravel and amusement as he peeled off his soaked jacket.

You glared at him, snapping on a pair of gloves. "You wanna keep running your mouth or actually get patched up?"

His laugh was low, like he was in on a joke you hadn't heard yet. "I like you already, doc."

That was the beginning of the end. You should have kicked him out, let him deal with his mess alone, but there was something in the way he watched you, eyes sharp despite the blood soaking through his shirt. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't even pissed off.

He looked entertained, like he was sitting front row at some twisted comedy act, and you had just become his favorite part. You told yourself you were just doing your job when you pressed the gauze to his wound, when you stitched him up despite the way his muscles tensed under your fingers, despite the way his smirk never wavered.

"You get shot often, or am I just lucky tonight?" you muttered, cutting the thread with more force than necessary.

Toji grinned wider. "Wouldn't call it luck, puddin’. But yeah, I get into trouble now and then." The words were barely out of his mouth before the clinic lights flickered, a sign that the building's shitty wiring wasn't the only thing malfunctioning tonight.

Your stomach twisted, and you turned toward the door, but Toji was faster. He grabbed your wrist, pulled you close, his breath warm against your ear. "Yer gonna wanna duck."

Glass shattered as bullets tore through the front window, shelves exploding as medical supplies rained down. You hit the ground hard, heart slamming against your ribs, ears ringing from the gunfire. Toji barely flinched.

He crouched next to you, reaching into his boot and pulling out a knife like this was just another Tuesday night. "Hope ya don't mind a little mess, doc."

You should have screamed, should have run, should have done anything but what you actually did—grin. Adrenaline surged through you, drowning out the panic, replacing it with something hotter, something reckless. "You gonna take 'em out or just sit here bleeding all over my floor?"

Toji barked out a laugh. "Knew I liked ya." The next few minutes were chaos. He moved like a phantom, slipping through the clinic, cutting through the gunmen like they were made of paper.

You barely had time to breathe before the last body hit the floor, blood pooling across the linoleum.

Toji stood in the middle of it, panting, covered in red that wasn't his, eyes gleaming as he turned back to you. "Ya got a car?"

You swallowed hard, ignoring the way your pulse thrummed in your throat. "Out back."

"Then let's get the hell outta here." You didn't know why you followed him. Maybe it was the rush, the sheer insanity of it all, or maybe it was the way he looked at you, like you were something special, something rare. Whatever it was, it had you gripping the wheel too tight as you sped through the city,

Toji lounging in the passenger seat like he hadn't just turned your entire life upside down. "You always this much trouble?" you asked, eyes flicking to him.

He smirked. "Only when I'm having fun." You should have dropped him off, left him to his own devices, but when he told you to take a left instead of a right, you didn't argue. When he led you into a crumbling warehouse, you didn't hesitate.

And when he pulled you close, fingers curling under your chin, tilting your face up to his, you didn't pull away. "Ya scared?" He murmured, his breath warm against your lips.

You weren't. You should have been, but you weren't. You stared into the madness in his eyes and felt something snap inside you, something that had been wound too tight for too long. "No."

Toji grinned, and then he kissed you, and you knew right then and there—you were never getting out of this alive. You didn't go home that night. You barely even thought about it. There was blood on your clothes, dried in your hair, smeared across your face, but you didn't care.

Toji tasted like gunpowder and adrenaline, like cigarettes and laughter, like pure fucking danger, and you wanted more. His hands were rough as they slid up your back, pulling you closer, pressing you against him like he wanted to burn you into his skin.

The warehouse was dark, reeking of oil and metal, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the heat between you, the way he groaned against your lips, the way your fingers fisted in his jacket, refusing to let go.

You didn't know what the hell you were doing. You weren't stupid—you knew what Toji was, knew what kind of man he had to be to smile through gunfire, to cut a man's throat without blinking. He wasn't just dangerous. He was the kind of dangerous that didn't stop, that didn't slow down, that didn't care who got caught in the wreckage.

And now you were standing in the middle of it, grinning like a goddamn lunatic. He pulled away first, chuckling low in his throat, resting his forehead against yours like he was catching his breath. "Yer somethin' else, doc."

You smirked, feeling high, feeling invincible. "You don't even know my name."

He laughed, like that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Like it matters. Yer mine now."

You should have argued, should have pushed him away, should have told him that you didn't belong to anyone, but the words never left your mouth. Maybe because you knew he was right. The next few days were a blur. You didn't go back to the clinic.

There was no point. It was trashed beyond repair, and even if it wasn't, you had bigger problems. Whoever had shot up the place wasn't done looking for Toji, which meant they were looking for you now, too. Not that he seemed concerned. If anything, he was having the time of his life.

You spent your nights in shitty motels, cheap hideouts, places where the walls were thin, and the sheets smelled like cigarette smoke. Toji kept a gun under his pillow, a knife in his boot, a grin on his face like the world was just one big game, and he was the only one who knew the rules.

You should have been scared. You weren't. You learned fast—how to move, how to blend in, how to keep your head down when Toji told you to. You learnt that he didn't trust anyone, that he didn't give a damn about the people he worked for, that the only thing keeping him entertained was the rush, the thrill, the chaos.

And you learnt that you were just as bad as him. The first time you shot someone, he didn't look surprised. You had been cornered in an alley, some lowlife with a knife thinking he could take you out while Toji was busy inside. You didn't hesitate. You pulled the trigger, watched the guy crumple, felt your pulse hammering as the gun shook in your hands. Toji stepped out of the shadows, hands in his pockets, head tilted as he looked at you.

Then he grinned. "Knew ya had it in ya."

You laughed, breathless, wiping the blood off your cheek. "You gonna stand there all night or help me clean this up?"

His grin widened. "Fuck, I love ya, puddin’." You should have run. Should have turned around, walked away, found some way to salvage your life before it was too late. But instead, you laughed again, shoving the gun into his hands.

"Then help me hide the body, asshole." That was the moment you realised there was no turning back. You didn't regret it. Not that night, not the next, not even when the bodies piled up and the blood never really washed off. Toji made everything feel like a game, like you were two kids running wild through a playground made of crime scenes and getaway cars, and you loved it.

You loved the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing in the world that could keep up with him. You loved the way he laughed when things got messy, when bullets flew past your head and you didn't flinch. You loved the way he kissed you after a job, rough and desperate, like he needed you more than air.

The city turned into your playground. You ran through the streets like you owned them, your names whispered in alleyways, your faces printed on grainy security footage.

Toji took you to places you'd never dared to go before—underground fights where men twice his size (if that was even possible) went down in seconds, smoky bars where deals were made with a handshake and a threat, rooftops where you could see the whole city stretched out beneath you like a feast.

"Think we'll make it outta this alive?" You asked one night, sitting on the edge of a high-rise, feet dangling over the city lights.

Toji smirked, lighting a cigarette, the flame casting shadows across his sharp features. "Alive? Sure. Clean? Not a chance."

You grinned, stealing the cigarette from his lips, taking a slow drag. "Wouldn't want it any other way." He watched you, something dark and amused in his eyes, then pulled you onto his lap, crushing his mouth against yours. But not every night was golden. Not every escape was clean.

The first time Toji got caught, it wasn't by the cops. It was worse. You were holed up in a motel, licking your wounds from a job gone sideways, when the door burst open. No warning, no time to react—just a flash of movement, a crack of gunfire, and Toji hitting the ground.

You screamed his name, lunged for the gun on the nightstand, but a boot slammed into your chest, pinning you against the wall. "Cute," a voice sneered. "Think she's got teeth."

You looked up, vision blurring with rage. Three of them. Suit-and-tie types, but their eyes were dead. Professionals. The one pinning you down leaned closer, smiling like he was picking apart a meal.

"You know who your boyfriend pissed off, sweetheart?" Your fingers curled around the gun.

"Not enough people, apparently."

His grin widened. "Oh, I like you." Then he slammed the butt of his pistol into your skull, and everything went black. You woke up tied to a chair.

Toji was across from you, blood dripping from a cut above his eye, arms straining against the ropes. He was grinning.

"Oh, this is gonna be fun," the men surrounding you weren't smiling. The leader crouched in front of you, tilting your chin up with the barrel of his gun. "You're gonna tell me everything your boyfriend's been up to."

You spat blood onto his shoes. "Go to hell."

He sighed. "Ladies first." Then he turned the gun on Toji. And you lost your goddamn mind.

"Touch him, and I'll rip your throat out with my teeth." The man chuckled, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Wariness. Good. You weren't just some scared little girl. You were fire and glass and blood, and if they thought you'd break, they were dead wrong.

Toji licked the blood from his lips, watching you like you were his favorite movie. "Ain't she somethin'?" He drawled, voice all lazy amusement. "My puddin' sure knows how to make an entrance."

The leader rolled his eyes, pressing the gun to Toji's temple. "Last chance, sweetheart. Talk, or lover boy gets a bullet in the brain."

You grinned, teeth red. "You shoot him, and you'll never find the money." That got his attention. He hesitated, just for a second, but it was all Toji needed.

The ropes snapped. Everything went red. The chaos of the night had left both of you breathless, blood staining the air and sticking to your skin.

Toji sat across from you, leaning back against the wall, eyes still alive with that same wild spark as ever. His shirt was torn, his skin covered in bruises, and blood—his blood—was smeared at the corner of his lips.

You couldn't tear your gaze away from the sight. Something about the mess, the violence, the way he wore it all like a badge of honor, stirred something deep inside you.

You slowly reached toward him, your fingers hovering just above the blood at the edge of his mouth. He didn't move, didn't flinch. Instead, he watched you with that ever-present smirk, as if daring you to do it.

Your thumb brushed against his lips, smearing the blood further across his skin, until it formed the outline of a twisted smile.

"There," you said softly, watching the blood mix with his grin. "Now you look like you're really enjoyin' yourself." The playfulness in your voice was a front, hiding the heat rising between you both.

His eyes seemed devoid of light as you continued, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You know, puddin'," Toji muttered, his voice low and gravelly, "You're even more dangerous when you look like that."

You didn't say anything. Instead, you leant in closer, your lips brushing his jaw before slowly moving to the blood on his mouth, tasting it.

He inhaled sharply, his hand snapping to your wrist, stopping you for just a moment. "You're playin' a real fucking dangerous game, sweetheart."

You could feel the tension building, the unspoken words between you two hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break. But before he could say another word, you pressed your lips to his, your hands slipping into his hair, pulling him toward you with a hunger that matched his own.

Toji groaned into the kiss, his grip on you tightening. Toji's lips were rough against yours, his hands gripping you tightly as if he couldn't get enough. The kiss was hungry, both of you fighting for control, but neither of you willing to give up an inch.

His body pressed against yours, and you could feel the heat radiating from him, his muscles tense as his hands roamed over you. He pulled you closer, deepening the kiss, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.

Toji pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing heavy. "You're really not making this easy." He muttered, his hands still on your body. His eyes were dark, focused only on you.

You didn't care. You tugged at his shirt, needing to feel his skin, to feel the heat between you. You both worked in silence, each of you getting lost in the need to be closer, to lose yourselves in each other.

When you finally managed to get his shirt off, you ran your hands over his chest, feeling the strong muscles beneath your fingertips. He let out a quiet curse, his hands moving to your back, pulling you even tighter against him.

"Shit.” Toji murmured, his lips brushing against your neck. You tilted your head back, giving him more access, feeling the thrill of his touch as his lips left a trail of heat along your skin. You didn't need words, not now. The tension between you was enough.

You grunted, slipping a hand back up into his hair, tugging harshly on the black strands to rip his head away. “Let me ride you, ‘Ji.”

“Fuck, puddin’. Gonna go dumb on the cock? Hell yeah.” He grabbed at your waist, tugging you towards the springy bed, almost tripping over bloodied limbs before he fell down, you bouncing on top of him before you shifted to straddle his lap.

It was a sight to see; a maniac beneath you, blood smeared at his lips and a wild look in his eyes. Yeah, you’d happily let this man ruin you.

Toji growled as you hurriedly went to rip your shorts off, eager to see you bare. His hand slithered to your cunt, pushing past the fabric of your panties to feel your warm slick.

“So fucking wet. Did killing get her wet? Fucking slut.” He chuckled, trailing his fingers up your torso until they found your pulse, squeezing at your neck.

“Says the ones who’s so fucking hard.” You mumbled, moaning out as your throat began to mechanically constrict.

“It’s what ya do to me, puddin’. Gonna show yer leaky pussy exactly what ya do t’me.” He snarled, curling his fingers, cutting off your air supply.

Toji couldn’t help but feel his cock twitch at the sight of you gasping for hair, eagerly reaching with his other hand, to his pants, tugging them until his cock sprung free.

“Ji…can’t fucking…breathe.” You wheezed, though your cunt pulsed and leaked into your panties.

“Yeah, yeah. I hear ya, quit yapping.” Toji murmured, releasing your neck and sliding his fingers up until he shoved them past your lips, forcing you to suck them clean.

His free hand went to your panties and tugged them carelessly to the side. Toji wasn’t a man of pleasantries, not now, not when you’re dripping onto his balls.

“Lift yer hips. Good fucking girl.” He said, grabbing his cock to guide it to your hole.

You both groaned out, albeit yours muffled, as you sunk down on his length. You leant forward to plant your hands on Toji’s hard pecs, using it as leverage before you raised your hips and slammed them back down in a repeated manner, whining every time his fat tip would nudge at that one spot inside you.

“God, this pussy is to die for,” Toji groaned, fingers dropping from your lips, coated in your saliva. “Gonna fucking murder me with how she’s squeezing my dick.”

Your lips fell open, panting Toji’s name. Fingers curling into his skin. “Love this dick—hah—could kill for it.”

“Rest easy, puddin’. Is all fucking yours. Shit, all yours.”

You didn’t miss the way Toji sent you a smirk, cheeks pulling at the dried blood on his face, the sight made your heart and cunt convulse.

It wasn’t long before you felt a burn in your thighs and lower back, stamina wearing thin. “‘J-‘Ji, ‘m tired. I can’t continue.” You whined, giving the man your best pleading expression.

“Yes, ya fucking can, and will.” Toji grunted, digging into his pockets and pulling out a butterfly knife.

He twisted his wrist, the blade whipped out before the sharp point was pressing at your throat.

“Keep up the pace or I draw blood.”

That was new, Toji never threatened you. Ever. You were his precious, porcelain (murderous) doll he paraded around town, yet it did something to you. Toji smirked when he felt you clench around him

So with a sound something between a whine and moan, you kept bouncing on his cock. Wet sounds filled the room, and so did your whines and moans.

“There we go, see, all ya needed was some motivation. Got ya moving real good f’me. Fuck.” Toji praised, tempted to push the blade into your skin nonetheless.

Your hips stuttered, pace falling behind. You hoped Toji didn’t notice, but of course he did. You whimpered as the blade made a small cut, red pebbling at the small incision he made.

Toji didn’t stop there, he pressed deeper and deeper, not enough to kill you, God, he’d never, but enough until the crimson dribbled down your skin, some onto the knife, most crawling to your collar and breasts.

Toji audibly groaned at the sight, moving the blade to his lips, tongue farting out to taste you. “Fucking hell, puddin’. Yer just as sweet as your blood.”

His words set a flame alight in your tummy. It grew bigger and bigger, until you could no longer contain it. “Fuck! Need to cum, gotta cum!”

“Cum for me, puddin’. Atta-fucking-girl.”

That was it, like a bucket tipping over, you came, hard. Toes curling, eyes rolling, mouth drooling.

“Shit. Fuck, puddin’. Gonna stuff this pussy full of my cum. Have psychotic children with the love of my fucking life. Aw, fuck.” Toji’s teeth clenched together as he spilled ribbons to ropes of his cum inside your cunt.

His hips jumped, and twitched before they stilled. You were panting by the time he was done, a little sweaty too, before you collapsed onto him.

“I got ya.” Toji murmured, wrapping his arms around while his head buried itself in the crook of your neck. You shivered when his tongue struck out and lapped at the cut.

The moment was tranquil, by your definition. Serene, peaceful, perfect.

Until there was a banging to the door, so loud you thought it was going to rip off its hinges. “This is police, open up!”

“Well, waddaya say, puddin’? Ready to kill some motha-fuckers?”

“As ready as you are.”

[limethefirst]

Savior

pairings: Logan Howlett x teen!reader (platonic)

warnings: torture, violence

summary: after a year of being experimented on you’re finally saved and taken to a safe place where it’ll never happen again

a/n: Logan x platonic readers always have me gnawing at the bars of my enclosure so…here’s more!!! Logan is so bbg.. also Void Runner pt3 is in the works🫡

Normality was something people were used to seeing, most people were what the rest of society would consider ‘normal’.

Those who were considered ‘abnormal’ were mutants; humans who underwent a strange mutation that gave them the X-gene. Many viewed them as dangerous, evil even, many kidnapped and would experiment on them.

Unfortunately for you, you were a mutant, and to make it worse, one who was being experimented on and exploited.

Thankfully there were a group of people who were supposed to help and save these mutants, these people were the X-men. Today was your lucky day, today was the day you’d be saved, if only you knew that.

“Transfer 26 back to their cell,” an unknown guard said to your handler. Your eyes were trained to the ground, you knew talking would only cause punishment.

You’d been here for almost a year, your powers had devolved recently and you were quickly taken away.

The power of protection, or so that’s what most of the lab workers said. You had to power to conjure force fields around you as well as others or other objects, but you weren’t able to hold it for long; another perk of the power was you could conjure half shields, something you’d be able to use if you ever needed to protect only the front part of your body.

The walk back to your cell was taking its toll on your body, the constant pain and pressure you were put through finally attacking at you. Your wrists and neck itchy from whatever metal was around it, suppressing your powers.

Finally you tilted your head up, noticing the lack of mutants in the cells as you walked, you believed you were the last one left, the others dying from neglect or refusal to cooperate.

Before being able to be put into your cell, a loud ringing began to blaring over the compound, red lights flashed and everything shut down.

That’s when you saw him, The Fucking Wolverine.

His claws looked as if they were glistening against the contrast of the red, you watched as he began to take down many of the guards, each one down by the second. Your handler grabbed his smaller pistol; hidden within his lab coat for moments like this, but instead of aiming it at the beast in front of him, he grabbed you by your shirt.

He held the gun against your temple, the cold metal making a shiver go down your spine.

“Let the kid go,” You could hear Wolverines voice, it was stern but you could tell he was pissed; his jaw was clenched and his fist got tighter, his claws covered in blood, as was the floor.

It was almost as if luck had decided to visit you for the first time in years, because suddenly, everything shut down, the power was gone. The item suppressing your powers had just fallen down. The metal clinking against the floor.

This was your chance.

Quickly you summoned a shield around yourself, hearing a gun go off by your ear; but instead of a thump of a body hitting the floor, all that was heard was the sound of a bullet hitting the ground.

This was when Wolverine took the chance the strike, killing the man in an instant.

The man turned back to you, his face held not much emotion, maybe a hint of pity.

You weren’t able to say much, before you knew it you had passed out, perhaps the exhaustion from earlier finally caught up to you.

You slowly began to wake up, the room was the bright, it looked like a doctor’s office. You looked down, your white prison like clothes not replaced with a gown.

A taller woman entered the room, she noticed your eyes had opened, she gave you a warm smile and introduced herself as Dr Jean Grey, quickly excusing herself to go get the rest of the faculty.

Each person had said their hellos and such, besides two, the man in the wheel chair and Wolverine. The man in front of you began to talk but his mouth wasn’t moving, it was strange but he let himself explain before carrying on.

“Hello there dear,” the voice echoed in your mind, “I am Charles Xavier, I’m currently speaking to you through your mind if you haven’t noticed,” he looked at you for acknowledgment before continuing, “I’ve been looking for you for quite some time now, you’re currently at my school for gifted children, a place for mutant kids to learn about their abilities away from those who fear them, I’m here to offer you a place to stay.”

Charles looked at you, a warm smile on his face. He hoped you take him up on his offer, “I’d like that a lot,” you replied in your mind, assuming he’d be able to hear you as well. This was confirmed when he nodded at you and slowly left the room, but not before saying something you couldn’t hear to whoever was left in the room.

You looked at the man who’d saved you, his arms were crossed and he stood tall before you, “Listen kid, since you’re staying I’ll be helping you out a bit around here to you get used to it,” he said looking at your bruised arms, “I’m sure Charles told you what this place is and what not,”

But before he could say anything else you cut him off, “You’re name,” was all you could mutter before he finished his sentence.

“What?” He asked, confused by what you meant.

“What’s you’re name”

“Logan, I’ll be your history teacher and combat instructor,”

You blinked, confused before understanding he was probably a teacher here.

“Y/N, I’m Y/N,” you looked at the man, seeing if he’d say anything else, “Where will I stay?” You asked him.

“We have dorms, I’ll show you to yours right now, it’ll give you time to change and explore the place,”

“Hm alright, thank you”

“Don’t mention it kid,”

Logan showed you your room, it was ten times bigger than cage they held you in. Their first thing you did when Logan finally left was shower, once you exited you saw some clothes on the bed, with a note from another teacher here who you knew as Ororo or Storm.

Quickly you changed into the clothes, wanting to see the place.

When you left the room you noticed the hallway with a bunch of other doors, many rooms were empty; there was still lots of room for new mutants to make this their home too.

Slowly you made your way to the main hall, there were many other kids your age, each one with a special ability of some sort, you saw one kid with ice, another going through walls.

You started to make your way outside next, seeing more kids playing. Suddenly you hear someone yell.

“Watch out!” You put out your hands, a shield forming around the front of your figure. The kids who threw what seemed to be a football all cheered, before asking you to throw it back to them, which you hesitantly did.

You turned back around ready to head inside when someone stopped you.

“Didn’t think I’d get to see you use your power again so soon kid,” Logan was now at your side, walking you to the door.

“Would you rather I get a football to the head?” You smiled at him, a playful tug at your lips.

“So what do you think of the place?” He asked you, slightly eyeing your figure, trying to see if you felt comfortable yet.

“It’s big,” he smirked at your words, big was an understatement in his opinion. Then a sigh left you, “I feels like too much for me to take in, I can’t believe this isn’t a dream,”

Logan stopped walking, this causing you to stop too and look at him; he put his hand on your shoulder and looking you into your eyes, “Trust me, it feels like that at first but I promise you’re safe here now, if ever need someone you can always come find one of us, got it bub?”

“I got it Logan,” You gave him a warm smile, and you felt yourself feel somewhat better. The two of you began to walk back inside, you felt safer knowing you had someone in your corner now.

“Do you guys have Oreos here?”

“I can get you some.”

[yawnderu]

"Quit lookin' at me like that." He demands, accent growing thicker by the minute at his frustration.

"Like what?" You manage to gasp out, cheeks swollen and bloody at the beating you just took. Your hands are clasped together on your lap, forced to sir on your knees as you look up at him.

What stared back at you wasn't your loving Simon, no— this creature was much different. Ghost was glaring down at you, eyes cold and devoid of emotion other than pure, raw anger.

"Like a fuckin' lost puppy. Like you don't know what you did." His grip on the trigger tightens, holding the muzzle to your temple.

Please, tell me it isn't true. For the love of God, tell me it's all a lie.

"You leaked our information to fuckin' Konni?" He asks in disbelief, just wanting to confirm what he knew all along. It all connected once he found out; the late night escapades, the detached look in your eyes, how you kept missing every single celebration with the team claiming you were busy. Maybe if he noticed sooner, things would have been different.

Your silence and the way your head hangs low in shame is all the confirmation he needs. His gloved hand grips the pistol harder, the rough material almost merging with his skin.

You don't even have the courage to look at me.

"Everythin' we did together... I trusted you with my bloody life. I told you all my secrets and let you see all of me, and this is how you fuckin' pay me?" He doesn't even wait for an answer, three silenced gunshots ringing in his ears as he dumps the bullets into your chest, looking away before he hears the familiar thud of a body hitting the ground.

Goddammit. God damn it all to fucking hell.

Simon chokes on a harsh breath, the corners of his mouth twisting into a frown underneath his balaclava, jaw slackening. He doesn't dare look at you, unwilling to let his last image of you be a pool of blood with dead eyes.

He cried all his tears when he was a little kid, yet he can somehow feel the familiar sting in his eyes, causing him to sigh loudly and shake his head. His pistol goes back in its holster as he turned to leave, not sparing you a single glance.

Dying alone is a scary thought. You come to the world in a room full of people, your mother's happy face looking at her own creation, nurses and doctors smiling and celebrating you even when all your tiny body can do is to cry.

The thought of death isn't what scares you, no. Being a soldier for the special forces only ends two ways: retirement or going home in a box. That's something you came to terms with a long time ago, when your much younger hand held the pen, signing the contract that sold your soul to your comrades, a silent eternal promise of "we fight together, and we die together".

Your shaky hands grasp at the snow as you drag yourself forward, gear all of sudden heavier than ever; crushing you down like Atlas holding the sky. Your blood leaves a dirty trail on the pure, clean snow, marking you down as an easy target if Simon decides to come back for you— you know Ghost won't.

By the time someone manages to find you, your fingers are purple and your lips are painted an awful shade of blue, body adorned with burns from the cold snow digging into your bare skin. You allow yourself to rest as soon as the warmth of someone's hand makes contact with your skin, barely able to register the panicked scream and loud orders being barked.

Labeled as a hero after saving the country from Makarov's terrorist attack, Simon sported a new brand of chest candy on his uniform. Colorful ribbons adorned the right side of his blazer. His chest is still puffed out with pride as he steps into his small flat in London, all memories of you thrown away, including the ring he kept hidden in a drawer.

''Cute shoulder pads.'' Your finger hovers above the trigger, finally stepping out of the dark.

[wlw-imagines]

Closet - Jo Wilson x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)

summary: There's a shooter in the hospital and you're forced into a closet to hide. Maybe it's too late.

Part of Maylancholy 2025: Day Eighteen, alt 5 shoved into a tight space @may-lancholy

The first shot rings out like a car backfiring—loud but distant, almost unreal. But when the second one echoes through the emergency department, way too close, followed by the unmistakable bark of a security officer yelling "Shooter in the building!", chaos unfurls like wildfire.

Jo barely has time to process before she’s grabbing your wrist.

You’ve been working together all afternoon, triaging patients from a pileup off the freeway.

As she drags you behind a nearby trauma cart, she notices that you’re pale, quiet, but she thinks you’re just tired. That is until she catches the way your other hand is clamped awkwardly against your side, the growing red bloom beneath your scrubs.

"Wait-" she starts, but a nurse barrels past, wild-eyed, shouting, "Closet, get in, now!" before she shoves you both into the nearest supply room and slams the door behind you. There's a horrible clunk from the other side.

You're sure she means for the best but it's not ideal. You reach for the handle. It doesn’t budge.

"Shit," Jo mutters, jiggling it. "Shit, it’s jammed. It locked behind us."

The closet is barely big enough for two people. Shelves of gauze and gloves press in on all sides. There’s no window, just the hum of a flickering overhead bulb, and your ragged breathing echoing in the stale air.

Jo finally turns to you, really looks at you, and sees the blood soaked through your scrubs.

"Oh my God."

You try to laugh but it comes out wrong. "Guess I should’ve said something sooner."

She doesn’t waste time in yelling, there's not point to it. She’s already yanking supplies off shelves, digging for gauze, gloves, anything. "How bad is it? Let me see."

You’re too weak to argue. When you move your hand away, blood seeps faster. Jo presses gauze to your side with trembling fingers.

"Bullet went through," you mumble. "Side. Maybe hit a rib."

"Through-and-through is good," Jo says quickly, like if she says it fast enough it’ll make it true. But your skin is clammy, your body leaning heavier against the wall.

You’re both crouched awkwardly on the ground, your legs folded beside hers in a tangle that the tight space refuses to accommodate. She has to press close to get any kind of angle, her knees bumping yours, her breath hot against your cheek.

"Okay," she whispers. "Okay, I’ve got you. We’re going to be okay."

But you’re not. Not really.

The heat starts to build quickly. No ventilation. The air is thick and stifling. Sweat beads on your forehead. Your eyelids flutter, body slumping sideways.

"Hey. Hey- no. Stay with me." Jo’s voice is sharper now, cracking at the edges. "Don’t you dare go anywhere."

You blink, trying to focus on her face. It’s hard with the room spinning. "Sorry," you rasp. "Not many places to go... not here."

"You're not funny," She grumbled, "And don’t apologize. Just... don’t close your eyes." Her hands press harder into your side. "You’re losing a lot of blood."

"Feels like it."

Jo exhales sharply. "I hate you."

You try to smirk. "You love me."

She swallows. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. Which is why you don’t get to die like this. Not in a damn closet. Not with me holding your hand and shouting at a locked door."

Your head slumps forward. She catches you, guiding you to lean fully against her. You curl into the space between her neck and shoulder as she continues to hold pressure and whisper frantic reassurances.

The heat is unbearable now. Your skin is hot and damp, your breathing shallow. You can feel Jo’s heart racing where your head rests against her.

"I can’t-" she whispers, tears burning in her throat. "I can’t lose you... I should- I'm a doctor. I should be able to do something."

You can’t answer. She feels your weight shift, limp now.

"Hey!" she shouts. "No. No, no, no, wake up!"

She adjusts your body in the cramped space, pulling you fully into her lap despite the awkward angle. Her hands shake as she fumbles for more gauze, more pressure. Your blood is everywhere, it's on her hands, on her scrubs, smeared across the floor.

You groan faintly, head rolling back.

"There you are." Her voice breaks. "Okay. Stay with me, just like that. Just breathe. I’m right here."

Outside, distant footsteps. A voice over the intercom, too muffled to make out.

But the door doesn’t open.

Jo leans back against the shelves, one hand cradling your head, the other pressed to your wound.

"You’re going to be fine," she whispers, like a prayer. "I’m not letting you go. Not like this."

Minutes stretch. Sweat drips from Jo’s hairline. You fade in and out. Sometimes your eyes open and lock on hers. Sometimes your lips twitch like you want to speak.

And sometimes, terrifyingly, there’s nothing.

Jo leans down, forehead pressed to yours.

"You are not dying in a closet."

The silence swells again, broken only by your rattling breaths and Jo’s quiet sobs. But then-

A clang. Metal-on-metal.

Voices. Real ones this time. Closer.

Jo yells. Screams.

"WE’RE IN HERE! SHE’S SHOT!" Another second. Then the lock jiggles. Clicks.

The door bursts open. Light floods the closet. There's a few blurry moments where nothing happens, eyes just stare in as they survey the scene. Eventually, security and trauma staff surge in, radios buzzing, stretchers waiting.

Jo doesn’t move at first, arms locked around you. Paralyzed.

One of the nurses crouches beside her. "Jo. Let go. We’ve got her."

She does... barely. She follows you out on shaking legs, hand still smeared with your blood, jaw clenched against a scream.

You’re wheeled down the hallway, team swarming. But Jo stays right beside you, gripping the edge of the gurney like she might fall without it.

And even now, she doesn’t stop whispering.

"I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere."

And all she can do now is hope that you've heard her.

[rowiewritesstuff]

I have a request for yandere tfp breakdown x gn human reader breakdown finds reader in the mines energon finding them adorable so he immediately grabs them taking them to the decepticon war ship convincing megatron to keep them as their spark mate or pet megatron agrees with it

Yandere Breakdown X GN Reader

Special thanks to @paci-transformers for the collab but not for letting me use bullet points.

The sun had definitely set hours ago.

Having been trapped in this cave for several hours, after making the mistake of being curious about the unusual rock composition and deciding to investigate, you were starting to lose hope you'd ever find a way out. Your phone had no signal so deep underground, and, as if that wasn't bad enough, you hadn't brought more than just a small bag of supplies and tools, believing this would be a short in and out adventure.

Which, unfortunately for you, it wasn't.

Maybe it wouldn't be as frustrating if your flashlight wasn't starting to run out of battery.

For what feels like the ten millionth time, loose rocks skitter under your feet. Unlike the last few times, your hand flies out to steady yourself, and grasps thin air. You think your own involuntary shout rings back through your ears, but you can barely hear it.

You're falling a lot further than you thought, and a lot harder.

Dazed, and barely able to make anything out past the blur and dust of the likely concussion, you think you hear footsteps.

But… are footsteps supposed to be that loud? It sounds like a giant.

It certainly feels like one, when something grabs you.

You can't do much more than dangle there, trying to focus on what's in front of you, but… maybe you hit your head harder than you thought. You could almost swear there's a giant robot in front of you. And holding you.

You blink a few times, trying to grasp the situation at hand. It's a little harder than usual, and you can't quite make eye contact with the giant robot. If it is a giant robot. There's too much space between the yellowish-orange lights you assume are how it sees.

"It's almost cute how tiny you are."

It takes a long moment for you to realize that was directed at you, and when you do, you can't help the quiet huff of indignation.

"'m not tiny," you manage, rather intelligently. "You're big."

The giant robot has the audacity to laugh at your weak defense, pulling you close to its-- his?-- chest.

And, being real with yourself, this isn't really your idea of a good time. Especially not when you're getting carried off somewhere against your will, and are rather sure you trying to squirm out of the grip is the reason the robot is laughing again.

“You sure about that?” He huffed in amusement. “You organics really do think you’re the center of the universe. Got some bearings on you, I'll give you that.”

You blinked, your vision clearing more. As your brain finally decides to come back to you, mild apprehension shifts into outright terror.

You are, in fact, being held by a giant robot. 

“Why're you shaking so much?" He grinned down at you, but it wasn't reassuring in the slightest. "I’m not gonna hurt you, you know.”

Somehow, you highly doubt that.

Your vocal cords finally decide to unstick themselves, unfortunately in time for you to ask:

"What… are you?" 

The robot lets out a low laugh.

“I’m Breakdown." He squeezed you a little tighter, but not enough to hurt you-- and yet, you aren't reassured by it. He could crush you like a grape if he wanted to. "You’re adorable, you know that?” 

“L-let me go!" You snap, fear winning out. "Now!” 

You claw desperately at his hands, and are only rewarded with your bag plummeting to the ground.

Breakdown looks at where your bag fell, eyes suddenly narrowing at it. The purple crystal had fallen out of the cloth you wrapped it in earlier.

“Where did you find that?”

You were confused by his sudden change in demeanor. Your words wouldn't come to you in the face of it, and suddenly, you're getting shaken around.

“I-in a cave lower down, I think?" you manage to force out. "There were a ton of them in the wall.”

“Really, now?” Breakdown raises you to his eye level, eyes narrowing again. "How did you find it…?"

Trying your best not to shrink back, you manage to pull the survey meter from your belt. The dial on it is still turned too high for a seemingly normal area, but you aren't quite sure why.

“M-my device detected unusual energy… I thought it w-was broken, but I went to see.”

The look on his face unnerved you. He tapped the side of his head and began speaking. “Lord Megatron, you’re gonna want to see this.”

---

Not too long after, you were being guarded by some of what ‘Breakdown’ called Vehicons. You could do nothing as they began drilling into the ground and wall, going downwards. It was about half an hour until a huge, terrifying being walked in. Its every step made the floor tremble beneath him, and it had to be at least thirty feet tall. Your eyes could only widen, not being able to stop your body from trembling. It glanced around, surveying the room, and its gaze fell on you for a moment. The cold red eyes send shivers down your spine, even after his gaze drifts away.

“Breakdown, you know better than to waste my time,” Its cold and gravelly voice was showered with irritation. "Surely, you haven’t brought me down here to show me a mere pest…?"

“No, Lord Megatron.”

Breakdown handed the crystal you had found to him, and Megatron’s eyes widened ever so slightly. He laughed lowly, making you more uncomfortable. You notice all eyes on him-- maybe you could slip away safely?

You quietly got up, backing away into the entrance of the cave. Right when you thought it was safe, you turned around--

A foot slams down right in front of you. The loud noise turns all eyes to you and the large feminine being before you.

“Ah, a pest." Spindly fingers lifting you by the scruff of your shirt, and you freeze. "Shall I exterminate it for you, Lord Megatron?”

You're shaken around wildly, a fearful cry breaking loose against your best efforts.

“Enough!” Megatron’s voice echoes, the room going silent in an instant. “That human is currently more valuable than you are, Starscream.” 

Starscream glared at you in disgust, before dropping you roughly into Breakdown’s waiting hands.

“As you wish, my lord.” 

Megatron turns to you, and you try to tamp down the trembling.

“Now, organic--" he spat the term like an insult, "--what device led you here?”

You were trembling again. You couldn't help it, when he was the most intimidating thing you’ve ever seen.

“I-I… um--”

“Well?!" Starscream screeched at you aggressively, crossing his arms. "Spit it out already!”

“It d-detects unusual radioactive energy signatures!" You yelp out, swallowing hard. "I modified this so I could track certain frequencies, but… um… these crystals give it off too…?”

Megatron eyes you appraisingly. It's no less terrifying, and just makes you all the more aware of the ease with which a slight misstep could kill you.

“Even so far underground, you managed to get a signal?” Megatron looked deep in thought for a moment. “On dark energon, no less…”

Megatron was clearly incapable of smiling. That could be the only explanation for his increasingly terrifying smirks.

“What is your name, little one?”

You hesitated. Why did he want to know? Couldn't it be dangerous to--

You shrink back, red eyes boring a hole straight through you.

“I asked you for your name.”

“It's (Y/N),” you squeak. "(Y/N) (L/N)."

“Well, (Y/N), you’re going to make me more of these--" Megatron gestures loosely to the device still in your grasp, "--and ones to get a read on other things. I sense you’re going to be very useful.”

Megatron turned to leave, but his words still rang in your ears.

“…what?”

Your face paled, but it was as if you had said nothing at all.

“Breakdown? After the human has exhausted all use…" Megatron sends a cold sneer your way, too-sharp teeth glinting dangerously, "…you may do as you please with it.”

Words have never filled you with as much dread as those did.

“Aw, I've always wanted a pet," Breakdown laughs. "Bulk always makes it look so fun."

You can't even bring yourself to struggle, even as you're being carried from the cave. Your thoughts are swarmed with panic and fear, only eight terrifying words breaking through the noise.

"Don’t worry. I’ll take great care of ‘ya.”

---

Breakdown got a large terrarium, filling it with everything he thought humans needed. He got you a bed, a television, books, food, clothes (not that any of them fit, but you weren't about to say anything), and even installed a bathroom somehow. You never understood how they made the plumbing work, but were too afraid to ask or investigate it. Being investigative was what got you in this mess in the first place.

The only time you’d be able to leave was to work on your "project", which you swore was the one of the only things keeping you sane here. Megatron had very strict requirements for your modifications, but would never let you see more information than he wanted you to. It wasn't as though you knew how to read the glyphs on the giant screens they used, and there wasn't exactly a translation guide for "giant alien robot" language.

Because, apparently, they're aliens. Not just gigantic robots with an unfortunate penchant for kidnapping humans.

But they weren't the only ones of their species on Earth, it seemed.

Every once in a while, you’d hear about the Autobots from someone passing by. Stories about them stopping Decepticon plans, or guarding humanity from the threat of destruction. Your dreams were filled with ideas of the Autobots-- whoever they were-- coming to save you. Each time you woke up from one, finding yourself right back in that damned terrarium, you almost wanted to abandon all hope. The only thing that kept the hope of freedom alive was hearing of the daring escapades of a group you'd never met, always there to thwart whatever plots the Decepticons attempted. All you knew is that the Autobots protected humanity…

…and maybe someday, they would come to protect you, too.

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Pt 2 - I Hope They Eat You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader, maybe Clark Kent x fem!reader (you'll have to wait and see) TW: Violence, PTSD/ dissociation (Bucky), blood + physical trauma, emotional trauma. Summary: You fight through an alien invasion in downtown New York — but the battlefield isn't the hardest part

The sky above downtown New York splits open like a wound.

A purple rift. Veins of lightning. A massive, writhing breach that screams static down into the airwaves and pours monsters through like a plague. Six-legged things with metal hides and curved, translucent fangs. Creatures built from tech and bone, screaming in pitches that bend steel and rupture eardrums.

And in the middle of it all — chaos.

Civilian evacuation? A fantasy. There’s no time. No order. Just roars, explosions, crumbling buildings, and the sick crack of broken bodies.

You’re already bleeding by the time you hit the plaza.

Concrete explodes behind you as one of the things lunges from a rooftop and misses by inches. You roll, come up on one knee, and fire two rounds directly into its jaw.

The bullets do nothing.

Figures.

You slide under a collapsed beam, switch to blades, and keep moving.

To your left, Sam is airborne, wings glitching from EMP bursts. To your right, Nat and Clint are in a back-to-back formation that looks more like ballet than battle. Thor lands three blocks over with a crack of thunder that blows out half a parking garage.

But your eyes aren’t on any of them.

They’re on him.

Bucky.

He’s ahead by twenty feet, already tearing through the creatures like they owe him money. His vibranium arm gleams. He moves like muscle memory. Precise. Silent. Cold.

Too cold.

You charge forward, duck under a thrashing tail, and shoulder-check one of the smaller beasts into a pile of wreckage.

“Barnes!” you shout, voice raw.

He doesn’t respond.

Another creature leaps from the side — fast, ugly, snarling. He doesn’t see it in time.

And then — he freezes.

Dead still.

His arm halfway raised, but his face is blank. Not focused. Not afraid.

Blank.

Like he isn’t even in the same time zone anymore.

You don’t hesitate.

You launch yourself over the rubble, slam your shoulder into his chest, and tackle him out of the way just as the creature slams down where he stood.

Your blades are in your hands before you hit the ground.

Two slashes.

The creature drops — screaming, twitching, dead.

You roll off Bucky, land in a crouch, and turn back.

He’s still on the ground. Still staring at nothing.

The cold in your chest finally cracks into something worse.

“Hey,” you snap, grabbing his jacket. “Snap out of it.”

His eyes blink, slow. He looks up at you like you’re an unfamiliar weapon.

And says nothing.

The silence between you buzzes louder than the breach in the sky.

You stand up. Back away.

The taste in your mouth is metallic. Not blood.

Rage.

“Next time,” you say, voice flat, “I let it eat you.”

Then you turn and run into the smoke.

And this time — for the first time — you don’t look back.

The northern quarter of the city is folding in on itself.

The largest alien craft hovers above the skyline like a dying god — thick black limbs rooted into buildings, feeding on steel and energy. One tower groans as its foundation cracks. The screams coming from the upper floors are very human.

The Avengers are regrouping at the south perimeter.

You don’t wait.

“(Y/N)—!” Steve’s voice rings behind you, but you’re already sprinting toward the skyscraper’s base, dodging falling debris, blade still slick from your last kill.

A piece of the building peels away above you — a steel support beam longer than a subway car — and crashes into the street twenty feet behind.

You don’t flinch.

You throw your shoulder into the emergency entrance. Metal bends. Sparks fly.

Inside, the air is smoke and chaos. Office lights flicker. The hallway tilts at a nauseating angle.

You move fast.

You find a mother with two kids trapped under a support beam — blood on her face, the youngest sobbing.

“Don’t move,” you say, already wedging your shoulder under the debris. “You hear that? That sound?”

The child blinks, confused.

“Exactly. That’s the sound of me not letting you die today.”

You shove. The beam rolls off with a sickening creak.

“Out the back stairwell. Go now.”

You don’t watch them run. You’re already moving.

Room by room. Floor by floor.

Your lungs burn. Your hand is slick again — the knuckles from earlier have reopened.

The building groans louder.

You feel the moment the north wall begins to give.

A deep, primal tremor under your boots.

Too late. Too deep.

Your eyes snap upward as a wave of debris — ceiling, ductwork, full concrete slabs — collapses toward you.

You don’t brace. Don’t scream.

You just blink.

And the world stops moving.

A rush of air. A deep, sonic boom like God exhaling directly into the building’s bones.

And then — arms.

Arms around you, like steel wrapped in sunlight. You don’t register the flight until you see the floor disappearing beneath your feet. Then the side of the building. Then the entire skyline.

You’re hovering.

You don’t understand until you look up.

And see him.

Clark Kent.

Eyes like storm clouds ready to break. Jaw tight. Hair mussed by wind and ash. The red of his cape rippling behind him, battered by heat and ruin.

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

He flies you down — slow, deliberate, as if afraid you might shatter on contact.

When your boots touch concrete again, you don’t move.

Just stare at him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say finally, voice low, shaking from adrenaline.

“Bruce said you called,” Clark says. “I’m here.”

Like it’s that simple.

Like it’s not the first time someone’s actually come when you needed them.

The building above you cracks in half and falls — a thunderous, ugly sound — but Clark doesn’t look away from you.

“You okay?” he asks.

You mean to say yes.

What comes out is, “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“I wouldn’t.”

The moment holds.

Then Sam’s voice crackles over comms. “(Y/N)? You still breathing, or do I gotta come scrape you off the pavement?”

You hit your earpiece. “Still breathing.”

“Who’s the caped glass of milk?”

Clark raises a brow. You ignore him.

“Long story,” you mutter, brushing plaster dust off your shoulder.

Then, to Clark: “Come on, Boy Scout. You wanna be useful? Don’t hover. Fight.”

You stalk off toward the next breach.

He follows.

The second wave hits harder.

Whatever tech the aliens are bleeding into the atmosphere is tearing through the city’s infrastructure. Static trembles in every wall. Gravity feels like a suggestion. Metal bends in wrong directions.

You and Clark are sweeping what remains of a converted shelter near the river when the building above you snaps — loud, final, impossible to dodge.

Clark moves first.

You barely have time to curse before he wraps one arm around your waist and shields you both as the ceiling comes down in a screech of steel and drywall. The hallway darkens. Rubble blocks the exits. The floor twists, then stills.

Then silence.

You exhale, slow and sharp. You’re pinned between Clark’s chest and a crumpled wall. Dust floats like smoke in a shaft of angled light.

“Don’t say it,” you mutter.

“Say what?”

“That you saved me again.”

Clark tilts his head with a smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You both stand there, breathing, caught in a pause that doesn’t belong to war. It feels stolen. Too still.

You push off him, brushing yourself down. “You could’ve let it hit me. I’ve had worse.”

“Maybe,” he says, watching you carefully. “But I haven’t.”

You pause. Look at him.

The man is too clean. Too open. There isn’t a single edge on him — just a solid, steady center that doesn’t make sense. Not in this world. Not in your life.

“You’re not like him,” you say quietly.

Clark doesn’t ask who you mean. He just says, “I know.”

You cross your arms. “You don’t know shit.”

“I know he broke something,” Clark says. “And you’re carrying the sharp parts.”

Your jaw clenches. “And who did you hear that from? Bruce?”

He steps forward — not too close, not threatening — just enough to look you in the eye. “I’m not asking you to put it down. I just don’t think you should have to bleed for it alone.”

That stops you.

The way he says it — like he’s not trying to fix you. Like he just sees you. Not as a soldier. Not as a problem. As a person. One who’s tired.

No pity. No push.

Just presence.

You scoff, soft. “You always this insufferably noble, or is it just around damaged women with combat knives?”

Clark’s mouth twitches. “I have a type.”

You look away.

For a long moment, you both stand in the quiet ruin of the building, not speaking.

Then: “You ever kill someone?”

Clark’s eyes flicker. “Yes.”

“How many?”

“Enough that I remember each one.”

That surprises you.

He doesn’t look like someone who carries names. But maybe that’s the point.

“You regret it?”

Clark doesn’t answer right away.

“I regret why it was necessary,” he says. “But not that I did it.”

Your mouth parts slightly. The answer isn’t what you expected. Or maybe it is. Maybe you just hadn’t believed anyone else knew what that kind of guilt felt like.

Outside, thunder cracks again.

Clark glances at the exit. “We should move.”

You nod once.

But before he turns, you say — quieter than before — “You’re wrong, by the way.”

He raises a brow.

“I am like him.”

Clark looks at you for a long moment.

“No,” he says. “He left. You’re still here.” Part 3

[mlm-ficcollection]

Jasper Hale X Male! Reader (part. 1)

(I couldn't live with myself, leaving you all with the old version of my fic when I have an updated one. So here you go, updated fic! Meaning, that if you've read something similar to this on here, or something exactly like this on Ao3, then it is mine. This is part one of, if everything goes as planned, three parts.)

(Part. 2)

---

"This is (y/n)."

The voice sounded blurry to him, as if he was underwater. Where was that ringing coming from? Was it even ringing? He wasn't sure, might as well just be him, might as well just get tinnitus because honestly, that would just be typical wouldn't it. Why was it so dark?... Maybe his eyes were just closed.

Memories, memories (memories had to be the key to figuring this out, right? Right.) - what was the last thing he remembered? He was in town to go shopping. Working late left him to do his groceries in the evening. It was dark, at least past 9 pm, and there weren't a lot of people out on the narrow cobbled city streets. No people. That's how he liked it.

A group of broad and tall statures with guns came out of nowhere. The rest of it was blurry- there was shouting, three rounds of bullets being fired, and then he felt the impact of his body hitting the ground. He remembered losing his vision, and feeling himself stop breathing.

And now he was here. And he realised he was not exactly sure where 'here' was. And he realised he should be dead (why wasn't he dead?).

He could hear distant arguing. But maybe they were right next to him. He wasn't sure of anything at the moment, not that he was sure of much usually. 

Parts of what was being said were comprehensible.

"....isn't safe..."

"...let him die!..."

"...dangerous!..."

"...what could I..."

(Y/n) opened his eyes just a little, only to be blinded by a heavenlike light. Squinting, he could see that the room he was in was very white, almost sterile. However, he had a feeling this was no hospital room. Then again, he was still not even sure where he was.

A groan escaped him as he felt his head start to pound, nausea rising in his throat. The people talking suddenly stopped, their attention on him. He couldn't make out any of their faces if he wanted to, and honestly, he didn't care much for that right now - not with his splitting headache. It would be absolutely lovely if they could give him something for the headache though. 

A wave of pain washed through him then, burning at his nerves and spreading through his body like a wildfire spreading through the woods. He hissed, body contorting and arching as the stabbing agony continued rocking through him, numbing every other sense he had.

"Stay with us-!"

"-me the morphine-"

And (y/n) passed out again.

---

The next time (y/n) woke up he was in a significantly more comfortable state. There were no echoing arguing voices around him and no pounding in his head as if it were splitting open. In fact, he could hear the distant sounds of birds chirping and the wind rustling through leaves. Was he in the woods? He'd just been in the city.

His throat felt scratchy, though (is this how those people in desert movies felt like?) And as he opened his eyes he was pleasantly surprised by no little sterile rooms, coupled with no blinding lights. Slowly, he sat up.

His eyes focused, and he glanced around. There were giant windows all around him, and outside of the glass was, indeed, a forest. A fucking forest (?). Not to mention, he couldn't remember ever having this good eyesight. (It had been one of his favourite problems to neglect - opticians are expensive.) 

And he also realised that none of the windows were open, which was odd, seeing as he could hear the birds as though they were right next to him. Could be some weird new glass, though. People do crazy things with glass nowadays. 

The living room, which he assumed was where he found himself, was bigger than his whole studio apartment and decorated with minimalism in mind it seemed. It honestly looked like the home of an eccentric rich man. If this was a kidnapping it was the highest class kidnapping he'd ever heard of. Five-star rated kidnapping. 

(Y/n) wasn't a very big fan of minimalism. (Then again; not his house.)

As the young man stood up and absentmindedly roamed around the house, he realised that he was... Seemingly alone. Awkwardly peeking into every room he came across and calling out only seemed to confirm this; his own voice being the only thing echoing back to him in response.

He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad sign in this situation - first time being kidnapped and all.

Finally (y/n) ended up in the kitchen. Yeah, some water would definitely soothe the dryness in his throat - motherfucker, had they fed him a desert when he was out??

He sighed and reached up to tug open a cabinet, and stumbled back, caught off guard as he tugged the entire cabinet door off of its hinges. He stared at the door in his hands with wide eyes. (The fuck?? It's not even heavy...)

"...huh."

He hesitantly put the door down, squinting at it suspiciously and assuming the hinges or the wood was very weak or something. Maybe there were even termites in the wood. He grimaced at the thought of termites as he grabbed a glass for himself, and went over to the sink, grabbing ahold of the sink handle and pulling it back.

Only to yell out in shock as he pulled it off the entire handle, separating the handle from the entire fucking sink, with water now spraying out of it.

He put the glass down (dropped it on the counter) and grasped at the hole, desperately trying to stop the water from pouring out and soaking him and holy shit was it wet holy shit holy shit- 

The clearing of a throat behind him split the silence. His head snapped in that direction, wide eyes staring over his shoulder only to see a blond man in a doctor's jacket, sporting an amused smile on his face. 

Behold the aforementioned rich man, I suppose.

"Uhh... It was like this when I found it."

The man tilted his head, and did not seem convinced.

---

After around two hours of explaining the situation, there were three things (y/n) was now sure of.

1. (Y/n) had almost died earlier, and the man in the room with him, Carlisle, suspiciously surprisingly nice for being a rich man, had saved him.

2. He had saved him by turning him into a vampire. He was now a vampire. A fucking vampire.

3. He had been invited to live with him and his other kind-of-but-not-really adopted kids, who were also vampires. It was some sort of clan situation. ("- you mean like, as in a gang?" "(y/n), no-") 

The offer was extremely kind. And the mansion he was in currently was a palace compared to (y/n)'s apartment in the city. Thinking about the sheer size of the mansion was a good distraction from the fact that vampires and vampire clans were real, and had apparently been for a long fucking time.

He also knew that he had pretty much wrecked this man's kitchen. He was ignoring that fact as well. Besides, they were vampires, they didn't even use the kitchen!

Carlisle was nice to him. The doctor had a calming... Feel to him, and explained the situation in a soothing, practiced manner, that showed it was clearly not his first time explaining this. (Y/n) needed that, because he was just about one more life-changing fact away from having a breakdown. Carlisle explained that (y/n) was free to go should he choose, but also explained the dangers of being a lone vampire. ("I-I mean I haven't even met the other people here, I don't know if I can-" "That's alright, if you want to wait until you've met the others that's perfectly fine.")

And also. That thirst in his throat, was a thirst for human blood. (Y/n) violently recoiled as Carlisle stated this, though he couldn't deny the way his throat itched more at the idea, how his mouth seemed to water with venom at the mere mention of human blood.

Carlisle was very clear that there was one condition for letting him stay; he had to drink animal blood instead of human. (Y/n) had agreed quite vigorously. ("Yeah, duh, fuck yeah I agree."). (Y/n) didn't like the sceptical look Carlisle gave him at that. He got the sudden feeling that it wasn't that easy.

---

Their conversation was cut off as a door opened across the house, and the rest of the stoic family walked in, quietly. (Y/n) stood up hesitantly, preparing himself for a round of handshakes that never came. None of the 'hi, you must be new here' or the other normal things you'd expect meeting someone for the first time. They simply watched him back. He couldn't help but feel intimidated. Were all vampires like this?

"(Y/n)," Carlisle thankfully took the word, "these are the other members of the family."

The young newborn took his time to examine each one of them, glancing away from time to time and pretending he had the dignity not to stare. (This is so fucking awkward, holy shit.)

There was a kind-looking woman who approached them, standing next to Carlisle and smiling encouragingly at (y/n). 

"Esme. Carlisle's wife." She introduced herself, exchanging a disgustingly adorable look with her husband. Suddenly he felt like he was intruding, so he averted his gaze to the rest of the family.

The rest of them stood quietly in front of him in a line, almost giving off the feeling that they were standing guard. Which was a little bit odd. Did they usually do that? Carlisle had told him how dangerous newborns could be. He wondered if they were watching him for any sign of danger, if they were tense and ready to pounce on him.

The position made it easier for (y/n) to inspect them of course, but surely they could have said something...

From left to right: There was a blonde woman, eyeing him suspiciously. That was fair, he thought; he was new after all. He wondered if Carlisle had forewarned them at all. They didn't seem all too surprised, so he must have. (Y/n) smiled hesitantly at her and his gaze quickly drifted to the man next to her.

This man was... Big. Broad and tall, he practically overflowed with mischievous energy. He smirked back at him as their eyes met. It was possible it was because (Y/n)'s gaze might have lingered a second too long on the man's physique-

The newborn heard a snort from the guy next to him. He looked over at the guy confused, raising an eyebrow.

This man had a typical short-sides-long-on-top-haircut, as well as prominent sideburns. It was certainly... A haircut that one can have. His eyes were glued to the floor, an amused smile on his face, as if laughing at a joke only he knew. (Y/n) found it... Slightly infuriating. The red hair on his head was eye-catching though, he had to admit.

Next to him was a short girl who looked as though she came from a fairytale; like she might grant you three wishes. She grinned gleefully at (y/n) with big sparkling eyes, and (y/n) smiled back, relieved at the almost immediate acceptance he felt from this person. This was maybe the closest thing he'd gotten to a greeting from these people.

(It struck him then that all of them were... Attractive. He wondered if that was part of being a vampire. Was he hot now? He had to look in a mirror.

...

Could he look in a mirror?!)

He heard Carlisle speaking next to him, introducing the members and cutting his spiraling thoughts short.

"This is Rosalie, Emmett, Edward, Alice, and-"

Lastly, there was a man.

He was undeniably very handsome, with his dirty blond curly hair and pale skin (which they all had- was that a vampire trait??). His eyes carried the same yellow tint as all the others in the room- but his were different. They seemed to look into him, not through him the way Rosalie did. He felt seen.

The man in question stepped forward and offered his hand for a handshake (finally a normal fucking greeting. Holy shit.) and introducing himself before Carlisle got to. 

"Jasper. You're the newborn, right?"

He spoke with a Southern accent, which was... strangely attractive on him. (Y/n) tilted his head, observing him as he spoke, not avoiding the piercing eye contact. 

It did however take all of his self-control to not reply with 'duh' to this question.

Instead, he shook his hand, nodding slowly.

"Yeah, that's me... The-the one and only."

Carlisle appeared next to them all of a sudden. (Y/n) liked to think he hadn't noticed his approach because Carlisle moved very quietly, and would adamantly deny getting lost in the moment.

"Jasper has... Experience with newborns. He will be helping you control your urges and figure out how your body works- as you have already noted, your abilities have changed. "

He explained, looking between (y/n) and Jasper. (Y/n) nodded silently, not taking his eyes off of Jasper while Carlisle spoke, and Jasper all the same. Therefore neither of them noticed the knowing look that was exchanged between Edward and Carlisle, nor the curious glances between the rest of the family members, or the wide grin on Alice's face.

---

The gentle sounds of a forest filled his ears, and the smell of dirt and nature filled his nose. It was pleasant, not like the oil and smog that festered in his nose and drooped down his throat in the city. The increased sense of smell was, in this case, definitely a good thing about being a vampire.

It was currently only him and Jasper, out in the woods, a place they had frequented the last week while waiting for the vampirism in his body to 'calm down' - a thing it apparently needed to do before they started trying to control his strength. 

(Y/n) thought it was ridiculous, honestly. So what, he broke a measly kitchen door. That didn't mean he was outrageously strong. American houses are practically made of cardboard anyway! But yet... 

"Pick up that log."

Jasper broke the silence as he pointed to a fallen tree, speaking with that lovely accent of his. If only what he said wasn't so incredibly stupid.

(Y/n) scoffed out a laugh in response, arms crossed over his chest.

"Are you joking? I can't pick up a fucking tree! I'm a vampire, not fucking... Superman!" He sputtered, gesturing wildly to the trunk. 

Jasper rolled his eyes and walked past him, over to the fallen tree. The newborn scoffed at him, shaking his head and looking away. Is this guy fucking crazy?

There was a creaking sound, and the next time (y/n) looked over the man had picked up a tree, and was now effortlessly holding it over his head. He looked at (y/n) with a slightly annoyed expression, that he certainly couldn't care less about because Jasper was holding a fucking tree over his head.

(Y/n) was speechless. This guy is fucking crazy-

The dirty-blond man dropped the tree to the ground, casually dusting off his hands as he wandered back over to (y/n).

"Not only are you a vampire; you're a newborn. You're at your strongest point. If you don't learn to control your strength, you could very well accidentally kill any of us."

He stated, crossing his arms over his chest and gazing out over the forest. (Y/n) watched him with shining eyes, amazed and slightly overwhelmed by the situation he found himself in.

The newborn simply nodded dumbly, closing his mouth and walking over to the fallen tree. He swallowed nervously, glancing up at Jasper. The other man offered no support but a piercing and expectant gaze - and somehow that was enough for him to fully know that Jasper believed in him.

Before he knew it, he was holding a tree over his head. He let out a surprised laugh, not caring about the dead leaves falling around him like snow, and looking at Jasper with wide eyes. He dropped the tree to the forest floor with a thud.

It became clear that he actually wasn't human anymore. He couldn't be. Not with the way his skin sparkled beneath the sun and the way physics seemed to bend for him. He wasn't human anymore. 

Maybe he was Superman after all?

 

---

"So, we have to figure out what to tell your family, your relatives etcetera..."

It was hardly two weeks into his stay as Carlisle went through the steps of living like a vampire, keeping his eyes fixed on (y/n) with a slightly worried look on his face. Something told the newborn that Carlisle found this to be the hardest part of transitioning into a vampire. 

The group was currently in the living room, and dusk had fallen. (Y/n) found the house to be more homelike during nighttime - the lamps cast a yellow glow that reminded him of fire and made the whiteness of the interior seem less... Constricting.

The topic of (y/n)'s family made the newborn freeze up beneath their excruciating gazes, and he felt a chill run down his spine. He wondered if he had grown pale or if he just felt like he had. He probably couldn't grow pale, could he? No blood and all.

This was an unavoidable subject, the one of his family. Yet it was one he would be more than happy to ignore for the rest of his life - because with the subject of his family, there would be explanations needed, questions answer that he really would prefer not to answer right now.

(Y/n) glanced down nervously. He wasn't sure whether he actually wanted to have a conversation about them. Not now, not yet.

"I-it's fine, they won't mind."

He looked up at Carlisle with a sorry attempt at a reassuring smile on his face. Carlisle frowned.

"They threw him out."

(Y/n) sputtered and spun around, coming face to face with Edward. Edward, who had just told everyone he had been thrown out, abandoned by his own family. Had he any blood his cheeks would burn in shame by now. That stupid mind-reading was getting annoying.

He shot him a glare. Edward merely shrugged.

Fucking asshole. 

"Yes, thank you, Edward."

When he turned back to Carlisle, Jasper was now standing next to him, arms crossed over his chest and with an equally as concerned look on his face as Carlisles. This fucking guy just seems to manifest, he thought.

"Why would they do that?" Jasper mumbled in confusion, more so to himself than genuinely asking. 

"It's because-"

"Edward don't you fucking dare." (Y/n) quickly shot a fierce glare back at Edward, warning him, before looking forward again. He glanced between Jasper and Carlisle (looking just as concerned as before), and then looked down, taking a shaky breath.

This could end badly. It had a track record of ending badly. He didn't want it to end badly. Not with them.

"I'm...I..."

He sighed as he trailed off, digging the heels of his palms into his face and trying to clear his head. Coming out never really did get easier did it? 

"just-... Okay just give me a moment."

"He's gay."

"Edward I swear to fucking mother of Christ-"

Carlisle had to physically stop him from getting into a fight with Edward that night.

[lostintransist]

[emerges from the dead]

ghoap angst? Ghost holds a lot of misplaced anger after mwiii - after Soap’s death.

He partially blames Price for ordering Johnny to step down when he had the shot. Hell, he even blames himself somehow for assuming his captain placed the same amount of confidence in Johnny than he did him.

If Price had just let him pull the fucking trigger, maybe he would still be here, alive, with him - in his arms.

But he’s not and they feel most empty. Simon tries to fill the gap with bourbon or throwing himself in whatever op he could get his hands on, even the riskier ones.

A part of him wishes it’d been him that day, muttering ‘why is it always the good ones’ to himself where no one can hear him spiral.

Simon is not suicidal in the way that most people think but he doesn’t see himself resisting the current if things were to go south on a mission.

Demi! 😘 remember you asked for this. @cafekitsune thanks for the dividers!

CW: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT Canon Johnny death, suicidal ideation (If you wonder about letting go and something bad ending it all for you or a car accident just taking you out? that does count as ideation I was shook when my therapist pointed out that I was suicidal as a teen because of that), canon style violance, Simon dies in the end.

AO3 | Masterlist | Companion Story Peace Finding The Dead

Minors beware, no sexual context but emotional violence abounds.

Trains screeched by on the metal tracks, brakes fighting for friction. They had made it down to the platform; now Johnny and his captain would need to disable the bomb before it took out the city above it.

“Red wire, got it.”

His captain’s gaze flicked. That was the only warning he got. That platform beneath the city would become his tomb. Johnny stood, hand already moving for his gun at Makarov’s appearance. He wasn’t fast enough.

Johnny watched, the flash of the muzzle pulling his eyes to the light. His soul screamed to look for Ghost, Simon, before his synapses could pass the message hand over hand that his time had come. No part of him wanted his last memory to be of anything but the man he loved so desperately and had never found the nerve to tell.

“Soap!” Captain Price called him, voice rough.

No part of him remembered the past or yearned for the future. The smell of the dank dust permeated his nose, throat. He wondered if they couldn’t get his body out, would the archaeologists of millennia to come be able to pinpoint his last breath based on the atoms in his lungs?

Eyes flicking open he rose, pulling his blade from its sheath on his thigh. Makarov stood over his captain, saying something the ringing in Johnny’s ears prevented him from hearing. Makarov took Johnny’s blade through the shoulder. The trauma from the previous shot slowed him. He was too slow. God dammit why was he always too slow? Makarov got him in an armbar, planted a boot in Price’s face, and fired his gun again.

Training from his youth, the chapel humming with the vibration of the organ, told him to call on a god he didn’t believe in. Maybe his mother would greet him at the gates before the angels escorted him to hell for his disbelief. No. It would pain her to see him dragged away from her peace.

The bullet whistled as it reached him, breaking the skin. It burned…until it didn’t.

There is a different sound to dead weight falling.

Babies losing balance and thumping into the floor had a certain lightness, expectant reverb in it. A drunk bumping into a wall as they stumbled home from the bar? The energy seemed to transfer back from the brick to propel them forward. But dead weight, life disconnected from flesh? It hits the ears like stone on stone, harsh and painful. Another train screeched by.

Johnny stood, chest heaving. With a slow twist, he saw his body, a discarded shell strewn on the unforgiving ground. He knew two things then; he was dead and there was an afterlife.

“Boy!”

His shoulders whipped him around to look at an older man he had never seen before. With thick tight curls and a hint of gray above the temples and glasses stood near Gaz who knelt. The shade of his brown skin was lost among the darkness but his firm glare could be seen clearly.

“Aye?” Johnny replied, hesitant and scared.

Funny how he didn’t feel scared before his body hit the ground without him.

“You know how to stop this thing?” The older man pointed down at the bomb, time ticking away relentlessly.

“Aye,” he said once more.

“Then get’cha ass over here and help him! I know less than jack about bombs.”

Moving is easier than it had been in life, almost as if gravity had less hold on him as a memory.

Johnny knelt next to his best friend, the abject horror staining Gaz’s face leaving trace marks on Johnny anywhere his eyes touched.

“What do I do?” he asked, glancing up at the man who still hovered.

“Talk to him, slap his hands if he tries to touch the wrong wire. Lord knows despite my efforts he sometimes only responds to a smack,” the last line being muttered told Johnny it was more self-commentary than a command for him. “Should have never let him leave being a cop, even if he did it for me.”

Johnny rested his head on Gaz’s shoulder. Later he would sit with the memory, puzzled how he didn’t sink right through his best friend.

“You got this Kyle. We’ve gone over this enough times in training and a way to win bets, you know what to do.” Johnny spoke to him, voice never ceasing switching from English to Gaelic and back. When he ran out of words for encouragement he began to hum, nursery songs from his mother, his sisters, and his gran all drifting back in snippets and memories. Every so often when he glanced up from Gaz’s shoulder he would see a woman, soft smile with crinkles around her eyes speaking softly in Price’s ear.

The seconds stretched until finally, finally, the device had been deactivated safely. Johnny lifted his head from Gaz’s shoulder. The older man stood watch, eyes settled back near where Johnny’s body lay.

Following the old man’s gaze he found Simon. Johnny stared at the man who weakly shook the empty husk. Simon knelt; knees one up one down as if he were proposing to a corpse. Johnny stood, compelled to his would-be lover by the ache in his chest.

The distance between them disappeared and Johnny lowered himself down next to one of Simon’s thick thighs. He wept. The darker spots flooding the mask told the story.

Johnny. Johnny, wake up. Johnny, you can’t stay there we need to go.

Simon’s mouth hadn’t moved but still, Johnny could hear the weak whimpering of a broken man. Rubbing his thumb across the eye black below Simon’s eyes did nothing to disturb the darkness or the tears. Johnny felt better for it anyway.

“He’s yours to care for now.” The old man stood closer now.

“What do you mean?” Johnny didn’t move his gaze.

“His mum left when you arrived, said to take care of him. You’ve been assigned to him. Tough task for these folks. But you know that since you were one till a few minutes ago as you were one.” The older man shambled over.

“What does that make me then, his guardian angel?” Johnny shot a disbelieving look up as the old-timer stopped next to him.

“If you like,” he inclined his head. “Name’s Cedric. Your gran said to be good. You prefer Soap, John, or Johnny?”

The brown of Simon’s eyes were the deepest pool of sadness Johnny had ever seen. That despondence is what chose his answer.

The three of them who had taken such care to get his body out of the underground had brought him home. The plot had been full, no room for even a small urn. They planned to set his ashes free into the sunset instead. Seemed a fitting end for someone who died meters below the earth.

“He was the best of us.” Price started. He, Ghost, and Gaz had stared at the horizon for nearing on twenty minutes.

Corrine snorted, “You weren’t the best. No one is in this field.”

Johnny whacked her with the back of his fingers. He had met Corrine after the men had made it to safety, she had been John Price’s little sister before she died in childhood. She stuck around, keeping her big brother from harm.

“Are funerals always this hokey from this side?” Johnny pulled his top lip between his teeth as he watched. Simon didn’t say a word, grief screaming in silence. He lifted the urn from the backpack at his feet, Gaz and Price each setting a hand on it.

“Always,” Cedric retorted.

Johnny stood between them, wind rushing off the water rustling his hair but not nipping him with its chill, as they watched what was as close to a funeral as he would get.

“Who dares wins,” Price pushed out a hard breath, “Sleep easy soldier.”

“See you down range brother,” Gaz offered his piece. “We’ll take it from here.”

“Rest in peace, Johnny.” Simon’s words continued on for Johnny’s knowing only as he upended the ashes into the wind. With enough luck, I’ll see you soon.

Johnny’s eyes didn’t leave Simon’s back as he voiced his next question. The lump in his throat had him coughing before he could speak.

“Do you ever get used to their thoughts seeping into your brain?”

“Not really,” Corrine shrugged, the motion in his side vision.

Cedric guffawed, “Wait till he runs into life-threatening trouble while trying to get laid, those are the worst.”

Corrine’s face lights up as she turns to Cedric, “Did I ever tell you about the time John nearly got caught as a teen?”

“The hell was he doing that nearly got him killed for getting it wet as a teen?” Cedric fired off, face full of frustrated confusion.

“Jesus Ghost, your guardian angel must be working overtime to get you out of those hairy situations time and again with only scratches,” Farah patted him on the shoulder as she passed him walking down the ramp of the plane.

I wish they wouldn’t.

The thought lifted off Simon and into Johnny’s ears like a shimmer of heat rising from the blacktop.

“Fooker if you don’t shape up soon, I’ll keel ye meself.”

“No one can understand your angry accent, Johnny,” Corrine chided him.

“He doesn’t need to understand to start acting right,” Johnny punched Simon’s head, angrier still when his fist passed through with nary a ruffle of fabric.

It had been a nasty surprise when Johnny found he could only touch the living in love and care. He cared about Simon, would beg for reincarnation for the chance to love him again. The bastard couldn’t even pretend that he wasn’t suicidal. Na, Simon didn’t call it that. Hoping that a bullet would shift by degrees and end his constant pain was still ideation—calling into the void and pleading for a response.

This was the sixth mission he had taken since Johnny left his body where he hadn’t tried to keep himself safe. Fucker threw himself into the line of fire and walked away only because Johnny would fistfight the powers of the universe at large if it meant keeping Simon breathing.

Cedric had stayed back with Gaz wherever he would be right now. Corrine found Johnny glaring at ‘his Simon’ as she called him when John had come to check on his lieutenant. She rested a hand on Johnny’s shoulder, touch familiar. They watched as Simon snapped at John, stepping back from John’s attempt at comfort and guidance.

“He’ll get better soon,” she soothed at him with her words.

“And what if he doesn’t Corrine? What am I supposed to do then? He is killing himself!” Johnny flung a hand out to the man who limped into the hanger, waving off concern from every person he passed. “He won’t go to medical to get that wound in his leg checked out. What am I supposed to do the next time he acts like a…a..”

Instead of searching for a word, Johnny shouted his frustrations into the sky. He had to watch Simon devolve, each day taking a piece more of his love and casting it into the fire of grief. He fell to his knees, the gravel he landed on biting at him despite the incorporeal body.

“I would have given him my beating heart Corrine. I would have done anything for him, but he can’t find the will to keep living for me.”

His whisper escaped, broken and raw in the face of seeing Simon again too soon. Too damn soon.

“When I died John tried to follow.” The even tone belies the words.

“What happened?” Johnny’s eyes stare at the ground while he listens to her story.

“We had been playing at the creek. We had been told not to,” she chuckled lightly, “But what six-year-old wants to miss the waters being close enough to touch without getting dirty? The bank couldn’t support my weight and I ended up in fast-moving water. I wasn’t a strong enough swimmer to get out. John went in after me, our dad saved him but my body made it to the next town before it was found.”

Johnny looked up at her, the wrinkles on her face and the womanly body she moved in did not match her death. He looked exactly like he did when Makarov’s bullet had ended him.

“Someone came and gave me a choice, to stay with my big brother and grow as he did or move on to paradise.” She glanced to the side as if called.

Turning to look with her Johnny found Price, a hand on Ghost’s shoulder firmly leading him away from the barracks and to medical.

“What about when he tried to follow?” Johnny’s voice escaped small, and ringed with tears.

Cedric stared at Simon, his nose scrunching the same way Gaz’s would.

“Tough bastard that one. He is so strong-willed that he won’t accept any of your gentle nudging. Have you hit him yet?”

Johnny stared at Simon, sucking back his fourth bourbon at the bar.

“Too mad every time I try, nothing sticks,” John admitted, love and rage twining like vines in his chest, constricting.

“Grab him when he’s asleep but not drunk. He’ll take the message as a dream but it’s better than letting him kill himself without trying everything you can,” Cedric patted Johnny on the shoulder before drifting across the bar to chat with another guardian angel. Seems everyone had one and while not everyone would be assigned to be one everyone who accepted the role had a strong tie to the living, and a desire to keep them safe.

Johnny had never experienced impotence like that of keeping the love of his life from trying to follow him into the grave.

Time moved differently being dead. It moved strangely in dreams though. Johnny knelt at Simon’s head as he lay in the bed, fingers interlaced and ankles crossed. A shirt that had to have lost all scent of Johnny covered the pillow in lieu of a case.

Letting his fingertips explore like he never had a chance in life Johnny memorized the scars that added to the story of his love. Johnny would walk through hell, to the edges of the universe and back, further even if that would take the weight of pain from Simon’s shoulders. He already resembled Atlas, the sky teetering across his broad shoulders. Laying a gentle kiss to Simon’s forehead Johnny slid into his dreams.

“Why is it always the good ones?” Simon asked to the nothing that surrounded him.

“Funny you assume I was good enough to save,” Johnny remarks as he steps next to Simon.

No mask prevents Johnny from seeing every twitch of emotion across Simon’s face.

“You were. Always.”

Walking with Simon, hands tucked together, eons passed.

A gentle tug, a chirp of a morning bird informed Johnny his time here neared an end.

“Simon,” he stopped, using the hand in his to pull the other man to a stop. “You need to live. Giving in to grief? If you die Si, who will save the world?”

“There isn’t a world worth saving without you in it.”

Ghosts must feel pain more acutely without bodies. Ten words and Simon had cracked his rib cage open and poured arctic waters over his heart.

Pulling his hand free from Simon’s Johnny took his face in both hands, pressing their lips together in a way not even his vicious masturbation fantasies could conjure up. Whispers of touch, as if he were kissing moonlight, Johnny infused each atom that passed his with love.

“Live a long life for me, Simon. Keep me waiting until white has stolen all the color from your hair. Let me take your hand in the old folks’ home and walk you to peace,” Johnny laid the words like flowers over a casket, drawing focus away from the dead below it.

Johnny thought Simon had finally found a ledge to cling to, something to grow against as he reached for the sun again.

Fucker always had to prove him wrong.

Simon stopped being so overtly careless with his life on missions. He even began talking to Price again, letting the older man draw him into laughing once or twice.

Death found Simon unprepared, his own knife slid between his ribs high in the mountains closer to the moon than the sea. Johnny took the blade in the heart with him, trying despite the lack of flesh, to stop the end from arriving.

The snow stole away Simon’s gasps.

“You were supposed to live!” Johnny reached down and grabbed Simon by the back of his shirt, hauling him out of his body before throwing him back to the trees that lined the path. “How could you not check that he was dead?!”

He didn’t care that he was shouting. He kept going.

“I needed you to live Simon! If you lived then my death wasn’t the reason you got careless.” Johnny swung on him.

Simon didn’t try and stop it, move, block, nothing. The wide hook caught him in the chin, sending him tumbling into the undisturbed snow. He held a hand to his jaw, staring at Johnny.

The love-twinned rage shook in Johnny’s chest. He sunk his boot into Simon’s chest until his legs shook and he fell. Knees bracketing Simon’s waist the tears started.

“Why Simon? Why?”

The raw, gasping wound of love painted the scene between them. Johnny couldn’t see past the tears and the heaving sobs that racked him.

“I missed you, Johnny,” Simon’s voice, tender and raw, preceded the hand that reached.

Fingertips brushing against the permanent stubble on Johnny’s cheek sent him crashing down. The dead men wept, for each other, themselves, and everyone they left behind.

If the dead find peace, it is not while the living roam.

Masterlist

[dazed-and-confused23]

Can I please request a fic where Dusty the Deathclaw has a close call? Like maybe the Enclave or the Brotherhood of Steel, or raiders, got in a lucky shot on Dusty’s belly. And this DEVASTATES the reader enough to go full John Wick on the person who shot Dusty, even to the point that Cooper is like “Oh Damn”. Cause they hurt the WRONG wasteland baby!

Dear Hearts and Gentle People 17

I had a lot of fun with this one and it gave me an excuse to head down to the Capitol Wasteland. Ignore the janky timelines ❤️

*so sorry that this took a while to get out. Life does a good job of getting in the way sometimes @odditycircus-2002. I hope you enjoy! ❤️*

Masterlist

You aren't a fan of the Capitol Wasteland. The weather is shit, and she and Cooper had been shot at no less than eight times in the two weeks they'd arrived. This pocket of the wasteland felt even more dangerous to be in, especially with the rumor of a slaver group in the area. You and Cooper had agreed to avoid them as best you could, but that still left the rest of the factions the two of you needed to keep an eye out for.

The BOS left the three of you alone for the most part whenever they happened to cross your path, Dusty had even made a friend with the dark skinned lady named Cross. Raiders were raiders, but the problems really started when she and Cooper stumbled across another group. The Enclave.

Even after the destruction of Raven Rock, pockets of the old world faction still remained. The day was coming to an end when laser fire suddenly accosted the trio of wanderers. They dove for the cover of nearby rocks and grab for their own weapons. Dusty roars loud enough that your ears ring and charge ahead, furious milky eyes zeroed in on the men in suits of power armor.

"Fuck. That's the Enclave," Cooper snarls beside you, and you whip around to stare up at him in horror. Out of all the factions that they could have run into, it had to be one of the most dangerous ones. They were righteous zealots who dreamed of wiping the earth clean of all mutated creatures.

This was the one faction that would have the kind of firepower to actually hurt their deadly companion, and you felt fear grip your heart when rapid laser fire fell upon Dusty. The creature snarled and gnashed his teeth, dropping down to his front arms to sprint forward and close the distance between himself and the Elclave member who had the gatling laser.

"Dusty!" You scream and run forward, ducking behind rocks and burnt out cars in your bid to get to the deathclaw. Cooper rubs right behind you, taking pot shots at the line of figures that stand on top of the cliffs above them. One woman screams as a bullet catches her in the leg, and she goes tumbling off the cliff to hit the ground, dead.

The deathclaw rips through the men and woman who don't have powe armor, blood and gore flying in all directions, and painting his golden scales red. You arrive in time to see a man in power armor rip something off his back and onto his shoulder. The weapon glows a terrible blue, and you watch in slow motion as a bolt of electrified plasma flew through the air and struck Dusty in the chest.

The deathclaw goes down with a howl of anguish, rearing back to expose the blackened flesh of his soft underbelly. His scales crack and melt off, and Dusty falls to the side, the ground shaking when his weight meets the earth.

Cooper hears you scream, and the sound rattles him. It's full of pain and fury, rage, and disbelief. He watches you drop your weapon and dash forward, throwing yourself at the man who shot Dusty. You cling to the man, feet finding foothold as your fingers dig into the neck paneling of the suit and rip at the tubing and wires that connect to the helmet.

Steam erupts from the power armor, and the man jerks around, stumbling as half of his suit loses power. You find the latch to the helmet and rip it off, exposing the face of the terrified man who dared try and kill Dusty.

The ghoul shouts your name when the two of you tip over, the power armor useless now that its systems have been compromised. You appear seconds later, wielding your side arm. You shoot the man in the face until the chamber runs dry, shoulders heaving and teeth bared in an animalistic snarl.

With the fight over, with any other remaining Enclave having fled the scene, you turn on your heel and run to Dusty. You drop to your knees beside the whining creature and reach for his massive head, hands gently smoothing over his dangerous horns as you whisper reassurances to your baby.

"Is okay, sweetheart. I'm right here. Can you let momma see?" You coo, and Dusty lifts his head, moving just enough that you can see the awful wound left behind from the tesla cannon. Dusty whuffs and grunts, obvious sounds of pain falling from his maw.

"Cooper, bring me my bag," you order, and the ghoul does so without a word. You dig around until you can find your stash of chems and drag out the med-x and stim-packs you have. You have no idea if these would work, but you had to try.

"I need to see it, Dusty," you murmur, and Dusty shoves his head forward and into your lap, looking for comfort, and you easily give it to him. You hold his head close to your chest, and the beast breaths in your scents deeply, his milky eyes closing as he begins to calm down.

You look at Cooper, and the ghoul sighs, but he takes the medical supplies from you. He goes about moving around the deathclaw until he can see the burn. The med-x goes first, and then he injects four stim-packs around the wound.

The chems seem to work, for it isn't long before the deathclaw relaxes, his body sagging forward, and you grunt as you take his weight. His breathing evened out, and Cooper watched in muted fascination as the wound began to knit back together. He sighs and plops down in the dirt beside you.

You lean into him, and Cooper wraps his arm around your waist as best he can, kissing the side of your head. Silent tears stream down your face as relief sweeps through your body.

"He'll be alright, smoothskin. Dusty's tougher than he looks."

[le4ves-1n-the-w1nd]

Shatter the Bell

Free the Bird

Leaf soared through the air, the winds howling around him like the voice of an angry god.

There.

CHIME

Leaf slammed into the ground, his form scattering into wind and reforming in one fluid motion. Stalking towards Chime, fury and wrath fueling his every step.

Chime tilted his head, his blue eyes cold. How had Leaf not noticed how cold Chime was? How has he not seen the cruelty in his eyes. Maybe he had just gotten used to it? Maybe it had always been like that.

so different from Roth's warm amber eyes

"Leaf, brother," Chime said warmly, a handsome smile on his face, but his eyes were still cold, still cruel. "You're home."

"No, no I'm not." Leaf said coldly, winds whipping around him. This wasn't home. Home was Roth, his claws petting his hair, wings wrapped around him, and gentle eyes. Home was at the Lux with no cameras and a blank slate just waited to be changed.

Chime pulled out a gun, swift and sure from his military training, as Leaf moved towards him, the winds whipping around him, gathering like a storm. A single shot rang out and Leaf didn't bother to dodge, bullets don't affect him anywa-

PAIN

Leaf drops like a stone, like an anchor in the ocean. It was like the bullet bullets shouldn't effect him what's going on zapped any energy in him, make him physical, just like the sea as... 

Trembling, he tries to turn into wind, something he did as easily as he breathed, and he... Couldn't. Leaf looked up at his brother in Horror.

"Did you really believe that our family would pass that power down and not create any countermeasures?" Chime chided him. "Mother and Father told me a week after you ate that Fruit."

Leaf weezes, a small trickle of blood sliding down into his beard from biting his cheek. Fuck. Fuck! Why was it always his arms?! He shakes as he gets to his knees. "Lu-"

Another shot rings out and hit his arm again. He gags from the pain and claws at his arm. Wrongwrongwrongwrong. He could taste the sea salt at the back of his tongue. Chime was saying something but he couldn't hear, the seas waves drowning him.

"LŪCÎFREM EXCÎTO TE" He screams desperately. He needed help, he couldn't do it alone. He was scared. he wanted Roth, Roth would help him, please Roth He needed help.

(( @morningstarscratch ))

[milkiematcha]

jjk zombie au: preview

warnings: mention of suicide, blood, general zombie-ness

“Please.” His voice was pained, rasping from the back of his throat like the growls of the monsters banging on the door. He was on his knees, looking up at you with white eyes- no pigment, no pupil, just milky white covering what used to be one of his best features.

The sight made your stomach turn. Especially because, thinking back on it, you had no real idea what his eyes looked like.

“Don’t let me die like this.” Are those tears dripping down his cheeks, melding with the rainwater and blood dripping from his hair, or is it your brain playing tricks on you?. He grabs at your wrist, and his skin is cold. Too cold.

You stumble back, your back almost hitting the metal door behind you before you stop yourself. Something about the look on your face must have been so horrible that it sent him into a panic, his words melding together into something that sounded closer to a scream. 

As if possessed, your hand was moving, flicking at the safety of the gun and aiming. Square at his forehead, the perfect angle. Just like the way you’d trained yourself. Just like you’d done a million times, blowing the brains of mindless drones onto concrete floors and city streets. But he wasn’t a mindless drone, he was him.

How could you do this to him?

His hand grasped at your wrist, just as cold as before, but stable. Cold, but holding you the same way you had experienced so many times, his whole hand wrapping easily around your wrist and keeping you grounded. But now, instead of steadying you as he ran, he was holding a gun to his own head.

“Please.” His voice was barely audible, breaking before he got to the end of the word. “I love you, don’t-”

His lips are parted when the bullet enters his brain, but it seem like he lasts a moment before hitting the ground. His mouth closes, settling into a half smile. How many times have you seen that expression before?

You feel the cold barrel of the gun against your own head, pressing into the skin, and you take a gasping breath. The banging is louder now, throbbing in your skull as his blood spreads, reaching your shoes.

Do you pull the trigger?

You groan, turning onto your side to grab at the ringing phone next to you. The light blinds you for a moment, sending you retreating back into your blankets with a whine.

An unknown number.

Really? According to the far too bright time in the top corner of your phone, it’s just past three in the morning. There is nothing- not even a death in the family- important enough that an unknown number should be ringing your phone at three in the morning. 

You turn your phone to silent, and turn back onto your side.

Thirty minutes later- then an hour- then an hour and a half, and you’re still squeezing your eyes shut, trying to fade back into whatever eerie dream you were having earlier. Shooting a blurry faced man was, well, in terms of your dreams, unique. Usually, they were shitty deja-vu moments, like flashing forward into the cereal isle only to notice that they were out of cheerios. Not that you ate cheerios(the texture when they sat in milk too long was sickening), but still. Shitty foresight, or maybe just your brain hearing about a cheerio shortage and processing it.

You were starting to get hungry, thinking of standing in a grocery store. You’re supposed to go tomorrow- today, actually, thanks to Mr. No-Name, and you were already anticipating buying a chocolate bar. Or two. Maybe Diana would want one, and you could but popcorn and have a crappy movie night on the beat up couch. 

You hadn’t heard Diana come in, actually. Usually, she’d stomp in with her boots half laced, loudly slamming doors just past midnight and making plain ramen. No flavor packets or anything, just boiled noodles. 

The sicko.

You turned to your phone, tapping your password in only to be greeted with the fact that you are wrong. The second time it works, much to your annoyance, and you immediately click to your calls.

15 missed calls from Unkown.

Okay, what the hell.

3 new voicemails from unknown.

A pit settles itself in your stomach, nausea crawling unexpectedly up your throat. Who is so insistent on calling you this late? Your finger hovers above the button that plays through your voicemail box, and for some reason, you can’t seem to press it. 

[jamisonwritestf2trash]

HEYYY love the scenarios you qrite!!! if you do angst, could you do how every merc would react if a teammate they're close with (platonically) died in battle?

How Would the TF2 Mercs React to a Close Teammate Dying In Battle? (Angst!)

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Hi, I'm so glad to hear you like my writing 😭 also thank you so much for your ask! I do write angst, but most of the time, I tend to add a little bit of comfort just to keep things from getting too dark. I hope that isn't too big of an issue! But enough rambling, here we go :)

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ALSO, I don't know how to explain this, but some of the characters I associate with each other are ones I ship together or are well known ships in the fandom but, I think regardless of shipping, these characters have a close bond as friends and that's how I'm going to write them or at least try! (I hope that makes sense :D)

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TW: DEATH, VIOLENCE, LOSS OF A FRIEND(?), GENERAL ANGST BASICALLY!

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The mercs had an off feeling from the start. The battle had only begun but the other team we're fighting it was their last battle. All the mercs had at least one wound that would require stitches after the match. Then as the two mercs (whoever's in the head canon) cross paths, and a shot rings out, wounding them fatally.

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Demo- If Solider Died:

If he had been drunk when he stepped on the battlefield, he was sure as hell sober now. He immediately runs over to Soldier, fucking panicking like you wouldn't believe. He keeps trying to tell Solider that it's not so bad, that he can pull through, that it'll be okay, all well screaming for Medic to come and help. Soldier just takes his hand away from his wound. Demo tries to fight against him, but Soldier only tells him,

"It was an honor to fight by your side. See you in hell, Tavish." as he goes limp on the ground. Medic eventually makes his way to where the two lay, looking rather battered himself, and is immediately cornered by an enraged Demo.

"Can you fix this? Can you bring him back?" He says, trying his hardest not to break. Medic says he can, "Then fucking do it." is the only reply from Demo as he walks onto the field, forgoing his weapons. Fully intent on ripping the other team apart, limb from limb, with only his bare hands.

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Engie- If Pyro died

Engie never thought that you could see the light leave from someone's spirit, he thought you could only see it in their eyes, which was why he was half thankful Pyro wore the gas mask, he didn't want to think about Pyro dying, but it crossed his mind on more than one occasion, and he just kept thinking that maybe, if he didn't see the light leave their eyes, that it wouldn't hurt as much in the event that something tragic happened. He couldn't have been more fucking wrong. Pyro crumpled to the floor, blood staining the ground under them, taking shallow breaths, Engie swears that even though the bullet hit and killed Pyro that day, it also killed him. He immediately ran over, trying to find the wound to see how bad it was, hoping somehow it wouldn't be as bad as he thought. He received no such comfort. Pyro just reached for his hand, sqeezing it tightly, before moving a hand to their mask, pulling it off their face slightly, just enough to mutter the words,

"I'll miss you. You were my best friend." Engie would fix their mask out of respect before carrying them to Medic. The ground was coated in blood by the end of the match. You couldn't step in any corner without feeling the ground squish beneath your feet. And yet, still sitting on the battlefield, even after all the blood shed, Engie sat in the spot where Pyro died, trying to look for the light that had been lost.

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Heavy- If Medic died

Instant rage. Like flipping a switch, all hell breaks loose. With no Medic to heal, well, Medic, Heavy makes quick work of killing the enemy team, not worrying about the multiple wounds he was receiving while doing so. He only spares the other teams Medic, spewing every threat imaginable at him if he doesn't heal his teams Medic. The other team's Medic, for his part, is trying his hardest. Knowing full well that Heavy will uphold the threats, he tries and fails. The damage is too severe, the blood is gone, soaked into the ground, and he can't undo what's been done. (He's nowhere near as good of a doctor as Medic) Heavy doesn't kill him. He sees no need anymore. His death won't fix what happened, and he tried, he held up his end of their "deal," so to speak. He sits next to Medic's body, apologies slipping out every now and then, apologies for not doing his job, for not protecting him. It was his fault his friend died, and he has to live with that forever.

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Medic- If Heavy died

He knows, in his mind, that death isn't permanent, so he reasonably shouldn't be worried, but he is. He's worried, devastated, angry, and he's feeling more emotions than he ever thought a person could feel. He runs to Heavy's side, comforting him, knowing already that the wounds are too grave to be healed. He can only just be with him now. He's speaking a mile a minute, assuring Heavy that this isn't the end. He can and will bring him back, apologizing in between reassurance for not being able to heal him, not being able to stop the pain, apologizing for anything and everything. Heavy cuts him off,

"I trust you, Doktor. I believe in you, I will see you again, my friend. Goodbye for now." Medic didn't even realize he was crying until he felt his tears on his pants. Medic could and would have killed the other team, but he ordered his teammates to keep them alive, just make it so they can't escape. Screaming, begging, and cries to God would be heard from the medbay for months.

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Scout- If Sniper died

Sniper wasn't even supposed to be there. He was supposed to be anywhere else. But he was there, and he was dying. Scout ran to his side, trying to find the wound, his basic first aid skills kicking in as he applied pressure wherever the blood was coming from, while yelling for Medic like he's never yelled before. Sniper just chuckled,

"What are you laughing at, I'm trying to help!" Sniper just pulls Scout's hand away and shows him the blood staining his hand and tape, and pointing to the blood pooling around the wound.

"It's no use." Scout just kept murmuring the word no. Sniper pulled out his keys with great struggle and placed them in Scout's hand, "Take care of the van for me, would ya?" Giving him a weary smile before letting out one last breath. His bat looked painted by the end of the day. Washed off his bat and then just sat in the van after picking up Snipers rifle and hat, putting them back in their rightful place. The van had never felt so empty and cold.

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Scout- If Spy died (Scout thinks Spy is his dad but has no proof)

Scout felt a deep pain seeing Spy be shot down in front of his eyes, an unexplainable pain. He'd seen everyone on his team get hurt at least once, but somewhere deep in his gut, he knew that nothing about this was normal. He ran over to Spy, pulling off his coat and trying to find the wound, Spy just tried to shoo him off.

"Just let me die alone, Scout. I don't deserve to die in company, let alone yours." Scout is taken aback, utterly confused, and angry.

"Spy, I ain't letting you die alone. I'm not letting you die, period. I know we don't always get along, but I care about you, so I'm not leaving." He goes back to trying to find the wound, yelling for Medic to come and help. Spy just looks at Scout, flashes of all the things he never got to have or ever will have haunt him in his final moments, but Scout's willingness to get him help, or even just stay with him, heals something inside Spy. He reaches out, grabbing hold of Scout's arm, saying one final goodbye to the boy he wish he would have raised,

"I've always been proud of you, Scout. je t'aime mon fils, au revoir." (I love you, my son, goodbye)

The words hit Scout deeper than Spy could ever know. Assuming he was saying something to Scout, that would make no sense, but Scout understood French well enough to reply to the dead man.

"J'aurais aimé que tu puisses dire ça avant, au revoir papa." (I wish you could have said that before, goodbye dad.) Scout let his pain be known through the slaughter on the battlefield that day.

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Sniper- if Scout died

Instantly concerned at Scout's expression when he's hit. His face goes from his normal smiling and joking (albeit with a concerned look shining through from time to time) to a face of pure shock and terror. He runs over to Scout as quickly as he can, asking him questions to try and figure out how best to help him.

"Snipes, it's no good," He's coughing when he speaks, and his sentences are getting softer, "I think this is it for me." Sniper can't say anything. He just holds Scout's hand. Wishing he could find the words to express his fear of losing the bond he and Scout had built over the years. Expressing anything other than pained silence. Scout seemed to pick up on this, letting out one last quip, "Don't beat yourself up for not having any words, I don't think anyone could describe me. I'll miss you Snipes, make everyone else's lives hell for me, okay?" Sniper went cold, picking up his rifle, storming off to the best point he could find, and littered the battlefield with bits of brains and skull.

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Spy- if Scout died (Scout knows that Spy is his dad)

Guilt riddled the second he saw Scout fall to the ground. Spy had gotten into a natural habit of protecting Scout from most dangers, claiming each time that Scout was just lucky he happened to be around. But to see Scout be struck down because Spy was unable to protect him and made feelings well up in him that he had tried to bury. He ran to Scout's aid, attempting to help in any way he could, taking off his coat to soak up blood as well as using it to partially pact the wound, Scout let out a soft laugh,

"You'd really ruin your fancy coat for me?" Meant in jest, the joke hit Spy harder than it should have. Wondering if Scout really had doubts on if Spy would sacrifice his life for something as trivial as clothes. Scout saw the look cross Spy's face but didn't have the words to answer the questions floating around in Spy's mind. Scout just reached a hand out to Spy,

"It'll be alright, just uh," his voice breaks a little bit as he asks. "Tell Ma, I love her. She'll love to hear from you again and give here these. He says, handing over his dog tags. Spy looks shocked, wanting to ask when he found out, but Scout was gone before the words left his mouth. The battlefield will never be the same again, stained with corpses and blood. His butterfly knife will never be the same again.

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Solider- if Demo died

Soldier never thought he'd see the day where Demoman would fall to the ground. His friend was so strong, so powerful, nothing could stop him. But there he was, on the ground, blood staining the dirt, and Soldier found himself being truly scared for the first time. He runs faster than he's ever ran before, getting to his side in an instant. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do. He calls for Medic. Trying to somehow comfort Demo. He's never been good with words, wants to express. He knows how much this friendship means to both of them, how deeply they care for each other, he wants to explain this all, to make it known, but all he can say is,

"You're a strong man Demo, this little bullet wound won't take you down!" Demo just gives him a small smile.

"I don't think I'm coming back from this one, lad."

"Don't say that. It won't take you down. This can't take you down!" Demo just extends a hand, hugging Soldier before going limp in his arms. The battle wasn't the same after that. Men wept out of fear, seeing the carnage, knowing they were next to be slaughtered. The battlefield was covered in flesh and bone by nightfall, and he still wasn't done inflicting damage on the ones who took his friend from him.

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Pyro- if Engie died

They go numb. All the color drains from the world around them as they find themselves by Engie's side, heartbroken. Their friend, someone they've come to trust, and have a deep bond with, the only person that they believe can truly understand them is ripped away from them. Engie only looks up at Pyro with a sad face,

"I'll miss you partner, you were the best friend a guy coulda asked for. I was lucky to have you in my life." Tears well up in Pyro's mask, dropping out when they pull the mask off, just enough to be able to speak.

"Please don't leave." Engie raises a hand to their face, wiping away some of the tears.

"I don't think I have much of a choice in the matter. Don't worry though, we'll meet again one day, I'll make sure of it."

The body goes limp in Pyro's arms. The battlefield was scorched. Nothing was left by the time Pyro was finished with it. Only the other nine mercs, the ones who killed Pyro's friend, failing to find a place amidst the fire and ash. Finding themselves at the end of Pyro's flame thrower, pleading for anyone else to come kill them. No one listened. Scorched earth and nine piles of ashes were all that was left as night fell.

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Aftermath! (Short Happy Ending)

Medic managed to revive each merc after hours of tinkering with their corpses, trying every imaginable (and unimaginable) way to resurrect them. He won't tell anyone how he did it, but no one really cares too much. Tears and hugs are shed from many grown people that day <3

(Uh, if you're wondering how Medic came back, the Devil probably just didn't feel like dealing with him and sent him back lmao)

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Hell, hath no fury like a man who just lost his best friend.

Oops, I had to give Scout two because I originally had no one who cared that Spy died lmao. Anyways, I hope you like this Anon, sorry it took way too long to write. I uh didn't think it would be this long 😭

Silly little word count just for funsies: 2337 words, and it clocks in at nine pages in times new roman 12pt font double spaced, just incase you were wondering.

I. Am. Exhausted.

This took at least 4 hours. I'm not complaining, but like Goddamn. New post tomorrow, hopefully.

[aldryrththerainbowheart]

Serendipitous Meeting

Fandom: Bayonetta

Tags: Male!Cereza x reader

Note: I've finally done the unthinkable! I've turned my and @cerezzzita 's chaotic conversations into sort of a headcanon ficlet. This is for people with very specific wants and needs, so basically for me and maybe three other people.

Might add part two, we'll see.

You were just putting some flowers on your gradmothers grave for her anniversary when you heard a ruckus not far away. Understandably curious, you headed in direction of the strange noise.

When you came closer, a stray bullet almost hit your forehead, instead it landed in the stone pillar next to you. Quickly, you dove behind one the tombstones. There, behind the tombstone next to yours, you found pudgy stout man spitting profanities in italian.

Amidst the chaos, you saw as a roof of a mausoleum suddenly burst open, as if someone, or something fell on it. But you didn’t saw anything. Your puzzlement grew as you heard mettalic ringing of a blade sqinging right above you.

With a terrified yelp, you scrambled away on all fours. Even as you looked around in your hasty escape, you didn’t saw anything, but you felt it, this otherworldy presence.

„Look out!“ You heard the mens voice, but you had no chance to react. There, in the sliver between realities, you saw a horrifing monster. And you were too stunned to even be afraid.

Luckily for you, there was a guardian angel watching after you that day. Bullets wheezed past you as a man in black laid waste to the terrifying creatures. You were so confused and helpless that all you could do was cover your head with your arms and cover in the midst of battle.

Gunshots, inhuman screeches and dying gurgles were switches for deathly silence. When you finally braved yourself to unfurl yours arms from your eyes you saw him.

Precariously perched a tone of the tombstones, impressively long legs clad entirely in black, as your eyes travelled up and up, you saw a golden medallion with moon incrested on it, which rested on even more impressive chest, you almost darted your eyes away in embarassment. When you finally rested your vision on his face, the first thing you noticed was an elegant sleek glasses perched upon perfect thin nose. You weren’t used to seeing these types of glasses on men, they usually opted for something for angular, big, and masculine, but as your eyes glided over his beautiful countenance, you must admit they suited him well. You were too ensnared by the mans appearance that it took you some time to notice that his brows were cinched in annoyance.

„Ugh, Rodin has truly outdone himself this time. To think I had to cancel afternoon sermon for this handful of low-ranked vermin…“ the mysterious man stopped dusting himself off when he saw one of the creatures under next to him on the ground, trying to crawl away. He looked at it in disdain and without another thought raised on his legs high above his head, then slammed it right over creatures head. „…how tacky.“

The man’s deep, smooth voice curled around your ear like a whisp of perfumed smoke. You almost missed the wet crunch of the skull underneath his boot.

With a flick of his wrist, as if benevolently dismissing this whole affair, he turned to the italian, which looked even shorter standing next to him.

„Honestly, finding a real challenge in these parts would be…what’s that word again? When you find something good without looking for it?“

„Serendipity.“ You heard yourself say.

You saw the man’s shoulders tense, then slowly, he turned to you and you were once again helpless victim to that smokey grey gaze.

„You…you can see me?“ He took one step towards you, head tilting to the side like a cat, eyeing its next prey.

You haven’t got the chance to answer. A shadow appeared above you and you saw a stone boulder hurling towards you. You had your breath nocked out of you as much larger body knocked your over and thrown you to safety.

The last thing you remember before passing out was a feeling of two generous pectorals mushed against your face.