#and id be dead . like . just gone . no more pain
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Come back
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader
Summary: The team lose their friend (I’m bad at summaries sorry)
Word count: 3,919
Warnings: Angst. Sad times. Swearing. A grave gets dug up. Brock Rumlow.
Masterlist Series Masterlist
In Loving Memory Of Y/n L/n
Killed In Action Saving 5 Innocent Children
Dedicated Agent
Friend To Everyone
10/05/1990 - 10/05/2017
“Pass me a donut will ya”
Everyday since the plaque went up 5 years ago, Bucky always reads it. Everyday a small chuckle will leave his lips when reading the quote Tony made sure was engraved in the marble. ‘She always said it and she did tell me once that when she died to have it on the plaque they HAD to give her’ Tony repeated that conversation when they deciding what would be put on the plaque. It was true, did she always say it. He can hear her voice saying the words he reads every day.
Putting his two fingers to his lips he lightly kisses them, the gently places his fingers on her photo. Her ID photo took 8 tries to take because she wouldn’t sit still or she wouldn’t keep a straight face. In the end they settled on the final one, her with a huge smile on her face. She told Bucky once when he had asked-
‘why are you smiling in your photo?’
‘Because a smile a day keeps the dentist at bay’
‘That’s not an expression’
‘Well it should be’
He missed her more and more every day. Today however left a bitter taste in his mouth, today was the anniversary of her death.
Every year since they watched their friend die, the team makes sure they don’t have missions just so they can celebrated her death as well as her birthday.
Every year on that painful day they gather in the common room and watch all of her favourite films and play all the board games she went crazy over, they would order and/or cook her favourite food. Then they would each blow out a candle on the large donut Tony had specially made for her birthday.
He remembers that day when Tony surprised her with it a few years before her death. Her squeals made everyone laugh, she made everyone blow out one candle ‘it’s my birthday and I want everyone to get a wish’ and as the years passed they still did it.
They were halfway through the third film when director Fury walked in.
“I’m sorry to interrupt but you guys need to hear this”
“What is it?” Tony asks sitting up from where he was slouching.
“Earlier today there was an attack at SHIELD headquarters”
“How many are dead?” Steve asks.
“The real question you need to ask is how many are alive Rogers”
“Well?” Natasha speaks up from where she sits next to Wanda.
“None. 28 people are in critical condition” each member of the team murmur their different abbreviations of ‘oh god’.
“Who was it do you know?” Steve questions.
Walking around the sofa and sitting down on the lone chair Fury sighs “There’s was only one person. With a symbol on their back, take a wild guess which one”
“Hydra” They all speak at the same time.
“Yep. Now heres the reason why I’m here. The computers were tampered with, the IT department has managed to find out what was deleted”
“Go on” Tony says when Fury trails off.
“The file.. the only file to be downloaded and deleted was Y/n’s.”
The teams reaction was different from one another’s however Bucky, Bucky’s heart stopped, he’d gone cold and clammy at the same time, so many questions circled his mind. Why hers? Why now? Why couldn’t they just leave her alone? Why her of all agents?
It was as if Steve could read his mind because it was him that asked “Why hers? She’s been dead for 6 years now. Why would Hydra want her file?”
“We-I don’t know. Now here’s the part you guys are not going to like. Ross wants Y/n’s body to be dug up”
Before anyone get say anything “Absolutely fucking not! You touch her grave I’ll kill you myself!” Bucky shouts.
“Then I’ll bring you back to life just to kill you again” booms Thor.
“Listen to me, I don’t want to do this! Ro-“
“I don’t care what Ross wants. It’s bad enough her headstone needs to be replaced every two months because of arseholes keep wanting a piece of it, now you want to dig her up? It nearly killed all of us watching her coffin go into that hole now you want us to watch it come back up?” Bucky’s left hand is balled tight in a fist as he paces back and forth.
“You don’t have to watch and you need to watch your tone” Fury shot back.
“What are you going to do with her?” Wanda asks before Bucky can say anything.
“We’ll put her somewhere different- safer. It’s just a precaution and we have no idea what they want with her file. We don’t know why they picked her out of all active agents and Barnes I don’t like this anymore than you do, Y/n was” taking in a deep breath “I miss her too. I’m sorry but I’m going to give Ross the go ahead on this. You guys don’t have to to be there when it happens and when we find out what’s going on we’ll bury her again. I promise”
For a full 20 minutes after Fury left they were sitting in complete silence each trying to wrap their heads around the information they were just given. SHIELD headquarters had been attacked by Hydra - using just one person to assassinate so many agents. Out of all the Agents of SHIELD alive or dead they pick their friends file, their friend who they loved and adored the same friend who always had a smile on her face no matter what, the one person who could light up a room just by walking inside of it. A person who was so full of happiness and sunshine yet deadly and damn right terrifying when she needed to be.
Now said friend who they have grieved for, for the past 6 years was about to have her resting place disturbed. Like Bucky had said to Fury, it nearly killed each and everyone of the Avengers and the Guardians - who came to Earth just to attend her funeral - they knew that the probability of dying on the job was high, of course they did, they just never expected it to happen to her, they had to watch as their friend, confidant, colleague, the better half to all of them lay in a box surrounded with 4 camera crews broadcasting their every move just so the whole world could watch them in their most vulnerable moment. They watched as her coffin was gently placed into the ground, knowing that it was going to be the last time they would ever see her after the soil would cover her.
They broke. Plain and simple, they broke. Worst part of it was is that the world lapped it up, the images of Natasha more famously known as the Black Widow standing at the grave of her best friend in bright colour clothing crying, was every where - people joked about how the deadly assassin was crying, saying she wasn’t as strong as everyone made her out to be because she cried. Y/n was undoubtedly the only person Nat felt comfortable with, the one person who saw Natasha as Natasha, not the Black Widow but her friend Natty. She was actually the first person in a very long time to see Nat cry, it was when the goldfish - that Y/n had brought her after she found out that Nat had always wanted one - had died, she felt so unbelievably stupid for crying over it but all Y/n did was hold her, told her to stop being silly for calling herself stupid. They buried it near the lake, just the two of them. Y/n even had bagpipes playing on her phone which made the redhead chuckle.
Wanda was called a crybaby because guess what? She was crying, she was crying because she was burying her best friend! The first person other than Steve to treat her like a human being. The first person to show her that not all people were bad, the one person who wasn’t scared of her that time when Wanda had lost control of her powers making people run in fear, not Y/n though nope she was the one who managed to help Wanda ground herself.
Steve was also mocked for crying for the loss of his friend, ‘Captain America weeps at funeral’, ‘Captain America is weak’, ‘Steve Rogers needs to give up the shield’. Y/n was the one who taught him how to use technology, showed him how the modern world worked and operated. She was the first person on his side when he wanted to track Bucky down. He loved her, not romantically, but he loved her so much. She made him feel normal, she never treat him like he was nearing a 100 years old who was missing 70 years of his life, like he actually was.
Sam just like the rest was called weak for crying at his friends funeral. The two of them drove the whole team insane when they were together (which was pretty much all the time) Like Steve he loved Y/n, she was his sister, his angel as he always called her. She was his best friend, favourite person in the world. The photo of Sam falling to his knees at the side of his angels grave was blasted all over the internet.
The photos of Tony clinging on to his now wife Pepper made front pages as well. ‘Billionaire Tony Stark cries at funeral of dead agent’. ‘Billionaire Tony Stark has to be held up by woman at funeral’. He saw Y/n as his daughter - shit she called him dad and he introduced her to anyone as his daughter. She didn’t see him as a bank, nope she hated it when he would give her money, one time she had to ask him if she could borrow money from him doing it with tears in her eyes because she felt ashamed of herself for asking. A few weeks later she gave him the money back with interest, when he told her to stop being silly and for her to keep it they argued for nearly 3 hours. She managed to slip the money into his pocket without him even realising it. Tony loved her so deeply, when he and Pepper found out they was having a baby girl they already had her name picked out - Morgan, Y/n’s middle name.
‘God of Thunder Thor spotted crying at funeral’ Like everyone else of course he was crying he lost his friend, she made him laugh, she made confused - once she convinced him that she was invisible and that he was the only person who could see or hear her, for 3 weeks he was absolutely convinced he was the only person on planet Earth who could see her. It wasn’t until Sam got back from a mission that the whole jig was up. He was truly captivated by her but even more so especially after she was able to lift Mjölnir higher up than Steve was able to, waved his hammer around like it weighed nothing. He, like Bucky, blamed himself for her death, he thought no believed it was his fault she was no longer with them. So yes of course he cried.
Bruce wasn’t allowed to attend his friends funeral because when she died he couldn’t control the big green beefy fella - as Y/n called him - from coming out. Fury and Ross said it would be bad and take the attention away from Y/n if the Hulk was there. He agreed. Y/n loved Hulk like she loved Bruce, she wasn’t afraid of the Hulk - Christ she once tried to have an arm wrestle with him! She didn’t once make Bruce feel like he was a freak or a dangerous monster as small minded people called him. No she treat him with respect and kindness. It took 2 months for him to go from being Hulk to being Bruce again.
Clint turned his hearing aids off for months after her death, he remembered her asking him to teach her how to sign language just so he didn’t have to always wear them. That was an interesting experience to say the very least. Clint adored her, adored the spark she carried around, adored the warmth and tranquillity she oozed. Her strength, willpower and willingness that no one could dream of having been one of the many things he loved about her, and what he misses. The day after she died he went home, home to his wife and children where he collapsed in Laura’s arms and cried himself to sleep that night. He too was mocked for being weak.
Then there was the photos of Bucky who was struggling to stand strong. ‘The world’s deadliest assassin cries’ was the headline on magazine’s for weeks or his personal favourite one ‘Winter Soldier more like Weak Soldier’ Like Nat he too was mocked because he wasn’t wearing all black but bright colours - hell they all were, it was what she wanted and whatever Y/n wanted, she got. Her death hit him the hardest. He loved her. He still loves her after 6 years of her being gone. ‘True love is what them two idiots have’ Tony would say. He blamed himself for what had happened to her, he had just turned his back for a second to hand a child to an agent when the whole building came down trapping her inside, he should of done more he always tells himself. Other than Steve she was his best friend, the one person who wasn’t afraid off his arm, the only person who could calm him down after a nightmare. She was the first person he opened up to and not once did she judge him or called him names, after he finished telling her all the things he remembered she got up and walked over to him and pulled him in for a hug, crying her heart out and apologising over and over again. The worst part for Bucky other than losing her was that he never got to tell her how madly in love he was with her.
“It doesn’t make sense” Steve was the one who broke the silence.
“Which part?” Tony asks.
“Everything. The attack, Y/n’s file, Ross wanting her to be dug up. Nothing makes sense”
“We need to figure this out. We can’t let them do this to her” Sam shakes his head, whilst trying to keep the tears he was fighting back at bay.
“Fury let me into his thoughts. They think they’re trying to find out how to recreate her genes.” Wanda finally speaks.
Once again the room went quiet. Y/n back story was still a bit of a mystery to the team. It was just something she never spoke about, they knew of the scars that covered the majority of her body and they did know of her mutant gene and that was it.
Y/n was exactly like Logan, better known as Wolverine. Though Logan’s a Beta level mutant whereas Y/n was an Alpha level, the only one of her kind. She had complete control over her abilities, her fighting skills were untouchable and unmatched. She was a part of the Weapon X program, when she was a young child she was taken from the orphanage she was placed at as a baby - and unknown to the team she was subjected to the worst abuse imaginable at the hands of The Facility. Unlike Logan though her Adamantium claws weren’t poisonous.
And what made Y/n even stronger was just like Wanda she had telekinesis abilities, though Y/n was a bit stronger than the other woman.
They didn’t know that Logan had found her when she was 16, with a chain wrapped around her neck that was connected to the wall, in a dark room that only had a toilet - nothing else. Logan had managed to get her out, which wasn’t easy considering she didn’t trust him and he wasn’t her handler. Logan kept her with him for roughly three years, moving around place to place, keeping each other safe. He was growing weak and unable to keep his promise to her, promise being he’d keep her safe. With a heavy heart he took her to Fury, begging the other man to take care of her. And since then she was a highly respected SHIELD agent and member of the Avengers.
They knew if Hydra were trying to recreate her genes they would have an army that would be unstoppable.
“But why dig her up? Hydra has her file so therefore they… they…”
“Tony? You okay?”
“Other than finding out my daughters grave will be disturbed, I’m fine”. He gets up and walks away.
One by one they follow his lead, leaving Bucky and Thor to blow out the candles - making the same wish as the previous years.
For her to come back.
The very next day they all gather at the cemetery and watched with a heavy heart as her grave gets dug up.
Three days later Fury gets a phone call “Fury you need to come to the Pentagon as soon as you can and don’t tell anyone”
“On my way”.
As soon as he got there he meets with Ross. “What’s all this about?”
“It’s not her”
“What are you talking about Ross?”
“Y/n… it’s not her in the coffin.”
“Hold on, you fucking lied to me you told me you wasn’t going to touch her!”
“Fury we brought a dead agent to the Pentagon for a reason”.
“A dead agent? Remember that dead agent saved you life how many times? Oh yeah six. Six fucking times she saved your arse Ross.” The anger coming off Fury made everyone in the room shift foot to foot.
“Sorry, we brought Y/n to the Pentagon for a reason”
“Why?”
“Simple. We wanted to make sure that they hadn’t gotten to her so we checked, and it’s not her. If-if you just look to your left Nick you’ll see the body that was in her coffin”
Fury stood there for a few minutes just staring at Ross before he looked over to where he had pointed.
There laid the decaying body of a woman, that was most definitely not Y/n.
“H-how is this possible?”
“We don’t know. It’s a possibility that Hydra got her body first, but it doesn’t explain why they would put this person in her place”
“Or she could be alive?” Fury asked hopefully.
“She’s not” Ross puts a hand to Fury’s shoulder “I checked the footage of the attack and it’s not her, I asked some of the agents that could talk if the person had claws and they all said no” Ross hated himself for calling her ‘a dead agent’ even if she was just that, but like Fury had said, she saved his life more times than one. When Y/n was introduced to him, he had to admit he was intimidated by her. But as time went on they gained each others trust and respect.
“Fury you can’t tell the Winter Soldier about this”
“James. His name is James and you honestly expect me not to say anything to the team?”
“We have no idea how any of them will react, especially him and Thor”
He hated to admit that Ross did have a point, there was no idea how the two men who blamed themselves for her death, would react.
Sighing “What are we going to do?”
“I’m not sure. Let’s just hope and pray that they don’t have her I guess”.
The screams of pure terror coming from civilians were muffled by the gunfire and explosions, the bodies of civilians and SHIELD agents scattered amongst the wreckage. Hydra made another attack on the Capital.
The Avengers were able to stop Hydra agents from pushing further forwards. But when the ground started to shake they all looked at each other.
Both Steve and Bucky gulped at the sight of the Uber Tank, memories of seeing it during the war flashed through their minds.
“What the fuck is that!” Tony questioned.
“T-that’s Hydras Tank - I thought I destroyed it” Steve answers.
The rain pour of gunfire came to a stop on both sides, agents of Hydra smirked, agents of SHIELD looked terrified. The rumbling stopped, the only sound that could be heard was rubble still falling in the background.
When the hatch came open they waited with bated breath. Rumlow.
Brock Rumlow climbed up and out of the tank, standing on top with a megaphone.
“Do you like her? She’s a real beauty isn’t she? Took us longer than I care to admit to rebuild her but here she is!” He laughs “Hey so the attack the other week on your headquarters, sorry about that. We just needed something, take a wild guess what” Not receiving an answer he sighs and tilts his head to the side “It was to get your friends file! Jesus do I have to do all the work around here?”
“I’ve got a clean shot” Voiced Clint from where ever he was at.
“Not yet” Steve says.
“Truth to be told guys we didn’t need her file, we just wanted to give you a heads up to what was going to come” Waving his arms towards to chaos “I knew if we took her file it would get your attention, and it did didn’t it. I also know that her coffin was taken to the Pentagon, and I also know that Fury’s been keeping a secret from the almighty Avengers”
“What are you talking about?” Steve shouted.
Rumlow chuckles “It’s about time you spoke Captain America, the secret is… how about I just show you huh?” Stomping three times on the Uber Tank “Little bird why don’t you come out so you can play”
The hatch comes open again, a figure all in black - very similar outfit that the Winter Soldier use to wear - emerged and moving their way to stand next to Rumlow.
“Our little bird here is even stronger than she once was. We gave her the serum and it just enhanced her strength.” Moving closer to the person he whispers something none of them could hear. “Look I’ve gotta go, don’t worry I’ll be taking this beauty with me so no need to cry. I’ll let little bird have all the fun, she deserves it” Placing a kiss to the side of the woman’s head, he pushes her off. “Good luck everyone, you’re gonna need it” Climbing back into the tank, the tracks started to rumble once again before leaving the same way it came.
Nobody moved even long after Rumlow and the Uber Tank had gone. That was until some Hydra agents started to drop to the floor with foam spilling from their mouths.
Little bird as Rumlow called her took one step in front of the other until she was roughly 100 feet on the Avengers.
Her hand slowly came up to her face, removing the bottom half of her mask then the glasses.
They couldn’t believe it.
They didn’t want to believe it.
“Y/n?”
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Tags: @bethexo07 @doublebassallie
~ banner credit goes to @sweetpeapod ~
#marvel#bucky barnes#bucky barns x y/n#marvel fanfiction#bucky barnes x reader#marvel fic#bucky barnes x you#bucky x reader#bucky x y/n#bucky x you#Asset#avengers x fem!reader#Bucky angst#bucky barnes x y/n#avengers angst#Bucky Barnes Asset series#bucky and reader#bucky fic#james barnes x you#james bucky buchanan barnes
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lost psych episode where they find the dead bodies of two middle aged men in some random ass motel, no easily discernible cause of death for either of them they're just laying there on the bed together. only one of them has any kind of ID and it's from fucking new jersey??? so with that and the rest of their room plus some statements from the motel workers shawn can only tell two things 1) these guys were definitely in a romantic relationship with each other and 2) they were some kind of road trip. neither of these things are helpful right now and nobody really suspects foul play but shawn has a weird feeling so they go to woody and he gives them some more info. they both have the same cause of death, morphine overdose, and the guy with the ID was actually suffering from late stage thymoma and was quite literally days away from dying of that, so he was most likely euthanized, but the other guy is weird. cause he wasn't suffering from any immediately life threatening diseases or anything. well, his liver had definitely taken a severe beating during his life, some form of addiction, and there was a significant amount of muscle removed from his leg at some point which would have made walking incredibly painful, but nothing immediate. so shawn goes back to them being a couple so like okay maybe the no-ID guy euthanized his partner and then killed himself? but that's so dramatic, nobody really thinks that kind of stuff happens in real life, and there's still something bothering shawn about this but they let it go. and then shawn remembers like five months ago hearing about this crazy doctor who had gone to jail for driving a car through his boss' house, was released for some reason, and then destroyed the plumbing in the hospital he worked at so he was going to go back to jail, but then died in a fire of some abandoned building. and when shawn looks up that story it's the dude without an ID which means this crazy ass man faked his death only to kill himself and his partner five months later — oh wait he would've gone to jail he wouldn't be with his partner when he died that's why he faked his death he wanted to be with his partner — so he makes some calls to the hospital this guy worked at and sure enough the administrator there tells him in an incredibly annoyed voice that yes James Wilson used to work here before he got cancer and his "best friend" died in a fire, yes he left town pretty much immediately after his "best friend's" funeral oh he's not actually dead? that is incredibly shocking thank you. shawn can't believe this guy is so calm about this because what the fuck. what the fuck was wrong with these two old men why did they decided to kill themselves here?? and the administrator is just like "well Santa Barbara is the murder capital of the US. they probably thought it'd be funny." and hangs up. credits roll.
#psych#house m.d.#hate crimes md#hilson#shawn spencer#james wilson#gregory house#post that'll do crazy numbers with people who think the fake psychic detective and the asshole doctor are the best holmes adaptations#wilson and house absolutely would do this too
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Topic: MALEVOLENT PODCAST (PART 20)
TW : this whole thing is about !death and suicide! and very very much just me complaining and crying about the POEM TO HIS PARENTS
Starting off strong, Arthur's parents killed themselves when he was young. He wrote a poem about it, about his parents, about his grief and wanting it back, wanting comfort and boy, oh boy! I am SOBBING. I couldn't find a written copy of his poem so I just kept replaying it and writing it down in my notes app
This is the poem ( if I misspelled anything, don't tell me, just ignore it please)
"I don't recall how we met
as I was far too young
I knew you not as you are now
because to me you were the sun
and always present warmth and glow
a light that's always there
to wipe the teas from out my eyes
to brush my matted hair
and I would lie if not to say our relationship was pure.
I am young
a cause of grief of this I am quite sure
despite all this id be remiss to say there was no love
a calmness and a careful word
a nudge not a shove
there were nights I recall
I needed you the most
I'd crawl from bed and walk to you
and you would hold me close
between the love of both of you
to ail my sleeping strife
I never felt so safe
yet so cold
in all my life.
I too recall a time I was trying to impress
a goofy boy named Arthur dressed in his mother's best
was only dad who laughed with me
as mother you withdrew but
when he joined in dressing up
you cried in laughter too
and there was the time we all did find ourselves stuck in the rain
mother had her gown near soaked
and dad was much the same
and though we were miserable
mother found us a spot of dry
which we all ate a pretend meal
jelly and sea pie.
and now you're gone
and I can't explain the loss that lingers here
the size of a young boys parents
he wishes could be near
and there are nights
where he needs you
and he still crawls out of bed
and walks toward your bedroom door
before recalling you're dead.
and I want someone to tell that boy
to swallow all the hate
that nothing he could have said
would have changed his parents fate
and I want that someone to be you
as I write this
but alas
this pain will linger with me still
I pray this too shall pass."
Oh my God. That's emotional and so important to him I wonder if the people in the YouTube comments had anything to say about it?
NO THEY DIDN'T
One person said "glad we got to learn more about johns backstory" WHAT ABOUT HIS SOUL CRUSHING POEM
Sorry forgot some of your parents didn't kill themselves, my mistake, so so so sorry that you're crooked and evil and didn't sob your eyes out when he recited his poem. (I am completely normal and chill)
Another person said something like "Arthur, the boy who lived" and yk this could mean many things, maybe because he's survived many life threatening situations and actually escaped death, maybe it's because of the ending of the episode. OR it's because his parents are dead and if that's why
I am going to roll myself into a hole and throw UP.
There's nothing terribly wrong with the joke I'm just dramatic and a crybaby
I need to stop complaining so NOW I'm going to take in this poem like it should have been.
Let's point out my "highlights"
"because to me you were the sun" when you're young and have good parents you like them most the time, he was young when they died, he looked up to them still and saw them in such a bright and amazing way
"and now you're gone and I can't explain the loss that lingers here the size of a young boys parents he wishes could be near and there are nights where he needs you and he still crawls out of bed and walks toward your bedroom door before recalling you're dead"
This whole part has me in FUCKING SHAMBLES, IM SHAKING AND SOBBING, IM GOING TO BE THINKING ABOUT THIS ON MY DEATH BED.
"and I want someone to tell that boy to swallow all the hate. that nothing he could have said would have changed his parents fate"
God Arthur you just like to kick me right in the stomach don't you, this almost brought me to my knees I'm not even going, I almost went onto the floor. Put this into perspective, you're a kid who is around your parents ALL the time then one day they kill themselves, even as a kid survivors guilt is a thing, most the time survivors guilt is seen in like horror movies and shit but dude, when I found out my mom committed I thought smth like I wish I could have done something, it should have been me, even though I was ten I felt accountable for what happened because it feels like all the love you gave was never enough because in the end they left by choice. That will LINGER that will STAIN and it is forever, not matter how faint it seems at times it'll never really go away. So I know like first hand, a child who's parents killed themselves or even just have dead parents, all have thought at one time "why not me."
"nothing he could have said would have changed his parents fate"
I'll never get over this line, EVER.
Not only do I relate I FEEL this, this whole poem was like a slap in the face, hit after hit, I felt seen but in a way I didn't want to be. I felt like I was exposed and I don't think I've ever read anything that's made me feel so read to.
See this is the part where I explain that I am not complaining about people not caring about his poem and this very important part to him, it's more of me really complaining that I care and relate to much so it's overwhelming
I am not here to be like "you don't care about this like I do? Die" and if I sound like that I was joking or having a moment because I'm going off the rails with a crazy train (I love that song)
And obviously of course it's sad and everything but not everyone can relate and think about it from the way I do and I get that
Not everyone has experienced something like this and I'm glad!
But I guess since I related I was just so shocked and a little confused on why I didn't see anyone talk about it
Sure the poem isn't metaphorically fancy and is more blunt then most but it's gets the point across and I like that. I like that a lot
Anyways I'm going to draw Arthur angst, love you guys bye!
#arthur malevolent#john malevolent#malevolent podcast#malevolent#malevolent angst#tw: suidice#tw: sui mention
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anyways was thinking of a thor ragnarok rewrite last night as sleep refused to take me. obviously it can't be exactly like actual ragnarok bc marvel/mcu's norse stuff is..nothing like actual norse lore but i figured it could still have some more similarities than what the actual movie did.
(also if i were to rewrite the movie this isn't actually what id do, this was just. idk. what i was thinkin about as i was desperate to actually falll asleep).
anyways i figured this rewrite would actually work best if it rewrote the end of tdw first- loki gets stabbed by kruse and passes out for a while (rather than being able to pick himself back up in secret like what actually happened) and in that time odin senses that loki isn't dead and sends some guards to collect him. since loki technically broke the law *again* (committed treason, escaped jail, etc), he can enforce even more punishment, especially now that frigga is dead and she can't do anything about it. That, combined with some prophecy from midgard (or maybe asgard, idk) as an excuse added justifying reason, he sentences loki to the worst thing he can think up: to be bound against a rock with a snake dripping venom on him, his lips sewn shut so he can never lie again, forced to be in his jotun form, for all of eternity. In the deepest dungeon.
Thor obviously doesn't know about any of this, because he thinks loki dead.
so loki is taken, bound to a rock (idk if it's really work to have him bound with organs tho, since he doesn't have children in the mcu. maybe it's his..pet's? or maybe just chain. idk.), a snake coiled above him, seiðr bound, lips sewn shut, and his æsir form taken. He is completely alone, save the guards outside the chamber.
i don't really ship logyn in the mcu, (bc she doesn't exist in the mcu and their relationship feels to me like it would span for several centuries prior, so just randomly introducing her in one movie would seem strange to me), but i follow some people who do, so i wondered how i could incorporate that anyways, and make it not seem too strange.
Sigyn is one of the guards who has a shift guarding loki's chambers. She feels awful about it though, and eventually decides she has to do something to help. She ventures into the chamber and decides to catch the dripping venom with her helmet.
She also tries to cut the stitches from lokis lips, but when one string is cut, it doubles and repierces the skin, now twice the strength. She tries again, cutting them all at once this time (rather than individually), and grabs them all at once and pulls them out before they can multiply and repair themselves (luckily this time it works). She almost regrets it, though, as now she has to hear loki scream himself hoarse, and she can't do anything else to ease the pain.
she stays for several weeks/months/idk, holding the helmet above loki, having to empty it every so often. Perhaps she gets to know loki in this time, perhaps she doesn't. Perhaps she notices a certain brand on his shoulder, perhaps she does not. Perhaps she knew loki vaguely before, and now muses to herself what could have possibly changed him. Perhaps she didn't know him before, and doesn't muse. I don't know. But eventually she decides she needs to find and tell thor.
as hard as it is, she leaves loki to suffer alone (she tries to see if she can leave the helmet or fashion some contraption to make sure the poison cannot get in his eyes, but she cannot). After some searching and asking, she finds the mourning sullen prince thor and tells him what has occurred. Thor, now filled with joy, rage, guilt, horror, and sadness, breaks loki out with sigyn.
Loki is a mess. He has gone blind- whether temporarily or permanently is unknown- and has visible burns from the acid venom. His hairs a mess and his skin sweaty and thin. You can see his rib cage with how thin he's become. He wasn't allowed much clothes at the start of his punishment, but what few he had have been burned by the venom as well. He can't walk. He's barely conscious, and what little bit he is is just filled with delirium. They basically have to carry him.
They hide away from asgard (or at least the palace). And then ragnarok gets unleashed and they have to fix it etc and in the end they realize that it wasn't literally loki's being freed that incited ragnarok, but it was necessary for him to be freed so they could help stop/fix it/lessen the damage etc idk i was pretty tired at this point i wasn't thinking of details. anyways
idk if that made any sense lol but i'll tag the logyn people i follow/was thinking of
@therese-lokidottir @jonquilclegane @cosmic0artist
#did this make sense#is this anything#unityrain.txt#logyn#sigyn#mcu sigyn#loki#mcu loki#tr loki#ragnarok loki#thor ragnarok#thor ragnarok criticism#fic#fanfic#fic idea#movie rewrite#thor ragnarok rewrite
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ii. for you my love i kill
pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader
word count: 6.5k
synopsis: miguel visits the hospital to tie up some loose ends then makes sure you got home safe
tags: whump/angst, protective/dark miguel o’hara, black cat!reader
warnings: reference of past canonical sexual assault, some torture, broken bones, miguel kills a guy
ao3: read here
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After Miguel left you crying in that alley, he had expected his night to end there.
The plan had originally been for him to head back to his apartment and get as much sleep as possible; no detours, no distractions. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d rested for more than three consecutive hours, but if the Spider-Man wanted to continue starting his days at the crack of dawn, then Miguel O’Hara needed some good ol’ shut-eye. This should’ve been an easy-to-follow, hard-to-fuck-up plan.
Except, he hadn’t gone home and was instead currently perched outside the window of a hospital room four stories high.
Because the thing was, Miguel had lied to you—the man you had tried to kill tonight wasn’t dead. A few feet away, the target in question was bedridden but very alive, receiving medical attention for the damage you’d inflicted onto him.
When Miguel stumbled upon you relentlessly clawing at a noncombative man who laid prone in the street, his instincts had compelled him to act first and ask questions later. Every second wasted brought the man closer to death as you’d shown no sign of stopping your flurry of attacks anytime soon. So, Spider-Man had snuck up from behind and put you in a chokehold, compressing your carotid artery just enough to render you unconscious.
While you were passed out, the apparent victim had departed from the scene in a flying ambulance, which left Spider-Man alone to handle the apparent perpetrator: you.
You weren’t what he had expected.
As witness to your capacity for violence, there were certain adjectives Miguel would have thought applied to you, like unfeeling and inhuman. But you’d surprised him by being the opposite: fervent and compassionate.
Which made it irritatingly difficult to figure you out.
Not that he wanted to—he didn’t.
It was just that you had seemed so lost at the chance that this man, who you’d attempted to rid from society, might have survived. Miguel intimately understood the single-minded pursuit of a goal that had become the axis upon which your whole world now hinged. He knew what it meant to latch onto the mere hope that achieving a certain goal might suffice as enough of a sacrifice to stain the door to your heart with lamb’s blood and convince the Angel of Death sent by your best-forgotten past to leave you be, to pass over you.
And because he (unfortunately) had ample experience in this regard, all it had taken was hearing the desperation in your voice and seeing the begrudgingly-pleading look in your eyes to pull the following words right out of his mouth:
You got him, he’d assured you. Already dead when I arrived.
Miguel was a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one of them; among his plethora of epithets, prevaricator was notably absent. He spoke the truth as he understood it, even if it pained him to do so. Even if he wanted to tell himself a lie.
Even if he’d rather use his bare hands to carve a shelter out of Utopian falsehoods and reside in purposefully-ignorant bliss
Moreover, Miguel was unlike the vast majority of Spider-People in that he did not adhere to a strict no-kill rule, either. So the moment those two short sentences left his lips, the fate of the man on the other side of this window pane had been sealed.
“John Doe” was as good as dead.
John Doe; the name presiding medical staff had assigned to the patient of unknown origin. He’d been admitted without an ID card, and his disfigured face didn’t do identification efforts any favors either. You had carved out chunks of flesh from his cheeks, and no patch of skin had been spared the deep, inflamed gashes imparted by your claws.
In the wake of your vengeance, he had become more thing than person.
Luckily, Miguel had Lyla. The AI had pinpointed the man in question by extracting his DNA from remnant blood on the Spider-Man suit and running a cross-comparison with the hundreds of thousands of DNA profiles stored in the city’s database. If he had any prior involvements with the law, there would be a match.
And there was.
John Doe was actually Trent Michaels.
A recent college graduate, son of his school’s dean. Star athlete, doted on by his professors and peers. Squeaky-clean record.
It’d been all too easy to learn your identity thereafter, to then find unsealed court records for a case marked dead on arrival, old images of you smiling, carefree and trusting. Reconciling the life-hardened woman who he’d confronted in the alley and that bright-eyed girl as being one and the same was a challenge, but not impossible. There was still much of her in you, even if she only appeared during the brief moments your guard was down.
As a mechanism for survival, you had been forced to construct walls around yourself of such height and of such thickness that they were too insurmountable for most to scale and too impenetrable for the rest to infiltrate. A man’s wretchedness had been the catalyst for these defensive measures which, while successful in keeping others out, also kept you locked in, trapping you with the demons that weren’t so easily deterred.
Feelings of self-loathing and helplessness; thoughts of self-blame and fruitless what-if scenarios. You were resigned to dealing with it all alone. Though he similarly shared that sentiment, Miguel’s concern was that you’d gladly destroy yourself just to catch all that haunted you within the blast range of your implosion.
Mutually assured destruction.
He refused to stand idly by while you became collateral damage in your own quest for vengeance. The longer Miguel ruminated on the matter, the more his anger toward Michaels grew. His ire tempted him to detonate this ticking time bomb of a human so that there’d be no chance of it exploding around you. But his logic commanded him to suppress the urge to unsheathe his talons and refrain from tearing the man limb from limb.
Sé paciente, sé paciente, sé paciente. Miguel recited the words like a mantra meant to tether himself to the present then pinched the bridge of his nose to assuage an impending migraine. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.
To set the record straight, showing up to the hospital had not been a premeditated decision. One minute Miguel was swinging through Nueva York, taking the usual route that led to his apartment, and the next he was here, preparing to break into a facility for the sick and injured.
Since he had arrived, however, his mind had begun concocting a plan, officially converting this would-be crime of passion into an act of murder. Except—
—killing that maggot piece of shit isn’t murder. It’s what I’m owed.
Not murder. Retribution.
From the shadows, Miguel observed the medical staff’s next three rounds and soundly concluded that they were spaced fifteen minutes apart. That gave him fifteen minutes to do what he needed to do.
With sufficient information on both the premises and the target, operation take-out-the-trash was a go. He dug his fingers under the bottom edge of the double-hung window and slowly pushed upward, sliding it open just enough to allow him to step through and into the room.
Inside, it was quiet save for the steady beeping of a heart monitor and the faint whistling of air entering and exiting through the nostrils of a recently-broken nose. Everything tied back to the bastard who was laying on the hospital bed as if it were an altar and he was its sacrificial offering to the gods.
But there were no gods here; only Spider-Man.
This ritual wasn’t to bring plentiful rain or a bountiful harvest; it was to cage a monster’s soul in the confines of Hell and set free yours from the clutches of all that which sought to do you harm. It was to cleanse the revolting sight that was a supine Michaels sleeping peacefully, oblivious to or uncaring of the pain he’d caused you.
That those scum can walk among us freely, can go about the rest of their lives without consequence—
Try as he might, Miguel couldn’t unhear the break in your voice as you choked on all the things you could not say. The years-long wounds you carried within were clearly still raw; healing them had thus far been a feat unconquered since the root of the injury was still alive and well, preventing definitive closure.
Until now.
The room was larger than average, and a tray of gourmet food on the overbed table indicated the patient’s VIP status. This fancy, non-hospital cafeteria dinner had undoubtedly been provided at the behest of the Public Eye, who wanted Michaels pliable and cooperative during their inevitable one-on-one interrogation. He was, after all, their key witness to not just his mysterious assailant, but also his elusive savior. They’d been clamoring to get whatever information they could on The Spider-Man so that they could then charge him with vigilantism, and Trent Michaels had the potential to be a big lead.
Despite the only light source being a meager nearby computer screen, the combination of white tiled flooring and white stucco walls made the room appear well lit in contrast to the night’s pitch black. The moisture in the air reeked of sterility, which told him that this area was cleaned frequently and thoroughly.
No spilling blood, then. There was no hiding that unmistakable crimson red, nor was there time to properly erase the traces of evidence that would surely stain the pristine-white fitted bedsheets and seep into the slender crevices between each slab of tile.
When Miguel dragged his attention back to the bed, he discovered that Michaels had awoken at some point and was now sitting upright, eyes wary and muscles twitchy. The bruised and scratched-up man looked nervous in the presence of the masked hero.
Soon, he’d be more than just nervous. And by the time Miguel was done with him, he would be nothing at all.
Soon.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” Spider-Man stated the obvious, stalking closer, both hands on his hips, before coming to a stop in front of the several machines that were hooked up to the target’s frail body. The movement held a striking resemblance to that of a predator circling its prey. It was an assessment of strength differential, an evaluation of the energy investment required to subdue. “That makes my job easier.”
As Miguel casually pulled up a chair and sat at his bedside, Michaels donned a look of bewilderment, confused why he had a visitor but showing no sign of fear. Not yet. At present, Spider-Man was still the masked hero who saved his life in that alleyway and not a harbinger of Death who had come here to cast him into the pits of Tartarus.
The man rubbed at his sockets once, twice, affirming and reaffirming that the mythified vigilante was indeed standing inside his hospital room at the dead of night. “Spider-Man? The hell’re you doin’ here?”
Miguel elected to ignore that question, not trusting his ability to maintain an unaffected vocal inflection if he were to discuss anything other than the strict script in his head. He got straight to the point, projecting into the space between him and Michaels a holographic image of you. The you of a few years ago, the you with a cheesy grin spread wide across your lips, ear to ear.
The you who hadn’t yet been made to walk this road of unsatiated vengeance.
“This girl,” Miguel started to say then stopped to assess the man’s face. Though most of it was swollen and scabbing, Michaels could still reconfigure his features into discernible expressions, and Miguel would be damned if he didn’t take note of every single change. “You know her?”
A beat of silence. Michaels flicked his gaze toward the hologram, and the sickly hue of his current complexion paled even further than Miguel had thought was possible. The heart monitor blared to warn that an abnormal spike had been detected in the patient’s heart rate, betraying the truth before an answer could even be given.
He knew you alright.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” was his response, tone a bit defensive as he shifted in unease. “What’s it to you?”
What’s it to him?
To him, it was rectifying a wrong. If he’d known this man’s sin, he would have gladly stayed put on the roof to watch from above as you killed him yourself. Not everyone deserved the helping hand of Spider-Man, or, at least, not that of this dimension’s Spider-Man. Perhaps simultaneously filling the roles of judge, jury, and executioner was a sin in its own right, but Miguel wasn’t stupid; he knew the courts were conditional in how and when they chose to enforce law, sparing the rich and powerful from the consequences of their actions. Death, however, was not so inclined to do the same.
To him, it was honoring his word. He had reassured you that you’d successfully scourged the streets of this vermin, and he wasn’t about to let that become a lie. No, Miguel was going to strip the brute who’d dared to hurt you of the privilege to feel the warmth of tomorrow’s sunrise. Trent Michaels didn’t have permission to look upon the breaking of dawn, to see how the sun warred against darkness and emerged victorious, setting the sky ablaze with its golden rays.
Ultimately, it was very simple: paramount to everything else, you had wanted the man dead, and Miguel wanted to actualize that wish. For you, yes, but also for the sake of every soul who might someday cross paths with Michaels if he were to leave here alive.
This was what came to mind when he reflected on why he’d rerouted to the hospital rather than his own damn apartment. His thoughts demanded to be acknowledged by their maker, and their obnoxious loudness lulled Miguel into a state of reticence.
At the eerie, prolonged silence, Michaels cleared his throat and began to speak.
“She’s nobody. A girl I hung out with freshman year. Things got a little heated one night,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “It was just some fun. Harmless, really. Then she had to go and make a big deal out of nothing. I’m sure you know what I mean, man.”
During this spiel of utter bullshit, Miguel had slowly begun to fiddle with the pulse oximeter attached to the tip of Michaels’ index finger. The minute fidgeting could be interpreted as absentminded and unmotivated, but that didn’t account for his purposeful and intentional way of doing things.
Miguel clipped it onto his own left finger when Michaels was preoccupied with picking at the peeling edge of a bandage on his brow bone. The heart monitor synced with the well-regulated and steady heart rate of Spider-Man.
That had been Step 1. The second step was a bit more. . . hands-on.
Rolling his shoulders back, Miguel stood up from his chair and gave a short, noncommittal hum. “Can’t say that I do.”
His free hand curled into a tight fist and launched itself at the man’s already-battered face, catching him on the nose, and a satisfying crack pierced the air. The sheer power behind the punch was such that it sent Michaels reeling backward, and his concussed head (your handiwork) ricocheted off the bed frame, temporarily dazing him.
When he came to his senses, shock morphed into contempt. “Y’broke my goddamn nose. That’s the second fuckin’ time tonight!”
Unfazed by the assault, the heart monitor continued to beep, raising no alarms since it hadn’t detected any abnormalities in heart rate. It was a metronome that kept time, but the maestro after whom it modeled its cadence had switched from Michaels to Miguel. Its consistent pattern thus left the medical personnel on duty none the wiser about what had just transpired, nor about what was yet to come.
Beep. Beep.
Beep.
“What the fuck, dude? I thought you were s’posed to be the good guy!” the man cried out, indignant and genuinely baffled as to what he could've possibly done to warrant this assault. He tipped his head back, desperately trying to stop his compromised nose from dripping blood all over.
The small blotches of red that now stained his patient gown weren’t ideal, but no one would think to question a spontaneous nosebleed when said nose was confirmed to have been broken earlier in the night. Punching him had been worth the risk; even Spider-Man wasn’t exempt from the universal human desire to absolutely deck an asshole who deserved considerably worse. Still, the plan had been to keep all blood inside all bodies, so that was what he was going to do moving forward.
Miguel allowed himself the momentary indulgence of basking in the melodic, steady stream of agonized groans. It was music to his ears, an unconventional symphony of which he was the conductor.
A prelude to his magnum opus, a crescendo to its climax.
Leaning forward to block every possible escape route with his broad frame, Miguel grabbed the sniveling coward by the neck and squeezed.
“I am.”
Driven by his instinct to fight or flight, Michaels clawed at the hand around his throat, but his efforts at either of the two courses of action were in vain. The hold was ironclad, immovable, whereas the force he tried to exert on it was nowhere near unstoppable; thus, it did not budge.
In no rush to relent, Miguel relished the way his prey squirmed and writhed, and only when the man’s eyes began to flutter shut did Spider-Man relax his grip with an exasperated sigh.
To die by strangulation was an end too merciful for the likes of this scum. It was over too quick, a brief burst of pain liberated by the peaceful promise of eternal nothingness. No, Miguel wouldn’t bestow the gift of a swift, clean death; rather, he sought to make the final moments of the man’s miserable existence torturous, to send him off to Hell kicking and screaming.
As he struggled to catch his breath, Michaels splayed his hands atop the overbed table to support his heaving body. The shift drew Miguel’s attention, and he glared at the offending appendages because those weren’t gentle hands that delivered care, nor were they hands that offered protection. They were hands that had hurt innocents.
Hands that had hurt you.
Hands that needed to reflect their sins, that needed to be as equally marred in flesh as the man who wielded them was in conscience. Each and every digit would pay penance for his transgressions since all ten had partaken in the atrocity.
The right middle finger was first. Breaking a bone was neither difficult nor complicated, regardless of whether it was his own or that of someone else. Miguel settled on his fists to be his weapon of choice, classic and old-fashioned, close and personal, then he restrained his target with shackles made of webs, then—
Snap.
Before a howl of pain could echo through the halls for all to hear, Miguel shot a wad of his organic webbing at Michaels’ mouth to muffle any potentially-incriminating screams.
“Quiet now, don’t worry,” he cooed in mock sympathy. “You won’t be needing these where you’re going.”
In a state of pain-induced delirium, Michaels extended his trembling left hand for the bedside remote to signal for aid, a Hail Mary that would go unanswered, deemed unworthy of her saintly supervision. Before he could press down on the call button, the device was snatched from his grasp altogether by another string of web.
“Too slow,” chided Spider-Man, a cruel smirk hidden underneath his mask as he moved the remote far from reach. “What are you making such a big deal for, we’re just having some fun. Isn’t that right?”
No reply. Just two beady blue eyes glistening with poorly-concealed terror, hoping to appeal to the hero’s better nature. Unfortunately for Michaels, Miguel reserved his compassion for the billions of innocent people who comprised the Arachnoid Humanoid Poly-Multiverse, not a sorry excuse for a man who couldn’t understand that no meant no.
“What was it you said, hm? Harmless?” Knowing the context in which the word had been used five minutes before, it tasted foul on Miguel’s tongue and sounded vile to his ears. “I think this is pretty harmless, no?”
That question, though rhetorical, elicited a vigorous shaking of the head, the man’s intended message fully-transparent and frantic: no, no, no.
Miguel released an exaggerated, disappointed sigh. “That’s fine—we can agree to disagree.”
It continued like this for the remaining four fingers on his right hand. One after the other, Miguel fractured bone with nothing but his enhanced strength and unbridled rage. Each additional crushed digit was accompanied by the further splintering of Michaels’ spirit, dismantling him piece by piece.
By the time Miguel had finished rendering the hand free of functioning fingers, it appeared as though Michaels had given up on trying to weasel out of this nightmare scenario, the pain so severe and unyielding that he had seemingly become numb to it. His joints were rapidly swelling, and angry patches of dark purples and reds bloomed on his skin as blood rushed to the site of the blunt force trauma. It was his body’s attempt at salvaging a sinking ship and relieving its captain of his burden.
But there would be no such reprieve, for Miguel was wholly unsatisfied so long as this man, who had touched and taken without permission, still had operational extensions of his body.
Michaels mumbled something unintelligible through the webbing that was still plastered over his mouth, and, wanting to hear what he had to say for himself, Miguel tore it off. When no words followed, he prepared to resume his onslaught, readying his arm for the swing.
A single syllable stopped him just short of making contact with the left pinky finger.
“Stop,” croaked Michaels, his voice scratchy from the strain of repressed screams. “Please.”
Spider-Man’s fist halted mid-slam and hovered over his chosen target. The plea transported him back to the events that had transpired earlier in the night. All throughout his interrogation, you had maintained a commendable degree of composure despite the clear imbalance in power between the two of you. You had been hung by your feet from the neck of a streetlight and then immediately re-tied to that same pole after being freed of your webbed restraints.
And yet, you’d never begged. Not until your vengeance outweighed your pride did you plead with the vigilante to—
—tell me I got him. Please, tell me I killed him
Your begging had been on behalf of the girl who’d been betrayed by someone she had trusted, on behalf of the many survivors who spent the rest of their lives carrying the knowledge that justice hadn’t been served and that it never would. Even while physically and emotionally under duress, you had thought of them. Because at your core, you represented all that was good and right about the world.
Conversely, no such redeemable qualities could be detected within Trent Michaels. His pleas served only himself, a sick piece of shit who, at his core, embodied all that bastardized the world from its ideal vision.
The man of the hour gulped several breaths of air, eyes closing in gratitude at the perceived fact that this torture session had run its course, mistaking the brief hesitation as a sign of reconsideration.
It wasn’t.
“Stop? I’m just getting started.” Spider-Man flexed his hand then clenched it once again. “We’ve still got five more to go.”
He unfroze and brought his fist-turned-hammer down hard, crushing another distal phalanx beneath the weight of his own fury as well as that which he channeled from you, grinding his knuckles into the new injury for good measure.
“Did I say five? I meant four.”
His assault on the left hand was a blur. He laid waste to the digits faster than he did the right hand, brain on autopilot. The clock on the wall ticked incessantly; fifteen minutes were almost up.
An agonized groan from Michaels eventually snapped Miguel out of his anger-induced stupor, and he blinked down to find that the last four fingers were severely mangled compared to the others, having been subjected to repetitive pummeling in excess. Though he resented losing control, the important thing was that he had neutralized these hands of vice and malevolence.
Now that there were no more fingers left for Spider-Man to break, a nearly-unconscious Michaels slackened his muscles, curling into himself. He probably thought the worst of the night was over.
Not a chance.
“Oh, I wouldn’t look too relieved if I were you, Trent. The show’s not over yet,” Miguel spat, saying the name like it was dirty. Which it was. “We still have the finale.”
The finale entailed grabbing a syringe from a nearby cabinet and pulling its plunger all the way back so that the entire apparatus filled with air. He had briefly entertained the idea of sinking his teeth into Michaels’ jugular and pumping him full of venom but had ultimately decided against it since that would surely get flagged on the autopsy report. Bit hard to explain that one.
Once the syringe was full, Miguel fastened a needle to the tip, and it reflected blue light from the computer when he raised it higher to get a better look.
As he did so, fear at last settled on Michaels’ face. During the obliteration of his ten fingers, he had writhed in pain, his eyes pinched shut and his veins protruding in exertion. Before that, there had been confusion and shock. But until this very instant, fear had remained notably absent, too consumed with surviving the encounter to imagine that Death might still await him in spite of his best efforts.
The appearance of Death came in an infinite many forms. Death was both destroyer and creator, both decomposition and nourishment. Death was the car that did not stop at a red light, the cancerous cells born of mutated proto-oncogenes, the peaceful embrace after eighty years of life.
And when he raised the syringe to the IV line, Spider-Man too became Death.
No one could accurately speculate their reaction to the moments preceding their death. Many liked to believe that they would use their strength to persevere, but in the end, they were the ones who bargained and begged the most. Some were more honest in their assessment, admitting that their souls would be fetched and relocated elsewhere, but they too believed that they would depart this world with their head held high. Fewer still recognized that death was not to be feared or overpowered, but was to be met with open arms and a smile.
Michaels, being the cowardly and spineless man he was, belonged to that first category.
Typical.
“I’m sorry, okay, I fucked up, but I can be better, I swear. If you want money, name a price and it’s yours. I’ll donate to charity, I’ll apologize to h-her, I’ll—” His groveling was abruptly cut off by a sob, pathetic and ugly. “I’ll do anything. Just please don’t kill me. I’m begging you.”
Nothing. The pitiful speech inspired absolutely nothing in Miguel. No sympathy, no reflection, no anything. He was devoid of all but stone-cold hatred.
“Me vale madre.”
Spider-Man injected the pocketed air into the IV line and watched its resulting bubble travel down the tube, disappearing into the stuck vein. The estimated time it took for an air embolism to kill an adult male of this stature was approximately five minutes, maybe ten. But considering the sheer volume of air that had been put into circulation, Miguel presumed complications would arise much sooner.
His prediction proved true, the tell-tale symptoms presenting not even a full minute after the air bubble had entered the man’s bloodstream. The man tried to clutch at his chest but yelped when the motion jostled his fractured bones. Unable to assuage the tightening in his heart, he began to hyperventilate, panting, eyes bulging.
Then came death.
When Michaels’ squirming body went unnaturally stiff, Miguel removed the pulse oximeter from his own index finger and reattached it to that of the dead man. The heart monitor began to blare, both an alert to the night-shift nurses that a patient had flatlined and a cue to the Spider-Man that he should vacate the premises.
He exited the way he’d entered, slinking through the window before sliding it shut behind him. Nothing was out of place. The walls and tiled floor were still squeaky clean and white; the chair he had moved was back in its original place in the far corner; the gourmet dinner was still untouched and positioned on one side of the overbed table, where it would stay uneaten for all eternity.
The lone evidence of his presence was a fresh corpse with ten fingers smashed and bent out of shape.
They would soon declare their John Doe deceased after multiple failed attempts at restarting his heart, and then they would open an investigation to determine the cause of death. Frustrations would mount when the toxicology reports housed no answers, and stress levels would peak when the patient turned out to be the son of a very wealthy man who was threatening to sue the hospital for negligence.
Quite frankly, none of that mattered to Miguel—the job was done. Whatever bureaucratic shit came next was an addendum, an afterthought scribbled into the margins of tonight’s catalogue of events.
The mission had been accomplished: Trent Michaels was dead.
By all accounts, this kill was yours. You had been the one to drag him to the gates of Hell, whereas Miguel had only ensured that the scum would successfully reach his destination. You had been the one to gather the trash and make all the arrangements to discard him, tracking his location and beating him within an inch of his life, whereas Miguel had only dropped him off at the dumpster yard.
It struck him then that this was likely the first time you’d taken a life. And instead of offering you advice on how to navigate the toll that killing took on your conscience, he had left you in the alley to come to terms with it all by yourself.
He winced. Fuck.
Miguel needed to see you.
“Lyla,” he called. “Give me her address.”
The miniature AI materialized beside him, her tone light and teasing. “Lyla, give me her address what?”
Usually, there was no harm in entertaining the AI’s shenanigans. But tonight was different.
“Not in the mood,” he gritted out, irritation spiking abnormally quick, even for him, as the adrenaline from handling Michaels continued to set ablaze his systems. “Her address.”
Lyla handed the information over without further fuss, and Miguel leaped off the ledge just as a cluster of medical personnel filtered into the hospital room-turned-morgue.
Clearing the tops of buildings in a single bound, he traveled through the city in record time, aided by the strong winds that blew in the direction of your residence. When Miguel finally arrived, he took up position on the roof of the building directly across from yours. From this vantage point, it was almost concerningly easy to see through one of your windows.
You should really buy some blinds, was his immediate thought, grumbling to himself about how unsafe this setup was.
He squinted his eyes and conducted a quick sweep of your apartment, searching every gap, checking every corner once, twice, three times. The place was empty.
A knot formed in his gut at the realization that you hadn’t come home.
Where are you?
The longer the question went unanswered, the louder its echo reverberated, perpetuating itself as if in a chamber. He’d scanned you for injuries and hadn’t found a scratch. You had been coherent, conscious, and as composed as could be expected, but what if he had missed something?
What if you were still in the alleyway, incapacitated by an unattended injury?
The mental image of you agonizing over your wounds, both the visible and the invisible, was enough to will him to a decision. Just as he was about to turn around and swing his way to the opposite side of the city—
A light flickered on, illuminating your living room. It was fairly small, like most other studio apartments in the expensive rungs of Nueva York. His sharp vision instantly honed in on the two black cats that roused from their slumber to greet you at the front door, which had swung open with such force that it’d hit the wall and slammed back into your shoulder.
When Miguel finally laid his eyes on you, tension seeped out of his muscles, the frown line between his brows momentarily disappeared, and his shoulders slumped forward as he exhaled a nearly-inaudible sigh of relief.
You were okay.
Well, okay might not be the right word because you were evidently not okay. You were slightly hunched and limping, shifting your weight from foot to foot, dragging a hand against the wall for extra support should you careen over, which was becoming a more likely reality by the second. As you lugged your spent body to the clawed-up sofa at the center of the room, the legs that had thus far been supportive of your weight buckled with fatigue. All Miguel could do from here was watch you collapse onto the sofa, face-first.
Your shoulders began to convulse, and he stiffened, worried you were belatedly going into shock or having a seizure based on the way you jerked and jolted. Upon further inspection, however, Miguel determined that the culprit of the shaking was neither the former nor the latter.
Sobs wracked your frame. You lifted your head from the seat cushion to rip off the black domino mask with which you’d disguised yourself, revealing a steady stream of tears, black trails of mascara staining your cheeks. Next to go was your white-haired wig, yanked with equal force and chucked across the room.
Gone was the outwardly-confident woman who had managed to rile him up and get the upper hand whilst dangling from a lamppost. Left in her wake was the woman behind the persona. Here was the woman you were when the spotlight faded to darkness, when the curtains closed and the audience departed, when the performance came to an end. Uncensored, unrefined, undone—you.
An unbecoming.
The rational part of his brain told him that this was an invasion of your privacy, that he should leave you to your much-needed crying session and stop peeping through your windows when you were at your most vulnerable. You thought you were alone and had subsequently allowed yourself to shatter, but here he was, heightened senses privy to the whimpers that broke your voice, to the utter despair that furrowed your brows.
And yet he couldn’t avert his gaze.
Such a raw display of catharsis; it was sublime. How long had it been since he last cried more than a few silent tears?
He already knew the answer: Gabriella.
The multiverse couldn’t afford for the leader of the Spider Society to fall apart, not when he was the one keeping this whole operation together. Thousands of Spider-People played their part, sure, but he alone dedicated every waking second to preventing anomalies from destroying entire dimensions. And though he would never admit it, Miguel was at the end of his rope, akin to a powder keg about to explode at any given moment.
Maybe he was more like you than he’d thought. Maybe he should take a page from your book, let himself cry and cry until he had poured everything out from the cavity of his chest. Even Atlas had briefly passed the weight of the heavens off to Heracles, so perhaps the multiverse wouldn’t unravel if he were to open the floodgates, just this once.
The thought left as quickly as it had arrived. Logistically, it wasn’t viable. How could he ever jeopardize the fate of billions for one man? Regardless of whether that man was himself or a stranger, his decision was the same.
He would thus have to make do with a more vicarious manner of release. Your tears were both yours and his. The tears he could not bring himself to shed joined yours as you became a vessel of the emotions that had long since been repressed, both by you and by him.
Where Michaels’ sobs had grated on his nerves, yours made Miguel physically recoil not in revulsion, but in visceral need to comfort. The sight made him want to do something stupid, like jump down from the roof, knock on your door, and ask you if he could come inside
Go inside to do what, exactly? Hugs are a no-go, so that leaves. . . awkward shoulder patting? He slapped a hand to his forehead and ran it over his face with a groan.
This—going to the hospital to terminate your target, showing up to your apartment—was a dangerous chain of events that would further snowball into an unacceptable culmination of feelings. Unless, of course, he impeded it, uprooting this budding thing before it could blossom, terminating these strange thoughts in gestation before they could be spoken into existence.
In which case, the crisis would be averted.
He had fulfilled his heroic obligations as Spider-Man, had ensured your safe arrival, and had kept his word. All he needed to do now was put as much distance between you and him as was humanly possible.
Yes, that sounded like a plan. Excellent. Good.
Great.
As Miguel vaulted off the roof and shot a web at the nearest billboard, he decided that he would not be returning to your apartment ever again; this was the only time he’d let himself check up on you. When he stepped foot into his own apartment a good hour and a half later than he had initially intended, he recited the declaration to himself as he took a hot shower and again as he changed out of his suit. When he awoke the next morning, he fully believed that such would be the case because you’d been absent from his dreams, all memories of you already archived.
It wasn’t until he took the long way home three nights in a row that Miguel finally conceded otherwise. The first night was brushed off as an innocent coincidence, and the second night was justified as having simply found a better path home. But by the third night, he couldn’t deny it anymore:
The true reason this objectively-worse, inconvenient route seemed better was purely because it passed by your building complex and gave him the chance to see you.
tbc.
#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o’hara#across the spiderverse#spiderman x reader#spiderman 2099#marvel#spiderman#my fic#fic: for you my love i kill#series: cursed from the start
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hi, just wanted you to know that if you ever wanted to like. interest-dump about cotl and your thoughts about the lore/storyline and stuff as ive seen you show in your art, id read PARAGRAPHS. im so curious and love to hear about people's interest in game/story/media lore and the interpersonal relationships within the universe!!!
- from an autistic system who has loved your art since like. forever. (u can call us moss)
okay hi moss :3
i'm kind of due for an infodump on my cotl headcanons, so! i'll try be somewhat concise because this is going to be a long post anyway rip. i drew some pictures :D
(i can't really think of any warnings to give outside of usual cotl themes/killed race/dying/blood/etc but let me know)
obviously watching the destruction of your entire race is traumatic as fuck, also because it likely took a few weeks or months to achieve. so they died pretty underweight/weak bodied/pretty shut down. the bishops are gone by the time lamb is revived by toww, and their body hadn't quite made it to a 'body pit' (or food pit). still, they get Their Bell from another of their race on the way out. probably weren't thinking about it too hard and just desperately wanted to grab something while their eyes burned in their sockets and this red crown fit like molded clay in their hand. my lamb has a little notch out of their left ear which was caused while escaping, which ends up never healing because of a few reasons but mostly because i like it.
over the course of the game/story they start to slowly physically change. after revival it takes scars a Long time to fade, considering lamb is technically a walking corpse, and also because of their affiliation with Death (narinder, who has similar i'll mention later). they get dark marked lines under their eyes from that classic 'bleeding eyes' action during rituals/etc. their ears but especially horns get longer and sharper. their way of coping is similar to most lambs, jokes and pulled punches.
by the end of the 'main game/toww fight,' they've already made their choice, and start flexing their control/communication with the red crown itself. it gets harder for toww to view through it, and lamb gets somewhat intoxicated with the idea of an ultimate revenge, having killed all the other bishops. they've done everything they can to stop their cult members noticing signs of weakness, but as things get more stressful this kind of rubberbands around to them seeming extremely unstable. by the time they go to fight toww they're muttering nonstop, barely aware, and also they let their wool get longer and basically end up with a mullet. <3 because it's funny to me
they obviously beat toww and for them it's like a smashing of clarity, like a gripped handle let go, standing up from the river of blood. it's freeing but also the most pain they've ever been in. and instead of killing toww this pit in their stomach spares him. lamb went from a corpse to a god and now, in some sick way, they want to watch a god turn into a living corpse, just like them. because with every other sheep dead, narinder is the only one with a connection to that genocide, the cause of the other bishops doing it.
narinder hates their fucking guts. obvs. he thinks, or knows, that lamb is doing it on purpose. but narinder's body hasn't been normal for far, far too long. even before he was made death (as in artworks i've done with him), his body turned skeletal and rotted away. lacerations open all over his body, but especially down his front torso. when he's first brought to the cult, lamb gives him red robes, also because of this 'problem'. but narinder does every single thing he can against them. he gets white robes and lets them turn bloodied and disturbing to everyone around him.
even washing them stops working, and lamb does resign slightly to letting him sit in his dirty stupid robes. it's the pettiest shit. narinder also keeps his veil, and lamb can't bother with a reason to take it away. let that dumbass keep his yuck robes and veil. you can only stick him the stockade for a week before your other followers get too concerned.
over time, they do end up getting closer, but it comes from a place from both being touched and changed by Death, the red crown, and the choices of the other bishops. it takes a really long time and only after all the other bishops have been recruited (another whole thing). both of them catch themselves enjoying little things, and then having moments of all the pain bleeding through. an example is over time narinder does end up wearing darker robes, but it's fairly gradual. in this piece, it's lamb getting too deep in the countless lives that were taken from their race, triggered by blood (a whole little story thing), and narinder does make the (semi subconscious) choice to wear dark robes.
anyway you're probably looking at that giant shadow in the picture huh. it takes a long time but lamb Does end up truly becoming a bishop.
not 100% done with this design, but it has the basics. their main horns end up breaking off (thinking of a story behind that still). the main thing with them that i really like is they have multiple strings of bells on them. so everyone starts associating the sound of ringing bells as Death. so if you hear them, they're coming for you. that being said, they also have the ability to move completely silently, despite being covered in bells. which adds to the scaring-the-fuck-out-of-everyone factor.
there's a ton more i could get into with the other bishops, ratau, the duck siblings, the crowns themselves, more aym and baal, but i'm probably gonna do more artworks with them so i can talk more then :3 this is already too long lmao
thanks for the ask though!! it's nice knowing people are interested in my stuff :D
(it's also worth mentioning that i am also a system and have alters of lamb, narinder, and aym and baal, who all contribute to this stuff)
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Papi
pairing: miguel o’hara+fem reader
warnings: Breeding, older man younger girl, def daddy kink in here, BIG DADDY MIGUEL, his fangs and claws come out👄,blood‼️, DEGRADING
am i lowkey the only horny after this🤞🏽
“Miguel listen to me, please don't leave me I know it’d be shameful if people found out but I love you and I don’t care” I cry to him as his gaze turns cold at what I've said if looks could kill id be dead right now “You're not understanding the situation WHY IS IT SO FUCKING HARD TO UNDERSTAND”.
He paces around the small room a loud crash comes from where he's standing in the bedroom “FUCK” he screams he has kicked the bookshelf he looks back at me with tears in his eyes “Miguel,” I say softly as I sit back on the mattress his slow unsure steps come closer to me as he settles down next to me laying his head on my shoulder and wrapping his arms around me “I'm sorry baby” his words full of shame.
I lay back with his arms around me his body 10x more relaxed than it was five minutes ago it feels like we’ve laid there for ages my hand runs through his short beautiful brown locks his breath shallows as sleep takes him but I'm as awake as I could ever be a sad smile pulls to my lips the thought of him leaving me makes me wanna not wanna live but knowing that he's okay makes me happy.
———time passed-Miguel’s pov
I slip from her arms sitting up on the not so comfortable bed rubbing my face and soothing the stress away me and her aren’t supposed to be together she’s nineteen I’m thirty-two that isn't right I work at a top company if someone finds out id be done for.
Rising completely walking into the small bathroom connected to her room rid myself of my clothes run my hand threw my messy hair I take a short step to the shower and turn the knob hot water pours down i step in as the water hits my skin.
I stand under the water as i relax and let all my worries ago for the next ten minutes “Miguel?” i turn my head to see y/n taking off her clothes to get in with me “Yes baby” she looks up opening the glass door stepping in then closing it “Are you okay” her question makes me ask my self how shitty do i look for her to ask me that “i’m fine” I look away from her to the water and close my eyes her hand ghost over my back hesitantly then they plant themselves there in the middle of my back her small hands dig into my skin I bring my hands up and set them on the shower wall she then wraps her arms around me her head lays on my shoulder.
Her hands move lower to the point they hang on my hips her fingers ghost over my abdomen my hips jerk in a fast motion she never once went further than that without asking “Can I?” the question floats in the small space i nod my head yes she plants her hands on my v line the heat sends pleasure waves through me.
her small hands then wrap around my groin I throw my head back “Ohh fuck” The slow up and down motion she’s doing throws me into a euphoric state i turn with speed she’s never seen grabbing her and pulling her against me picking her up her head goes to my shoulder “Por favor mi amor déjame poner un bebé en ti” she then wraps her legs around me i suck and bite at her neck her moans low and sweet just for me.
——— y/n pov
my hands leave his cock as he picks me up i place my hands on his neck and tuck my self into his shoulder he nips at me his fangs come out as the graze my skin my head throws back in a shock and pleasure and pain as he bites down hard causing blood to run down my neck.
his claws dig into me almost breaking skin “N-no please Miggy stop” he was too gone he thrust up into me my walls clench trying to stop the entry “Shut the fuck up bitch and take it” his words made me as wet as the shower.
he was never one for lots of degrading he likes it but it can be a lot today seemed to be different he’s losing control on purpose his eyes red he’s breathing heavy he still his thrust as he bottomed out leaving me to feel split open.
“por favor papi dame un segundo” trying to catch my breath i squeeze around him his hips jerk up “Lo haré si dejas de apretarme como una putita” he then folds me up to where my knees to my shoulders and my feet behind my head pushes me against the wall.
he pulls out my hole stretched out ready to be filled again he pushes back in at a unexpected pace he growls my whimpers and moans are loud enough the whole building could probably hear but i didn’t care tears well in my eyes as a tingly feeling deep in my abdomen grew.
“I love you so much mi amor your so beautiful and the way your pretty pussy wraps around me makes me see stars” his words float in the shower the steam and the smell of sex over rides all my senses my back arches as a toe curling orgasm takes over me his thrust are deep and touch every place i didn’t know existed in me.
his hand made its way to my throat squeezing for good measure he thrust one more time before i release my body shakes my eyes roll to the back of my head my throbbing core is the only thing that i real right now “M-Miggy you feel to good” my sobs make it hard to talk “It’s okay baby let it out gimme one more” No my eyes wide at what he said i don’t know if i can do another one.
A moment later a much stronger orgasm flows through me his hand drops from my neck to my clit he draws small and fast circles on it making my whole body feel as if I’ve fallen into a new dimension “Oh good girl” His praise makes me feel good.
“Shit baby i’m so close ima give u a baby make you look even more pretty with a round belly” his words awoke something in me the urge to be pregnant just fills my mind.
his thrust get sloppy he whimpers into my neck as he stills and lets out a low moan as he cums deep into me he stays there for a few minutes then looks up kissing my lips before helping me down cleaning me up and drying me off.
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Link: My Blood (super sons week day five)
Summary:
Damian reflects on the use of the nickname "dami" and jon tells him abt some new words he learned in arabic.
also known as some angsty shit that started out rlly sweet but ended with a possible dead damian??
The first time that Jon had called Damian “Dami”, he had instantly recoiled, with a stubborn response of “Don’t call me that.”
After all, how could he know what it meant to him?
Nevertheless, he persisted. His brothers had taken to calling him what they assumed was only a shortened version of his name, as well as his father on rare occasions.
After a particularly hard battle, Jon had said it with such reverence, he nearly believed him when he did, although he was quick to snap back at him.
A few similar altercations like that, and Jon had stopped, changing it to various other little nicknames, somehow only ringing it out in the most dire of situations, when emotions ran high.
It sent a pang to Damian’s heart, because although he wouldn't admit it, he missed hearing the word from his lips.
And if he were to die, that would be the last thing he wanted to hear.
“NO! No, Damian, stay with me. Stay with me, bud, just a little longer..” Jon’s face was streaked with tears, and Damian reached a bloodstained hand from where he was laying, his head on Jon's lap.
“Isn’t it funny?” He said suddenly, the world going dizzy.
The sky behind Jon was an orange-purple hue, the battlefield littered with bodies and metal pieces, and battered heroes stubling together, trying to find each other.
“What’s funny, D?”
“You all call me Dami. and here I am, covered in my blood. ”
“Damian, Damian, please don’t-” Jon choked out, looking anywhere but Damian’s stomach, where an alien spear had pierced through the kevlar of his suit.
His hand cupped Jon’s face, bringing him back towards him.
“Hey. Hey, look at me. It’s okay. You can let go. I’ll be okay, I promise.”
A heartbroken laugh sounded from the younger boy as he looked down at him, brushing the matted hair from his emerald eyes.
How he would miss them..
“Oh, Dami…”
“I’ll be okay, Jon. You know why? Because I'll have you with me wherever I go.” He gave a smile, the broken domino on his face sliding down.
Jon held him, desperately praying for a miracle, for at least a Bat to show up to see Damian should the worst happen.
His eyes grew heavy, and he let a smile grace his lips. “You know to tell them I love them, right?”
“Dami, stop, you're not going to die, you’re not!”
The younger boy pleaded with him, the pain in his face something that hurt Damian more than the gaping hole in his stomach.
“Call it a nap, then. Will you talk to me? I want to see you smile.”
A wobbly grin spread across his features, and his hand ran through the bleeding boy’s hair as he began to talk.
“I was so confused, why you were always so mad when I called you Dami, why you always told me to stop. I remembered you did speak arabic a lot, and so i looked it up. I found how much it must have meant to you, so I switched it up. I used it only when I wanted you to know I meant it.
“You are my blood, my heart, my soul. You’re a part of me, a teammate, my partner. I found a few more terms like that. Hayati was my favorite. That describes who you are to me, Dami. You’re my life, my light…my whole world. I love you so much/”
His eyes shut, and the world went dark, He floated off in his mind, to wherever this would take him, with the reminisce of the words Jon had left him with.
I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. My life.
Hayati.
A/N:
DAMIAN NUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
okay, you choose, did he die or was he saved????? personally i would have gone with death lmao yes i did cry a lil writing this thats how u know its good lol
i may be persuaded to put up a poll on who wants him to die and who wants him to live and write a sequel on whichever is most popular O.o
if u read it and feel the need to screm at me for doing this, go ahead id love to c it lmao
for @super-sons-week-2023
#jondami#damijon#jonathan kent#damian wayne#possible charecter death#open ending#you choose if he lives or dies#angst#i was supposed to b fluff i swear-#robin damian wayne#superboy jon kent#blood is mentioned so like#sad#like very sad#sort of love confession?#like u can read it platonically or romantically#i got a vague mix of both#super sons week 2023
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Near Death Experience
I changed the text a bit from the request, but this is what worked for me!
Pairing: Poly!Fierrochase x gn!reader, Alex Fierro x reader x Magnus Chase
Request: Uh, hi. This is my first request so i don't know how to start, but can you make a poly!Fierrochase one? Maybe add a little bit of angst where the reader nearly dies in the mortal realm but suddenly Sam takes the reader to Valhalla (Sorry i suck at spelling cuz English id my second language) but Alex and Magnus doesn't know that and sobs themselves to sleep and becomes a lil' depressed until they see the reader at breakfast the next morning? If you can ily and thank you! If you can't it's fine and thank you and ily regardless :)
Word count: 1.1k
Warnings: mentions of death etc.
-Asnyox
The day had started just fine, you were hanging with your lovers for most of it, going on a date. It wasn’t much of a date, as you three mostly decided to walk around Boston for the day. Away from Hotel Vahalla, away from other friends or duties at the Chase place. However neither of your lovers had expected to find you, passed out, after saying goodbye.
Sam had been the way to inform them. Apparently you were caught off guard when you were making your way back to the Chase place, and you had been lucky enough to have stumbled upon Sam afterwards. Magnus couldn’t move fast enough to your location, and somehow he had felt like he had been too late, even if you were still alive, but unconscious.
“Look, if I had been around-” Magnus started but Alex gripped his shoulder.
“You weren’t,” Alex glared at Magnus, “You couldn’t have been! So don’t fucking blame yourself when you better worry about (Y/n).” Alex took a shuddering breath, “I will not grief- let you grief when they’re not yet dead.” She had been holding on, keeping up her appearance thus far, but it was crumbling. Alex sighed, holding back the tears she could feel behind her eyes, “Just focus on regaining energy, maybe they need more healing.”
Magnus wasn’t a stranger to losing a loved one, but it had become rarer. He knew now that he could heal people, and that’s all you needed to get round, right? When he was around pain wouldn’t last long- yet somehow he hadn’t been enough to heal you. There weren’t any physical wounds, but why hadn’t you woken yet? Magnus wasn’t entirely stunned- he had noticed that when he tried to heal you, he hadn’t caught any glimpses of your memories and consciousness. Magnus normally didn’t have control over it happening, but when bringing one back from the brink of death if had always happened, and yet, with you, it hadn’t. Were you too far gone? Or did Magnus know you too well to need to catch your memories?
Alex didn’t want to face the reality- the fact that even in this world of gods, you might die. Alex had seen the impossible happen again and again, yet right now the possibility of losing you seemed so real. And she didn’t face any of this- not yet, not when you were still breathing. She wouldn’t mourn, cry, panic until you were truly six feet under. She had to be strong, she’s always had to be strong.
It took you three days to wake up. Throughout these days you were never alone, Magnus and Alex took shifts, barely able to put up with the other while you were struggling. It wasn’t t that they blamed each other- it was their own inabilities to face their feelings and be vulnerable while you weren’t yet gone. You wouldn’t be gone is what they both wanted to believe, but crying over your unconscious form together was too close to admitting the dire situation. There was strength in denial.
And then your eyes shifted, your mouth felt dry but your body didn’t hurt. You were uncomfortable- that was sure, but as you tried to move your arm to rub your eyes you were met with resistance. As you stretched your hand you notice another hand holding it tightly. Softly, you heard Magnus’s voice whisper your name, and you wanted to respond but it came out as a groan. The warmth- oh, the hand holding yours had been sweaty- left your hand, and you moved your fingers, bringing your arm to your face and finally rubbing your eyes, ridding it of some grub that had seemed to keep them closed.
As you opened your eyes the room seemed too bright, and for a second you considered you had, somehow, arrived in Heaven. But, luckily, Magnus’s face disproved that theory.
He helped you up, and at the same time Alex made his way into the room, carrying a tray. As his eyes looked at you, he moved quickly, putting down the tray next to your bed and helping Magnus to sit you up.
As you drank your water, Alex realized he had been crying. He no longer needed to be strong, because you were back and breathing. There were still things to worry about but your imminent death had passed- and that allowed him the breather he needed to feel the emotions he had been denying himself for the past few days.
Your glass was discarded- whether by your own hands or by Alex grabbing it as you finished neither of you know, but you are quickly engulfed in a hug.
“Never do this again.” Alex demanded but you knew you couldn’t promise it, so you simply hummed in response. Magnus hesitantly joined the hug, not wanting to overwhelm you as you had just recovered, but he didn’t want to stay back either. After a moment you broke apart, although neither of your lovers let go of you entirely. Alex had unexpectedly kept his hand on yours, while Magnus had moved to sit next to you on the bed, entangling his arm with yours.
“Sam said she didn’t know what got you,” Magnus said, staring at you unwaveringly, “but for some reason my healing didn’t work afterwards. Do you remember?” Your brain was still lacking any comprehensive thought, so you simply shook your head. You genuinely didn’t remember what happened, but it might come back to you. Magnus sighed, but did not press. He had hoped that maybe there was a reason, a simple ‘Oh this Norse creature cancels out healing magic’ but there wasn’t one. Yet, somehow he didn’t find himself caring too much, as he could feel your breath next to him.
It had been a bad time for your lovers, but they would get over it sooner rather than later. You hoped this would be the last time such a thing would happen, but you could never know, and in Valhalla your lovers were face to face with death every day, and eventually you would learn to just be grateful for the days that pass without injury. You only live once, after all.
#request#requests#poly!fierrochase x gn!reader#alex fierro x reader#magnus chase x reader#gn!reader#gender neutral#xyou#reader insert#x y/n#fanfiction#magnus chase and the gods of asgard#riordanverse#angst#i gues#cabinofimagines#admin asnyox
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okay so. tart and estinien. at first their relationship was very normal, in hvw she agreed w estinien's pov on the dragonsong war but decided to put alphinaud at first priority, so they still got along well even w different goals. then in stb when tart's mental state spiraled after zenos' death, it was estinien (and aymeric) that snapped her out of it by rescuing her from elidizenos. so all in all they were friends even if they didn't interact much, and tart was very grateful to estinien for saving her.
now. keep in mind that i watched edw before the end of shb. so i saw that early edw there are things that make the wol as a role less exclusive, right. id heard of the tempering cure, then vrtra gave his scales to protect people from tempering entirely. so the way the wol's role has been defined as the only one who can withstand tempering, that's gone now. okay. so then i got to finish shb, then 5.4 onwards, when estinien started to join the scions. despite them only sharing a couple scenes i think estinien and krile have chemistry, alphinaud clearly adores estinien too, and g'raha idolizes him. right then an evil thought formed in my mind.
i wonder how tart would react to this? tart who defines herself by being the wol and is desperate to belong. who is seeing someone join her group and being welcomed by everyone. someone who is nearly her equal at her most valuable skill. and tart's advantages over him are slowly being eroded, while her detriments are only increasing. oh, tart fucking hates estinien.
it starts as petty jealousy over her favorite people liking estinien so much. then she becomes passive-aggressive at him. estinien thinks it's kinda funny, the hostility just bounces off him. but by the time they reach thavnair, tart snaps at him for the hairtie incident and estinien's like :/ wow ok and avoids interacting w tart more than necessary. he stays away until fandaniel's funny prank.
we all know in from the cold. best part of edw. the aftermath is lacking, though--right now tart has had all her wol privileges stripped from her, while her being targeted specifically by zenos is becoming a huge liability. just look at the mess fandaniel created... tart panics and runs away from camp broken glass.
the scions are alarmed bc what do you mean the wol is missing AGAIN, estinien volunteers to look for tart while everyone else prepares to storm the tower of babil. he finds her easily w the dragoon jumps, and
by the way, you know what stuck out to me when i played this section of edw? before setting out on the previous mission lucia told the wol that hot soup will be waiting for them when they get back. then we got the scene where jullus eats soup and cries about it, then like a glimpse of the wol before they got kidnapped by fandaniel. we never got to eat the soup guys. we never got the soup!!!
so tart never got the soup. she's starving and cold and in pain and has just had the worst dysphoria experience of all time earlier that day and now here stands the motherfucker, the guy poised to take her place as savior of the star effortlessly, confronting her when she's alone and weak. ohhhh it's so obvious what he's doing here. estinien is going to kill her. well not if he dies first
for years since learning the discipline of the warrior tart never let the inner beast take control until right then. she goes berserk and attacks estinien. who is just like, standing there, and suddenly the wol goes stark raving mad and tries to kill him. fortunately for tart he isn't insane, and it's easy to kick the ass of a tank who is at 25% hp and not using any mits or self-heals. so tart gets beaten handily
estinien lets her lay still in the snow for a bit, then sighs. "aibou, sound off if you aren't dead"
and the sound he hears is wailing sobs. bc its over. if the scions didn't intend to get rid of tart before, they surely do now that she's attacked one of their own. estinien picks her up to bring back to camp and tart struggles and begs to be left alone, until he shuts her up by grabbing her tail. tart gets quiet and lets him carry her like a sack of flour after that.
estinien deflects the scions' questions and dumps tart in a room to eat and get checked out by a chirurgeon. he stays to watch that she doesn't run off again. before he leaves, though, tart calls out to him, "i'm sorry."
"i tried to kill you, you tried to kill me. we're even."
"i'm sorry. i've been such a jerk."
"yeah, i really thought we were friends."
"i'm so sorry."
"hmph. get some sleep while you can. we're leaving soon."
and so things end in a.. clean slate. ish. tart treats him better from then on and estinien decides he does like friendship after all. their relationship recovers enough that by the end of edw estinien is the one tart asks to please carry her like a princess off the ragnarok bc she doesn't feel like walking* and he does carry her nicely this time www
and then in 6.1 they're back to teasing each other again! with friendly hostility this time! tart makes fun of estinien for getting ripped off again, then when finding out it's on purpose she's like "what you think that's cool or something? you think that makes you sooo cool? cause it doesn't and you're lame as hell estinien" (says this while doing the /wow emote bc she does find him so cool for this) and then estinien rolls his eyes bc "i told you to bring one guy and you brought four"
"that's 'cause i'm more popular than you! AHAHAHAHA"
"that's not even funny that's just true"
"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"
they're best friends. they're my favorite. i love when i can make tart blow up at someone and make up w them bc without fail that becomes her strongest relationship. tart and estinien are truly aibous now i'm so proud of them
#tart the wol#long ramble about this fic idea i have. idk if it will exist someday so enjoy this post in the meantime haha
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yknow im gonna be honest right here and admit that jason todd being poor is something i hold very personal to me because i am and being able to connect with this little fictional character and recognize myself is something very dear to my autistic heart and how i analyze his character. so please excuse how messy this is as i try to spontaneously place my thoughts in something legible
[ID: a closeup of Jason Todd as Robin. He's asking Batman, "What's that world ever do for me?" END ID]
But this whole flashback in particular still makes me so frustrated. When you're poor, you establish and build communities. You have to or you die. You rely on people's kindness and love - even if you're a stranger. It's how you survive. I had old friends ask me if im embarrassed or say they'd be too ashamed to take that help or do what I had to do to scrape by.
But so many don't understand that pride is a luxury many can't afford. I'm not ashamed. I'm angry you'd rather have me dead than confront the classism you benefit from and are comfortable upholding.
Poor people are the first to tell you that the world and society aren't going to save you and that you're abandoned by it - that they'll leave you to die and not care until it breaks their bubble of privilege and exploitation. (Homelessness, landlords, shoplifting food. Being visibly poor or effecting THEIR lives - it's never about yours). But the people in it, the 'little people', are the reason you ever survive. You're at the rawest point of humanity and while yes, you experience and deal with the cruelty and dirtiest parts of it - you see and experience the genuine kindness from everyday people. People that are equally struggling are more likely to help you than people that can comfortably do so without the fear of going without.
[ID: Batman and Robin sitting together on a ledge. Batman is telling Robin, "You need to love it...Or what's the point?" END ID]
Now take this kid. He gone without. He doesn't get to have a billionaire privilege of that filtered view. He knows people aren't good vs evil, that they're not black or white. Good people do shitty things to survive. Evil people walk free. He's familiar and knows struggles and reality - he knows drug addiction and overdose and murder and suicides and malnourishment. He knows police brutality and the system is designed against people like him up until just recently - where he suddenly meets the criteria to be protected instead of targeted. He doesn't look over the streets, waiting to swoop in. He's lived in them. He knows them.
For me and my experience as a disabled, poor, autistic with hyper empathy? All you want to do is help others. You don't have a life unless you're being productive. You want to give back the kindness you were gifted with, you know that struggle and pain and don't want anyone to go through it. You know no one is looking out for you other than your community. The world can be so fucking cruel so that's why I can't be - I have to be the good I want to see in it.
Then take this kid that has the opportunity to do more than what he ever dreamed of? He can finally live instead of just survive. He can be the hero to the people that usually don't get that luxury of care. He can protect his community and build bigger ones. He can help people. As @autisticredhood said so brilliantly in this post: "he doesn’t care what the world will do for him he cares about what HE will do for the world"
Stripping that away from him changes everything Jason is. As a child and him being unfairly written off as the angsty Robin but aldo as an adult since it's such a key element to what his moral code is and how he operates as a hero. Jason Todd will always care. He loves so much and it's constantly dismissed and I hate it.
#rly just look at that post in general but#idk the entire flashback just immediately set me in a mood#im tired and angry and hurt and want justice for the most compassionate boy#bruce wayne#batman#jason todd#robin ii#red hood#red hood: outlaws#if i have energy ill post more on Jason being poor impacts him as robin eventually#posts from the crypt#meta
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Hospital food lacks Love (911-Missing Scenes from 6x11 In Another Life)
Author's note: one of two fics that I wanted to write after last night's episode. Bobby expresses love through food often. And hospital food is meh at best. So this is what I feel would have happened. Also posting on mobile so no reason more. Sorry about that.
And it's canon now that Bobby is Buck's dad. They didn't just hint, they said it.
Buck has two sets of parents and that is awesome.
SPOILERS!
Enjoy!
Everyone had gone home. He had even somehow convinced Maddie, Bobby and Eddie he'd be fine for a few hours. The staff had brought him a tray with dinner on it and told him to eat slowly because it was one of the first meal since he had been intubated. And he assured them he would. He tries to eat it. He really did. The main issue was that this is not what he wanted to eat. It was a painful reminder that he was stuck in the hospital, eating hospital food. The blandest and boring safe food that is hospital food. He ate a bit but ultimately it wasn't appetizing at all. So he pushed it away and grabbed his phone. He debated on who to text. Maddie would probably tell him the food he was supposed to eat was that way because he had a tube shoved down his throat. They probably didn't want to overwhelm his system. Eddie might say the same thing or he might offer to sneak him in a burger or something. But the one person he knew would always make sure he had enough to eat was Bobby. Bobby always made sure Buck was okay. Even his unconscious mind knew Bobby was there for him. Cared for him. He would always appreciate Bobby being there for him. He loves Bobby like he did his own dad. Maybe even more at times. Bobby was the father figure that had been there when he needed him. His unconscious mind even brought him back from the dead when he needed him. So he sent Bobby a text.
Buck: hospital food 🤢
Bobby: that bad tonight?
Buck: im just going to eat the jello
Bobby: you really should eat something, Buck
Buck: its so boring and terrible
Bobby: did you at least try?
Buck: yes dad
Buck meant for it to come off as a sarcastic joke. Bobby didn't need to know that it felt more accurate to him. And knowing that Athena was the only voice that really broke through to him during his dream made him feel cared for. Loved. It really did feel like he had two sets of parents. Phillip and Margaret Buckley, the ones that initially brought him into this world and we're trying to reconnect with him. He could appreciate that. And the ones that helped bring him back into the world this time, the ones that love him by choice, not because of obligation, Bobby and Athena.
Bobby couldn't help but smile as he read Buck's text. Any hesitation that he might have had to sneak Buck something to eat vanished. Buck had a grip on his heart and he had for a long time. Since Bobby helped him get ready for that awful date all those years ago. Buck sat nestled in his heart alongside the kids he lost and the kids he gained when he married Athena. May was right.
Bobby: you want me to sneak you in something don’t you
Buck: Id say I’d die for it but too soon
Buck: right?
Bobby: Right
Buck: Yes sir *saluting emoji*
Bobby: I’ll make & bring you breakfast tomorrow
Buck: this is why you are the best
"What are you smiling about?" Athena asks as she joins him. Bobby just hands her his phone.
"Of course," Athena grins. "He got you with that dad text didn't you?"
"Even May says it's true," Bobby says.
"Because it is. He may have his real parents in his life, and they seem to be trying, but he knows he will always have you. And that means something."
"It does," Bobby smiles. "I'm so glad he's okay. I will make him whatever he wants if it means he'll stay that way."
"I know you will. He knows it too."
The next morning Bobby makes breakfast for his family. Omelets. Fluffy omelets that are packed full of tiny pieces of whatever any of them wanted. And he packs up one that he knew Buck would like. He packs it as best he can to keep it warm. Packed along with some other stuff he was bringing to help keep Buck from going crazy during his recovery. Some of it May and Harry insisted he would need. He headed to the hospital.
He knocked on the door before entering Buck's hospital room. The smile on Buck's face made Bobby smile.
"Morning," Buck greeted him.
"Morning, Harry and May said to tell you to feel better soon. Like soon, soon," Bobby shakes his head. "They also sent stuff to keep you sane. So here." He sets the bag of stuff on the bed. "Also breakfast is in there so there's that."
"Yes!" Buck grins. And pulls the tray table closer so he can pull everything out. He eagerly opens the container and finds the utensils. "Thanks, Bobby." He hums when he takes a bite. "I feel like I haven't had anything with flavor in ages."
"It's been less than a week, Buck," Bobby chuckles.
"And it feels way longer," Buck complains.
"You're just bored," Bobby says.
"You aren't wrong," Buck notes.
"Well I don't have a shift until tomorrow, so finish your breakfast and we can find something to do."
"Thanks Bobby, you really are the best," Buck smiles.
"Anytime, kid. Anytime."
#evan buckley#bobby nash#athena grant nash#Athena Grant#911 spoilers#non story post#bobby is buck's dad#fire dad#captain dad Bobby#spoilers#missing scenes
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olga and tolys' body headcanons?
i was actually planning on making this post with drawings but i didnt have time to draw it so... also there was another ask like this but it didn't let me edit the draft so i had to delete it and start over and the ask was gone😭
i actually headcanon both tolys and olga as pretty strong, both of them more than likely carry a lot of heavy stuff around and doing all the work around the house also requires some strength after all
olga has strong hands and legs, has wide thighs, and despite being bigger she still has somewhat of a nice waist. i imagine she probably volunteers a lot when she has time (and yk in our time i mean volunteer as in help soldiers which involves a lot) so she keeps up her physical shape, plus doing all the housework at her home
now speaking of scars, considering her complicated history she has quite a bunch of them:
1. olga also has a scar on her stomach from the defeat in the battle of berestechko 1651. it has somewhat faded since then
2. a scar on her chest from the battle of kyiv 1941
3. long scar going down from her shoulder blades to her waist from the khmelnytsky uprising 1648-1657
4. she also has one on her neck closer to the collarbone from the war of independence in 1921
5. had a scar on her chest from the siege of kyiv in 1240 but it has faded since then.
6. she has a long ugly scar on her upper back from the january uprising. it hurt a lot for the first couple decades but doesnt as much these days. sometimes it still hurts, which is also a cause for her back pains besides her chest size.
generally i think ukraine has a lot of small scars on her upper arms from weapons, and her hands have scratches from all sorts of work. speaking of those, my friend pointed out that in most official art ukraine has clothes with clothes upper arms and back which conveniently ties into my headcanons
now speaking of tolys i dont have many headcanons as unfortunately im not as familiar with history of lithuania, so im open to hear any of the headcanons yall might have😭
as ive mentioned before, i think tolys is also pretty strong even if he doesn't look all that menacing (cue that one sketch from himaruya where italy crash tests other characters' chests.). he may look pretty dead outside but boy these muscles do the work 🤭
i dont have any specific scar headcanons for liet, just mostly scars on his back we already know from canon. he was in many battles so there plenty of scars all over
also i think he has a habit of nervous scratching, and sometimes those dont heal for a while because he scratches them open again
now one of my favorite headcanons for tolys is that he has wolf-like fangs! it all comes down from the legend of the founding of vilnius, where gediminas dreamt of an iron wolf on a hill and a priest said it was a sign, so gediminas built the capital there
when latvia saw his fangs for the first time it kinda scared him, he thought lithuania was a werewolf😭
thats it for now! id be glad to hear any headcanons you guys have, bc i kinda suck at making them
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Harry Wells (Flash) - Earth 2 - Chapter 1
Love and Hate.
There’s a fine line between the two. Maybe that’s where you stood right now.
Because the situation couldn’t be more unclear.
You never thought it would become like this. You’d been so naive when Team Flash first started out. It was just the five of you against the forces of evil.
At least that’s what you thought.
The very man you cared most about in the world turned out to be the big bad you’d been hunting for months. It was a hard pill to swallow. But Barry’s time travel and Cisco’s dreams, it became clear that this was not the Harrison Wells you knew.
So standing face to face with him as he taunted Barry, hands running over the back of your head as you refused to move a muscle, he just smirked.
“You lose Barry, now you’re going to watch as I cut down everyone you care about. ''
Cisco and Caitlin stood helplessly at the side. You could see the pain reflected in their eyes. Barry was defeated.
Eobard leaned in pressing one last kiss to your lips. You didn’t even fight. Your brain is still processing it all. Just as he pulled away, that dangerous red glow sparked in his eyes.
Maybe if he hadn’t been so fixated on revenge he would have understood the repercussions that came with Barry resetting the timeline.
One breath.
It was one staggered breath and he looked down at your hand that was actively vibrating and rammed right into his chest.
One more and you removed your hand.
His body dropped, nothing but dead weight.
The room was quiet.
So quiet.
No one knew what to say. Joe lowered his gun and Iris was frozen in place. In a way, they all were. Barry couldn’t believe that the man who pledged to kill him was now dead on the floor.
You sank to your knees, unable to hold back the tears.
“I’m…sorry..”
It was all you could get yourself to say.
After that nothing was the same.
Team Flash was safe. It was a win, but ultimately you lost. You no longer had the love of your life or faith in your own humanity.
Eobard was right, he did win.
The weeks following, you finally announced that you were leaving Central City. You could see that they didn’t want you to leave, but no one knew what the right words were to say. It just hurt to be there. The way they looked at you, it wasn’t the same.
In the span of a month you were gone. You started in a quiet little city in Portland working a regular desk job at city hall. You couldn’t get yourself to go back to the force. Not after you’d broken the one rule.
To protect and serve.
It was too painful a reminder.
They never lost contact. You got constant postcards from Cisco. Every few months Caitlin would send you a sample of a new exotic plant she found with a little care package and a letter attached. Iris came down to visit a few times to see how you were doing.
Barry…
He never visited, never texted, barely called. You knew why. To him, you were a killer. Regardless of Eobard’s crimes, Barry was against it. He couldn’t even look at you and a part of you thought you deserved it.
For three years you lived a pretty normal life.
No superpowered villains constantly attacking the city. Bad meta threatening your family. Just you and your thoughts.
Everything is calm. At least you think it is.
When you see the caller ID on your cell phone that morning you’re a bit shocked. You don’t answer immediately. You hesitate, just for a second. You finally get yourself to pick it up.
“Barry?”
“(Y/N) we need your help Barry’s hurt!!”
Iris’s voice sounds panicked and your body moves on its own. The curtains in your apartment beat against your windows and the force of the wind. It takes possibly a minute. Your feet skate into the lab. Had you not been ready for anything, you probably would have charged right into the beam that was aimed in your direction. You bend at the last second, watching as it moves past your head in slow motion. Time speeds up, and the first thing you see is dark hair and those blue eyes.
It triggers a negative reaction and you grab the man by his collar, hand already vibrating ready to drive it right into his gut.
“(Y/N) STOP!!”
Cisco’s scream echoes and you stop when you’re inches away from impaling the individual. His weapon had fallen the second you grabbed onto him and you can see the slight fear behind his gaze.
It doesn’t make sense.
“It’s not him, that’s not Thawne.”
Cisco approaches cautiously, because your hand is still raised, but thankfully no longer intended to run through his body. You finally release the man when Cisco takes your hand in his. You mean to say something, explain yourself. Cisco merely shakes his head, pulling you into a hug. You stand there a bit unsure. Slowly, you return the embrace, holding unto him as you bury your face into his shoulder.
It’s been too long.
The reunion came after. It was a bit melancholy. This wasn’t under joyous circumstances. Barry is unconscious in the med bay, Iris by his side. Cisco is looking a bit worse for wear and Caitlin appears as though she hasn’t had a good night's sleep.
“We weren’t sure what to do, he’s been like this since yesterday. We were attacked by a meta that knows how to manipulate reality. We already administered an antidote. It worked on the other victims but Barry won’t wake up and that maniac is still out there.” You keep your eyes on Harrison Wells as Cisco updates you.
“We don’t have time to be going over notes, we need to stop that meta before he hurts more people. “
You glare at the scientist and Cisco looks at him, shaking his head.
“Harry relax, she’s on our side.”
“It didn’t look that way a while ago.”
His hand grazes his gun. You know it’s a secret challenge.
“You’d be on the ground before you even got your finger to the trigger.” Your remark makes his jaw clench.
“Would you like to test that theory?” He threatens.
“Gladly.” You retaliate.
“This isn’t helping. Barry’s hurt. We can’t stay here babysitting.” Joe intervenes.
Your hardened gaze is still trained on him. You finally look away with a sigh.
“Fine. Tell me how you got the others to wake up?”
Caitlin nods.
“We made an antidote to counteract hallucinogens. His powers mimic those often used in standard drugs. We did the same for Barry, we even safely doubled the doses but he’s still comatose. Nothing is working.”
It’s not like you all haven’t been in such a position before. Harry moves to Caitlin's side in what you can only assume is comfort. Joe is patting Cisco on the shoulder. Iris is still looking at Barry’s form. In some weird way, it feels like old times.
A painful reminder.
You move to the table, grabbing a pair of gloves and a vial from in the cabinet. The second you begin shuffling around the room, you can see them move closer.
Harry’s brows furrow, and you pull the plastic off the needle as you slip it into the small bottle. When you begin drawing the liquid in, you can see the uncertainty in his eyes.
“What are you doing?! That could kill him!”
“Wrong, this amount would kill a normal person. But Barry isn’t normal is he? He needs a jolt and this is going to help him. Because of his abilities he metabolizes faster. If this meta has some kind of drug inducing abilities, it must be through physical contact. His skin. If that’s the case then it’s possible Barry is having a negative reaction to it because of his speed.”
“Like an allergy..” Harry mutters.
“Exactly, and how do you treat sudden allergic reactions?”
“Epinephrine!” Cisco jumps up.
You take the needle, cleaning his arm as you slide it into his vein. When you draw back, you discard the items, checking his pulse.
“Normally you use an epi pen in the thigh to disperse the medicine better, but I needed a larger dose. I’m hoping that his body picks it up faster regardless of where it was administered. Now we just have to wait and see.”
All eyes turn to Barry. There isn’t much of a reaction, not at all. The machines are beeping steadily, but Caitlin looks over when his heart rate picks up. Harry moves closer and Barry jolts upright, gasping for air. They all begin to rush him. You can practically see the light return to Iris’s eyes. You smile as they frantically check him. Bombarding him with questions. Barry is still trying to get his breath back, but he’s smiling. Hugging Joe and Iris, grinning at Caitlin and Cisco. His eyes finally find you standing at the back. You hold it for a few seconds before you turn your back and walk away.
You find a nice quiet place, admiring the upgrades that have clearly been made. So much has changed, not that you’re surprised.
“You’re a great doctor.” You turn at the statement.
It’s Harry.
He’s abandoned his weapon.
“I’m a cop.”
Correction, you were a cop.
“When I first got here everyone treated me like the enemy. It made sense after I heard what he’d done. They all had reasons but no one talks about you. Before today I didn’t even know you existed.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“What did he do to you?”
“Let it go.”
“If you’re going to be working under this team again I want to know everything.”
“Who says I was planning to come back.”
Harry’s eyes narrow.
“Did he break your heart?”
That makes you freeze. You’re no longer standing there confident and in control.
“Now when you see me you’re reminded of that love that you so tragically lost.”
“Stop it...”
“Why? Am I wrong? He walked all over you like everyone else. He was a manipulator, it’s not surprising that you fell for his ruse. Do you think sulking about it is going to change what happened? You have a talent, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for yourself you should be using it to help. Or is that it? Did his betrayal change your perspective? Maybe you’re just like him!”
“I AM!!”
The change in octave doubled with the red hollow glow of your eyes was not what Harry was expecting.
He barely gets a breath out, because the wind hits his face and you’re standing right in front of him, tilting your head menacingly.
“I loved him and he tried to kill us, so I stopped his heart myself.”
You lift your hand slowly, tauntingly and Harry swallows.
“He turned me into a monster, just like him. A killer.”
It’s become clear that he’s overstepped.
“If it turns out that you’re not who you appear to be, I’ll make sure that you feel every ounce of pain before I finally take your last breath.”
Your hand is right over his heart, but you don’t make contact.
The light in your eyes finally disappears and you casually slip your hands into your pockets.
“Enjoy your stay Harry.”
It’s an underlying threat.
One that he doesn’t take lightly.
#hurt#eobard thawne#reverseflash#sacrifice#barryallen#resent#heroes#villains#pain#harry wells#harryxreader#flash#iriswest#cisco ramon#caitlin
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Werewolf Travis is such a treat to imagine because, well. You know why. Best Boy Travis- coughcoughcough.
Uh, what I mean is, tall + well built + determined is not what you want in your rage-fueled pursuer. I like to think that he's pretty cunning too, like that scene from Jurassic Park where Muldoon tries to shoot Deinonychus then another one pops out of the bush right next to him and he says 'clever girl'. Travis uses his environment well. Blends into surroundings, climb up the trees for better view, when one entrance is blocked look for another etc.
Despite being bigger and more vicious than other werewolves, he's an ambush hunter. Think about his Ninja-level stealth. When he's human it's already impressive, but you won't even see the beast before you feel its maws ripping open your neck. There's also his reflex. He's more of a fucking cat than a pupper if you see how fast he snatches away Laura's wrist from the gun. You fail QTE, Laura attempts to sedate him, Travis blocks her wrist with his forearm. One firm tap! Syringe gone. Fking precise. Always careful, careful, careful. He exerts bare minimum of strength and effort, only the right amount that's needed for the job. His movements are methodical, you see that right? Even the steps look careful. Now imagine how meticulous he could be when hunting his prey.
Another thing, chasing people is his job. Police right? That and 6 years of hunting Silas. You cannot outrun him, especially in the forest. His feet are light as feather, no protruding roots or overhanging branches can deter him. He'll rather toy with you. Why end the fun short? He's been holding back for so long! The curse enables a person's primary side to literally tear out of their civil mask and show itself as a physical manifestation. His Id has been denied for, how long?
We know Travis is hella disciplined, and I love that about him, how hard he works for anything. Family and his job, both he takes so seriously, always putting them before his own needs. Now flip the coin. Werewolf Travis cares about one thing and one thing only: What he wants. Anger him, he kills you. Hungry? Snack time. Hmm bored. He got you in his sight. The hunt is on. Imagine all that dedication poured into his own selfish desire. That is the monster from the old stories right there. Wimpy counselors don't stand a goddamn chance, we need an actual hunter, soldier, any character that knows how to fight and survive.
Also he's a lone wolf. His human side already had enough of his family. You can't tell me he doesn't enjoy the peace and quiet, the freedom and solitude the transformation brings. Near dawn he'll run away, finds a shallow burrow under a tree stump or something, swipe some comfy leaves in there and sleep in his den. Later he finds a dead tree nearby with a small gap in it, hides some spare clothes there so he doesn't have to wake up, wait until night and wander through the forest back home in his birthday suit ever again.
Final boss Travis. God if he were a playable character.....no, no. He's too powerful, best he could be was a support character. At least until dawn characters level badassery is needed to deal with werewolf him. Him being bit at the very end of the game was a small mercy for all of them.
In the route where he got shot in the cell, he was bleeding quite a lot, and yet later he's at family home. Isn't he supposed to like...be resting. Jesus. Carries on like there isn't a bullet hole in him. Got punched the fuck outta his mind by werewolf Laura, hard enough his head got whipped to the side, crashes into a mirror, recovers quickly, grabs a shard, notices it's silver backed, the guy's level-headed alright damn. Arm got munched on, it's shredded, he doesn't scream. He uses that arm like his muscle isn't all torn up and skin chewed open. His pain tolerance is gooood.
I bet if werewolf Travis is charging at you, and you fire a few normal bullets at him, he'll just shrug them off and pounce. If he's close enough he'll just, fucking, dash through the raining bullets, endure a few hits on the way, and kill, unlike other werewolves that are scared away by gunshots. He doesn't whimper, he doesn't whine, or howl. He growls. Snarls. Roars into the night. He's so fucking angry. He'll rip you apart.
#travis hackett#the quarry#werewolf travis#werewolf#headcannon#i love youuuuu one wolfy boy#oh oh! kill your mom and said it was an accident! wolves did nothing wrong!#sheriff hackett#rant#alternative universe#au idea#fic idea
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Welp.
i have been trying to fight the demons in my mind but no matter who i talk to or what i say to myself i still feel like im spiraling downwards.
I have been tempted to text four different people cancelling plans or telling them id be gone for awhile before just. disappearing without further notice.
people at my job refuse to care about the MEDICAL PRODUCT we manufacture.
i am so lonely because every one around me has more important people, or their own issues, or just. don't bother replying.
and the worst part! is that! i don't want to be overbearing! Down to the core of it i don't care if people reply, or if i'm the most important person, or whatever! but some fucking beast in my brain murmurs things telling me that secretly they all want me dead and it eats away at me.
ive talked to my partner about this. ive talked to my best friends about this. ive talked to my brother about this. ive gone through it in my head over and over and over again and i can't figure out what i can do to fix it.
i shouldn't have to have peoples attention to feel better. i am sick of begging people to talk to me about anything and everything to get the pain off my mind.
I can get past it if im high so i regularly take edibles since these fucked up breakdowns are happening so often lately
and the shittiest thing about it is that it comes and goes in waves.
but every time the thoughts come back they get so, so, SO much worse.
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