#whumptober fic

[mania-sama]

rule #13 - waterfall

Rule #13 - Waterfall - Fish in a Birdcage

Jujutsu Kaisen Pairing - Fushiguro Megumi/Itadori Yuuji Tags - coma, japanese literature, character study, references to depression, survivor guilt, angst, post-culling games, gross overuse of italics Summary - Sukuna is successfully exorcised without killing his vessel, but Fushiguro Megumi is left in a comatose state. His soul has a decision to make. Word Count - 2,022 Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own Whumptober 2023 - Day 30: Coma See my full Whumptober 2023 Challenge on Tumblr or Ao3

"The boy has not a suggestion of a smile. No human can smile with his fists doubled like that,” Itadori reads, his index finger carefully underlining the words on the page. “It is a monkey. A grinning monkey-face. The smile is nothing more than a puckering of ugly wrinkles.”

Megumi listens intently and waits patiently for Itadori to arrive at the end of the paragraph, where he is sure to take a pause and regather his breath and thoughts. He’ll steal a glance at Megumi, then continue on.

Except this time Itadori does not continue when his finger falls off the page after reading: “ I have never seen a child with such an unaccountable expression.” The blue bookmark, tasseled with intertwining crimson and gold, slides into the crook between the pages, bumping into the inner spine. The light pink and coral book gently collapses to hold the bookmark in place, saving Yuuji’s spot for when he would like to return to it next.

It’s not like him to stop reading so abruptly unless there’s an emergency of some kind. Megumi thinks it's unlikely considering his phone hadn’t gone off, nor had a staff member or fellow sorcerer barged in to alert him of an impending situation.

Itadori rests the book on his lap and methodically runs his thumbs on the edge of the paperback cover. Without looking up at Megumi, he says, “I really hate this author.”

This doesn’t surprise Megumi. Dazai Osamu isn’t known for theatrical and fun yet thought-provoking books like many other authors are famous for. His works are depressive and nihilistic, showcasing the cruel underbelly of human nature. In the months Megumi has gotten to know Itadori, he has always been one to keep his nose facing the sun.

“I don’t want to read this,” Itadori continues. “Just that one paragraph, and I—” He breaks off, his thumb pausing at the base of a flower bud on the cover. “Did you expect to find yourself in these pages?”

Megumi startles, and Itadori swallows thickly.

Did you expect to find yourself in these pages?

It has something to do with the way Megumi never smiled right, always full of anger and resentment and apathy for the man who raised him and the man who didn’t. He rarely attempted to express happiness, and when he did, it looked unnatural and foreign. 

“I… I don’t know,” he admits. His voice echoes as a snowflake falling in a powdered tundra.

Finally, Itadori tears his gaze from No Longer Human. He settles on Megumi, whose chest rises and falls in line with the beeping monitor tracking his heart. Megumi watches the exchange from the edge of the bed. Close to Yuuji, where if he shifted an inch or two over, he would contact Itadori’s knee with his own. Far enough from Yuuji, where they would never accidentally meet in the middle.

“Some of these books are hard to read. Not just because I don’t like them, but I have this feeling that… if you’re listening, and you’re hearing what some of these guys have to say, you won’t want to wake up.” His brown eyes are sincere and solemn, a combination that only he could earnestly achieve. Most people attempt to conceal a part of themselves; it’s a natural part of the human equation. Yet somehow, Itadori bypasses it entirely as if he was made using a different formula altogether.

Sometimes, it feels like Megumi will never fully understand Itadori. Their compositions are too fundamentally opposed.

On his left, his body breathes silently. Occasionally he can hear it as the state of his nostril and throat changes, like mucus build-up or tonsil irritation. Today he suffers from no ailment to cause sound. If he could somehow turn off the heart monitor, he could pretend that the only people in the room are Itadori Yuuji with the light pink and coral book and himself sitting on the edge of a normal bed in a normal room. Yuuji reads to him, tracking the words with his index finger and occasionally stealing warm glances at Megumi. He smiles despite the depressing contents of the book, like being in the same vicinity as Megumi is enough to bring him holistic happiness.

The heart monitor breaks his wistful daydream by beeping at a minimally quicker pace. Itadori turns his head to look at it, tracking the spiking red line like it’s worth anything more than the shitty, noisy machine that it is. His hand had jumped close to the red ‘CALL’ button on the side of the hospital bed. His finger hovers over it uselessly as the monitor slows down to his regular BPM.

Itadori uses the same hand to reach for Megumi, holding his pale, gauntly thin hand that resembles the rest of his atrophying body. Megumi can faintly feel the fingers intertwining with his own, and it simultaneously burns and freezes his skin in a frigid hellfire. When there’s nothing he can do but sit and experience it, he finds himself stuck between enjoying and cursing the sensation.

However, this is the better option for obtaining touch. The incorporeal form he possesses simply passes through living people. Contact dissembles his skin in a flurry of dust and scattered light while sending the other person deep, bone-chilling shivers.

“Wake up,” Itadori says. Their hands are lying together on the bedsheet, one sickly white from lack of a severe lack of natural Vitamin D and the other bone-white from how tightly he’s holding on. “Wake up so I don’t have to read this to you. I’ll read you something else if you like. Anything. But you have to be awake. I want to see you listening to me.”

Megumi wants to do that; listen to Itadori read any book of his choosing — not Dazai Osamu, certainly not his most depressing suicide note of a book — all day long. By itself, it would have been enough to wake him with the first sentence Itadori read of Norwegian Wood. 

The book itself, as Itadori explained when he sat down to explain his plans to Megumi, was chosen because of its inspirational message. The exact opposite of Dazai, really; it’s clear that Itadori was hoping to avoid this point.

“I did research,” Itadori had said, opening to the first page of what will become a stack of read books piled on the other side of Megumi’s hospital bed. “By that, I mean I read a Wikipedia page. Its message is to keep on living, which I think is better than some of the other ones you have on your list. I really hope this works.”

Then it began: “I was thirty-seven then, strapped in my seat as the huge seven-four-seven plunged through dense cloud cover on approach to Hamburg airport.”

If it were so simple, it would have worked.

Megumi doesn’t want to wake up.

It started from the moment he killed his sister. He gave up fighting Sukuna, knowing it would be useless. His power to manipulate the Ten Shadows technique alongside his given techniques and domain overshadowed any restraint he applied to his body’s cursed energy. Nineteen fingers eventually accumulated in his body. Mahoraga gave way to the world-shattering cleave. Tsumiki and Gojo died because of his abilities.

“It wasn’t you who killed them,” Itadori had explained early on, “it was Sukuna.” But Itadori didn’t understand that his words were null from the amount of hypocrisy poisoning them.

If waking up meant he could sit in one place for the rest of his life with Itadori’s voice reading him his favorite books, he’d do it. But being awake means facing the world again. It means confronting the shikigami that took his sister’s and Gojo’s life, as well as the countless others that Sukuna killed along the way. He’d have to return to Jujutsu society and continue this thankless, worthless life of exorcism, or abandon it all and live with the guilt of negligence.

But dying — dying meant losing this. Itadori would be alone, and Megumi would never hear the end of No Longer Human or The Setting Sun. He would never get to The Boy of the Winds which Megumi assumes Itadori is saving for last. He won’t get updates on Itadori’s trials and tribulations with schoolwork and exorcism. Maki comes to visit; he likes to hear her talk and interact with his comatose body. If he dies, there will be no family members left for her to relate to.

That’s the problem, the dichotomy of his situation where he is seemingly stuck between life and whatever comes after. If he could figure out how to die or wake up, he wouldn’t be here, stuck in his hospital room and watching one of only two people alive he cares about come to his room day after day to read him a book from Megumi’s to-be-read list. 

What Megumi does want, and it goes entirely unattested as embarrassing as it is, is to talk to Gojo.

He doesn’t know what Gojo would do in this situation, because he is certain that Gojo would never be in the same position. That man has always been one extreme to the next — to imagine his soul wandering the planes of the living is to ignore him altogether. If he were allowed just one conversation, he knows that Gojo would have him alive or dead before Itadori can finish one more paragraph of No Longer Human.

Then there is the quieter part of him that just wants to see him again. To see Gojo in whatever form he’s taken after death. And he recognizes that Gojo, the person he has modeled his every decision after when Tsumiki could no longer guide him, is the only person he will listen to. Anyone can tell him to live or to die, but Gojo is the only one Megumi knows he won’t fight.

It’s not that Gojo has made every correct decision in his life, but he is the closest thing Megumi has ever gotten to a father.

There is a saying: like father, like son. For the longest time, he had been unable to comprehend that phrase. He and Gojo aren’t blood-related. During his living days, Megumi didn’t have the time or motivation to reflect on the man who raised him. He understood that Gojo was the one around, his benefactor, and his teacher. His emotional capacity was unable to handle much more than that.

One year and three months and a stack of books have given Megumi plenty of time to reflect, and he is now intimately familiar with what it means when someone says like father, like son.

Not one person knows him better than Gojo Satoru.

“Okay,” Itadori relinquishes, letting go of Megumi’s hand. “Okay. Another day. I’ll let you have another day.”

Megumi doesn’t know how many more days either of them have left in them. It’s been a year and three months, and so far, Gojo Satoru has not come to visit to guide his soul as he once guided his life. It could be retribution for killing his only father-like figure, but he has this feeling that Gojo doesn’t blame him for it, no matter how much Megumi holds it against himself.

Like father, like son. Yet, the father raises the son to be better than himself.

Leaning back in his chair, Itadori reopens the light pink and coral book. In the fold of space between life and death, there are books and there is Itadori Yuuji. He cannot have these individually, nor can he hold them close. It’s a form of torment, a reminder that he is not meant to stay.

He listens from his seat at the edge of the bed as Itadori takes a deep, aching breath. He reads to the end of the prologue. When he’s finished, he looks at Megumi for a long time. His finger traces the inner spine between the thin pages.

Itadori continues with the first chapter: “Mine has been a life of such shame. I can’t even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being.”

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsukaisen #jjk megumi #jjk fushiguro #megumi fushiguro #fushiguro megumi #jjk itadori #itadori yuuji #yuji itadori #itafushi #itadori x fushiguro #itadori x megumi #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ai less whumptober #whumptober fic #whumptober2023 #whumptober

[quietlyimplode]

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 29 - What happened to me

Warnings: aftermath of failed mission, grief, drugging after affects

Word Count: 2.1k (gif not mine)

Summary: Pepper tried to keep moral alive. Natasha and Clint have a conversation about the wedding putting it jeopardy. Tony and Yelena have a bonding moment.

A/N: as promised - home stretch now. This is not reread at all so all mistake are my own, we are just going straight from brain to posting now. Almost there <3

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

2014

NEW YORK

There’s nothing they can do.

The sceptre is gone and the tower is still broken.

Pepper feels the frustration and sadness coming from Tony as he stays in the workshop.

“It’s not you’re fault,” she tells him, and he shrugs her off.

He pushed for it.

He wanted revenge.

He hits the metal harder and ignores the world.

.

The hospital makes Natasha’s skin crawl.

She allows the doctor to check her once more, lies about her headache and dry throat, and nods at his instructions.

Despite everything, she wants to get back to the tower.

She’s worried about Tony, about Pepper being with Tony, and not having someone to help. She’s worried about Clint, even as he sits beside her.

They haven’t talked much, and she knows they both feel the hope of the wedding dwindle.

.

Pepper does what she does best and hires people to take care of everything.

Slowly, it comes together.

Two days before Christmas Eve, the tower is functional and decorated.

She looks proudly at it, and even though there’s still telltale signs of injury, the decorations make it cheerful and happy; for her anyway.

The bunny, the one that saved Tony, sits in prime position in the entrance, a large Christmas hat on its head, and it makes her smile every time she looks at it.

Tony indulges her.

He flies Christmas lights around at her request and finally she gets a smile out of him when he flies back and looks at his work.

“Pretty,” she says looking at him.

“Yeah,” he replies, pulling her close.

.

Steve sits by Sam’s bedside, the only avenger not to wake up straight away once given antivirals and straight oxygen.

San wakes, looking left and looks visibly relieved.

“What happened? What happened.. to me?”

They couldn’t determine the gas, likely a hallucinogenic substance from what Tony had synthesised.

“I don’t know,” Steve replies honestly, “but you’re going to be okay.”

He forgets sometimes; how new to this Sam is, how even with his experience in the Army, that the Avengers are different. Worse repercussions for seemingly easy things.

Sam nods, his eyes closing back.

“Thanks man,” he sighs, “for being here.”

.

Clint watches Natasha carefully.

The drugs had given him visions of her dying. Then nightmares once the antidote or antivirals had been given.

It’s a thought he can’t get rid of.

He hadn’t been brave enough to ask what she saw. She’ll tell him when she’s ready.

Being almost Christmas, he watches her more; especially as she asks Yelena to come back, to spend it with them, promising safety this time.

Clint calls Maria, asks what she’s doing for Christmas.

She promises to come, laughing down the phone telling him Pepper already invited him.

Seems they know, the only way through is together. To have people around and to follow failure with support and regrouping.

They can’t do anything now, otherwise Tony would have done it, found it and they’d be going after the sceptre.

They’re all not used to losing.

On a whim, he calls Gus, and asks him to come too.

To his surprise, Gus agrees.

He sends some details and then calls Pepper who assures him she’ll sort it out.

Clint feels bad imposing, but when he turns to Natasha and finds her staring, he feels that perhaps being around friends and family, may not be a bad thing.

.

Natasha sits up, the large one seater couch surrounded by thick blankets even though in the tower it isn’t warm or cold.

Clint walks through the door and nods, asking what she’s reading.

“Nothing special,” she replies, putting it down, and standing to kiss him.

“Are you okay?” He opens, wanting to know. Apart from seeing Tony, she hasn’t left the room.

“Yes,” she responds a little too quickly.

Sighing heavily, she shakes her head.

“I don’t want to sleep,” she admits.

He makes her sit back down and sits next to her.

“How’s your arm?”

Natasha’s glances at it, as if it didn’t even register a thought before he’d mentioned it.

The silence is enough to make him recant his words and talk to her about what was really on her mind.

“Why don’t you want to sleep?”

She traces the title page of her book and thinks.

“Hydra, Red Room, Shield, they’re all the same. Corporations all wanting power. All the same fear tactics and ways of controlling people. Hydra in Shield, Hydra in the Red Room, maybe even the Red Room in Hydra. Shield takes down the Red Room but not really, and where do we stand? In the middle playing games.”

She pauses.

“I’m just so tired of it all.”

He starts tracing shapes on her hand and just lets her talk.

“I had a plan,” she says quietly, “we’d get married, and we’d escape for a while. You know like Bilbo does? He puts the ring on and disappears. I thought we could go, not forever but for long enough to get bored.”

He smiles lightly.

“You didn’t tell me,” he replies, the pause obvious for him to respond.

“We need a break, I need a break. I didn’t think you’d mind. But as everything that’s happened in the last two weeks, it’s like…”

“It’s never going to happen,” he finishes.

She sniffs.

“I feel like, there’s so much in my life that has been at the whim of others, dictated by it, caused by it; but this— this lead up - when you asked me, I thought maybe, just maybe it meant that there could be one thing I was in control of, one part of my future that was not dictated by another.”

Natasha’s crying now, tears that sneak out, even though her voice holds steady.

“We can’t get married,” she says sadly.

“We can get away though,” he says hugging her closer.

“No we can’t,” she replies despondently, “there’s always going to be something. There’s always something.”

She looks up at him.

“You haven’t asked me what the hallucinations made me see,” she says, baiting him.

“What did you see, Nat?” he asks, almost not wanting to know the answer.

“Nothing,” she tells him.

“I’ve already lived through so many of my greatest fears; some induced, some produced. What happened to me… I know I can survive it all, even death. Sometimes though; I just want the world to go quiet, I just want to… rest.”

He can count the number of times she’s sounded like this, so fatalistic. Clint knows what follows and fear creeps into his soul.

He decides then and there that he’s going to make it happen.

No matter what.

Even if it’s not ideal, and what they’d planned.

.

Christmas Eve finds them all at the tower.

Pepper’s pushing and organising successful.

She makes Clint help put up the last of the decorations, asks about Natasha and Yelena and he thanks her for getting Gus there too.

She hands him a drink and he takes it gratefully.

“Did you know Sam had a sister too?” Clint asks.

Pepper shakes her head.

“Is that why he couldn’t stay?”

Clint nods, “he has nephews too.”

She smiles.

“I’ll have to send them something.”

They stare at the television for a while and he finally works the courage to ask.

“How hard would it be for us to get married here?” he asks.

“If we were to organise everything and make it happen, maybe tomorrow? Would it be at all possible?”

Pepper doesn’t say no immediately, which Clint takes to be a good thing.

“Tomorrow?”

She thinks.

“Tomorrow is Christmas.. we have that planned. What about the 27th? It’ll give me one more day to organise everything, flowers, a photographer maybe? We can do it here, everyone will be here already so that’s no issue,” she pauses thinking hard.

“Did Natasha want this too?”

Clint looks at the floor.

“She.. Uhhh, she doesn’t know,” he confesses.

If Pepper is surprised, she doesn’t show it.

“Okay, well you work that out and I’ll work about the rest,” she promises.

“It’s not a stupid idea?”

Clint was sure she would say it was too hard and too much; because already she had done so much. Already she had accepted them into their home, accommodated them, and now their family as well.

Pepper smiles.

“No Clint, I think the idea is perfect.”

If Clint cries in front of others, he would in front of Pepper. Instead he stands to face her.

“Can I give you a hug?” he asks.

Pepper closes the gap and hugs him first.

“What are friends for?”

.

Yelena explores the tower.

Her room close to Natasha’s as she finds the kitchen and the library and eventually finds a laboratory and a workshop.

The tower feels like it’s throwing up Christmas.

Yelena laughs at the ridiculousness of it.

She counts 47 trees before she stops counting, laughs at the stockings filled with candy canes, and decides that she loves the tiny touches of multicoloured lights adorning all the corners that light up like a runway where she walks.

Christmas holds no symbolism for her, no hope for presents or any wishes or whatever Santa is supposed to bring. She could come around to this though, spending a day with someone she wants too.

After Natasha had left for Berlin, she’d wandered the city, been a tourist in a city that was once terrifying for her.

All the stories the Red Room had told her about America were truth in lies. Capitalism hell; a truth; but the ability to buy anything within a commodity system.

They’d sold it as something terrible.

But Yelena had got pizza at 2am after a bad night, and the man selling it had smiled at her, and suddenly the world hadn’t seemed so bad.

If pizza and capitalism could do that, then who was she to judge it?

She watches Tony bang on a piece of metal and wanders into the workshop.

She’s silent in her movement and she doesn’t think he notices until he holds his hand out and asks her to hand him a phillips head screwdriver.

“How did you know I was here?” she asks curiously.

“I know everyone in my tower,” he responds, attaching another piece of metal.

“That’s impossible,” she tells him.

“Jarvis,” he says, “who’s in my tower?”

Yelena is startled to hear a male voice come through the walls.

“There are 9 people currently in the tower, would you like me to name them?”

Yelena smiles.

“Yes,” she answers for him.

“Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Pepper Potts, Maria Hill, Gustav Santorini, Bruce Banner, Tony Stark and Yelena Belova,” Jarvis recites.

“Neat trick,” she says to Tony.

“Not a trick,” he mutters, still not looking for her.

“What are you doing?”

She walks closer to him, and finally he looks up.

“How is your arm?”

She looks at the seemingly sentient metal, as it magnetizes to create a protective shell every time Tony hits it and frowns.

“What’s that?”

“You’re Yelena,” Tony says redundantly.

“You’re Tony,” she retorts.

“Does Natasha know you’re here?”

“She’s knows I’m here in the general sense, but I don’t know if she knows I’m here, with you.”

Taking a candy cane, she opens it and bites down.

“What’s that?” she repeats.

Suspicion clouds Tony’s eyes and he frowns.

“Nothing.”

“It’s got to be something, and if I had to guess it looks like electromagnetic conductors that absorb impact and have the ability to reform,” she nods.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” he asks.

“Nope,” Yelena responds, popping the P and hopping on the bench.

“Natasha is sleeping, Clint is helping Pepper, and I don’t know anyone else.”

Tony sighs.

“You don’t know me either.”

Yelena nods.

“I don’t know, but I know of you, Natasha has told me.”

Curiosity bites at him and he finally stops.

“What did she say?”

“She said you were kind,” Yelena replies sucking on the candy cane, “she also said you were bull headed but smart.”

Tony scoffs.

“I’m not just smart,” he retorts.

Yelena hops down.

“Are you just smart if all your friends are smart? Or does it make you just normal?”

Tony considers her words and turns his attention back to his project.

“Do you want to help me?”

.

#whumptober2023 #no. 29 #what happened to me #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #my fic #hawkeye #natasha romanoff fic #clintasha fanfiction #clintasha fanfic #Yelena belova fic #tony stark fic #marvel fic #the avengers #avengers fic #Clint barton fic #black widow fic #whumptober fic #Yelena belova #hawkeye fic #clint barton x natasha romanoff

[majorproblems77]

So I've been looking at My final whumptober fic. And its supposed to be an epilogue to unravelling. Set ten months after the story ends.

But now I'm at such a pivotal moment in the main story I don't know if I can post it. (I was supposed to have been finished with unravelling by now)

Like, it may be spoilers? Bu ti don't know?

Fighting myself trying to figure out what I should so

#linked universe #ramble corner with major #writing #linkeduniverse #linked universe fanfic #whumptober fic #like will i spoil the major plot point posting with this i literally don't know #ahh im conflicted

[children-of-epiales]

Whumptober 2023

Prompt No. 07- "Can you hear me?"

When she reaches up and touches her cheek, the pads of her fingers press deep into her skin. It’s not until she feels the bone that Rouen reaches further, feeling wetness dripping from her ear canal. She looks at her hand to confirm that it’s blood. 

The soldier notices light on the floor and looks up at the tv in the room ahead of her. A commercial goes on, all the bright lights flashing and people speaking-speaking but not making a single sound. 

Rouen cannot hear a single sound. 

It’s gone, the brunette thinks. Oh my god it’s gone…It was real.

She chokes on a gasp, the adrenaline giving her the energy to stand. Reaper stumbles backward, shutting her eyes as she hits the wall; when she opens them, the soldier sees the pool she had previously laid in and the thought of how long she’d been there struck her. If she passed out while running from it, then why hadn’t it found her? Or did it find her, and not kill her? 

Fear washes over Rouen, gluing her to the wall for a moment. Where is it where is it where is it

Eventually she shoves away from the wall, running into the corner of the door frame in front of her, smashing her face against it. The world spins, colors take over her vision, yet the soldier continues into the room with the tv. 

Hel..lo?

The struggling to say the word stops Rouen in her tracks. This time it sounds just like her, having any conversation with her family or the love of her life. Tears blur her vision, run down her cheeks, it takes everything she has left to turn her head. Just barely able to see behind her, the dim light and pool of blood are all that occupies the vacant room she awoke in. 

No one’s there, she tries to convince herself. No one’s there’s-it’s not there. None of it is true, the fact is enough for her to continue outside, climbing through one of the broken windows and jumping out into trees, weeds, and other things the soldier can’t see. Things she can no longer hear. 

She doesn’t know what’s waiting for her, yet she takes off. The soldier runs into the waiting woods, pushing away vines and branches that block her path and try to grab at her to keep her company among the isolation. 

Hel-lo? 

Rouen’s pace quickens until the branches start to leave cuts on her. It must be her mind, she’s lost all that blood and has been stressed and scared since the evening prior-it must be her mind cracking. It’s all she can do to convince herself. 

She trips onto a road and continues on her hands and knees across the hot pavement, a red shape in the distance giving her the incentive to stand up. The closer the vehicle comes, the more she waves her arms and screams as loud as she can imagine she’s able to. 

Hello? Oh-

The truck slows so it stops right next to her, only for the soldier to freeze despite watching the woman’s lips move. It’s there. It’s there with her. It never left; it waited for her to wake up, so it could find her again. 

There you are.

Rouen walks over and opens the door to the passenger seat. She slips in and slams it before telling the woman to drive. She doesn’t try to blink away the tears that overwhelm her again. 

Hello? Can you hear me? Hello? There you are. Can you hear me?

She shuts her eyes. “ Get-Get us out of here.” She repeats through grit teeth. The soldier turns and opens her eyes, the reflection in the window blocked by another reflection of herself, smiling brightly at the deafened woman. 

I see you.

#Rouen Blake #whumptober fic #scheduled #whumptober 2023 #pls be gentle this is my first time attempting these prompts

[luna-lovegreat]

Wait...

It's November. It's November first. Yesterday was October 31st, so October is over. ...it's over. Is it over?

Inktober, artober, whumptober, flufftober, linktober, every tag ending with -tober that's been circulating for the past month... is it over? I don't know why it's just hit me but...

This matters. So I will try to get the message across, even though I'm not the best at it sometimes

Fanartists, fan writers, artists, fic writers, people making comics, every single one of you that has created art for the past month...

Thank you

This is my first October on tumblr. When I started seeing the "tober" tags, seeing the posts from artists with wips, saying they were going to make something every day to a prompt, making masterposts to update with each day, I thought "cool"

But every day this month, I have gotten on here and smiled.

And I don't mean smiled. I mean I smiled at least 20 times every time I got on the app because I saw all the art and fics. I got to see artists/writers connect stories through different day prompts. I saw people having the most brilliant ideas and creativity, flowing from their hands into their posts. I saw artists responding to continuous asks, telling them how amazing they are. I saw artists getting behind, and keeping going.

I saw Free. Beautiful. Emotional. Amazing. Original. Creative. Art.

Every day

I haven't committed to anything of this before, so I can't directly relate to what you guys were thinking and feeling. But I'm willing to guess; I think you probably enjoyed it, because most won't do such a huge project unless they enjoy it. I think you probably saw it as a challenge you were willing to fulfill, and an opportunity to grow and develop your skills.

... but I'm also willing to bet you did it for us. For people like me, who love art, but don't do this specific type, who are in fandoms, who love tracking and watching you art and sending you compliments, who take joy in your work. For the other artists (and writers!) who admire each others styles and love to learn from each other.

If anyone ever tries to tell me that humans are inherently evil again, I will strap them to a chair, pull up these posts and say look. Look at what these people did. Look me in the eyes and tell me these sorts of actions don't come from the most loving hearts. Tell me these people don't want to make others happy, that they aren't inherently good. And I will tell you you're wrong.

I have so much going on, yet somehow it slipped into my life that I was constantly looking at your art for the joy of it without me even noticing.

And how is it possible. That we have such a beautiful community of people here that we will share. And communicate. And exchange compliments. And literally do things and send asks solely for the purpose of making someone smile.

I'm almost crying by now. God I can't express it well enough! But I am so. So. Grateful

You guys brought me a month of joy! You gave headcanons, and art, and stories!

Even yesterday, Halloween, I was blown away. Because I had expected... I didn't expect anything. And then I log on and see people sending happy halloween asks, exchanging doodles of candy, and headcanons and gifs.

And some are still catching up to the schedule or whatever, and that's ok! But at the beginning of this post, when I was simply realizing it was November, I asked myself "is it over?"

Is it over?

... I don't think so. I've seen artists say they're going to continue and expand on a piece they made and especially liked this month. Some people are still continuing, catching up to a voluntary deadline. All those masterposts with your whump/fluff/link/ink tober art? I know many as well as myself will be going through, looking over your posts with smiles, catching up on some things they missed this month... it will continue in the people and artists I didn't know existed before, but now follow. In the skills and growth in creativity! In the community we've grown, and art you've made, and the art to come, at a normal rate like every other month, even if it's not October anymore!

But my artists, writers... thank you so much. I don't know if you guys know how valuable and amazing you are. How incredible it is that you exist! People say it's amazing we exist under a sky of such stars, but how incredible is it that you made a stranger on the internet smile every day! Your life is so. So. Valuable. I can't even express how grateful I am that you exist, that you somehow are selfless enough to share the most beautiful parts of yourself simply to create, and to create joy. Thank you so so much.

(And this applies to all artists, in any fandoms, not just mine. And I'm just as grateful to people who couldn't do something every day, or only one day! You still share your art, you're just as... incredible. You are incredible.)

Okay.

So I'm gonna do this, and if others want to do it in the reblogs that's great! I do not care at all about reblogging or likes, but I want to make the people that have brought me such joy some appreciation- I hope I can bring you even a smidgen of the light you have brought into my life. So I'm gonna tag all the artists/writers I know of/can think of that have done any sort of October challenge, all of you creators that have made me smile. If people wanna want to tag others in the reblogs or replies to spread love that's cool.

(Basically I don't know social customs or anything at all, so if you don't want me to tag or if I was supposed to do something different or something let me know I have no idea what I'm supposed to do)(if I like accidentally tagged someone who isn't an artist/writer or forgot someone I follow... sorry)

@skyward-floored @kikker-oma @adrift-in-thyme @blueskittlesart @zeldaseyebrows @smilesrobotlover @bahbahhh @soso-dedeck @lennsart @arecaceae175 @illcamp @breannasfluff @solarfire-art @26kabeuchi @cathianemelian @truffeart @scribbly-z-raid @uniquevoidflowers

To all the artists and writers out there: thank you so much!!! You are amazing and I'm glad you exist. Your life is precious, and you matter. Thank you so much for sharing your beauty with us, we love you too!!!!!

... yeah. Just want yall to feel loved... because you are. Again, thank you. Thank you so so much to my beautiful creators who create joy as well as art, who keep storytelling alive. Just... thank you.

:)

#inktober #whumptober #artober #flufftober #linktober #lutober #sentences and stuff later in tags #loz #linkeduniverse #artists on tumblr #art #original art #artists #writers #writers on tumblr #fan fic writing #artist appreciation #love #fanart #fanfiction #fanfics #I have anxiety and I am so scared right now #I don't know social rules- I don't know if I've messed up #but I'm willing to mess up if it makes you smile #I love you guys #please know how precious you are. just by being you #if this gets one notes that's ok #if it gets thirty that doesn't feel like failure to me #I will be kind #nothing can take that away from me

[princessfbi]

As we begin the month of October and many of the prompt fest such as Inktober, Kinktober, Whumptober, Flufftober, Podfic Fest, and all the others that will bring new content, a friendly hint:

Do. Not. Do. This.

Reposting artwork, fic, podfics, whatever without permission or credit is stealing. It’s also just a shitty thing to do at all times but especially right now in today’s climate with AI. I know it’s sad to lose content you get comfort from but this is not the answer. All it’s going to do is drive creators away.

We share our creations with love. Please don’t be an entitled asshole in return.

#fanfic #fanfic writing #buddie #madney #inktober #Whumptober #kinktober #flufftober #911 fic #rwrb #writing talk #fandom culture #reposting is theft #fanfiction #ao3

[topguncortez]

The Beauty fell for The Beast || Whumptober Day 20 - R. Wheeler

whumptober masterlist

synopsis: Rip has no idea what John saw in you to keep you at the ranch, but he quickly finds out that it's got nothing to do with how you cowboy

word count: 2.2k

@ailesswhumptober prompt: mutilation

warnings: domestic violence, mentions of scars and injuries, cursing, slight sexism

Rip wasn’t sure what John saw in you. Apparently, you had been picked up on the side of the road by Beth, literally shaking in your boots out in the rain. Somehow she worked her magic on John and agreed to let you earn your keep to stay on the ranch. You were weak, you were quiet, you were. .  . well, you were just you. You stuck out on the ranch like a sore thumb amongst the foul-mouthed, loud, adrenaline-fueled cowboys who walked around with their heads held high. You looked like a dog that had been kicked one too many times. 

“She’s weak, she’s slower than the rest,” John had barely been at the bunkhouse for an hour before Rip started in on his spiel on why you should get fired, “I have to tackle half her workload plus mine-” 

“Looks like you need to teach her,” John said, sipping his coffee casually. John had a soft spot for strays, it was clear by the misfits that he had on his ranch. He knew good and well that you were the weaker link, having watched you struggle to keep up with the rest of the cowboys. But it wasn’t very often that his daughter begged him for a chance. Begged him to give you a chance. You didn’t have to say the reason why you were standing on the side of the highway in the rain, John could tell by one look at you. 

“But sir-” Rip argued. 

John looked over his shoulder at him, “Make her take the lead with pushing the cattle to the north pasture.” Rip’s jaw dropped as John clapped him on the shoulder before sauntering off towards his truck. 

You hadn’t expected anyone to stop that night. All you wanted to do was get as far away from that house, from him, as you possibly could. You didn’t get very far in your car, breaking down only a mile outside of town. You knew that you couldn’t just sit there, he’d certainly find you. So, you ditched the car, leaving your phone in it, and took off walking. It was raining so hard that night, you could hardly see ten feet in front of you. Every passing semi and truck on the road made you jump, praying that you wouldn’t become roadkill. You just wanted to get away. Wanted to be somewhere safe and warm. That’s when a blacked-out SUV slowed to a stop beside you and a woman with a scar on her face rolled down the window. 

“Are you fucking insane?!” She yelled. The moment you turned to look at her, her hard facial features softened. She clenched her jaw and looked towards her driver, before reaching over and opening the car door, “Get in. And if you think about killing me, I’ll haunt your fucking ass until you die.” 

Beth had been the literal angel sent straight from hell. She had given you a place to stay, taking you to the bunkhouse and making all the men in there shake in their boots. She had given you fresh clothes and some toiletries, giving you a bunk with another female, Teeter, who reminded you a lot of your mother. 

“You’ll stay here, got it?” Beth said, and you knew better than to argue with her, “Run out on me and I’ll kill you,” You nodded your head. She then looked at Teeter, “Rip doesn’t find out about this until after I talk to my dad.” 

“I’ll hide ‘er,” Teeter nodded. 

Beth nodded and looked back at you, her heart cracking in her chest a bit, “Get some sleep kid.” 

Teeter had tried her best to ward Rip off, keeping him away from the bunkhouse that first morning, but there was no hiding the loud screams of terror that came from inside. Rip pushed away from Teeter, storming into the bunkhouse to find you, a small frail thing shaking and crying while Kolby and Ryan stood utterly confused. 

“What the fuck is that?” Rip seethed as he pointed at you. 

“Fresh blood!” Ryan smiled, while you were holding your knees to your chest and sobbing. You raised your head gently and looked into the warmest brown eyes you’ve ever seen. He clenched his jaw tightly, looking away from you, “Get her fed and saddled up. We got work to do,” Rip paused and turned back towards you, “And do something about the screaming shit. Gonna scare the fucking horses.” 

You got to work quickly, not knowing a single thing about being a cowboy. Hell, you couldn’t even remember the last time you rode a horse. But thankfully, Teeter and Kolby took you under their wings, almost as if they were your proxy parents. Ryan fell into the spot of being the older, annoying brother that you wished you had. The three of them looked after you and made sure that you were doing alright, eating well, and getting your workload done. The only thing the three of them could not stop was the nightmares. 

It was like clockwork, every single night. The same dream would plague you, the feel of his rough hands on your body, slamming your head against the wall, threatening to kill you, holding his hands tightly on your throat while black spots filled your vision.  You would wake up in the middle of the night screaming, sending the whole bunkhouse into a frenzy. Teeter would quickly jump down from her bunk, crawling into yours and holding you tightly, while Kolby made his way over. He’d always make sure that you were okay when there really wasn’t anything physical happening. Teeter would lay in your bed until you were asleep and then would crawl back into hers for the last few hours of shut eye. 

It wasn’t until about two weeks into your working on the ranch that you had another run-in with Rip. 

“You’re waking the bunkhouse,” He said gruffly. You looked down at your boots, trying to bite back the tears in your eyes, “My cowboys look like they haven’t had a solid night’s rest in weeks. I would fucking fire you if I could but. . .” You looked up at him, heart in your ears. You couldn’t get fired. You had nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. Rip pinched his nose and sighed, “I can’t cause for some reason, John thinks your worth a shit.” 

“But you don’t?” You said softly. Rip had to hide his stunned expression cause he was starting to think you don’t actually talk. 

“No, I don’t,” Rip nodded, “So pack your shit and follow me.” 

“I-I. . . I have nowhere to go,” You weren’t sure why you had to say that, but it felt like if Rip was going to tell you to disappear, you might as well try to plead your case. 

Rip sighed, “Pack you shit. . . You’re coming to stay with me.” 

You had been staying in Rip’s house for the past two weeks, and you hadn’t woken up screaming at all. Yes, you still had the same recurring nightmare, but it wasn’t so terrifying that it had you screaming in the dark. You weren’t sure what the cause of it was, but there was something about knowing that Rip was under the same roof that helped you sleep easily. You had seen the way that Rip jumped to stop a fight between Kolby and some rowdy ranch hand at the bar. 

Rip had a soft spot for you, whether he liked to admit it or not. It made his chest hurt when he heard you whimpering and crying in your sleep from down the hall. He tried his best to ignore it the first night, but it got to the point that he couldn’t just lay in his comfortable bed, while you were fighting with something in your sleep on the couch. So, Rip found his way to the living room, gingerly lifting your head and laying it on his thigh. He would stroke your hair until you were back into a deep sleep. And then, he’d turn around and leave before your alarm sounded, going to the bunkhouse and telling John that he should fire you. 

— — —

There was one thing that you loved about being away from the city, and that was the calm serene mornings. Watching the sun poke its light rays through the dark night. Seeing the purples and reds fade into bright blue skies. You hadn’t been on the Yellowstone ranch long, but you already fell in love with the sunrises. It was getting a bit colder out, as the sweltering summer was fading into the brisk fall. The leaves turn from green to vibrant reds and yellows. You felt calm out here. You felt in control. You knew you were needed down at the bunkhouse, but you didn’t care at this moment. Not after what you faced last night. 

Rip was grumbling as he walked towards the stables, taking note of all the ranch hands walking around, seeing that you were nowhere to be found. You hadn’t come home last night after saying you were going into town with Ryan, Teeter, and Kolby. Rip hadn’t bothered to get your number, which he was starting to regret. He cursed himself for being worried about you, knowing you were a full-grown woman. But you were also a woman who looked to be scared of their own shadow. 

“Carter!” Rip yelled as the young boy was walking out of the stables, “Why aren’t you saddled up?” 

Carter paused for a moment, huffing up the heavy saddle in his arms, “I got a late start. I’m sorry Rip.” 

Rip cursed under his breath as he watched Carter continue to struggle with his saddle, “God didn’t add extra daylight to Tuesday, Carter,” Rip rolled his eyes at the boy, who started to break into a jog, “Where’s the other Kid?” 

“Still in the barn,” Carter nodded his head towards the white building, “She just got there.” 

When he spotted you, resting your head against your house, Rip’s blood was boiling, “Do we just show up whenever the fuck we want to now? Where the hell have you-” You slowly lifted your head and turned to face Rip. 

His jaw clenched shut tightly. His anger was now directed off of you and towards whoever the fuck bashed your face in. Your right eye was swollen shut, an ugly cut above your eyebrow. You had what looked like handmarks around your neck, and your nose was clearly broken. 

“Who did this?” Rip seethed. 

You shrugged, “It doesn't matter.” You grabbed your horse’s reins, going to walk out to the ring, but Rip grabbed your arm. 

“That wasn’t up for an argument,” He spoke lowly, “Who did that to your face?” 

You gulped and looked up at Rip, “My husband.” 

It took all the willpower in Rip’s body to hold back the shocked expression. Why hadn’t you said you were married? Is that why you ran away? Well, clearly it was why you ran away, but how long had this been going on? Did he not know where you went? Was he looking for you?

But none of that mattered to Rip. All Rip wanted to know was, “Where is he?” 

“I. . .” You closed your eyes and shook your head, “Dead.” 

Rip didn’t ask any more questions, releasing your arm and running a hand down his bearded face. He looked over his shoulder, taking in a quick glance of his surroundings, before grabbing your arm and pulling you into the stall. 

“Listen,” Rip whispered, “You’re gonna tell me where you left him and then you’re gonna go back to the house and stay there. I’ll handle this.” 

“But-” 

“Go put some ice on your face,” Rip didn’t leave any room for argument as he walked out of the stable, leaving you there alone. 

— — 

You did what Rip told you, leaving the stable and heading back to the house. You weren’t surprised that he didn’t have any ice packs in his freezer, so you were stuck with putting a frozen steak on your eye. The house was eerily quiet as you sat on the couch, frozen meat to your face as you waited for Rip to come back. You wondered what he thought about the house. You wondered what he was going to do to your husband’s body. You wondered if he was wishing that he had never agreed to help you. Maybe he was going to turn you in to the police as you sit. 

But all those worries melted away as the front door opened, and Rip walked in. You stood up quickly as he stood in front of you. 

“I-” 

“How long?” Rip asked. You bit your lip, “How long has he been fucking using you like a punching bag?” Tears filled your eyes as you looked down at the ground, “Jesus Christ.” Rip huffed and took a step closer to you. He gently grabbed your chin in his hand, “Look at me,” You looked into his brown eyes, “You should’ve said something. You should’ve not gone to the house by yourself.” 

“He was going to file a missing persons report,” You sniffled, “I thought that I should just go, get the rest of my things, and tell him that I’m leaving. But he got so mad and. . .” Cries fell from your lips and Rip pulled you into his chest. 

You felt secure in his arms, his chest strong and comforting at the same time. You melted into his touch as he held you. 

“You’ll never have to worry about him or anyone else again,” Rip spoke, making his chest rumble with the dip timbre of his voice, “You’re a part of the Yellowstone now.”

taglist: @els-marvelvsp @sarahsmi13s @topgun-imagines @cassiemitchell @xoxabs88xox @seitmai @a-reader-and-a-writer @bradleybeachbabe @kmc1989 @senawashere @beautifulandvoid @ohtobeleah @rogersbarnesxx @oatmealisweird @dempy @devil-angel-winchester @gillybear17

#Yellowstone fan fic #Yellowstone #Yellowstone fan fiction #Yellowstone imagine #rip wheeler #rip wheeler fan fic #rip wheeler fan fiction #rip wheeler imagine #rip wheeler x reader #rip wheeler x you #rip wheeler x y/n #rip wheeler angst #Yellowstone angst #ailesswhumptober #g's whumptober

[topgun-imagines]

Day 12: Take It All Back

Pairings: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x fem!reader

Synopsis: Bradley says something he comes to regret in the heat of the moment.

Warnings: Arguments, insults, age-gaps, insecurities & drinking

Word count: 1.5k

A night out with Bradley’s friends was what started this argument in the first place. Normally, you tried to stay away from his friends. They were lovely people, you just found that whenever you and your boyfriend went out with them, he became an entirely different person. You weren’t sure what got into the pilot, but you figured it was best to remove yourself from the situation entirely. Sometimes, it seemed like he was embarrassed to just be in your presence. While you didn't want to admit it, you were fairly certain you knew why.

Bradley was over ten years older than you. Even though he had assured you that the age gap was no problem for him, you found it hard to believe him in times like this. While you knew that his friends were lovely people, you occasionally got the feeling that a few of them were weirded out by the large age difference. That wasn’t what bothered you, however. It was the fact that your own boyfriend would act as if you didn’t exist whenever you went out with his friends. It was as if you were nothing more than an inconvenience to him; nothing more than someone that he got stuck with taking care of rather than his loving girlfriend.

So, you did your best to avoid situations where you would have to hide in the corner, charring with Bob while Rooster entertained anything other than you. You didn’t mind chatting with Bob. Quite the opposite, in fact. You just wished that Bradley would spend a little more time with you when he was out with his friends.

However, even though you felt like this, you would never tell Bradley. You didn’t want to be seen as the clingy and insecure girlfriend. So, you suffered in silence and watched your Boyfriend mingle about the bar. It wasn’t all that bad. After all, you had Bob to keep you company.

This particular night, it was Bob’s birthday. Normally, you would have come up with some excuse to get out of going to the celebration at the Hard Deck. However, you had Bob had grown exceptionally close over the past few months in Miramar. Regardless of how badly you wanted to be curled up at home with your boyfriend and some music, you sucked it up to wish your friend a happy birthday.

The second you walked into the Hard Deck, you could tell how much love and effort had gone into making the bar look wonderful for the festivities. You could practically feel the pride radiating off Jake and Natasha for the entire night. Penny had insisted on making the cake from scratch and you could safely say that you had never seen a more beautiful-looking dessert. The few gifts that people brought were stacked on the bar top and most of the aviators were gathered around the pool table.

Once again, Bradley left your side the second you stepped into the bar, leaving you to go track down one of your other friends. Bob, as usual, was sitting just outside the rowdy group, nursing a root beer. You joined the shy WSO and watched the game of pool between Phoenix and Coyote unfold.

After a few hours, the group was well past the point of being drunk. Given the fact that no one had work in the morning, they were all loving the thought of not showing up on base with a hangover. Being someone who never drank that often, you found yourself stepping away from the group when they all started drinking heavily. Bob was the same. That was how you found him hiding out on the deck, watching the waves crash against the shore. “Why aren’t you inside? Enjoying your party.” You chuckled quietly, taking a seat next to him and sticking your feet in the sand. You tipped your head back to stare up at the stars above you. Everything was silent for the next few seconds. Just as you were about to stand up and leave, giving Bob some time to himself, the WSO spoke.

“Just needed a bit of a break,” You instantly understood what he meant. Especially when you heard the loud, intoxicated laughs coming from inside the bar. With a hum, the two of you descended into silence once more. A comfortable silence that was only broken by Bob’s next question. “How are things between you and Bradley?”

You had gone to Bob when you first started avoiding group outings. The man had been exactly what you needed. He simply let you vent, providing his opinion on the situation only after he knew that you were finished. For that, you were incredibly thankful. “Still the same.” You breathed with a heavy sigh. Bob offered you a look of sympathy, knowing the toll that this was taking on you.

It was when Bob laid a comforting hand on your shoulder that something clicked. The only reason you were here was to celebrate Bob’s birthday. Sure, you didn’t mind sitting out in the calm with the WSO, but Bradley had promised you that things wouldn’t be the same as they usually were. From where you were sitting, it sure looked like nothing had changed.

Before Bob could stop you, you were standing up off the deck and heading for the bar. With a sigh, Bob followed you into the brightly lit building. He watched with a slight grimace on his face as you hurried up to your boyfriend and tugged on his arm. Bradley followed you away from the group with a small pout on his face. Watching you silently from the corner, Bob saw the way Bradley’s face fell.

And then the man was storming out of the bar. You were hot on his heels, trying to keep your voice down but failing miserably. Despite what was most likely your best wishes, the majority of the Dagger Squad followed the two of you outside. Including Bob. Their jaws dropped at the sight in front of them.

Bradley was towering over you, his face flushed in our anger. The shy WSO was the only one to notice the terrified look on your face. You were good at hiding it. “Oh, could you grow up?” Your boyfriend snapped at you. Your jaw dropped, but he wasn’t done yet. “God, sometimes you act like such a child.” Gasps could be heard from the aviators only a few feet away.

In that moment, your heart dropped into your stomach. Bradley knew that the age gap between the two of you was something that you were most insecure about. He had just used that against you. Ever so slowly, you took a step away from him. The second there was more than a foot of distance between you two, his face changed entirely. It was as if he just realized what he had said; how he had hurt you.

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them. Wordlessly, you shook your head slightly and stepped away from your boyfriend. When he tried to stop you, you merely pulled your wrist from his hold. “I’m going home,” You whispered. Your attempts at keeping your tears at bay failed and you sniffled as they trailed down your face. The members of the Dagger Squad that were still standing outside offered you sympathetic looks as you walked back into the bar to collect your things.

Bradley didn’t even try to follow you in. After a few seconds and multiple attempts at wiping your eyes, you stepped back outside. Instantly, Bob was by your side. Jake had hauled Bradley off around the corner of the bar and you could distantly hear him tearing into him for his comment. “Let me drive you home.” Bob left no room for argument as he ushered you to his truck.

However, you still tried to protest. “Bobby, it’s your birthday. You shouldn’t have to drive me home.” With one look, he silenced any of your arguments. So, you climbed into his truck wordlessly. Bob pulled out of the parking lot and began the drive back to his house rather than yours. Silently, you thanked him. You couldn’t handle returning to your shared home with Bradley, without your boyfriend being there. Instead, he was at the bar, having both Phoenix and Jake rip his head off about how insensitive he was.

You had no idea what was going to happen in the next few days, but you knew that it was going to take you a long time to get over what Bradley said. Your head knocked against the window and your eyes closed. The soft sound of Bob singing along with the radio was the last thing you heard before you drifted into a peaceful sleep.

a/n: Thank you for reading! Join the taglist!

Tagging: @ohtobeleah @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @els-marvelvsp @kmc1989 @nyx2021 @mploopssek @callsignharper @seitmai @kellyls04 @xeve9809 @scarletmeii @inkandarsenic @malindacath

#top gun #top gun fanfiction #top gun x female reader #top gun x reader #top gun fluff #top gun maverick #rooster bradshaw fic #rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley 'rooster' bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x oc #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x y/n #bradley bradshaw x reader #top gun whumptober #whumptober #bradley rooster bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw whumptober #bradley bradshaw fluff #bradley bradsaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fan fic #top gun movie #top gun fanfic #top gun fic #top gun imagine

[sunatsubu]

art for @never-ending-fanfic 's fic Longing for Silence (link in replies). Prepare yourself for le ANGST

#what can I say I am ALL ABOUT tlc to wrists and hands #honestly check out the entire whumptober series it's all delicious #myart sw #kalluzeb #fic art #garazeb orrelios #alexsandr kallus

[mania-sama]

rule #8 - otherside

Rule #8 - Otherside - Fish in a Birdcage

Bungou Stray Dogs Pairings - Akutagawa Ryuunosuke & Nakahara Chuuya Additional Characters - Dazai Osamu, Nakajima Atsushi, Yosano Akiko, Wilhelm Grimm (Original Character) Tags - hurt/comfort, whump, mouth sewn shut, asphyxiation, choking, blood, angst with a happy ending, temporary character death, mild gore Summary - Akutagawa Ryuunosuke and Nakahara Chuuya, two of Port Mafia's strongest ability users, are captured during a failed mission to eliminate a foreign European mafia group trying to take root in Yokohama, Japan. While in captivity, Akutagawa's lungs are irritated from the strong scent of an air-based ability. He can't stop coughing, so the enemy organization comes to the most obvious conclusion on how to solve the problem: They sew his mouth shut. Word Count - 3,704 Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own Whumptober 2023 - Day 8: Mouth Stitched Shut See my full Whumptober 2023 Challenge on Tumblr or Ao3

Akutagawa has never experienced torture outside of the Port Mafia. He only knows the force of Dazai’s fist, the sharp points of his boots, and the edge of the Boss’ scalpel. Ruthlessness is not inheritable; it is beaten into you until your morals shatter into inscrutable shards. No matter how hard you try, they will never fit back together to create anything less than a monster. Even his time as an urchin on the streets cannot compare to the brutality of the mafia.

But for him, his torture was not for information, money, or other valuables. It was training.

He’s never been captured before, never caught and taken away after a failed mission. Thanks to his ability, it’s hard for anyone to keep a hold of him for very long. His ability is made to protect himself; it stops tranquilizing bullets, knives, and knock-out punches. Rashomon can cut through metal and rope alike, releasing any capturing devices thrown at him. There are only two things it cannot do: heal and continue to work even under the effects of a nullifying ability. Akutagawa learned this when he had his first training session with Dazai, and he has been loathe to forget it.

It explains, in any case, how he ended up here, with his wrists chained to the ceiling and his body hanging limply underneath. He and Chuuya were the only ability users sent out on the failed mission to dismantle the European mafia trying to sprout roots in Yokohama. Failed. With someone like Chuuya in the fray, a mission should never fail. At the very least, it shouldn’t end in his or Akutagawa’s capture.

He looks at Chuuya who is tied by several thick bands and a rope around a metal support beam of the damp, poorly-lit room they’re in. Akutagawa remembers with clarity the moment the executive said with a sharp edge in his tone: “I can’t activate my ability.”

It was whiplash after that. Rashomon failed to answer his call, and in a moment’s notice, he felt a pinprick hit a pulsing vein in his neck. A tranquilizing shot, he realizes now, and an advanced version of Dazai’s nullifying ability that permeates the air rather than by touch. He can smell its sewage odor, — a scent that they hadn’t picked up on considering the mafia’s trail led them to a sewer — and it continues to push down Upon the Tainted Sorrow and Rashomon.

It also has the adverse effect of agitating his lungs. He hasn’t had more than an estimated ten-minute break in between coughing fits, and being suspended from his wrists meant that his shoulders were aching from the effort to not pop out of place. Chuuya regards him every now and then with a slightly worried gaze during his more intense attacks, but he says nothing. There is simply nothing to add; there is no escape plan, no way to get out of this empty, concrete room until someone or something comes by.

They don’t have to wait very long. At the front of the room, the large metal door unlocks and opens to reveal a tall, brown-haired man with a respirator mask covering the bottom half of his face. An ability user, then. The only reason to wear a ventilating mask now is he has an ability that can be nullified. His clothes consist of a long, trailing black coat with a velvet-red interior lining. His black pants appear steam-pressed, his polished dress shoes click against the concrete floor, and the visible part of his shirt is deep-blue satin that pulls together the overall look of “filthy rich.”

He strides forward and narrowly side-steps Chuuya’s legs in his path to Akutagawa. In his hands is a ball of white yarn and a thin needle.

No part of his clothes is torn, Akutagawa thinks, confused. They are both uninjured and don’t need any sutures, albeit yarn is a pathetic substitute for stitches. Unless they are being knitted a new torture device, he doesn’t have a single clue what the yarn is for. He coughs in an impressive fit and, being unable to cover it up with his arm or hand, blood splatters on the man, himself, and the pool of lung fluids on the ground between them.

The ability user’s gleaming amber eyes are at the same height as Akutagawa’s are from where he’s suspended. If his feet were on the floor, however, the man would be much taller than him. “Akutagawa Ryuunosuke. Ability: Rashomon. Dog of the Port Mafia.” His voice is slightly distorted and muffled from the mask, but the bite of disgust is still noticeable in his tone. “What ails you?”

Akutagawa does not respond. The man narrows his eyes, patience slowly draining from them. “It will be wise for you to answer. You are bleeding all over our ground and making loud noises prematurely. We want to do everything in our power to prevent that from happening—” He raises the ball of yarn to block their eye contact “— without having to use this.”

It suddenly becomes very clear what the yarn will be used for. Even he cannot repress the shock on his face as he looks to Chuuya for permission to speak. The executive stares back at him with his pupils drawn into slits and does not give him an affirmative answer either way. He’s leaving the decision up to Akutagawa. Luckily, it isn’t a hard choice.

He doesn’t talk about his lung disease to people. Not because he’s ashamed of it, since there is nothing to be ashamed of, but because they can use it against him. If they know, and he manages to anger them or their organization, they will set traps specifically designed to enflame his lungs and incapacitate him. He learned this in his second training session with Dazai.

“I have an incurable lung disease,” he croaks, his throat torn and hurt from his constant coughing. “This nullifying ability is agitating them.”

The man exhales deeply through the mask. “That is rather unfortunate. I will still have to close your mouth, then. Try not to cough during this procedure. It will be quite painful.” Despite the rest of his butler-esc outfit, he does not wear gloves. His hands are cold and calloused on Akutagawa’s face when he drives a thumb harshly into his submental and the other fingers press down on his nose. It holds his mouth closed painfully together, and even the attempt to jerk his useless to dislodge his hold. “Do not move. This needle is sharp, and I have been permitted to poke your eyes if need be. There will be minimal blood.”

It occurs to Akutagawa, then, that his hands are tied above his head and his abs have weakened enough to the point where he can’t quite kick out properly, either. He is completely at this man’s mercy. A needle in his eye will hurt infinitely worse than stitching his lips closed, and the damage will be permanent in comparison to the yarn that can be removed.

He stills, and from his peripheral he sees Chuuya’s lips press together a fraction tighter before speaking. “Who the hell even are you?”

“Nakahara Chuuya. Ability: Upon the Tainted Sorrow. Executive of the Port Mafia,” the man says. “I am Wilhelm Grimm.”

Wilhelm leans in close and pokes the needle through the corner of his upper lip. It doesn’t hurt as much as Akutagawa thought it would — the painful part is the yarn slipping through the hole, and the needle scraping at his gums. He’s bleeding more than he was before already, making him wonder how much the “we want to do everything in our power to prevent that from happening” is really worth. Perhaps this isn’t premature, but before was. Akutagawa doesn’t know, and he supposes it doesn’t matter.

“What do you want with us, huh, Grimm? If it's got anything to do with torture, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it will not work,” Chuuya comments. “We are Port Mafia. We will die with our secrets.”

Wilhelm shakes his head, though his hand remains entirely steady as tugs the needle through his bottom lip. The yarn yanks his lips together in a manner so painful Akutagawa finds it hard not to flinch back. “I desire nothing from you,” he replies monotonously. Chuuya scoffs.

“Obviously not you as an individual, dumbass.” As much as Akutagawa looks up to Chuuya, he can’t help but feel ire spike through his veins. The yarn passes through his lips and tugs at the bottom once more. Wilhelm holds the needle that can effectively cut Akutagawa’s throat and stab out his eyes. Anger is not the emotion they need to be evoking. “I mean your organization. What do they want?”

“You’re bait for the Armed Detective Agency,” he answers just the same as before, like hiding the truth is not necessary for him. His complete honesty is concerning. “Once they come to rescue you, we will eliminate them, and our wolves will eat your bodies. They are quite hungry; they have not been fed in a while, and it's been weeks since they last had live prey.”

The Armed Detective Agency has no stakes in this battle. Clearing out an encroaching mafia is specifically the Port Mafia’s arrangement; the ADA is not meant to be involved in any capacity. It’s rather foolish of this European mafia to believe that they would come crawling to save two criminals.

Chuuya scoffs, clearly coming to the same conclusion Akutagawa had. “The Port Mafia is the one you should be afraid of. They will come in, guns blazing, and take down all of you idiots before a day has passed.”

Wilheim offers the next bout of information as he has before. “The Black Lizard of the Port Mafia was reduced to half its original size an hour ago. The rest made a tactical retreat back to their headquarters. The Armed Detective Agency will raid this base in approximately three hours.”

The only sounds in that room for a full minute are the filtering of the respirator mask and the yarn pulling Akutagawa’s lips together. Akutagawa doesn’t know what to make of that information. There had been little to no knowledge of the European mafia, to begin with, other than that they had considerably strong ability users in their ranks if they were able to keep strong anonymity in Europe and still control major imports and exports of illegal goods. Not only that, they were able to make it to Japan entirely unnoticed by the government and the Special Division for Unusual Powers.

Akutagawa has the overwhelming need to cough, but he manages to bite it down. The hand bearing down on his jaw and nose remains as strong as ever.

“How can you be so sure?” Chuuya says, only slightly weaker than he had been before. His expression is schooled into one of unconcerned disinterest.

“Dazai Osamu. Ability: No Longer Human. Member of the Armed Detective Agency,” he says. Akutagawa feels his heart stop in his chest, and he lurches back as the needle scrapes his bottom gum deeply. It pulls the yarn and the needle hits both his tongue and his bottom lip, nearly poking an extra hole. His mouth screams, and he can’t prevent the groan from the back of his throat. He swallows down the blood overfilling his mouth in an attempt to keep the blood from spilling out over Wilhelm’s hand and to calm his agitated lungs. “He will be the one to learn of your whereabouts and bring the Armed Detective Agency to us.”

He barely registers the pain this time. The yarn is only halfway through, and his lips are a red mess he can acutely feel but not comprehend. Chuuya’s voice floats in his ear as a distant melody. “You can’t be serious. He’s the Port Mafia’s youngest executive. He’ll never fall for that trap.”

“He’ll know it's a trap, but he will come anyway. Your lives are on the line.” The yarn progresses past halfway, and the pain returns to Akutagawa all at once. His body quivers as he holds back another coughing, swallowing the blood building up his throat. He can’t keep this up forever.

He has the sudden, terrible feeling he is going to die. The thought was, at one point, not so unsettling. But a death like this is certainly not Dazai-approved; he is a captive used as bait, eaten alive by dogs, or much sooner, choked on his own blood. Then he considers it — it’s yarn. If he opens his mouth, it’ll tear through his lips. It’ll hurt like all Hell, but it would be nothing compared to the cargo ship explosion, where he was unconscious for days until he could be slowly healed via an ability.

Chuuya does not argue with him. He is so stupid as to say Dazai will not come for them when the Port Mafia is incapable. It’s exactly what he will do, and he will do it excellently. Everything that man has done is nothing short of calculated perfection. The wolves will never reach them, no matter what this man thinks.

Even if they did manage to catch the most powerful ability user in Yokohama in ten minutes flat. The nullifying ability agitates his throat and he clears his throat in an attempt to keep the cough down. Wilhelm does not spare him a glance, completely focused on the work in front of him.

“What’s your ability?” Chuuya asks after a beat of silence. Akutagawa knows what he’s doing: gaining as much information as possible to give to their allies or use against the organization later. To exploit any weaknesses they may have. “And who is behind this air ability?”

“My ability is Rumplestiltskin. I can strengthen textile to that of the strongest and densest metal,” he explains, now a third of the way through Akutagawa’s mouth. It’s getting difficult to breathe, and anxiety travels up his arms and down his legs. “The ability in effect now is Little Snow White. Ability user: Jacob Grimm, my brother.”

Wilhelm doesn’t give up rank this time, Akutagawa notes dully. He’s really struggling to breathe now, his lungs aching and diaphragm restricting painfully. He won’t have much time to rip them out if he wants to stay awake or even live.

Three hours was Wilhelm’s prediction. Akutagawa wouldn’t make it one.

Silence stretches between them as Chuuya has no more questions left to ask. There are no threats to make or promises to follow through on. They have to wait for the Armed Detective Agency to come save their asses.

Wilhelm ties the end of the yarn together, and Akutagawa’s blood is already seeping out of his lips. There’s too much in his mouth, and he can’t swallow it all down. Wilhelm sighs, the air pushing out heavily from his respirator mask. “It will do. You will cough no longer.”

Then the yarn pulls his lips together with a clench, and Akutagawa knows he won’t be able to rip his lips open. They are too tight – his jaw does not move when he tries, and he does. His skin stretches and pulls and it's the most nauseating pain of his entire life. Nothing compared to that when blood spills from his lips and down his throat.

It clogs, and Akutagawa knows he will die.

Wilhelm leaves and the moment the door closes, Chuuya thrashes against his bonds. “Akutagawa? You need to hold it in. Dazai will not take three hours. You know him as well I do; he will have predicted that they will do this.”

Even if he wanted to Akutagawa cannot speak. His chest burns, and he convulses with the need to cough.

But he can’t. His blood comes up his lungs and chokes him. It comes out of his nose, which is the only place oxygen can get in. Blood blocks his airways and he can’t cough any of it out , so it’s greedily taking in all of the oxygen that would be going to his heart. His heart races in utter panic, and he thinks a heart attack might kill him faster.

He makes gurgling noises that resemble a demented sort of zombie. “Akutagawa! Come on! You have to stay alive!”

His vision is already fading and blurry with tears. He tries to respond, he really does, but the yarn holds as hard as solid diamond. It hurts. It's unbelievably painful as the only blood that leaves his throat is from the slow drizzle of his stitched lips. “Don’t you dare die! I can’t lose another friend!”

Akutagawa does not breathe.

There is so little blood and oxygen going to his head that he does not think in the last second of consciousness. His head hangs, and the last thing he hears is the panicked scream of his name and the distant popping sound of firearms.

—

It takes Akutagawa three minutes to die of asphyxiation. It takes ten minutes for his brain to cease activity. 

In this period, two things happen:

One: Three hours before intended, the Armed Detective Agency arrives at the base location. Dazai Osamu greets a high-ranking European mafioso at the door.

Two: Akutagawa breathes.

He tries to gasp but his skin tears and pulls against the yarn, and he nearly passes out again. If it weren’t for the fact that his wrists were freed from the hanging chains, making him collapse on top of his lung fluid on the ground, he would have blacked out. Arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him into a standing position. He meets the weretiger’s concerned multicolored eyes.

“We won’t let you die,” Atsushi promises, one hand lightly grazing the yarn keeping his mouth sewn closed. “I don’t know if the tiger can cut through this. You’ll have to wait for Dazai.” His fingertips come away with Akutagawa’s blood dripping off of them.

Akutagawa doesn’t spare him a nod, instead doubling over as he tries to cough. His mouth fills once more and he painstakingly swallows it back down his throat. “I can revive you as many times as you need,” Yosano informs from where she releases Chuuya from his bonds, “but I can’t heal your disease.”

They are the only Agency members down there with them. From the faint sounds he can pick up, it sounds like the fight is still continuing up the stairs. He begins to move in the direction of the door, but both Chuuya and Atsushi pounce on him in a flash.

“No. You are in no condition to be fighting,” Chuuya snarls at him, though the anger in his tone isn’t directed at Akutagawa. The weretiger holds his arm tight enough to leave a bruise. Now that the Little Snow White ability has dissipated, he considers letting Rashomon slice off those hands. “Being in the fray is just going to make you die again faster, and we don’t know if that Grimm brother is out of the picture or not. He could still reactivate his ability, making you dead for good.”

The executive doesn’t stay along to argue further on the topic, leaving Akutagawa alone with the two Armed Detective Agency members. When he feels another fit coming on, he summons Rashomon in a vain attempt to cut off the yarn, but it holds fast to his lips. Hard as solid diamond.

He sends a snapping jaw Atsushi’s way, just to hear him yell indignantly: “Can you stop that? We just saved your life! You should be grateful!”

Akutagawa doesn’t miss the fleeting smile on Yosano’s face.

Since the ability is no longer agitating his lungs, Akutagawa doesn’t worry about dying again. The last urge he felt was small and insignificant, and he doesn’t feel one again until the door swings open. Two men walk through, and Dazai narrowly avoids the kick Chuuya deals to his stomach. Akutagawa’s heart stops in his chest when he makes eye contact with his former mentor.

He sees Atsushi reposition himself to be at Akutagawa’s side. A slight node of irritation passes through him, but he lets it go by in favor of behaving for Dazai. The man stops in front of him, reaches out with a blank expression, and taps his pointer finger on the yarn. It softens into near mush from the amount of blood that it has soaked up, and Atsushi wastes no time in using the tiger to slice the yarn open.

Akutagawa takes one breath and keels over, his body wracking with coughs he hadn’t been feeling before. All of the blood he swallowed comes back up, and he thinks his body is making up for when he died earlier, unable to expel the blood then, either. It's the worst attack he’s had in years.

A hand rubs circles on his back. He thinks it’s Atsushi since he’s right there and would be just the type of person to extend a kind gesture to the very person who’s supposed to be his enemy. But when he lifts his head, he sees that Atsushi has joined Yosano, and Chuuya stands alone.

That means Dazai is comforting him. 

When he finally gets rid of the last bit of pent-up liquid in his lungs, he turns to face his former mentor. He expects to see a look of displeasure. He does not anticipate the twitching of his lips that tries to hide the downward set of his frown or the furrowed eyebrows that display his concern. Dazai pulls Akutagawa into his chest and rests his chin on top of the mafioso’s head.

He doesn’t say anything, but the steady beat of his heart and the tight hold he has on Akutagawa speak loud enough. Akutagawa does not return the hug, but he does bury his face as deep as he can into his former mentor’s coat. His blood joins the other stains on Dazai’s clothes from the fight. He bites back the sting of his eyes and breathes as slowly as he possibly can.

It’s okay, Akutagawa thinks. I’m okay.

He’s alive, and Dazai holds him with more affection than Akutagawa has known his whole life. I’m okay.

#bsd fanfic #bungou stray dogs #bsd dazai #bsd akutagawa #akutagawa ryuunosuke #dazai osamu #bsd chuuya #bsd atsushi #bsd yosano #chuuya nakahara #atsushi nakajima #yosano akiko #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #ai less whumptober #whumptober fic #whumptober #whumptober2023

[kikker-oma]

@adrift-in-thyme TRIN YOU ARE AMAZING AND INCREDIBLE AND THIS FIC TORE MY HEART OUT AND STUFFED IT BACK INTO MY CHEST (in the absolute BEST way possible❤️❤️)

Please please please PLEASE give this a read, it made me acream

Warnings: blood, slit throat(after the cut)

Also, here's a bonus from @skyloftian-nutcase done in exquisite restaurant crayon lol

#TRIN YOURE SO SKILLED AND I LOVED THIS FIC #sorry this is so so late #it fought me every single step of the way #but I hope you like it🙂 #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu fanart #lu legend #whumptober 2023 #blood

[melissa7102004]

"He thought of the useless little tea cup on the ground.

He must have made a fool of himself."

-- suppressed--"Ouch! All Pain" by vicen-non

#it's that chap folk #not exactly hugging each other in the fic btw #i just thought of it when im reading i dkn why #after reading i was just ahhhhhh #it's whumptober indeed #dreammare #swapdreammare #swapdream #swap nightmare

[ohtobeleah]

Dark Red // Jake Seresin

Summary: Jake Seresin is usually pretty cool, carm and cock sure of himself. But when his wife has an accident? He hits the deck pretty hard.

Warnings: Character death. Mentions of car accidents. Fainting. Jake Seresin x F!reader.

Word Count: 2.7k

Author Note: Day Eleven of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: ‘Fainting.’ Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

It was enough to shake you that was for sure. The sheer force of the car behind you that had run right up the back of you and sent your bonnet into the back of the car in front of you, practically sandwiching you in, was enough to rattle you. 

It was enough to have the airbag deploying in your face, breaking your nose that would surely leave two very black and swollen eyes from the sinus pressure. It was enough to shatter the glass of your front and back windscreens like they were paper thin. The forces had crumbled the aluminum of your 1999 Ford Festiva with ease. Like a paper bag being trot on. The same car Jake was adamant that you finally upgrade from. The same care that you were so attached to. 

Guess there wouldn’t be any love lost when Jake found out that your beloved Festiva was totally gone. She was to put it simply—unsalvageable. But at least you were able to walk away relatively unscathed. 

“Would you like us to give your emergency contact a call?” Jake Seresin had been your best friend for just over ten years. The two of you had only just recently gotten married after dating for eight of those. There had never really been any real rush to put pen to paper and make all the legal arrangements and challenges. You were pretty content in the role you played in Jake's life. But when his career started to see him in more life threatening situations, he started to wonder what exactly he’d be leaving you behind with. It made sense on paper to get married and it made even more sense to share the Seresin name with the six month old fetus kicking it in utero. Little Baby Seresin. 

“My husband’s at work—“ You sighed to the woman checking on your little boy's heart, strong and stable. No signs of distress from his end which was the best possible outcome. “You can probably just clean me up and send me on my way.” 

“Hmm—“ Although there were no obvious signs, Linda Masters thought it would be in your best interests to stay overnight for observations. She was waiting to hear back from your OB. “I’d rather keep you in overnight, just to make sure baby doesn’t decide to change his mind.” 

“Okay, but when you get someone to call, just make sure you let him know that we’re fine.” You were really insistent on that, you knew how Jake could get when it came to you. For someone who was usually so cool, calm and cock sure of himself, he could get a little flustered to say the very least whenever something involved you. “He doesn’t need to leave work, but he can definitely swing by with an overnight bag afterwards.” 

“Oh boy.” You knew that voice from a mile away. “Seresins ganna go into cardiac arrest when he finds out that little miss is sitting in my Emergency Room.” Doctor Benjamin Ocka or more affectionately known by the Daggers as, Doc Ock, cooed as he came up to your bedside. “I was called for a consult?” He addressed the technician who was just packing away her ultrasound machine. 

“Y/n Seresin, six months pregnant, sustained a broken nose and possibly sinus damage from her airbag. There doesn’t seem to be any other major injuries, just a couple of bumps and bruises.” 

Ben chuckled as he assessed your nose, ears, eyes and mouth. Your bloodied nose was huge, swollen as swollen could be. He knew immediately that you were gonna be on bed rest for a few days. Especially when it came to the part in the healing process where your sinuses would swell so much that you wouldn’t be able to see. 

“I’ll call Hangman shall I?” He sighed as he placed his little light into the top pocket of his doctor’s jacket and sat beside you. “Bubs okay?” 

“Perfectly fine, we’re staying for a sleepover just to be sure.” 

“I’m probably gonna need to readjust your nose.” He frowned softly as he kept assessing your face. “Little bit of surgery but we can discuss that once the swelling goes away—if you can breathe and can deal with a crooked nose for a small period of time I might like to hold off on non essential plastic surgery till after Baby Seresins here.” 

Ben was Payback's husband. He was as charming and as a part of your little group as any of the spouses and all Roosters girlfriends were. He cared about the people who took care of his husband in the sky and made sure he got to come home every night. 

“Sounds good, but yes—please, call Jake and let him know we’re fine.” You pleaded. “Lead with they're totally fine, if anything this is just a courtesy call from your wife to say that it’s take out for dinner.” 

“He’s gonna flip out Y/n.” That was your moment of defeat. You sighed into the pillow of your emergency room bed and let your head lull to the side as you placed two very protective hands across your belly. 

“I know.” You grumbled. “I know he is and he’s gonna be so happy about that damn Festiva too.” 

***~***~***~***~***~***

Jake only wore a Garmin watch when he was on the ground because it was connected to his phone. He only wore a Garmin watch so that if someone called him during the day, all he had to do was look at his wrist and decide if the call was worth taking on the clock. 

Jake only wore a Garmin watch for moments like these, where he sat in the middle of a debriefing on this afternoon's drills and saw Payback's husband's affectionate caller ID, ‘Benny Boy’ flash up on the screen. 

“I gotta go.” Jake knew deep down Ben wouldn’t call like this if it wasn’t an emergency. “I’ll be right back.” Jake stood so fast that the feet of his chair made a high pitched squeak against the smooth concrete floor. All eyes were on him, colleagues and instructors alike as he rushed out of the hangar and fished his phone, which had been on silent, out of his pocket. 

His heart nearly stopped inside his chest when his body and mind immediately knew what to ask as his thumb swiped over the screen of his phone before he held it up to his ear. Shaking, Jake knew that it had to be about you—why else would Ben be calling in the middle of the day when they were both on shift? 

“What happened? Is she okay?” It took all the breath out of Jake's lungs when he spoke. He never wanted to get this call. If anyone ever asked him about his biggest fear in life, he wouldn’t say dying in a dog fight or crashing into the pacific. No. He’d say losing the love of his life. “Ben?”

“Hey man.” Ben tried to be as calm as he could be because really, you were fine. There was no cause for concern, just a broken nose. “Y/n had an accident, not her fault, distracted driver situation.” Jake felt like his entire world was crumbling around him as he took panic filled strides towards the locker room. “She’s fine, her nose is busted pretty good but other than that her and the baby are—“ There's a very loud, very audible thud on the other end of the line as Ben checks your lab reports at the nurses station. “Hello?” He questioned with concern laced in his tone. “Hangman? You there?” Ben knows he’s not. “Fuck—“ 

Meanwhile, on the floor of the locker room, laid Jake Seresin. Completely out cold and unresponsive as his teammates sat in their debriefing wondering what the hell had gotten into the newlywed man they all loved to hate and hated to love. 

Jake had smacked his head on the corner of the long metal seat that ran down the middle of the locker hall. He was face down, bleeding pretty bad and had his cheek squished so hard into the grate on the floor it was gonna leave a mark when he peeled himself up. Like those parks you get when you have a killer nap. 

The crimson red that pooled on the tiles was thick and spread thin into the grooves of the tiles. It crept its way across the locker room floor like vines. Jake was under, but even in his unconscious state you were the only thing on his mind. You smile, your infectious laugh, the way you looked carrying his son, so swollen and perfect. His wife. The love of his life. 

“Can someone go get Seresin?” Mav sighed as he held the bridge of his nose behind the podium. “Rooster, go drag him back here before I send him up there blind.” Everyone knew it was an empty threat, but regardless, Bradley stood to his feet with an exaggerated sigh and headed down the hall in the direction of where he thought his wingman had gone. 

Bradley wasn’t expecting to walk into the locker room and see what he saw. He was just trying to make sure Jake didn’t get torn to shreds for ditching during the debriefing. But to his shock horror—as he rounded the corner into the locker room, his heart jumped out of his chest at the sight of his wingman lying face down on the grime covered tiles. There was probably dirt caked into the grouting from when his dad roamed these halls. 

“Holy crap—“ It was the first thing out of Bradleys mouth as he made his way over in a hurry. “Hangman?” The way Bradley said his wingman’s callsign was laced in pure panic. “Jake man, you okay?” Rooster shook Jake's shoulder gently at first—but when the six foot something blonde didn’t stir, he shook him a little harder. “Hangman! Wake up man, c’mon open your eyes.” 

“Mmhph—“ It wasn’t a word, but a sound, and Bradley was happy with that as he rolled Jake over onto his side to start with. 

“Jake you’re bleeding.” It was everywhere. Bradley looked around frantically to try and find what may have been the cause of such a head wound. But when his eyes locked onto the corner of the cold, old metal bench—he knew immediately. “Don’t move alright.” 

“Y/n—“ Jake grumbled as he tried to sit up. “My wife.” It was pure need and adrenaline that coursed through Jake Seresins veins the second he’d come to. “I need to get to Y/n—“ 

“Woah, take it easy Hangman.” Bradley tried to steady Jake as he tried to stand. “You hit your head pretty hard on the bench, we should probably get you to medical?” 

“Hospital—“ Was all Jake groaned as he stood, Rooster watched in horror as the blood gushed from Jake’s gash. It looked deep and angry, like he’d been cut almost through his skull. “I need to get to the hospital.” Bradley can’t keep up to save his soul. “Y/n—“ As Jake stands to his very unsteady feet, he mumbled your name over and over as his fingertips reach up to touch the crimson red dripping down his face. “Oh fuck my head.” 

“I’ll take you to the hospital if you can remember what happened?” It’s the only way Rooster can think of putting two and two together. Why did Jake need to get to the hospital to see you? And why was he passed out of the floor of the locker room? “Jake? Why’s Y/n at the hospital?” It’s a question laced in as much concern as it is dread. You’re not due yet, what if something happened to the baby and that’s what caused Jake to break? “Is she alright? Is baby Seresin alright?” 

The silence that lingered as Jake stumbled his way over towards the door had Rooster's heart caught up in his throat. He knew how much Jake loved you and his unborn child. He knew that the man with the bloodied forehead and the sure fire concussion would move mountains and part seas just to kiss a paper cut on your fingertip. So when Jake stopped in his tracks, swayed side to side as if he was going down again, Bradley knew something had happened that completely rocked Jake Seresins world. 

“They were in an accident—“ 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

It was the way Jake came racing into the emergency room that worried you the most. He slammed right in for the doorframe like he either didn’t see it or like he’d been running a million miles and hour to get to you. 

You hadn’t yet been moved from the emergency short stay area into one of the wards, which you were thankful for the second Ben spotted Jake stumbling towards you with a head laceration. 

“Oh my god, what the hell happened?” You asked Rooster as he rushed in after Jake. He knew he was about to cop an earful. “Bradshaw, why is my husband bleeding?” You barely got to ask before Jake was at your side. 

“He fainted when he got the call you were in hospital.” Rooster explained softly as he pulled up a chair for Jake to sit beside you in . “Here you, sit down man before the room starts spinning.” Bradley ushered Jake to sit as he reached out for your hands. “You and bubs alright? What happened?” 

“We’re fine.” You tried to explain. “Nose is pretty sore but we’re fine.” 

“Baby I swear I can’t ever lose you.” Jake began as he sat as close to your bedside as he could. It was the sweetest thing, although you suspected it was all coming from the concussion you knew your husband definitely had. “You or bubs.” Jake placed a gentle hand across your stomach. “My heart nearly burst out of my chest when I got the call.” 

“I should probably take a look at that—“ Ben interrupted as he sent you a shy, all knowing smile. “Hit the hard deck, did you Seresin?” Ben chuckled to himself as he gave Jake's head the once over. “I specifically remember telling you that your wife was fine.” 

“‘M’panicked, can’t lose her boss.” Jake replied softly as his eyes never left you, it pained him to see you like this. Bloodied and bruised, but alive. “I think I hit my head though.” 

“He smacked it pretty hard on the corner of the metal bench in the locker room.” Bradkey added as Ben started to clean out the head wound at your bedside, he knew there was no point asking Jake to move when the answer was going to be a hard no. 

“I’ll order a tetanus shot because that thing is grotesque and get some antibiotics sorted.” Ben stated as he worked, Jake however—he never took his eyes off you. 

“Did you really pass out when you were told I was in an accident?” 

“Can’t lose you.” Was all your husband mumbled against your hand as he kissed your palm. “Can’t lose you, won’t lose you or baby Seresin.” 

“We aren’t going anywhere, love.” You sweetly replied as you reached out to caress Jake's chin. “I promise.” 

“My head really hurts.” He whispers softly as you chuckled to yourself. “Gotta work on my landing huh?” 

“Yeah bubba.” You sighed. “I need you around for the long hall.” As you gently stroked your husband’s chin you saw his eyes begin to roll as he swayed to the left. Jake's entire body stiffened as he lost all sense of direction, his surroundings were gone in the blink of an eye as he began to seize uncontrollably. 

“Woah! Hey! HEY I NEED SOME HELP OVER HERE!” Ben shouted as you watched on in helpless horror as he went with Jake to the ground. Placing him in the recovery position. “LETS GET HIM BACK PEOPLE!” 

“Rooster, what's happening?” You sobbed behind your hands as tears poured down your face. “Jake?” It was the last thing you remembered before everything went cold and dark. The last thing you remembered seeing when you woke not a few moments later, was your husband and father of your child—hemorrhaging before you. 

All because he bumped his head. 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Whumptober Tags 🏷️ @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @slut-f0r-u @emma-is-cool @armydrcamers @topguncortez @topgun-imagines @kmc1989 @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt

#ailesswhumptober2023 #leahs whumptober masterlist #Jake Seresin whump #jake seresin x female!reader #jake seresin fanfiction #jake hangman fic #tw: whump #tw: death

[jen-with-a-pen]

F O X ＨＵＮＴ

summary: Not only has HYDRA executed their infiltration on S.H.I.E.L.D., but they have also reclaimed their finest weapon. Your safety isn't the only thing that's compromised.

pairings: WS!Beefy!Bucky Barnes x F!Avenger!Reader

word count: 6.1k

warnings: chasing, being hunted down, implied n0n-con elements, canon-level violence, cursing, implied t0rture, blood, beat1ngs, forced nud1ty, language, HYDRA-level cruelty, Bucky gets Brainwashed (again), there's Steve x Reader if you squint REALLY REALLY hard

read here on ao3!

a/n: This was inspired by last year's Whumptober Day 2: NOWHERE TO RUN - CORNERED, CAGED AND CONFRONTATION. I know it's February JUNE, but shit came up and my motivation tanked lmao thanks adhd med trials Literally have never done a dark(er?) fic before and this one has been cooking for god knows how fucking long now. I hope y'all like it <3 (also the hydra victory au is something i discovered from the lovely @lunarbuck reset series and stewed obsessively over for literal months now. still obsessed with it whoops)

dividers by @firefly-graphics | gif by @lost-shoe | @hydravictrix

my ao3 | my masterlist

Translations

Lisitsa | лисица - fox/little fox

Soldat | солдат - soldier

Syuda | сюда - over here

Khitraya suka | хитрая сука - sly bitch

Moy priz | мой приз - my prize

Glupaya pizda | глупая пизда - stupid cunt

Moye | мое - mine

The infiltration was subtle at the start.

A few missions gone mysteriously wrong, agents killed in action or disappearing entirely, hacks that were, thankfully, contained within an inch of a full-blown data breach. All of it seemed so coincidental when it happened, swept under the rug each and every single time before Director Fury could have a swear-filled say as to what the hell was going on. 

But hindsight is 20/20. It always is.

The day S.H.I.E.L.D. fell was, ironically, the perfect day: brilliant sunshine, clear blue skies, a breeze weaving between the towering buildings and skyscrapers. It was almost eerie, in a way, how perfect of a day it was. 

You found yourself in the gym, Steve and Sam hashing it out on whose turn it was in sparring. You had all but knocked Sam out cold in the previous round as Steve watched from behind the ropes, cheering you on with a cocky, proud grin as he watched all of his hard work in your training pay off.

Of course, the stubborn ass he was, Sam wanted another go. 

“C’mon, Steve! I wanna rematch!” Sam protested, gesturing wildly in your direction with one hand while his other held an ice pack to his bruised temple. Steve stifled a laugh, tossing a glance over his shoulder to you. You shook your head, smiling back as you gulped down the rest of your water bottle. Cool strands spilled out from the corners of your lips and down your chest. You welcomed the relief from the sweat gluing your t-shirt to your skin. 

“How ‘bout I take Steve instead of giving you another concussion?” you retorted, giggling as Sam shot a narrow look at you. He huffed, forfeiting his argument by waving a dismissive hand. 

“Fine, ’m gonna go find some pain meds,” he grumbled, turning to point a swollen finger at Steve. “I better see you in the infirmary next, Cap.” 

He stomped off through the metal doors and left the two of you in silence.

“Whaddya say, sweetheart? You up for round two?” Steve teased, stepping under the ropes and into the ring. He wrapped his hands as he moved to the center, muscle memory carrying him while keeping his eager gaze on you. His eyes carried excitement as they journeyed up and down your figure, rolling his lip between his teeth as he drank you with his stare. 

You did little to hide your pride at the Captain checking you out, chewing the corner of your cheek to tame your own smirk at the beautiful blond. You turned away, hiding the heat from your cheeks as you tossed your bottle at your bag. You weaved under the ropes, coming face to face with your willing opponent in the center. You lifted your chin to meet his, the hidden smirk on your lips growing into a grin.

“With you? Always, old man,” you purred. You tossed him a teasing wink as you positioned your fists in front of you, feet planted firmly in the starting stance. Steve lingered on you for a second longer, tongue swiping across his lips hungrily as he cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, raising his hands to mirror you.

The two of you began to circle one another, dancing in a familiar pattern you knew by heart. Steve took his first swipe at you and you ducked, managing a hit to his stomach. A grunt escaped from him– not of hurt but of thrill. He lunged for you as you dodged again, blocking his failed strike to your head. 

“Wow! You really can’t teach an old dog new tricks!” you taunted, dodging another blow, his wrapped fist only grazing your shoulder. You rolled it back, holding back a slight wince as you continued the violent waltz. 

You lunged at him, instead faltering and falling to the ground. Readying the curse on your tongue, it stopped short of your lips as you looked up at Steve. 

He stood frozen in place, panting, fists at his sides clenching tighter and tighter. As you opened your mouth to unload even more cursing questions, screeching erupted from the loudspeakers around the room. High-pitched tones screaming above, a robotic voice speaking clinically and quickly. You scrambled off the floor, unease creeping in as you latched onto Steve’s arm, his arm tensing under your touch.

CODE WHITE. CODE SILVER. ALL SECURITY AND TEAM UNITS URGENTLY NEEDED. 40th FLOOR. THREAT IS ACTIVE AND HIGHLY DANGEROUS. REPEAT. CODE WHITE. CODE SILVER. ALL SECURITY AND TEAM UNITS–

The message had cut out, static replacing it alongside the echoing alarms throughout the hallways outside the gym. You looked up at Steve. Anxiety surged upon finding his face devoid of all blood, his jaw slack, eyes boring into the metal doors leading to the hallway. He looked scared. 

You’d never seen Steve scared before. 

“Steve, what the fuck was that–”

“Get to the locker rooms and hide,” he ordered. He pulled his arm from you, jumping over the ropes and sprinting to his duffel bag on the floor. He pulled out his phone and dialed frantically as he ran to the doors. 

“Steve!” You stood trembling in the ring as your stomach churned. 

“Now!” he yelled. “I’ll come back for you!” 

He didn’t wait to hear your response as he slammed the gym doors shut, followed by a whir and click.

He locked you in. 

You didn’t– couldn’t– hesitate as a surge of urgency overtook you. You needed to hide. Now. Fast.

Your legs carried you as you jumped out of the ring and raced to grab your duffel bag, sprinting to the back of the gym through another set of double doors. You wove through the tiled maze of the locker room searching for some sort of hiding spot, settling on the showers. You snuck over to the stall at the very end, the closest one to the emergency exit, and ducked under the opaque plastic curtain. Your bag fell to the floor as you climbed onto the stall seat. Blood pumped in your ears, thumping as quickly as your shaky, shallow breathing. Millions of thoughts and questions and worries rushed through your mind at impossible speeds.

White and Silver. Which alert was that for?

You racked through fleeting memories, distant recollections of training and orientation from months ago, searching for anything remotely familiar. You remembered all of the other codes– red, orange, teal– but no white, no silver. 

A faint buzzing sounded from inside your duffel. You lunged, unzipping it and fishing out your phone. Natasha. Her name lit up the screen and you frantically hit the answer key before the call could even think about dropping.

“Where the fuck are you?” Her panicked voice hissed into your ear. Her edged tone was enough to make your stomach backflip faster. 

“Locker rooms, forty-fifth floor. What the fuck is going on, Nat?” Your voice shook as anger and confusion boiled in your blood.

A muffled swear. “Where’s Steve?”

“He ran out, locked me in, told me to hide.” More incoherent curses.

“Fuck, fuck, okay, look, trust me on this, you need to stay where you are, okay? I can get you out, I–” 

High-pitched ringing overtook the speaker, sending you reeling away from the receiver. Static echoed out of the speakers.

“You what? Natasha!”

“No– time– you–”

“Natasha! Hello?”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You tore the phone away from your ear and choked back the bile rising in your throat. Service was out. The blinking bars at the top of the screen mocked you and your sudden plunge into isolation. 

The lights went next. 

The dull fluorescents flickered. Someone cut the electricity, sending you into almost darkness as the backup generator lights kicked on. Scattered lights from above cast an eerie yellow glow over the shower tiles. You’d only seen this kind of outage happen once before, when New York was hit with Hurricane Noah a few years back.

The fear you felt in that storm paled in comparison to what you felt now.

You sighed, shaky and surrendering, and pulled your body closer to you on the shower bench. A chill snaked its way down your spine as your skin brushed the cool ceramic, an unwelcome addition to the cold already enveloping you. Your sweat-soaked t-shirt and shorts failed to aid you and your aching muscles. Fingernails dug into your kneecaps in a struggle to stop trembling as you tried to focus on your breathing. Inhaling, exhaling, in, out. Screwing your eyes shut, praying to any deity imaginable it was all just a drill, it was all an accident or a misunderstanding or–

The ground shook as a loud bang echoed from outside the locker room. A panicked yelp escaped your throat before your hands could scramble and cover your mouth. You froze as the tremors subsided and listened. It, or they, sounded close. 

Too close. 

Another BANG! Then another. 

Rhythmic, steady blows, each quicker and more powerful than the last. Hands clamped tighter over your lips until your blood froze at the sounds of crushing steel and crumbling concrete. The lump in your throat grew as horrific realization flooded over you. 

They, or it, broke in.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it– those doors were more fortified than Tony’s lab. Four-inch-thick, steel and plexiglass doors with a three-tier secured locking system. Nothing, nobody– not even the strongest Super Soldier– was powerful enough to make the faintest of dents in them.

Racing through who, or what, could have possibly broken into the gym, your train of thought derailed as echoes of men yelling indecipherable words and mixed commands shattered the remaining air of safety you clung to. Listening intently, a mix of combat boots and tactical gear filtered in with the echoed commands.

The S.T.R.I.K.E. Team.

Your legs begged for reprieve from crouching, but your body disobeyed and froze you in place. Part of you didn’t trust who was outside. Footsteps and gruff voices became heavier, closer. The relief that greeted you was replaced again by panic as you listened closer.

Clear, Russian commands resonated at the entrance to the locker rooms. They were coming in. 

Your breath hitched, blood running cold as footsteps closed in. It was one person, but their steps didn’t sound like the heavy boots before them. They sounded more like…

Sneakers?

The rubber from the intruder’s shoes squeaked on the tiled floors. Ragged breathing echoed off the walls. A low growl, accompanied by quiet whirring. Someone big, someone mean. 

Your heart made its way to your throat as the intruder inched closer. Slow, methodical, as if trained in search and rescue. 

It didn’t feel like a rescue.

The lump almost turned into a scream as an echoed BANG carried from the bathroom stalls around the corner. Silence followed, then a growl, then another BANG. The cycle repeated for the remaining stalls, the intruder slowly creeping along. Growls became deeper upon each disappointment. 

Hostages. They were looking for hostages.

Soles squeaked as the intruder changed course, stomping around the corner to search the line of shower stalls. You hiccuped a sob, realizing tears started to trail down your cheeks. Biting your palm only proved a lame attempt to calm your racing heart, a scream threatening to leave your throat as they began tearing the plastic curtains off the stalls. Each clang of metal cracking onto the tile became closer as you ground your teeth into the meat of your hand. Eyes screwed shut, silent prayers raced in your head, pleading to wake up; to wake up from this hellscape of a sick, twisted nightmare. 

The intruder’s steps stopped. 

Your eyes opened, widening at the blurred, hulking shadow standing outside of your stall. They had to be well over six feet. Towering, bulky, monstrous. 

Slowly, the shadow’s hand reached for the curtain. One by one, its fingers closed around the plastic’s edge, preparing to rip it down and rip you open. Eyes burning, hot tears felt like molten metal as you attempted to make yourself as small as possible in your corner, huddling your knees as close as they could be. This was it. This was the end. You prayed– actually fucking prayed– hoping they couldn’t hear your pathetic whimpering, hoping they would make this quick, painless; break your neck or put a gun to your head and get it over with. Leave your body for someone else to find.

“Soldat, syuda!” 

The command made your heart stop.

The shadow froze, stopped by a call from the entrance to the locker room. Skin met your teeth as you bit harder into your hand. Lungs began panicking as you started hyperventilating, bile reaching your throat and burning the back of your tongue. 

The shadow, the monster, growled in protest. It retracted the curled hand from the curtain, wordlessly moving back towards the bathroom stalls. Footsteps faded as muffled conversation floated away from the locker room.

You needed to get the fuck out of there. 

You slid off the bench, legs aching and knees popping as you crouched silently over to the curtain, peeking out behind the plastic. It crinkled quietly and you bit your lip, leaning out ever so slightly over the threshold. 

Tiptoeing around the corner, you faced the emergency exit. The glowing sign omitted a creepy, green glow that added to the eeriness brought by the generator lights. 

This was it.

You slammed the push bar down, throwing the door open with your body and spilling out into the hallway. Sunlight flashed through the infinite glass hallway, blinding you. In your frozen state, you hear commotion from behind the door as it slammed shut. Banging from the other side, the sound of metal on metal, made your teeth grind. Indents from punches dented the door, deforming its smooth outside. You didn’t stay frozen for long as your body screamed at you to fucking move, now.

Your legs obeyed immediately, carrying you through the corridor to the closest means of escape you could find. As you rounded the corner, the crushing sounds of the door breaking off of its hinges hit your ears. You didn’t dare to look back, sprinting through the twists and turns of the infinite hallway. You followed what felt familiar, burning muscles egged on by the sound of pounding footsteps getting closer and closer.

Finally, you stumbled onto the entrance to a stairwell, pausing to gasp for air your lungs demanded. The burn in your legs and chest only aided in the physiological need to hyperventilate. Sweat dripped from your temple and your head pounded as hard as your feet hitting the ground. 

You leaned into the safety bar, inches away from further distancing yourself from whatever, whoever, was on your trail, when a yell erupted from the end of the hallway. 

It felt like slow-motion; one of those scenes in those cheesy horror movies Sam always made you and Steve watch on weekends off. The ones with cheap FX, bad sound, but somehow great editing for the budget. The scenes where realization hits the main character and suddenly everything is half the speed while they still move in real time. 

You turned your head towards the source. Then, it hit you. Blood drained from your face as the horror of realization hit you, like a speeding sixteen-wheeler head on.

Bucky Barnes stood hulking at the end of the hallway. Generator lights and setting sun illuminated his snarling teeth, gleaming from parted lips that had him panting like a rabid dog. If you hadn’t known better it would’ve looked like he was heading for the gym for his daily workout. Blown pupils, sweat-stuck hair, complimented by a shaking frame– most definitely caused by adrenaline, dopamine, and a slew of Gods-knew-what other drugs he had pumped into his system. Splotches of drying, smeared blood coated his neck and shirt while even more dripped onto the ground from his fists. The crimson contrasted with the medically white floors. 

Bile rose in your throat again. The acidic taste made you dry heave at the sight of the blood, knowing from the looks of Bucky it definitely wasn’t his.

He snarled as your eyes finally met. Fists of flesh and metal flexed. Rippling muscles shook as he readied to launch forward.

“You’re mine, lisitsa!” he barked. His voice booming louder than the speed of sound, it made your ears ring.

Your throat finally opened. You screamed as he sprinted towards you, making more ground down the hallway than an apex predator out of hibernation. You shoved the exit door open, heaving your legs forward as you ascended the stairs. No choice but to go up, you refused to look back– nay you didn’t dare to even consider it. Muscles and tendons and joints burned, yearning for you to stop, but the door slamming from flights below you only pushed you harder, flying up and passing floor after floor. 

You were fast, but he was faster. 

Dizziness overtook you as your vision began to blur. Darkened edges of your peripherals made you stop your climb at level 50, pausing for a split second to hear Bucky’s progress. He was close behind, but you still had more of an advantage. You knew the Tower better than him. You knew level 50 had another stairwell on the opposite side of the floor, through another hallway off the corner of your current one. Sneakers pounded too close for comfort as you shoved the door open and made a break for it down another corridor labyrinth.

If you made it out of this alive, you swore you’d kill Tony’s architect yourself. 

“You can’t hide forever, lisitsa!” Bucky’s voice rang out from the stairwell as you rounded the corner, sprinting through more identical-looking hallways. Another corner later and the glowing red EXIT sign appeared above the next stairwell. A beacon of hope, almost. Relieved, you head straight for it, body and mind and soul pushing against the burning and the gasping for air. You were right there, hand outstretched, fingertips grasping the metal bar–

It felt like a car crash. 

Not an accident or fender bender. No, it felt like seventy miles an hour meets a tree with no intent of moving. That split-second feeling where your stomach drops and you can all but brace for the deadly impact destined for you to meet.

Time stopped as you were yanked backwards. Cold, slick metal wrapped around your ankle, bloody hand print smearing some poor bastard’s DNA all over your calf as your body fell to the ground. Hard. Your jaw clenched as your chin slammed into the linoleum. Teeth ground into your tongue as copper flooded your tastebuds. Your lungs, with little wind left in them, gasped for oxygen. Another scream rising in your throat became stuck in your vocal cords. 

Bucky whipped you around as you struggled to free your lower half. You landed on your shoulder, head bouncing against the floor and teary eyes struggled to stay open and endure the pain. He straddled your form, the weight crashing down on your bones and organs. A sharp inhale impaled your chest as you met Bucky’s darkened eyes, then; the familiar steel blue replaced entirely with dilated, unhinged pupils. 

It was the first time you got a good look at his face. His face is speckled with blood spatter and several bruises spread across his cheek down his neck. Two black eyes, a bloody nose– one you hoped was his– and a broken lip. The bloodied collar of his shirt only aided in the mess of his hair. His soft, chocolate strands stuck in mats to his neck and temples with sweat and blood. 

Out of sheer habit, because he looked like your Bucky, you couldn’t help but reach a hand out to him. A soft plea for the man behind his eyes, one you begged everything holy was still there. He held your stare, face contorting into unrecognizable emotions. Tears brimmed your eyes as your hand stretched further, sobs escaping as your fingers inched closer and closer to his battered face.

“Bucky, it’s me–”

Your appeal transformed into a shriek, quickly snuffed out as Bucky wrapped his crimson-spattered metal hand around your throat. You choked, sputtering lost pleas as your hands flew to your neck. Fingernails flailed in futile attempts to claw off the weapons-grade titanium. 

“You’re done running, khitraya suka,” Bucky’s hot breath fanned your face as he leaned in. His mouth grazed your jaw, titanium hand on your throat flexing with each syllable. He slowly made his way down your neck, pushing harder into your chest with his forearm. A heavy growl. His grip only tightened as you tried to knee him in the groin, picking you up by your neck and slamming you down again.

Stars circled your blurred vision, eyes rolling back into your head. The corridor, the lights, everything split into two.

“You owe me for my victory, lisitsa,” Bucky’s husky whisper resonated in your ear as he licked the side of your face, his hot, wet mouth against your tear-stained cheek. As his free hand moved to the waistband of your shorts, another surge of panic washed through you. You tried to sputter a weak cry from your closed-off throat, blood turning cold, another scream building and building in your chest and aching for release. 

“You owe me what’s mine –!” 

BANG!

Something from somewhere all of a sudden. The object slammed into Bucky, throwing him off of you and spilling across the floor. 

Finally, your lungs lunged at the chance for air, leaving you a heaving, choking, coughing mess. Spitting at the ground as you made your way shakily to your hands and knees, a freed hand traveling to rub the fresh strangulation bruises forming on the column of your stiff neck. 

“Get the fuck off her, Bucky!” 

Steve.

As your vision cleared, the shield whizzed past you as it ricocheted back into Steve’s open arms. Bucky groaned, low and guttural, but only for a moment is he subdued. Slowly, he rose, like smoke from extinguished ashes, looking to his metal vice. A large dent adorned the weathered, bloodied appendage where his bicep met his shoulder. He then turned his attention to Steve, baring his teeth, anger coursing through him as he immediately disregarded you. His sights set on a new target, launching himself at Steve without a beat lost.

Steve grunted as Bucky’s metal fist met the vibranium shield with a deafening clang. Steve gritted his teeth and pushed back, managing to break Bucky’s attack and aim a kick for his stomach.

“Go! I got him!” Steve yelled to you through a gasp as Bucky countered with his own swipe at Steve’s middle. Your body stayed put, relishing in the ability to fucking breathe again, also painfully aware how screwed you’d be if you didn’t escape as you had the chance. You willed yourself to move, to run and to keep going, to no avail. As Steve landed a blow to Bucky, his eyes met yours once more. His baby blues, pained and tired, begged for you to listen to him for once in your life. 

“Now!”

The strain in Steve’s voice seemed to ignite a fire underneath you. Pushing yourself up, you willed your legs to carry you to the exit. Bloody shoe prints tracked your route as you slammed through the doorway. You cursed, knowing they’ll give away which way you’d go, knowing your life matters more than a twenty-dollar pair of sneakers. Kicking them off, throwing the pair down the exit, praying they made it far enough Bucky wouldn’t know any better. 

You threw yourself up the stars, tremors and pain afflicting every limb as the cold concrete seeped in through your socks in each step. The railing helped as you heaved yourself forward with help from the railing. Sweaty palms slipped on the bars, but your grip only grew tighter. 

You didn’t know how you, or your body, was able to do it, making it up seven more flights of stairs before your knees buckled on level 57. Heaving the door open and slamming it shut, you stumbled out into the new hallway. You hadn’t visited that level before. Something Steve and the others– especially Doctor Banner– said was “just a business floor.”

The sign on the wall directing to ‘SAFELAB’ said otherwise. Nothing in the Tower was “just business.” 

What you did know was that every SAFELAB on every floor was located in the same, far-east hallway. 

Wiping the sweat from your temple, you turned right, jogging down the darkened, emptied-out hallway. It felt like the apocalypse. No sign of anybody else. Doors left ajar, papers and bags and other employee memorabilia scattered throughout abandoned offices and cubicles. You hoped everyone was able to make it out, at least.

Part of you didn’t hope for much, though. 

The door to the lab came into view as you rounded the last corner. The door was still locked, the lab inside sterile and untouched. A sigh of relief escaped you. Holding your palm to the door’s scanner, it answered your prayers in a soft beep and whir, miraculously allowing you in. 

You maneuvered through the multiple security doors, four in total, crouching low once you managed to slip into the lab itself. The gigantic window at the front of the labspace spared no room for you to hide easily, but you had zero room to complain about it. It was your only option, after all.

Well, besides the roof. 

Crouched, you snuck your way around the counters and various equipment to one of the supply closets. The furthest corner from the entrance. You scoured through drawers and cupboards for some sort of weaponry; the most you could find was a new scalpel out of a box of extras. 

You closed in on the supply closet, reaching up and grasping the handle, turning it slowly to prevent any squeaks from the inner hinge. A tear glided down your cheek in relief. You hadn’t realized you started crying. Again. 

The door swung open. It greeted you mostly empty, deep enough for you to cram your body into. Crawling inside, bones and limbs contorted into the most comfortable position you could manage. You pinched the edges of the doors to close them as best as you can, accepting they, in fact, couldn’t close all the way from the inside. A curse under your breath, the sliver of dim light through the crack cast onto your face. Once settled, you crumpled your damp t-shirt up from the collar and shoved the fabric into your mouth. Teeth and tongue greeted sweaty cotton and hints of copper as you bit down on the collar, covering your mouth with a free hand. 

At last, after Gods knew how long it had been since you ceased moving, a silenced sob heaved out of your chest. Tremors only worsened as your nervous system rode out the fumes of its adrenaline high and flight mode instincts. Hot tears spilled down your cheeks, mixing with snot further down your face, slipping down to your neck and leaving behind streaked paths in the bloodied, hand-printed bruises adorned on your flesh. The pain from the near-strangulation you suffered broke through the shock and endorphins that were keeping you sane until then. You knew, though, you couldn’t break down. Not yet. Not until you saw Natasha or Steve or someone you trusted face-to-face. 

You started counting your breaths. Mind racing, thoughts traveling near sonic speeds through your mind carrying questions at how the hell it all happened.

You thought for sure S.H.I.E.L.D. was secure, especially after the ordeal with Bucky, Steve, and the whole ‘defeating HYDRA’ ordeal from a few years back. Hell, you thought it was safer than taking the FBI’s recon mission that was offered to you before being referred to Tony himself. Your mind raced, what-ifs and endless possibilities flashing across your eyes like a snuff film. You hoped Steve was okay. You hoped Natasha was on her way to your location any second. You hoped Sam was safe and made it out okay. You hoped Bucky –

Bucky. 

Christ, you hadn’t even stopped to think about how the hell everything happened to him. He’d been doing so well in his recovery program. Steve was even telling you about it that same morning, bragging about how well Bucky was doing, how much progress he was making, how soon they’d finally be able to move in together once Doctor Banner cleared him. Another sob overtook you. How you’d never seen him like that before, the feeling of his titanium arm slowly crushing your windpipe, the weight of his entire body crushing your internal organs as he’d held you down. The things he’d said. You tried to wrap your head around what he’d said, what he was going to do–

Crashing followed by shattering glass emitted a muffled yelp from you as your blood ran cold. Another wave of tears flooded out of your burning eyes, chest heaving unevenly. Your hand clamped even tighter over your mouth as teeth bit into the salty fabric of your shirt, drying up any more moisture your mouth was grateful to finally have.

BANG! Then another. Then more in rapid succession. Shattering, crashing, shattering, silence. The final blow to the security doors sounded from inside the lab itself. Your breath hitched and bile began bubbling in your stomach, reaching the back of your throat and across your tongue. You forced yourself to swallow the acid, listening intently to the crunch of sneakers on shattered glass.

He’d found you. 

“Lisitsaaa,” Bucky drawled, his voice dropped to a primally low octave. Lower than before. You almost couldn’t make out the words, a mixture of growled mumblings of English and Russian. Knees folded closer to your chest, you tightened your grip on the handle of the scalpel. Bucky’s footsteps were slow, methodical, predatorial. 

His heavy steps inched closer, each followed by a pause, then sudden crashing of lab equipment and smashing of drawers. More glass and metal slammed to the ground and walls after each pause. He sounded feet away. Then inches. 

Your breathing stopped as the sliver of light clouded over. The lump in your throat threatened more puke to rise as you dared to peer up through the crack, heart dropping like a dead weight to your stomach as your eyes fell on freshly bloodied sneakers. A stifled scream in your lungs choked you. You refused to think about whose blood that was.

Eyes darted back up. You could see Bucky’s blurred features clouded in shadows. The only light visible, then, was the glint from his wicked smile. Bloodied teeth shone as he licked his lips hungrily, a predator finally cornering its prey. 

Ever so slowly he crouched, shoving his face closer into the seam in the door. Tears and snot continued to stream down your face, your body hyperventilating as you forced yourself to look into his eyes. There was nothing else you could do. Nothing else to say, to cry about. There was nowhere left to run. He got you. 

“There you are, moy priz,” Bucky hissed before reaching through and throwing the doors open, heavy hands leaving imprints in the flimsy metal. Frozen, your fist was still closed around the scalpel, your muscles tensed as joints locked in place. His evil eyes scanned your body greedily, looking for which cut of meat to divulge in first. His gaze stopped at your fist and he chuckled, tisking in a disappointed tone. 

“Oh, glupaya pizda,” Bucky shook his head, amused at your meager choice of weaponry. Compared to him, you might as well have been waving a white flag. His smile only grew, tongue jutting out to lick his lips. Specks of blood coated the sides of his cheeks and edges of his mouth, smeared about from ear to ear with the back of his hand.

“Come with me and they might consider your life, lisitsa–”

You sprung into him, swinging your arm, landing the scalpel into the middle of his flesh hand, impaling straight through it. In an instant, blood spewed from the impact. Bucky screamed out in pain, a slew of mixed language curses reverberating in your skull. You scrambled out of your hiding place, bashing him with a balled fist to the face as you tumbled out and onto your feet, sprinting to the lab’s only exit. Freedom was only an arm’s length away when an overturned stool tripped you. The impact didn’t hurt near as much as the millions of shattered glass bits shredded cut into your skin, your hands and knees and arms and face littered as blood smeared under you and across the once-sterile white floors. You cried out, writhing around. Battered and bloodied, struggling to rise and run again despite the searing pain in your ankle.

Before you could form your next thought, a rough hand snatched your scalp and dragged you up by your hair. You uttered a panicked scream as Bucky hoisted you to eye level, snarling like a rabid dog as he shook you hard.

“I thought you were smarter than that, lisitsa,” he sneered, “but I was wrong.”

He hurled you back onto the floor, his bloodied, titanium fist still gripping your hair, dragging you over to one of the disheveled lab tables. More glass shredded your skin, blood and sweat and tears mixing and pouring over your face and hands and body. With ease and a free hand, he swiped the rest of the contents off another counter; beakers and burners crashed to the floor. His grip tightened as he threw you up onto the stainless steel counter, the dead weight of your body banging onto the table, landing you hard on your back. Eardrums rang into your skull and jaw, radiating down your spine and out your limbs. Your hands slip against the smooth metal from the blood, futile attempts to grab onto something, anything. You groaned and huffed excess sobs. The pain, unbearable; the fear, unimaginable. 

Bucky hoisted himself onto the table, landing on top of your broken body, his knee hitting your spine and knocking your last breath out of you. Straddling you, his thick thighs bulged through tattered sweatpants, squeezing into your rib cage. He looped another fist into your hair, raising your head and slamming it down. The side of your face smushed into the steel table, smearing around more blood as he did it again. And again. The cartilage in your nose cracked and throbbing pain radiated into your eyes, your skull. Warmth from the break and the blood poured over your face. The pain, dulling into numbness as you began to fade in and out of consciousness.

Your vision started to blur and blacken, stars and specks orbiting around Bucky like a halo of hallucination. Your body, finally surrendering to him. No fight left. Any strength you could have mustered, funneled into staying awake, proved useless. 

A new sound, then: ripping.

You didn’t have to look to witness Bucky unrelentingly tear your t-shirt away from your body, training his eyes on your open form. Bruised skin exposed to cool air, your chest still momentarily held together by your sports bra. He made quick work of it next, the nylon snapping off in one swipe, sending goosebumps racing down your spine. 

Ice-cold titanium fingers untangled from your matted hair and made their way from your nape, to the small of your back, to the waistband of your gym shorts. Muscles tensed as you felt each digit wrap almost leisurely onto the elastic. He tore them away swiftly, baring the rest of you and your skin to him. A growl, one of pleasure, vibrated into you from him, emitted he palmed the skin of your ass. His fingers journeyed languidly in a slow trail from your back to your core. You squirmed, wasting the last of your strength, a hopeless attempt to get away one last time. 

A crack came across your face. Flesh against flesh, he slapped you. A punishment. A command for obedience. Your body fell limp. Breathing raggedly and gagging on blood and spit, you shuddered as he took your wrists and tied them together with your t-shirt. 

Satisfied, his prey finally submitting, Bucky paused, panting as he leaned down to you. He wet his lips before speaking, gruff words slurred against your ringing eardrum. As he spoke, cold metal grazed your entrance, a threat of what was to come. 

“Now, I get to take what’s mine.”

Your screams echoed as the world fell dark.

#whumptober #whumptober22 #whumptober2022 #angst #whump #au #hydra au #hydra victory au #winter soldier #winter soldier bucky barnes #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x f!reader #winter soldier x female reader #winter soldier x you #winter soldier x y/n #winter soldier fic #winter soldier fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #steve rogers #jen writes #sam wilson #foxhunt

[frownyalfred]

ah yes, the two genders: whumptober and kinktober

#whumptober #kinktober #ao3 #archive of our own #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #writing things

[captainkirkk]

One of my favourite whump tropes is: "Character is rescued and brought to safety, but they're so used to being treated badly that they just don't understand that they're safe. Surely they haven't been given a home, this is just temporary, they're going to be sent back to the Bad Place or else kicked out to try to live on the streets. Or else the person that rescued them is going to hurt them too. Or everyone is going to figure out that they're not worth the trouble and the help/safety is going to be taken away."

This trope kills me every time but I can't get enough of it

#whumptober is coming up so i've been thinking extensively about my favourite whump tropes #this one is fun because theres LAYERS to the pain #and it hurts everyone involved :)) #tropes #my posts #fic ideas