100 Fanfiction Challenge #10 - Breathe Again
Fandom: Dogs - Bullets and Carnage
Ratings/Warnings: T for mature content and cusswords.
Summary: My chest clenches up so tight at times like this...
Gunfire's never been good for my nerves. Screaming's never been good for my nerves. And having a brand new carton of cigarettes crushed in front of my face just pisses me off...but none of that's got anything on what you bring out in me.
I'll never get over how you look when you get pumped full of lead. I'll never get over the fucking memories that come up when I see holes suddenly appear in your chest. A part of me will never be able to stomach the thick stink of iron in the air, or the way your face goes blank in that split second between you actually dying and when you come back in time to shoot whoever shot you in the face before hitting the fucking blacktop.
By the time everything finally goes quiet, I swear to fucking God that I've had at least five heart attacks in a row.
But you always end up fine, somehow. And there's always that second where I'm waiting for my chest to stop feeling like something's got a deathgrip on my fucking lungs and you're spitting up bullets like watermelon seeds, and the first thing that goes through my mind is thank god he's okay...
The bitching's a defense mechanism at this point...it keeps the first thing out of my mouth from being the kind of pathetic noise I haven't made since the day Dave died. A noise I won't make again, thanks to you.
Ratings/Warnings: T for mature content and cusswords.
Summary: My chest clenches up so tight at times like this...
Gunfire's never been good for my nerves. Screaming's never been good for my nerves. And having a brand new carton of cigarettes crushed in front of my face just pisses me off...but none of that's got anything on what you bring out in me.
I'll never get over how you look when you get pumped full of lead. I'll never get over the fucking memories that come up when I see holes suddenly appear in your chest. A part of me will never be able to stomach the thick stink of iron in the air, or the way your face goes blank in that split second between you actually dying and when you come back in time to shoot whoever shot you in the face before hitting the fucking blacktop.
By the time everything finally goes quiet, I swear to fucking God that I've had at least five heart attacks in a row.
But you always end up fine, somehow. And there's always that second where I'm waiting for my chest to stop feeling like something's got a deathgrip on my fucking lungs and you're spitting up bullets like watermelon seeds, and the first thing that goes through my mind is thank god he's okay...
The bitching's a defense mechanism at this point...it keeps the first thing out of my mouth from being the kind of pathetic noise I haven't made since the day Dave died. A noise I won't make again, thanks to you.