I have some downright evil followers on Tumblr...
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Taylor Swift ft. The Civil Wars (The Hunger Games soundtrack): Safe And Sound
Crossfire Universe (requested by offbeatsierra)
"Just close your eyes/ The sun is going down/ You'll be alright/ No one can hurt you now/ Come morning light/ You and I'll be safe and sound."
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Every muscle screams in protest when he makes another helpless attempt to rise from where he's leaning against the overturned table, and he clenches his teeth, ignoring the salty tang of blood in his mouth and the faint wheeze of protest that escapes unbidden when his ill-advised movements send pain scissoring through his hips and belly and lower spine. He supposes he's lucky he didn t break his damn back when he hit the floor.
The room's a maelstrom of sound and flashing lights, the faint groans of wounded and dying marines drifting from smoking, sparking equipment, alarms both near and far wailing endlessly, and Zoro's pretty sure he can hear boots pounding up and down the hallway outside. He turns his head to the side and coughs forcefully, expectorating crimson onto the stone floor beside him and hoping like hell that the next face to burst through the door is a friendly one, because while he can still feel Ashura simmering beneath the surface in anticipation, he also feels as though he's been broken in two- or maybe run through a freaking meat grinder. Everything hurts.
Internal pressure shifts under the injured - maimed, he thinks, then shoves the thought aside - hand splayed against his abdomen, prompting a rush of relief. Regardless of his own battered state, it seems like the kid's okay, and the swordsman - if he can still consider himself such, but no, don't think about that right now - finds himself quietly mumbling reassurances that he can't hear over the surrounding ruckus, sincere promises that the nightmare's over and they're going home.
He should get his ass off the floor, arm himself and get out of here and go meet his- their crew as they storm the front gates. He can almost hear Luffy demanding to know where the hell they've been and the shitty cook making some sharp-tongued comment about his badly-fitting new attire-
-but he's so fucking tired.
I'll get up in a minute or two, he tells himself, resting his head back against the table and only dimly aware that his vision's blurring to black and his hand's slipped from his lap to lay palm-up within the bloodied folds of the lab coat. Just a minute or-