The 100 Imagines & Preferences

Drag me from hell |j.m

Warning: a panic attack is described.
*Im not entirely sure if that counts as a warning, but we're trying to stay on the safe side and keep all of you okay :)

Flashes of horror, ice in his veins. The very moment John Murphy's head hit the table, he only wished to wake. But he was stuck... falling. Falling into an eternal pit that swallowed him whole but still didn't have a satisfied hunger. With a venomous sting, he was awoken. Eyes blown wild and his chest heaving an uneven breath, you shot from your seat to reach for him. But his hand found another comfort. Straight from the bottle, a habit he had consumed since the incident on Sanctum.

You went for the opposition, grabbing the glass away from his chapped lips. It was warm. Nothing satisfactory, but something. The words fell, cascading down your cheeks in a silent cry, "John please." He tried to speak, but each word seemed like a further push towards the edge. If he opened his mouth, he would once again fall. And his eyes told it all. The delicate blue wasn't as bright as usual, the look held distance and something you had only seen once before; one desperate moment in the light house bunker.

Hands running down his arms, feeling the prominent cuts not yet healed and settling at his calloused hands. "I'm here, okay. I'm not leaving you." Eyes tearing away from yours, hiding his face in his hands as he doubled over, elbows on his knees. His head shook with the furiosity of a broken man. He was spiraling. It was a crushing force, pushing all the air from his lungs until he could no longer make noise. His hands scrambled for something solid, something stable, finally finding his grip on the table and your leg. No one should have lived through that. No one should have seen hell first hand and survived.

Still doubled over, your heart ached to bring him back. Raising his chin, forehead leaning gently against his own. "I need you to breath." You drew in deep breaths, one hand holding the side of his face as the other stroked through his hair. Breaths slowly mixed into a steady pulse, his tears no longer streaking into your palm. Placing your lips onto his forehead, you allowed them to rest there. He leaned into the affection, only clutching onto you stronger. "You're going to be okay, John Murphy."

He only let out a dry laugh, absentmindedly playing with your finger as he tried not to look you in the eyes. Licking his lips, he shook his head hopelessly, "Not where I'm going."

"Then I'm going with you."

"You're not going to hell, doll."

"Fine. Where ever im going, im dragging you with me."

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Hi, I'm still John murphy trash to this day.

That will be all.