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nardragon · 4 years ago

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Here's a completely self-indulgent scene for what I hope happens in 3x12

Read on AO3

"Hey, Dr. Goodwin, does this mean I get hazard pay for being in the trenches with Bloom all day?" Casey asked as Reynolds adjusted the medicine cocktail they determined would nullify the chemical effects in his IV.

One bed over Max laughed, "Just as soon as I find place in the budget for that hazard pay."

"Casey, I'll pay you out of my own pocket after today." Lauren said, her bed on Max's other side before looking at Helen who was checking the IV hooked up to Lauren, "Are you sure Candelario was informed about Mrs.-"

"Yes, Lauren, for the third time she's been fully briefed on all the patients from the ED." Helen said, half exasperated, half amused.

"They warded some of them just down the hall, I could-"

"No," Helen and Floyd said at the same time.

"Right now you are my patient which means you don't check on your patients," Helen said as she moved to check on Max's set-up.

Iggy walked into the room, "Good news. I just talked with the biohazard team. By tomorrow the ED should be fully cleaned and cleared for use again."

"Oh, and I was kind of hoping for a day off," Lauren said.

Everyone else in the room stared at her for a few seconds, long enough for Lauren to look at each of their faces and read the disbelief there.

Lauren frowned, "What?"

"Should we page Dr. Kao?" Reynolds asked, "Could the chemicals be making her delusional?"

"No one else presented with delusions or erratic behaviour," Helen said.

"I don't need a neurologist because I was hoping for a personal day."

"A normal person might not, but you..." Casey said.

Lauren glared at him a few seconds, "You can forget about hazard pay."

"I'll get Kao," Iggy said.

A voice rang out through the ward, "Lauren!" And a slim figure slipped past Iggy and into the room.

Casey sat up to see over Max, "Isn't that-"

"Hey," Lauren's voice softened, "What are you doing here?"

She reached her hand out, Leyla taking it.

"On the radio, the news,” She was a little out of breath, “I heard about the chemical spill. They said the ED was shut down and I knew you were here and," Leyla's eyes quickly took in the set-up around Lauren, the IV, the monitor hooked up to her. "What happened? What are they treating you with?"

Lauren started giving a rundown of what happened and the medications they were using to treat it. Leyla interjected with some questions, why they'd use one medication over another, what symptoms Lauren presented with. The others in the room watched in shocked silence. Partly because Lauren made no attempt to water down any of the terminologies, mostly because here was Lauren Bloom, the Head of New Amsterdam's Emergency Department holding this woman's hand, her fingers moving in slow circles on the inside of her wrist.

"Hey, hey," Lauren said finally when Leyla started asking redundant questions out of a sense of worry. She gently pulled on Leyla's hand, "Stop looking at my readouts. Look at me."

Leyla's eyes shifted from flitting over the machines to Lauren.

"I'm okay."

Biting her lip, Leyla didn’t look convinced, "Are you sure?" She rested her palm against Lauren’s cheek.

Leaning into the touch, Lauren nodded, "I'm okay."

Leyla turned to the others in the room and after a quick scan, she stopped on Helen, "Is she? Okay?"

It took a beat for Helen to snap herself out of the surprise, "Yes. She will be. Everyone's been responding to the medication.”

“Bloom was exposed the most,” Reynolds added, “So we want to keep her overnight for observation, but she's responding well so far."

"Exposed the most?" Leyla looked at Lauren again.

Lauren gave a shy shrug.

"The pipe blew right over her head and even after we realized it was a chemical spill she refused to stop treating the patients in the ED," Casey said.

"Lauren,"

"I wasn't going to let another doctor expose themselves when we didn't know what the chemicals were."

A soft sigh, "You reckless noble fool." Leyla leaned down and kissed her and kissed her and kissed her.

"Oh," Helen said simply.

The others room reacted like a wave had hit them at once. Max's head cooked to the side and Reynolds blinked, sharing a look with Iggy.

"You just had to get hospitalized when it's your night for the dishes," Leyla said in the space between their lips, drawing a soft laugh from Lauren.

"Mariana owes me thirty bucks. I knew there was something happening," Casey said, snapping his fingers.

"You knew about this?" Reynolds asked.

"Not this," he gestured to the kissing couple, "Specifically, but that's the closet crasher Bloom was smuggling in here."

"Ah," Iggy, Helen and Max said together.

“That makes sense,” Iggy said.

"Closet crasher?" Reynolds asked.

"Dude, where have you been?" Casey looked perplexed, "You've been working in the ED."

"Yeah, even we heard about it up in psych."

“Hey, the spill impaired my vision, not my hearing,” Lauren said, shooting a dry look to the others. But the usual effect of her chilled expression was diminished by the fact she’d only shifted her attention to them for a moment, her face held in Leyla’s hands the entire time.

“So, are you going to introduce us?” Iggy asked.

“No,” Lauren answered instantly.

“Lauren,” Leyla admonished softly.

Lauren exhaled before going down the list of everyone’s name. “And, everyone, this is Leyla, my…” She hesitated, looking at Leyla, “girlfriend?” Her voice pitched up, landing somewhere between a statement and question.

Leyla’s eyes were so soft as she said, “I’d hope that’s what we are at this point.”

Casey did a small fist pump, “And that’s another twenty from Brunstetter.”

“Looks like you got your hazard pay Casey,” Lauren said, voice dripping with sardonic ire, “Good thing too because I’m going to kill you for making bets about me. Just as soon as I’m not hooked up to an IV anymore.”

“Sharpe there isn’t any chance you make my drip go faster than hers? Just so I can a headstart.”

"I would if I thought a headstart would do you any good," Helen said, chuckling.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” Leyla asked Lauren.

“You should go home,” Lauren urged, “You’re just going to watch me get drip-fed meds all night.”

“Please.”

Lauren sighed, fighting a losing battle against a smile, “Max, is it okay? I know it’s well after visiting hours.”

“Yeah,” Max said, his smile warm, “We make exceptions for family all the time.”

“Okay, in that case, dinner is on me. Only the very finest of from the hospital cafeteria,” Reynolds said.

“Oh, yes, I saw they had Cesar on special today,” Iggy said, join him.

“Hey! Reynolds get me the mac and cheese!” Casey called after them, “And with the hash brown side. None of that green shit Max forced on us.”

“Hey,” Max clutched his chest.

“No offence,”

“Offence taken.”

Helen laughed, looking away from Max, catching Lauren’s eyes. The look she gave said they’d be having a conversation about this later before saying, “Boys wait on me,” and following Iggy and Floyd.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of Medical Director getting chemical exposer from trying to find the source himself,” Leyla said, looking to Max.

“Ah,” Max gave a self-conscious laugh.

Lauren laughed, “That’s New Amsterdam.”

#new amsterdam #lauren x leyla #leyren #Lauren Bloom #Leyla Shinwari #nardragonwrites #fanfic

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mandoalorian · 4 years ago

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I Believe In Love [Maxwell Lord x F!Reader] — Four: Lies

Summary: When you find your calling to leave Themyscira, you venture out to the World of Man with intentions of helping and healing a very specific person's relationship with his son. You've heard his voice before, but only in dreams. You've felt his pain and anguish and you've never been able to relate to anything more. But things don't come easy for you, and they certainly don't come easy for him either. [This series contains spoilers for WW84 and is my interpretation of what happens after the movie ends].

Warnings: brief mention of blood, allusions to an abusive household/family, mention of child custody battle, 80s typical misogyny, cursing.

Word count: 5,200>

Masterlist

I Believe In Love Masterlist

Previous - Chapter Four - Next

-—-—-—-

He'd lied. You read the name over and over again, the crumpled letter shaking in your hands. Lorenzano. Lorenzano. Lorenzano. He wasn't Max Lord, he was Maxwell Lorenzano and you had no idea how he could lie to you - or better yet, why he would lie to you? There was a reason for everything. You might’ve been new to the world of man, and you might not yet understand their conditions and way of life, but it didn’t change the fact that this hurt. He was your first friend - your first real friend who wasn’t a child. He accepted you into his home, and he even believed you when you told him who you are. You had opened up about being a literal goddess from the secret haven Themyscira, and he hadn’t even told you his real name.

And then, your visions of him… memories and dreams… they hit you one by one. Now you could finally put a face to the voice that had been haunting you. He was the child you saw when you had fallen asleep in Black Gold Cooperative, the child who was getting bullied for the clothes he wore, and his shoes. You felt foolish not realising it sooner. The image of ‘Little Lorenzano’ getting tormented perfectly paralleled the way Alistair had gotten cornered in the park earlier today. Your heart ached for them both.

Max Lord was clearly putting on a brave face in front of you. But now that you knew who he really was, you knew that he was deeply hurting, and he needed your help. He might not realise it, but this is why you were here. You’d come to the world of man to fulfil your duty as the Goddess of Home and Hearth for a reason and Zeus had deliberately connected you with Alistair and Maxwell. This was your purpose. They were your purpose.

You smoothed out the letter to the best of your ability, deciding that if you were to help him, you should probably read it. You had hope that it would help you understand things and allow you to piece together the puzzle. You glanced back at the speckles of his blood in the sink, and the smashed vase on the floor. Whatever was in this letter had clearly angered him.

I, Theodore Thomas IV, share a bond with Miss Grey and recognise that she is a caring and devoted mother. We are in full belief that Alistair Lorenzano would be better off, in the care of his biological mother.

A bond. You were quickly able to identify that Julianna Grey was the mother of Alistiar, although the bond between she and Theodore Thomas IV had not yet become clear to you. Your heart would usually find warmth in the revelation that Julianna was, in fact a ‘caring and devoted’ mother, but instead it grew cold. As the goddess of home and hearth, you could sense the lie in his words. You wanted to believe that Julianna was a good mother, but your intuition said otherwise. These were your powers - and there was no way you were wrong about this. Despite the immediate concern you had for Allistair, you pushed the feeling to the back of your brain and forced yourself to continue reading the letter.

Mr Maxwell Lorenzano and Miss Julianna Grey divorced on the seventh month of 1980 after being married for two years. Miss Grey notes that their relationship was strained since the beginning, with Mr Lorenzano too preoccupied with his career to focus on his family.

Marriage - Max and Julianna were married. It was something you had read about back on Themyscira when you had spent time educating yourself on the ‘way of man’. Marriage was, supposedly, a sacred ritual that joined together the spirits of two people in the name of love. And love was the fundamental principle that would create a family. At the core of a family, was love, and that was the most important thing. Your eyes flicked back up the final sentence of the first paragraph; “We are in full belief that Alistair Lorenzano would be better off, in the care of his biological mother.” You couldn’t help but shake your head profusely. These people wanted to take Alistair away from Max? There was no way. Theodore may think that Julianna deserves Alisitair, but it was never going to be about ‘deserve’. It could only be about love. And you knew for certain that Maxwell loved Alistair with his whole heart.

I have known Miss Grey since 1980, after working on her and Mr Lorenzano’s divorce case. As not only her partner, but also a trusted lawyer of our capitol’s legal enforcement, I can whole-heartedly ensure that sole custody of Alistair Lorenzano must be granted to Miss Julianna Grey.

Divorce was something you weren’t so familiar with, and you figured it should be something you ask Maxwell about at a later date. It was at this moment you learned that Theodore was Julianna’s partner, lover, even. No wonder he thought so highly of her. There was no question about it. You knew you had to pay Julianna and Theodore a visit to see for yourself. You had to see the truth.

Please find us at the District Columbia Court, D.C., in one week from the date stated on the letter. If you make no effort to show and fight your case, you will be banished from seeing Alistair until he turns eighteen years of age.

Banishment? The thought of splitting up Max and Alistair filled you with the most excruciating pain. You couldn’t let this happen. You wouldn’t let this happen.

Sincerely,

Ted

So Theodore was Ted and Maxwell was Max. If you had known that names in the world of man could fluctuate so much, maybe you wouldn’t have gotten mad so mad at Max for lying about his name. After catching the address on the envelope, you engrained it in your memory and carefully folded up the letter and placed it in the pocket of the Maxwell’s pinstripe shirt that he had given you to wear. Now you just had to figure out a way to get to the address on the letter.

You spent some time sweeping up the shattered glass on the floor, and cleaned up the sink before padding back into the living room and sliding your feet back into your gladiator sandals, buckling them up. You even picked up the lasso of truth and tied it around your waist so it acted like a makeshift belt on you. There was no way you were going to leave it behind. You took another look at the photo frame that was on the small table next to the couch and picked it up. You smiled as you felt the exact same love that Maxwell felt when he was in the photo, holding baby Alistair. Just looking at the family portrait filled you with so much joy. You knew that Max’s love for his son was genuine.

Turning the frame over, you opened it up and took the glossy polaroid out, placing it in the same pocket of your shirt. You loved the photo and you wanted to take it wherever you went.

It was cold outside, and the sky was a deep shade of blue. There was definitely a draft, and you wondered if you should’ve changed back into your Amazonian warrior gear. The oversized shirt that Maxwell had given you, as well as the gladiator sandals, didn’t really provide you with the greatest amount of warmth. You weren’t even wearing anything on your legs.

A small old lady with a zimmer frame was walking down the street. “Oh wow!” she exclaimed, looking you up and down, presumably judging your outfit of choice. “You have very nice legs, but aren’t you cold?”

You looked down at your legs, noticing the goose pimples, and nodded in confirmation. “Yes, but I’ll be okay. Do you think you could help me with something?” you asked curiously, watching as she raised her eyebrows.

“Me? Help you? What could little old me-”

You took the letter out of your pocket and pointed to the address. “How do I get here?”

She adjusted her glasses and squinted. “Thomas Family Lawyers,” she read out loud, before turning back to you. “Honey, this law firm is on the other side of Georgetown. You best call a cabbie, especially this late in the evening.”

“A cabbie?” you asked, shivering in the cold. “I’m sorry… I’m not from round here.” you shrugged helplessly.

“Let me help you.” the old lady said, reaching into her purse and bringing out an enormous 1984 brick-like cell phone. The contraption shocked you, and you even wondered how she had fit it in her bag. She pulled out the antenna and began to dial a number. “Hi, could I get a pre-paid taxi to Thomas Family Law Firm, Georgetown? Thank you,” She put the phone back in her purse and offered you a smile. “A cab won’t be long. I’m Mrs Stagg, by the way. Might I enquire… why are you going to a family law firm when you’re not even from the area?”

“To help a friend.” you returned the smile.

“Does your friend live in this neighbourhood?”

“He does. Um… his name is Max Lord?” you explained but the way it left your lips made it sound more like a question. Lord? Lorenzano? What difference did it make?

“Ah,” was the small sound that emitted from Mrs Stagg’s throat. “Max Lord, the oil guy. My son Simon is- was an investor for Maxwell’s company. From what I heard, the company is bust. A joke. Max Lord has been scamming the entire nation for years.”

“Scamming?” you asked, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Black Gold Cooperative have shares in oil fields all around the world, only, the oil fields have completely dried up, you know - with the Cold War and all. But he kept going… kept making those silly infomercials and selling his dream. ‘Anything you want, you can have it.’ or something like that.” Mrs Stagg scoffed, shaking her head incredulously. You recognised the quote from when you had seen him all suited up on the television.

“I don’t… I don’t understand. Why would he lie to the whole country?” you beckoned further, despite the conversation bringing you some uncomfort. Max had seemed like a genuinely good guy and a loving father up until this point.

“For money, I suppose. That’s all it’s ever about with folk like him. Money. I chastise my son for it too. He’s the CEO of Stagg Industries and the only reason I could live in such a beautiful neighbourhood like this one. He bought my home here,” she beamed proudly. “But, I don’t know much about Max Lord. Don’t really see him around on the streets either. He must be cooped up in his office most of the time. Hey, you’re his friend. Maybe you should ask him why he’s nothing but a low-life conman.”

Her words stung, and they weren’t even about you. You were completely lost for words, and surprised that she had so much hate in her heart for Max. Granted, if he was rivals with her son, it would make sense, but she did raise many questions that concerned you greatly. When the taxi pulled up, she paid the driver and helped you into the passenger seat. “I don’t know Max Lord,” she whispered from the other side of the car door. “But please darling, be careful.” She warned you before the cabbie whisked you away.

Your concept of time was slightly askew, but you figured the journey to the law firm lasted twice as long as the journey from Black Gold to Max’s home. You looked out the window taking in the stunning city at night. The buildings were all lit up and reflected against the windows, creating a glitter in your eye. There was nothing like this on Themyscira. No tall skyscrapers, no enormous shopping malls or company buildings. D.C. was booming, and it was beautiful. The journey allowed you to process Mrs Stagg’s words and think even more about Max. Clearly, both Julianna and Theodore had their reasons not to like Maxwell, and now, so did Mrs Stagg and her son Simon. You had to speak to Max and confront him. You knew there was more to him than what meets the eye.

Thomas Family Lawyer’s was a big building, not as big as Black Gold Cooperative, but it was still big. Just as you went through the revolving doors (which you had now grown accustomed to, due to your time spent and Max’s office) a group of girls began to file out. Whilst Raquel had been somewhat confused by your presence, these girls shot you the most evil of stares.

“Do you know what time it is? Office hours are closed. Why are you here?” One girl with sleek black hair spat coldly. You practically winced at the malice in her voice.

“Oh, I’m here to see Theodore Thomas?” you said slowly, nervously biting your lip.

“Who are you?” quizzed the same ebony haired girl.

“I’m a friend of Max Lord.” was the only thing you could come out with. Maxwell had warned you to refrain from identifying yourself as the ‘goddess of home and hearth’ in front of the public. He told you that people won’t believe him like he does, and that they’ll think you’re crazy. You had no choice but to believe him.

“Max Lord!” a red haired girl gasped, and a shorter blonde girl slapped her hand over the redhead’s mouth. “Sorry,” the redhead muffled as the blonde girl removed her hand. “He’s just so sexy.”

“But you know we’re not supposed to like him.” The blonde girl hissed.

“Huh?” you asked, knotting your eyebrows together. “Not supposed to?”

The ebony haired girl let out a longing groan. “Will the both of you just shut up?” she grimaced, glaring at the other two girls before looking back at you with that same mean stare. “Turn left, his office is the big one at the bottom of the corridor. You’re lucky he’s working late tonight.”

“Yeah, on his girlfriend’s case.” The redhead said weakly.

“Can you not keep your mouth shut?” Snapped the black haired girl. “Why would you say that in front of this hobo stranger when she’s just said she’s Max Lord’s friend. She doesn’t need to know that Mr Thomas is working on the custody case! It’s a wonder he hasn’t fired you yet for being so stupid.”

You had zoned out of the pointless conversation about mid-way through anyway. Those girls were nothing but rude to each other anyway. You slipped past them and down the corridor until you reached two double doors, not hesitating for a second to open them up.

There, with his head buried down into a pile of papers, was a dark haired man in a tight fitted suit. He abruptly looked up when you had entered his office, his mustache wavering in bewilderment as he took in the appearance of a girl who was wearing nothing but an oversized button up shirt and brown strapped gladiator sandals. “C-can I help you?” he gulped, relishing the sight of his body like it was the sweetest view he’d ever come across. You crossed your bare legs together awkwardly, feeling slightly vulnerable by the way he was staring at you.

“Are you Theodore Thomas IV?” you asked.

“I am.” the dark haired man confirmed, shuffling around in his leather seat.

You nodded, turning around to close the double doors behind you and walking over to his desk. You took out the crumpled up letter that had been addressed to Maxwell Lorenzano and slid it over the expensive oak wood. “What is this?” you questioned. Theodore took out his reading glasses before analysing it.

“Where did you get this letter?”

“Max Lord is my friend.” you gulped, folding your arms over your chest. “And this letter…”

“You mean Maxwell Lorenzano?” Theodore scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Listen, I’m not here to discuss that low-life loser, okay? I have more pressing matters to deal with.”

“So do I.” you persisted. “This letter…”

“Unless you’re his lawyer, and I doubt you are,” he snarled, looking at you up and down with the utmost disdain. “I will not be discussing the letter with you. Friend or not, it’s confidential.”

“I’m here to help him.” you gritted out, unable to believe the anger that dripped from your own tongue. It was true, you were angry. You were angry at the way everyone was so against Maxwell Lord, and you were angry at the fact the reason remained so unclear. Every new person you met didn’t like him, and you just wanted to know why.

Your words did pique the curiosity of Theodore, however. He raised an eyebrow and leaned over his desk, his gaze not breaking from you once. “Help him? You mean, you’ll be representing him in court?” You weren’t sure what that meant, but you nodded your head. If this was the only way you could get information out of Theodore Thomas IV, then so be it. “Do you even have any legal experience?”

“What? No. I told you, I’m just his friend.”

Theodore let out a boisterous laugh, the level of volume making you flinch. “Shit, he can’t even afford his own lawyer. I didn’t realise it was that bad,” he assumed. “Excuse me for one second.” he pointed a finger and dialled a number on the telephone.

Meanwhile, Maxwell was Julianna’s home. When Alistair heard his dad’s voice, he came running downstairs to greet him. “Daddy!” he called excitedly, running into his father’s arms. “You came back!” Maxwell picked up Alistair and spun him around, pressing a loving kiss to his son’s forehead.

“What do you want Maxwell?” Julianna sighed, tapping her foot impatiently against the marble floor of the lobby.

“To talk,” Max answered, placing Alistair back down on the floor. “Just us two. Uh- is Ted here?”

“Lucky for you he’s working late at the firm. Working on our damn case,” Julianna shook her head before turning to face her son. “Alistair, go to your room.” she commanded.

“But I want to see daddy!” Alistair cried, tears pricking his dark brown eyes.

“He can stay.” Maxwell negotiated but the comment was completely lost on Julianna.

“Go. To. Your. Room.” Julianna barked angrily, which sent a frightened Alistair running back to his bedroom.

“Shit Julianna, he’s just a kid. No need to talk to him like that.” Maxwell frowned, his ex-wife’s tone reminding him of his own father’s.

“Now Maxwell, I know you’re not giving me parenting advice, are you?” she asked sarcastically. Maxwell noted how bitter she had become, or perhaps, how bitter she always was. “I’m assuming you’re here to talk about the case. Try and change my mind. Well, you can’t.”

“Julianna, I know things have been rough between us since the divorce but I just want what’s best for Alistair. I love him so much.” Maxwell revealed.

“Bullshit!” Julianna scowled. “All you do, Max, is speak bullshit. You want what’s best for him? You’ll allow me and Ted to have full custody of Alistair. You’re a shit father and you know it.”

“I know- I know I’m messed up. I mean, I’ve messed up in the past but, something happened. Something inside me woke up and I’m ready to step up Julianna. I’ve changed, please just believe me. I love Ali-”

“You don’t deserve him,” Julianna growled. “You know what Maxwell? You’re nothing but a deadbeat. Just like your father was.”

Maxwell felt his face turn red with rage at his ex-wife's comment. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles had even turned white. “I am nothing like my father!” Maxwell yelled defensively as the anger bubbled within him. He wanted to cry. Every time a memory of his own abusive father came up, it made Max want to curl up into a whole and cry. It broke him.

Before Julianna could reply, the phone on the wall began to ring. Julianna answered it.

“Hey, Julie?” Theodore was on the line, still laughing from his talk with you. “Baby, you won’t believe this.”

“What is it?” Julianna asked hesitantly, twirling the wire of the phone around her finger.

“Some girl- some half naked girl is here- in my office claiming to be a friend of Maxwell,” Theodore spluttered. You frowned at his tone of voice as he talked about you, right in front of you. Julianna turned to Maxwell in bewilderment, who was just standing there and had no idea what was going on. “She’s saying she’s going to represent him during the custody trial.”

“What?” Julianna spat. “Who the fuck is she?”

“I don’t know! Never seen her in my life. Pretty little thing though, I guessed maybe he’s fucking her? Not sure. She says she’s living with him.”

“Living-” Julianna couldn’t help but repeat her boyfriend’s words. “Teddy, Maxwell is here. Right now. Can you come home and… bring her with you? I want to have words with her.”

“Got it. See you soon sweetie.” Theodore finished before hanging up the phone.

Julianna turned to Max. “That was Theodore. He says some half naked girl has shown up to his office claiming to be a friend of yours.”

Maxwell’s eyes went comically wide as his greatest fears became realised. “What? No, no- there’s no way. That’s impossible. I told her to stay at home- how the hell did she get to Thomas Family Lawyer’s?”

“You’re asking me?” Julianna gasped in disbelief. “Who the hell is she, Max?”

Max was so confused and shocked, he couldn’t even find words. If you had found your way to Theodore’s office, that meant you had read the letter. It also meant that you knew his name. And finally, it meant that you had completely invaded your privacy. Part of Maxwell was mad, but an even bigger part of him was confused as to how you ended up on the other side of Georgetown in the office of his ex-wife’s current boyfriend. You weren’t even from round here, hell, you’d only gotten into a car for the first time today. Julianna and Theodore weren’t the only ones who had a thousand questions. Maxwell did too.

When you arrived at the Thomas family home, you looked at it with complete adoration, just like how you looked at Maxwell’s home. It was extensive in size, with beautiful pillars and adorned with flowers on every corner. Maxwell and Julianna were waiting for you and Ted in the dining room. Ted hung up his suit jacket on the coat peg in the lobby and you slowly followed him into the dining room. Unlike Maxwell’s home, which was covered with photographs of Alistair, you couldn’t spot a single picture of the bright eyed child in any of the rooms you passed. You wondered why.

When you entered the room, Julianna’s and Maxwell’s jaws both dropped in unison. “She’s wearing your shirt!” Julianna screeched, pointing her finger accusingly at you.

“Yeah? So fucking what?” Maxwell shot back. “I didn’t realise you can police my wardrobe now!”

Your gaze flicked between Maxwell and Julianna who were already arguing with each other. "Can we settle down?" Theodore intervened, placing his briefcase down on the table.

Maxwell turned to you and took a deep breath. "Why- why didn't you put on some clothes before you left the house?" he sighed, closing his eyes as he tried to keep his composure.

"I- I didn't have any clothes and. I didn't know if it was normal to dress like this in the world of man." you admitted sheepishly, feeling embarrassed that you'd made a fool of yourself and seemingly Maxwell too.

"The world of what?" Julianna scrunched up her nose. "She has no clothes? Maxwell, where did you pick this whore up?"

You stiffened up at her harsh words and Maxwell's dark eyes snapped open. "Don't call her that," he warned. "She's… different. Look, I can't explain now but-"

Julianna turned to Theodore. "I want her out of my house. She's a fucking prostitute."

"She's not a prostitute," Maxwell sighed, running his fingers through his dark blonde hair as the stress engulfed him. "She's just a friend."

"I want her out." Julianna reiterated, her voice like venom.

"I- I can wait by the car," you told Maxwell timidly. He didn't reply, instead just putting his head in his hands. You turned to Julianna and Theodore. "I apologise for any intrusion I may have brought upon you both." you said before walking away.

Even before you got to the front door, you'd heard them start fighting again. Maxwell wasn't yelling, but Julianna was so loud and accusing. You couldn't help but feel like she brought around such a toxic environment.

As you leaned against Maxwell's car, you looked up at the upstairs window. It was illuminated, signifying that the light was on. It was so cold and you couldn't help but sigh as you waited for your friend to return and take you home— if he still liked you, that is. After everything that had gone on, you wouldn't be surprised if he just left you on a street corner to fend for yourself.

You were delighted when you saw Alistair in the illuminated window. He poked his head around the curtains, smiling and waving immediately when he saw you. You grinned back, thankful to see the sweet boy and to know that he was okay. The smile on his face dropped and although you couldn't hear what was going on back in the house, you could tell by his expression that there was something wrong. Alistair disappeared from the curtains and you began to untie the lasso of Hestia from your waist. Swinging the rope around in the air, you attached it to Alistair's balcony and swung yourself up to the third storey of the Thomas family home. You quietly tapped on his window. After only a few seconds Alistair returned and let you in.

You clambered back into the house, finding yourself in the little boys bedroom. "Hey Alistair, how you doing?" you smiled, kneeling down and giving your friend a hug.

"I'm good, I'm so glad to see you again!" Alistair confessed with a toothy grin. "How did you get up here?" Alistair asked curiously, stepping out onto the balcony and looking at the long way down from where you had been standing by his father's car.

You gulped. "Can you keep a secret?" you whispered. Alistair nodded enthusiastically. "Okay." you showed Alistair your lasso, and he watched it with bright eyes as it glowed gold. If you could trust Max, you knew for a fact you could certainly trust Alistair. After all, they were your purpose. They were the reason you had found yourself in the world of man.

"Whoa, what is it?" Alistair asked, pointing his finger hesitantly, as if he wanted to touch it but not sure if it would hurt him.

"It's magical," you revealed. "My mother Hestia gave me it. It lets people see the truth, and speak the truth. It knows when you're lying."

"...And it helps you climb up really tall buildings? Like Spiderman?" Alistair asked with wide eyes.

You giggled. "Yes."

"Can I try?" Alistair beckoned further.

"Maybe one day," you promised him. "It can be difficult to learn, but I'd love to teach you."

You and Alistair both gasped as you listened in on what was going downstairs. You heard footsteps, and it sounded like Max was leaving. You rose to your feet and approached the window again, unravelling your lasso. "Hey, I have to go now. Listen, you can't tell Julianna or Ted that I was up here, okay? I don't think they like me."

"Oh, they don't like anyone who's associated with daddy." Alistair frowned, but nodded understandingly. "Are you going home with daddy?"

"I hope so." you replied, because there was really no way of telling where you stood with Maxwell at this point in time.

"Good," Alistair beamed, and in that moment, you recognised his smile to be the spitting double of his father's. "Because I like it when you're around daddy. He's not as miserable."

You tilted your head but had no time to question Alistair because you heard the front door open. Swinging back on your lasso, you attached it to the branch of a tree and dropped back down to the front of the porch where Maxwell's car was parked. Wrapping your lasso back around your waist, you pretended like you hadn't moved from the car— like you had been waiting for him this entire time.

"Good night!" Maxwell called but earned no response, only the slam of the front door. He sighed deeply and slumped his shoulders in defeat before turning to face you. His lips were curled into a frown and he shook his head as he approached you, sliding past you and unlocking the car door. "Get in." he told you, to which you obliged and slipped into the passenger seat.

Maxwell dropped his head to the wheel of the car in frustration. He wanted to scream. Cry. Yell. Curse. He hated this. He hated having to fight for what was already his. He needed Alistair— his life would be empty without his son. There was no question about it. And unfortunately for Max, he was beginning to lose all hope.

"Are you okay?" You asked, feeling as though the question was a stupid one considering the disheveled look on Maxwell's face. You placed a hand on his back with full intention to be comforting. He didn't reply. After a few seconds of silence, you heard his sobs. You heard his whimpers and chokes. "Oh Max." you whispered quietly, rubbing his back.

"I can't— I can't fucking do this," Maxwell cried, tears dripping down his cheeks and falling onto the steering wheel. "They're right— what they say about me— they're all right. I'm a monster."

You winced, shaking your head at his comment. "You are not a monster." you assured him.

"You don't even know me," Maxwell huffed before glaring at you, the tears still falling. "You're just— you're just some random girl who came into my life at the wrong fucking time and— I don't even know why you're here. Why are you here?" He said your name like it was poison and the desperation in his voice was enough to make your heart ache.

You swallowed. "When I found out your name, your real name, I knew for certain… Zeus brought me to you and Alistair for a reason. Everything is so clear now. Max, I'm here to help you."

"I'm screwed— we’re screwed. It's pointless. There's nothing we can do. We can't go up against them. Julianna is a fucking psycho and Ted is one of the best family lawyers in the state—"

"And I'm the daughter of Zeus and Hestia. I'm the Goddess of Home and Hearth and I will not let them rip you away from Alistair." you promised with pure determination in your voice. The change of your tone was enough to make Maxwell stop crying and look up to you like you were his saviour. His angel. And despite everything that happened, despite the feeling of complete hopelessness, he believed you.

The war began now.

-—-—-—-

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#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #maxwell lord #max lord #max lord x reader #maxwell lord x reader #pedro pascal smut

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yongtxt · 5 years ago

Text

hundred [johnny]

word count: 4.5k words

characters: boxer!johnny x doctor!reader

genre: fluff

warnings: blood/wound/stitches mentions, johnny hates hospitals but he likes the pretty doctor, [im not a doctor nor a boxer pls dont say that i have info wrong because I Know]

author’s note: i know this isnt long to some of u but to me it is and i havent written this much for so long im so proud of myself for finishing this:( it isnt that good but this is the first long fic ive written in a while and shhsdjk also i needed to get this out of my system ive thought about this au since that jcc came out where johnny and hyuck was doing muay thai plssss (i couldnt find a better gif tho) ok this is getting too long / feedback is appreciated tysm

Johnny Suh hated hospitals with a burning passion.

It wasn't from a past trauma nor was he afraid of it, it wasn't that serious. He wasn't exactly sure what the cause of it really was. If he had to make a guess, it was probably from the accumulation of the little things, the insignificant factors people would usually dismiss but bothered him enough that it contributed to the big hatred he built for hospitals.

Maybe it was the distinct smell of hospitals, it reeked of death and old people. Maybe it was the atmosphere of the fluorescent-lit hallways, always gloomy and heavy. Maybe it was also the fact that the fees were so expensive and yet the food they provide tasted horrible, even the coffee was a hit or miss. The only upside he could think of was people get better in hospitals, but even that wasn't assured.

Despite how much Johnny despised hospitals, he always finds himself coming back. If he wanted to get better, he had no choice but to go. He would endure the gruesome process over and over again whether it be to treat his wounds or to stitch his cuts.

With his jaw littered with small bruises and his lips busted at the corner, he sat impatiently on the hospital bed as he waited for his doctor. He was fiddling with his fingers, knuckles bruised the same way his face was. He looked beaten up, he always did.

The clothes he wore contradicted the state he was in, they were fresh and laid back. He looked like a college student from the way he dressed. A delinquent more like, if one considered his cuts and bruises. Before heading to the hospital, he always makes it a point to shower and make himself appear presentable to the public. Although no one really bothers to take notice of his effort, only him.

The sliding door opened and Johnny's attention shot up from his phone, his gaze meeting with yours. Your head popped in, peaking through the small crack you made. Your eyes lit up in recognition as it always did whenever you see him.

"Youngho-ssi?" You spoke almost as if it was a question, voice barely above a whisper to make sure you were in the correct room, about to tend the correct patient.

Johnny didn't understand why you always did that, call out his name as if this was the first time you were seeing him. At that point, you've been already acquainted with him enough due to his numerous trips to the hospital. Either way, he nods every time.

You gave him a small smile, widening the door enough so you could enter. You wore a white lab coat, a name tag pinned to your chest and a stethoscope hung around your neck. You were small, although anyone compared to him was bound to be comparatively smaller – that wasn't the point, you looked young and that never fails to astound him every time you go through the door.

You had a clipboard in your hands, scanning through what he assumed to be his condition that a nurse had written earlier after a quick checkup and disinfection of his open wound. Your lips were formed on a tight line, eyebrows furrowed. He continued to stare at you with such amusement.

"You don't have to answer my question, Youngho-ssi, but why are you always here?" You finally broke the silence, startling him in the slightest. You never bothered to ask before, always just offering smiles and small talks while you did your work; maybe his sudden regularity of coming to the hospital recently made your curiosity peaked.

He couldn't blame you. Anybody would be curious why a 24-year-old man keeps coming back to the hospital with no clear explanation.

He cleared his suddenly dry throat, he never liked saying his job. He said, "I box for a living."

"Ah, that makes sense!" Your eyes visibly glimmered, absentmindedly jotting down notes on his medical records. "My coworkers and I thought you were in a gang or something."

"I don't think I would be allowed to be here if I was." He chuckled, making you giggle as well.

"Seo Youngho, 24, minor lip laceration in need of immediate suture." You read of his data from the clipboard, almost comically. It was medical terms he was unfortunately already too familiar with, to him, it basically meant that he had a busted lip that needs to be sewed shut.

"You can just call me Johnny. Youngho sounds too formal to me." He said nonchalantly. You nodded your head to his simple request; it probably was best if you got to know him better since he frequented the hospital so much.

"Alright, Johnny. We'll start the process now, okay?"

With keen eyes, he watched you slip on a pair of surgical gloves. You grabbed a tissue from the metal tray that sat beside him and began folding it into squares. He felt his heartbeat quicken, he hated getting stitches or any form of medical treatments for that matter, but as morbid as it was, he thought of it as punishment for his recklessness in the ring.

"Isn't boxing just, I don't know, senseless violence?" You asked, tone dripping with pure innocence and unadulterated interest as you gently dabbed away the remaining dried blood the nurse failed to clean earlier.

"It's a sport, it's how I bring money to the table." He pursed his lips, ignoring the twinge of pain that surged through his nerves. He visibly relaxed when you placed a hand onto his shoulder to reassure him.

Ever since the first time you got assigned to him, the first thing he took note of was the softness of your hands. You handled him as if he was fragile glass, despite how he easily towered over you. He felt pathetic as a 24-year-old but your gentle touches would greatly help put him at ease.

"I guess. I didn't mean to be rude." You were hesitant, Johnny could tell but he was glad you didn't push on any further. He couldn't handle explaining his occupation when you were about to pierce his skin. "Okay, Johnny, now that your lip is clean and the anesthesia had seeped in, we'll start. I think you know how it goes by now."

"Make it quick, please." He nodded, squinting his eyes shut at the mere contact of a surgical pen grazing over his gaped lips. You were relieved that his cut wasn't too big, you couldn't stomach the idea of putting him in too much pain for longer.

As you picked up the tweezers and string of nylon, you couldn't help but laugh at the six-foot boxer in front of you who was clearly petrified of getting stitches, "This will be done as soon as you know it. You won't really feel it because of the anesthesia, remember? Now count to a hundred backward for me."

Once the numb feeling of nylon dragged through his lips, he swore he saw white spots flicker in his vision. His eyes immediately watered and he tried his best not to squirm under your hold, beginning to count to a hundred backward like you had instructed him to. You admitted it to him the first time you stitched him that it was a trick that you learned from your pediatrician friend. Despite it being for children, it helped to get him distracted while you focused on your job.

Minutes felt like hours, Johnny had been fighting the urge to punch something, anything, to release tension and nerves. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he took a peak and tried to take his attention away from what was currently happening on his lip. His gaze landed on your pretty eyes, how it was narrowed in focus and how your lashes perfectly framed it.

This wasn't the first time he'd observe you up close, there had been many occasions in the past that you had been too close for comfort in order to tend his wounds. It had been too many that it was almost as if he was close to memorizing your features. You were not only beautiful but you were also a smart and capable doctor.

Eventually, you finished and started to rub ointment on his sore lip — the finishing line.

"Try not to eat anything spicy or hard. You know the drill." You grinned at his suddenly pale features, ripping off your gloves as his eyes adjusted to the bright lights of the room. "You're good to go. Be careful next time."

He let out a shaky breath, clearly still winded up from the procedure, "I'll try. Thanks again, doc."

The punching bag felt great against Johnny's fists. There wasn't a feeling in the world that could compare to the impact of leather slamming against his skin. He could last hours mindlessly pummeling the bag if his stamina just allowed him to.

Hyunsik, Johnny's manager and personal trainer, drew away from the punching bag he held in between his arms. He let out a breath and held out a hand to motion that Johnny has done enough.

Johnny was hurting, Hyunsik could see that much. The bandages he had wrapped for the boxer's fingers were turning into a shade of red that they were all too familiar with.

Hyunsik clicked his tongue, "You should've used your gloves."

"How can I grow stronger if I keep relying on them?" Johnny rolled his eyes. His muscles needed a boost and this seemed to be the only logical way to strengthen them — a little blood never hurt anybody.

"Someday you're gonna fracture your hand and you'll be forced out of the ring. Remember that." Hyunsik huffed, his voice stern. "Take them off, I'll clean the blood off."

Johnny reluctantly did as told, unfurling the bandages wrapped around his fingers. The pain was excruciating when the fabric grazed along his tender skin, he winced at the unsightly view of his reopened wounds.

Hyunsik led him back outside of the ring to the benches where the first aid kit was. He made the boxer sit down so he could start cleaning off his wounds. It looked horrific, more so than it usually did and he had no choice but to break the news to Johnny.

"It looks really bad. You need to go get that checked in the hospital and have it sewed back." Hyunsik said, taking a wet towel and carefully dabbing it across Johnny's bloodied knuckles.

He didn't want to go to the hospital. Going to the hospital to have his wounds treated meant that Johnny would be medically required to take days off work to let his hand heal. Johnny frowned, "Don't you have an ointment or something that could help? I can't afford to lose a day of practice."

"Don't you think I know that?" Hyunsik rolled his eyes. "As your manager, I want you to be in top shape for your match next week, even if it means sacrificing a day or two for you to heal."

Johnny could only nod. He sat through Hyunsik's lecture on the changes he should make to his dietary plan and the exercises he should do during his temporary break. It infuriated him that he couldn't do anything about it but nod along.

The incoming match that was set next week would make or break his career as an underground boxer. He didn't have the option of missing it because of some measly reopened wounds. If he had to rest to get better, he had no choice but to suck it up. This was his fault anyway for pushing himself too much.

Johnny showered in the locker rooms and changed into nicer clothes that didn't reek of blood and sweat. His hands were stinging but he shook it off.

He ignored the concerned looks other boxers were giving him and begrudgingly made his way to the hospital to get himself checked in. You wouldn't be happy to see him all bloodied again, he thought.

Much to Johnny's surprise, it wasn't you who was assigned to him. It was a much older doctor with graying hair and a nose stuck too far up in the air. She was rude and condescending, her lack of politeness to her patients was quite appalling. If Johnny wasn't in such a bad mood, he might've complained already.

God, this day couldn't get any worse.

With a meek voice, Johnny asked where you were and at the mention of your name, his doctor gave him a narrowed look. She sneered, "She's handling much more important cases. Does she know you?"

"I think so." Johnny gulped, unsure of the answer himself.

The doctor's grip was tight and she was hasty. It was as if she was trying to speed through the process to just get it over with. Johnny wanted to cry because he was starting to get traumatized by this doctor's procedure, he didn't want to hate the hospital more than he already did.

He internally screamed for your name as he watched the doctor pull on the gloves. The sliding door harshly whipped open and there you were in all your glory, like an angel sent from above to save him from the devil incarnate who was about to pierce his skin.

You were panting and the sheen on your forehead made it obvious that you ran your way to his room. Johnny's heart leaped with glee.

"Unnie, I'll handle him." You said, unable to catch your breath as you made your way inside. "I think the ER needs you more than me."

The doctor seemed hesitant at first but you tried to convince her otherwise. She eventually agreed and left you with Johnny who had a cheesy smile on his face the entire time since you've arrived.

"So Johnny, what happened this time?" You asked, picking up the clipboard that sat next to him on the bed.

"I overdid the punching during training and it reopened some old wounds on my knuckles. It hurts like a bitch."

You pulled a face, "That's a bit intense."

He chuckled, "It's normal."

"Can I please see it?" You opened your palm so he could place his hand on yours. You observed his cuts and the scabs that were beginning to form around it, it was too deep to let it heal on its own so you made the verdict that he needed to get it sewed back together ⁠— as unfortunate as it was since he was a boxer and he needed his hands to box.

You tugged on a new pair of gloves and began the painful procedure, Johnny started counting down even without you instructing him to. You quickly got to work and stitched back his wounds with your lip in between your teeth

Johnny felt squeamish, he could never get used to the feeling of stitches. His eyes were glued shut and he mumbled numbers like it was mantra.

Once you were done, you smiled fondly at your work. You managed to get by with fewer stitches and you felt pride swell up in your chest. Johnny noticed and, as lightheaded as he was, couldn't help but smile as well.

"You're pretty good."

"At stitching?"

Johnny nodded with his cheeks flushed, he made a mental reminder to smack himself in the head later for such a crude comment. You probably thought he was an idiot now.

"I sure hope so." You chuckled, making him blush even deeper if that was even possible. "It's part of my job."

Johnny shook his head in embarrassment, his dark hair bouncing from how vigorously he did it. He mumbled, "That sounded really lame and not smooth, I'm sorry. Please forget I opened my mouth."

You could only chuckle as you apply the ointment around his knuckles. He wanted the ground to open up and just swallow him whole.

"Please let this heal completely, Johnny. Don't apply any strain on your injuries for a couple of days and refrain yourself from carrying anything heavy so that the stitches won't rip." You said, carefully placing down his hand back on his knee. You were gentle as ever, Johnny swooned. "Absolutely no punching for a while."

"I have an important match at the end of next week. Is there any way to speed up the healing process?" Johnny asked, his eyes were almost pleading at you and you blinked at him in surprise.

"Apart from what I just said, there's really nothing else you could do." You pursed your lips, watching his expression visibly deflate. "If you want to have even a sliver of a chance at winning your match, I suggest you do as I say. Your stitches won't take too long to heal, I promise."

If Hyunsik was there with him, he would've probably already scolded him but the point would be the same. He had always prioritized Johnny's health above winning.

"Okay, doc. I'll do my best." Johnny said, defeated.

"You know, I always see the aftermath of your matches and your training. I want to see you in the ring next time when you're not bloody and beaten up yet." You smiled at him and you swore that all the color that was previously drained from Johnny's face came rushing back. "If it's okay."

"Are you serious?" Johnny asked, almost dumbfounded. Did the pretty doctor he'd been crushing on for months really just asked if she could watch his match?

You nodded with the same hue of red now tainting your cheeks.

"O-Of course! It's on Saturday next week! Please come and cheer me on!" Like a little kid, he excitedly rambled on about the details about the upcoming match and you nodded with the same enthusiast as you wrapped bandages around his hands.

You weren't from his world so everything he said sounded foreign to you. The terms he said, the infamy of his opponents, the prominence of it all — you were eager to learn it if it meant seeing him this happy.

You've always known that he hated hospitals. It was clear from the way he acted during your first meeting. He was stiff and tense, the body language he exuded just screamed that he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. As he visited the hospital more and more, you noticed the hatred never faltered. He only became better at hiding it from you.

To see him so relaxed and carefree within the four walls he hated with all his being, it was a breath of fresh air and the feeling you had in your chest grew stronger.

"You're good to go. I promise to see you in your match." You were jotting some last-minute details on the clipboard and you missed the way Johnny kept grinning like an idiot. "As much as I love seeing you here, I hate that you keep getting yourself injured. Keep out of trouble for me, Johnny."

You left the room without letting Johnny say another word.

Fuck, Johnny realized he hadn't asked for your number.

Johnny's match started in ten minutes. His heart was pounding in his ears, he almost couldn't hear what Hyunsik was shouting to him.

The underground stadium was filled to the brim with people, he felt more nervous than he did during his first boxing match. A lot was at stake for this win, he needed the belt. He was desperate for it.

"Johnny, are you listening to me?" Hyunsik raised his voice, aggressively slapping Johnny's cheeks together in his hands so he could focus on him. The boxer's mind was fleeting and it was his job to pull him back to reality now.

He hadn't seen you since last week and as much as he wanted to go back to the hospital to see you, he refused to badly hurt himself in the days that led up to the match. Johnny scanned the crowd for your face but he couldn't see it. You weren't there.

At the lack of your turnout, he failed to mask his disappointment. Hyunsik let out an aggravated groan and pulled the boxer on his feet to berate him further.

"Johnny, please for the love of all things holy, look me in the eye."

"I'm sorry. I'm okay now. I'm listening."

"Good because your match is starting soon and I need you to win this. All your hardships and sacrifices boils down to this match, you hear me?" Hyunsik bellowed, trying his best to keep his voice louder than the cries and chants of the audience. "Show them what Johnny Suh is capable of!"

Johnny nodded fervently, forcing himself into a state of serenity of peacefulness. He let out heavy breaths to even out his breathing as his team surrounded him, prepping him for what was about to come.

Hyunsik raised his hand at Johnny. He had five minutes left until his match started and he wasn't calming down.

"Can I please have some water?" Johnny asked and his medic stumbled on his feet to fetch him a bottle from the nearby cooler. He couldn't help but let out a shaky chuckle, his team seemed tenser than he was.

He downed the bottle as soon as it reached his hand. His hand was shaky. Goddammit, why was he so nervous?

At the corner of his eye, he saw Hyunsik making his way over to the barricade that separated his corner to the rest of the stadium. He arched his neck in a way that would let him take a peek what was so important that Hyunsik had to leave his side when the match was starting in a few minutes.

It seemed like Hyunsik was trying to stop a girl who was forcing her way in through the barricade. His stomach lurched at the sight of her familiar face.

As if he was acting purely on instinct, Johnny shot up from his seat and ran towards you. Hyunsik held up his arm to stop him from going any closer to you. You could've been a deranged fan, for all Hyunsik knows.

"Johnny-"

"I know her."

Hyunsik was startled at his response and started to profusely apologize to you. You looked nothing but smug and Johnny let out a breathy laugh that helped unravel the knots in his stomach. The boxer quietly motioned for him to take his leave and Hyunsik hesitantly did as told only after tapping his wrist as a sign that time was ticking.

You bowed at him apologetically, "I'm so sorry I'm late! There was this damn patient-"

"It's okay. You're here now." He cut you off, a cheesy smile on his face. You easily reciprocated it back.

"I just came down here to wish you good luck." You said with the usual confidence in your tone gone and now replaced with a sudden timidness and bashfulness. "Not like you need it or anything."

"Where are you sitting?" Johnny asked, noticing that you were struggling to keep your attention on his eyes. He peered down and realized that he didn't have a shirt on, he chuckled.

You pointed near the walls of the stadium and he strained his vision to see so far away. He pursed his lips and let out a noise of discontent. You said that it was the only seats available because you were so late.

"Why don't you sit here with them? They wouldn't mind." Johnny said, jutting his thumb over to his team who was furtively watching his interaction.

"Oh no, it's okay."

"I insist. I want you to see me win up close."

You blushed a deep shade of scarlet and Johnny grinned at his successful attempt at a flirt. Was it even a flirt or was it an ego stroke? Either way, it didn't matter because you were smiling at him. You were easing his nerves and you didn't even know.

"I got out of my shift early so I wouldn't be in the hospital later to stitch you up." You teased, softly prodding his shoulder blade.

Johnny playfully puffed out his chest, "I don't plan on getting too injured today, I wanna look cool in front of you."

"Whatever you say, Johnny."

"But I'm nervous. I'm actually really nervous today." Johnny mumbled as if he didn't want anyone else in on your conversation, gone all traces of his cockiness as his heart thudded erratically against his chest when he heard Hyunsik's call of the last minute until he has to go inside the ring.

You gingerly reached for his taped hands and gave it a gentle squeeze, "Just count back from a hundred like I always tell you to. You'll do fine."

"Wait for me after the match, okay?" And so you did.

Counting down the numbers, Johnny clambered inside the ring and the bell rang to signal the start of the match. Being in the medical field meant that you were against all forms of violence so you couldn't really watch the entirety of the match without feeling sick to your stomach. Johnny didn't care, he was just happy that you kept your promise and was cheering him on.

It was hectic and everything was happening all at once. It was loud and everybody was screaming. This wasn't your world, it was Johnny's and your heart fluttered at the thought that he was willing to let you in it.

Eventually, the match ended in Johnny's favor and the next thing you knew, you were being hoisted up in the air. You had the biggest smile on your face, similar to Johnny's who now had a shiny belt slung over his shoulder. All his hard work and all his trips to the hospital paid off.

"Congrats on your win!" You exclaimed, placing your palms on his chest to steady yourself.

"I wanted you to see me get the belt." He admittedly sheepishly, reaching out to hold your wrists in his bruised hands.

"Aren't you hurt in any way? We can drop by the hospital if you want." You asked, checking to see if he had any major injuries but true to his word, Johnny was inflicted little to no injuries during the match, exclude the few bruises on his jaw and a busted lip

"Actually, I'd rather we get some coffee instead." Johnny said, the small smile on his lips making you chuckle.

"I'm sorry, I don't date my patients." You smirked at Johnny's crestfallen expression, softly shoving his side to make it known that you were only joking.

Johnny pulled a face, releasing a breath he didn't realize he was holding once he realized your joke. He played along, "I think you can make me an exception, I don't usually invite people to my matches."

"So this is about getting even, huh?" You were teasing him and now your faces were merely inches apart but before Johnny could even think of leaning in, you spun around and grabbed his hand once more. "C'mon then, my treat!"

Johnny let out a laugh. A boxer and a doctor, who would've thought?

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moonknightly · 4 years ago

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and you keep me holding on : santiago garcia x reader (eight)

Word Count: 2.3k+

Excerpt: “He still can’t reach out and touch her. All he has to do is move his hand a few inches forward and he could be touching her but he just fucking can’t, he can’t do it and he wants to scream at himself for being so weak.”

Warnings: Mentions of malnutrition, mentions of death but if you’ve made it this far you know that already. Cursing. I think that's it but please tell me if I’ve missed something.

[SERIES MASTERLIST]

Santi’s been awake for a few hours now. They’d moved from the ER to an actual room at some point, but just like earlier, he doesn’t really remember how he got there. All he knows is that now he’s sitting in a chair by her bedside, watching his leg bounce in time with a ticking clock from somewhere in the room, and he still hasn’t allowed himself to fully believe that he’s actually where he appears to be.

He keeps telling himself that it’s just a sick, twisted trick, that his mind is simply playing a game with his heart. He drank or he smoked too much before bed, and he’s stuck in some fucked up fever dream. It’s not real, she’s not real. He’ll look again and she’ll be gone.

But every time he lifts his head, every time he pinches his skin until he’s bruised, she’s still there. She’s there, and her chest is rising and falling with each breath, and the monitor above her bed is spiking with her heartbeat. The IV connected to her hand is dripping with a cocktail of vitamins and medications, fluids.

She’s there. She’s alive.

She’s not okay.

But she’s alive.

The door behind him opens with a soft click, and he doesn’t turn around to see who it is. Now he’s afraid that if he looks away, she’ll disappear again.

Jay takes a seat on the opposite side of her bed, and Santi briefly, so briefly lets his eyes flutter up to the other man’s face, only because he could still see her out of the corner of his eye, but he still doesn’t risk taking his attention off of her for long.

Several minutes pass in silence, and Santi’s not sure if he should break it or if Jay was just wanting to be close to her too. It’s weird, how the room feels so empty yet so full at the same time. So loud yet so quiet, it’s making his anxiety skyrocket. Santi sighs without really realizing it and runs a hand through his already messed up hair.

“What did the doctor say earlier?” he finally asks once it becomes too much. He adjusts in his seat and lets his head rest in the palm of his hand, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her hand. He hadn’t touched her yet, he’s almost scared to. Definitely scared to. “I was-”

“Kind of out of it, I know,” Jay mumbles, nodding his head. Santi watches out of the corner of his eye as Jay refuses to look away from her as well, and somehow that manages to quiet his nerves just a little bit. Two people watching over her is better than one.

But then Jay leans forward and puts his hand on her leg through the blankets, and that small bit of comfort is gone again. He’s not jealous, he just wants to touch her. Why can’t he fucking touch her?

“She’s dehydrated, malnourished.” But you can tell that just from looking at her. “Her blood tests were all over the fuckin’ place. She-”

Santiago nods along and listens with rapt attention, holding onto and memorizing all of the information that’s being thrown his way. He listens, and there’s two things that really stick out to him through the rest.

Her white blood cell count is so extremely elevated and her blood test results show a number of vitamin deficiencies that could take months to bring back into normal or even acceptable ranges. He expects that though, he’s not shocked by it.

But it sticks out to him because there’s fluid in her lungs — pneumonia, and for a moment, he can’t believe that she caught it in early October, but then he remembers he has the undernutrition to blame for that.

And then he remembers all of the complications that come with malnutrition, and how her body is going to struggle to fight off that sickness. It sticks out to him because he’s seen undernourished children die from a common cold because their little bodies just couldn’t handle it.

It sticks out to him because he knows what pneumonia could mean for someone in her state, and he can’t bear the thought of losing her, actually really losing her when she’s right there in front of him again.

But still, he listens, and Jay can tell that Santi needs some time alone again to process it all. He squeezes her leg once, then stands up from his chair and walks out of the room with the promise of bringing a fresh coffee and a change of clothes for Santiago.

Santi doesn’t move for some time, he’s not sure that he even blinks. He just sits there and stares at where Jay’s hand had been while his leg starts to bounce again.

He shakes his head, knowing he needs to pull himself together. The last year had been hell, if he could handle that he can sure as fuck handle this.

She’ll be okay. She’ll be okay she’ll be okay she’ll be okay.

He finally stands and moves to the edge of the bed, letting his hands rest on the rail. He grips it tightly, and he’s almost sure he could snap it if he really wanted to.

He still can’t reach out and touch her. All he has to do is move his hand a few inches forward and he could be touching her but he just fucking can’t, he can’t do it and he wants to scream at himself for being so weak.

But when he opens his mouth, it’s not a scream that comes out, it’s a whisper.

It’s hardly audible and he doesn’t even realize what he’s said at first, but he lets her name slip past his lips for the first time in so, so long it feels almost foreign.

But God, it’s just as fucking sweet as he remembers. So sweet it feels like honey dripping off his tongue and his anger at himself immediately evaporates and is replaced by something he can’t even think of a word for. Something like guilt, maybe?

He still can’t reach out and touch her.

“Wake up.”

He needs her to open her eyes. That would be enough.

“Just please hold on.”

OCTOBER FOURTH — DAY ONE

He hates it when they have to take her away the next morning for an MRI, just to rule out any sort of head trauma. He hates having her out of his sight, he hates thinking about the possibility of her opening her eyes and he’s not standing right there. Santi can only imagine how scared and confused she’ll be, and he wants to be there for her. He just wants to keep her safe, do what he couldn’t do before. He just wants her.

But he knows he’s not allowed to go with her and he doesn’t even try to argue it, he wants to stay on the doctor’s good side.

He decides to use that time to take the longest shower of his life, and he just sits there on cold tiles with the water pounding down on him for what has to be an hour. It’s long enough that his knees fucking hurt when he tries to stand again, and he has to brace himself on the wall for several minutes before he even tries to take another step. He changes, uses his fingers to comb through his tangled hair — he’d forgotten how dry hospital shampoo always makes it, and by the time he’s finished she’s still not back. The silence is closing in on him again.

So he calls the boys, somehow managing to get them all into a conference call to let them know that she’s okay, they found her.

Will and Benny are both stunned into silence, but the relief is evident when they finally start to ask questions, and Santi’s sure he hears Frankie crying softly, though he otherwise stays silent.

“And Nathan?” Will asks during a small stretch of silence.

Santi’s hair stands on end at the mention of his name, and the blood coursing through his veins feels hot like venom, like fire. He hadn’t thought about Nathan, not yet. His entire focus had been on his wife, of course it had been.

But now, his mind was racing with different thoughts and possibilities. Different things he wanted to do to him. How he wanted to make him suffer.

“Yeah, did they catch him?” Frankie sniffles, pulling Santi away from his thoughts.

“No.” His voice is clipped, and he can picture the boys holding their breath, can see in his mind how they would share nervous glances between each other, ‘cause they all know what that tone means.

“We-”

“We don’t need to be talking about this right now.”

It’s Will again, always the voice of reason, and Santi knows that he’s right. They don’t need to be talking about it over the phone.

“You guys wanna grab dinner or something sometime this we-”

They all interrupt him this time, but it’s Frankie who breaks through the noise and takes over.

“Dude, no. Not this week, fuck, maybe not even next month. Just...focus on her right now, okay?”

“But-”

“Santiago, she needs you. Just be there for her.”

Again, Santi doesn’t argue, because he knows the boys are right.

He needs to get with Graves, figure out what’s new, what they know though he assumes it’s not much.

He can’t help but think that’s a good thing.

He wants to get to Nathan before anyone else even has the chance.

She hears him. She always hears him. It’s always his voice in the back of her head, his voice in her dreams. It’s always him him him him him.

Santi.

She hears him, and the light in the room is so bright through her eyelids she’s sure she’s died and moved onto whatever, wherever existed beyond life and Earth. She can’t remember the last time she woke up to sunlight. Sunlight, Santiago, a warm blanket covering her shivering body.

She’s dead.

That’s okay.

But she doesn’t want to open her eyes. Even in the afterlife, she’s afraid that if she opens her eyes, he’ll disappear. She’s afraid she’ll open them and see Nathan, not Santi.

She just wants Santi. Only ever Santi.

And so when she hears a second voice, a man’s voice, one that she doesn’t recognize, she panics. She starts crying. She doesn’t want Santi’s voice to go away, she needs him. She fucking needs him.

She opens her eyes and he’s right there. He’s right there and that’s when she knows for certain she’s dead.

He looks almost the same. There’s a little more gray in his hair and he’s sporting a short beard instead of his usual stubble. His hands are shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie — it’s one that she recognizes, one that she’d wished for on cold nights when Nathan would chase her through the snow for fun, dangling freedom right in front of her face but always managing to track her down.

She wants to call out to him, she wants him closer. She wants to yell at the other man to leave the two of them alone but her voice feels stuck in her throat. She just cries harder, but she knows she doesn’t make a sound. Nathan never liked it when she cried.

A third body enters the room and she immediately slams her eyes shut, but it’s Jay. Just Jay.

And he saw her before she had time to look away.

“Her eyes were just open.”

Santi doesn’t even glance back towards him. His full attention is immediately on her, and he leaves Graves standing there to move back to her bedside, though this time he doesn’t even reach out to grip the rail like he had the night before.

He still can’t touch her.

But he does gently call out her name again, hoping and praying that Jay’s mind hadn’t been playing tricks. For a second, he thinks that must’ve been it. She’s not responding. But then he says her name again and he watches as her fingers twitch and grip the blanket between them.

Graves is out of the room to grab a nurse before Santi can even ask him to, and she opens her eyes again at the sound of retreating footsteps, beyond terrified thinking they belonged to Santi.

But he’s still there. He’s still right there, and Jay is there, and she’s in an actual bed and not on the floor.

Sunlight, Santi, blankets. Voices drifting from down the hallway, Jay, a bed.

She’s dead and that’s okay. It’s perfect. It’s all she’s been wanting for...she doesn’t even know how long she’d been with Nathan.

He says her name again, and she thinks it’s the sweetest sound she’s ever heard. So sweet it’s like honey dripping off his tongue.

It’s the little push she needs to finally find her voice, and it’s weak. It’s so weak, but he can still hear it, still understand her words and they make Santi’s chest ache.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t hold on.”

She doesn’t give Santi a second to even register her words, doesn’t give him a second to respond or ask if she’d heard him begging the night before.

“Please don’t leave, you always leave.”

It breaks Santi’s heart.

He needs to reach out and touch her, he needs to let her know that he’s still right here, that she’s here. She’s okay and he’s never going to let another bad thing ever happen to her ever again.

He still can’t touch her.

All he can do is say her name again, but this time, it’s broken. He feels broken.

He hates that he feels this way when in comparison, this last year has been easy on him.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.”

#santiago garcia #santiago pope garcia #santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago garcia x reader #triple frontier #triple frontier x reader

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rosy-cheekx · 4 years ago

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Aesthetic prompt- song: "in hell i'll be in good company" by the dead south; vibe: steam off a warm drink, heavy rain on windows; color: cool gray, bronze, red :)

Took me long enough! This fic is months in the making, but I am so excited to finally be able to answer this prompt. This is chapter 1 of probably 3!

A Phoenix Razed

Chapter 1- Rebirth

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3 days since Great Yarmouth

Tim’s hands encircled the paper cup in his lap. The cup was small, he noted; he could clasp his fingers together easily. Or maybe his hands were just big. The tea was dark, way over-steeped, and the herbal scent bloomed out in waves alongside the rising steam. There was no sugar, no milk, none of the usual accoutrement Tim used to take tea. Just harsh, bitter, black.

It’s what you deserve.

Tim rolled his eyes at his internal monologue, drama queen, and sipped the beverage. Agh, still hot? He sucked in air through his teeth, startling Martin, who he’d forgotten was beside him.

“Tim?” He snapped his eyes up from where they had been resting on the book, lips moving to form words Tim hadn’t been listening to. “You alright?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah, burnt my tongue.” Tim’s words sounded like a shrug, slumped and uninterested, now out of his reverie.

Silence stretched between him and Martin. Or, Tim wished it was silence. The only sound was the low static of the EEG, a rainbow of wires between the machine and Jonathan Sims’ scalp, shaved to accommodate the electrodes. What Tim wouldn’t give for any level of sound other than what they experienced right now. Any less, and there would be an answer to the question, “Will Jon ever wake up?”, and more would mean his heart was working, or lungs, or any other number of body parts to which machines were attached, waiting for any sign of response.

It’s your fault he’s like this.

It should have been you.

Tim exhaled and sipped the tea again, more careful this time. It was still hot—he was pretty sure the burn on his tongue made it feel even hotter—but he tempered his expectations and swallowed a sip of the bitter liquid, letting the raw flavor coat his throat.

“-there’s not much point to this, huh?” Martin asked, slipping a tattered bookmark between the pages of the book he had been reading—he was hoping to annoy Jon with poetry into waking up with Tennyson’s Ulysses—and letting it slip from his lap to the bed, green cover stark against the yellowish-white of the thin blanket.

“I don’t know, Marto, doctors said he might be able to hear us. Maybe dear Alfie will bore Jon back to life,” but Tim’s words lacked the bite and humor that was meant to be there.

“Don’t-” Martin warned softly, shaking his head and pushing his reading glasses through his fringe of curls. “He’s not…he’s still alive. He’s just lost.”

“You’re right,” Tim nodded, placing a hand on Martin’s shoulder lightly before pulling it away as he felt the round of Martin’s shoulder twinge under his touch. “You know what I mean.” He rubbed at the bandages that wound around his abdomen, letting himself indulge in the ache of raw skin and muscle and fat, the hiss of pain atonement for his sins.

Martin sighed, a slow, burdensome sound. “Yeah, I do.” At his words, Martin’s phone rang, and he looked at the caller ID before shoving the phone deep in his pocket, ignoring the call as he did so. “Listen, Tim, you know I’d stay longer if I could-”

“No, I get it, Martin.” Tim stood as Martin did, grabbing the IV bag by his chair for support. “Duty calls. I must away, my love.”

Martin scoffed, the pale sound muffled and diminished by the emptiness of the room. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Try to go on without me.” His voice dropped the light in it as he placed a hand on Tim’s. His hands were freezing, Jesus. “Seriously, Tim, if you need me…”

“I’ll call.” Tim waggled the phone in the pockets of the linen pants the hospital had provided. “Promise.”

“I hear the Great Grimaldi’s in town.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I know.”

He wished the moments after were fuzzy. He wished he could chalk his memories up to delirium or carbon monoxide poisoning. There was the detonator, small and squat in his hands. There was Grimaldi, or Nikola, or whatever that thing was. And there was Jon, kneeling, eyes piercing him in a way he had never experienced before. A moment of true lucidity amongst the madness of the Unknowing.

Tim had pressed the button, resigning this to be his final image, his final memory. The things in the world he hated most, all splayed out in front of him, with the promise of all the things he loved waiting for him. A win-win, really. Go out with a bang, leave a mark on the Stranger, cause some errant destruction, and finally see Danny again. The Stranger would never forget the Stoker brothers, that would have been for sure.

But the combustion and the flames had swept over him like a hot wind. He felt the flames lick the sides of his face, felt smoke choke his lungs, felt impossibly hot ash and air swirl around him in a tango. The building had crumbled around him and Tim had been unable to move, forced to witness every last nanosecond of the chaos he had caused.

And he reveled in it. He had won; he had beaten the Stranger. To know he had avenged the deaths of Danny and Sasha was prize enough.

None of it made any sense. He shouldn’t have survived.

How had he survived?

5 Days After Great Yarmouth

“Tim.”

Basira was in Tim’s room, wheelchair parked in the corner and sitting in a visitor’s chair. Her body was tense and still, reminiscent of a panther in some documentary he had watched with Jon. Ready to strike? Or run?

“Basira.” Tim’s voice was careful. “Martin said you weren’t up for visitors today. Glad to see you’re okay.”

“Save it.” Basira’s hands were fisted in her robe, the white and yellow one matching Tim’s, declaring them both as patients under observation. Tim frowned, pulling his IV behind him to sit on his bed, wincing as he bent and adjusted himself. “Daisy’s gone, Jon is…whatever he is. I survived because I was smart.”

Her voice was low and sharp, accusing him of…something. Tim felt blood boiling under his skin, as he waffled somewhere between furious and confused. “Excuse me?” He said pointedly, voice measured, squeezing tight the paper cup of tea in his hand.

“Tim, how are you not dead?” Basira gestured with her hand. “Your burns were all superficial. You broke your arm in the collapse, but you managed to survive the fire.” She shook her head and smoothed the fabric that lay there with her hand. “You and I both know you shouldn’t be alive right now.”

Tim took a steadying breath, though it did little to conceal his frustration. “So what, you think I’m fucking magical or something?” He could feel the heat and pitch rise in his voice. “You think I’m like...like those freaks we read about in the statements? Like-like Jon or Elias or like fucking Nikola?”

Basira opened her mouth to speak but Tim cut her off. “You know why I was there, Basira. For Danny. For Sasha. You bloody well know none of this was supposed to happen.” He gestured in the general direction of where Jon lay, dead to the world. “The audacity to assume I-”

“Tim!” Basira cut in, interrupting his increasingly desperate tone. “Look!” She pointed down. Following her gaze, Tim saw the paper cup he was holding. The cup of tea was steaming. No, it was boiling. He could hear the roil of the water, see the bubbles blossoming on the surface. On instinct, he yelped, tossing the cup of bitter black tea across the room, hitting the sink on the far side of the wall squarely. He winced as the liquid splashed across the mirror, the cup rolling to a stop in the basin.

“What the fuck?” He wiped his hands on his robe. “How the hell did that happen?”

“Did it burn you?” Basira asked, eyes passing over him studiously.

“Ah…” Tim turned his right hand over, checking for any splash marks or blisters on his palm. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Basira asked, raising her eyebrow. At Tim’s irritated roll of his eyes, she folded her fingers together.

“You know that’s not normal, right?” It wasn’t a question.

Tim nodded, voice stolen from him as he processed her words. “Are you trying to say I’m fireproof or something?”

Basira shrugged. “I dunno. Sounds weird enough to be right. I’d say ask Jon about it, but obviously…that’s not happening quite yet.”

“This is so fucked,” Tim mumbled, scrubbing a hand down his face in exhaustion. “I hate this job.”

Tim was walking in a black room. Kind of. It wasn’t black, really, nor a room—just the concept of space, devoid of color or light.

Tim was somewhere and it was dark.

He picked a direction and walked. The space he was in was hot, a dry stale heat pressing in on him from all sides. It was like that prickling heat from being too close to a campfire, where the heat should singe your leg hairs. It should have been painful. He should have been sweating. But he felt…good. Great, even. He felt alive and awake and ready.

He walked for what felt like hours in this dreamscape, not knowing where he was going. He had realized he was dreaming around the point where he noticed he was more floating than walking, being guided like a character in a low-res video game. There was something in the back of his mind nudging him forward, coaxing him along some predetermined route.

Suddenly, he stopped. There was something in front of him, maybe four meters away. He couldn’t see it, but he could sense it. This spot in space was the source of all the heat in this room, the warmth surrounding him that was more accosting than comforting. The feeling surrounding him was all-consuming and it made him feel…all sorts of things. Righteousness, anger, betrayal, pain. They were all the emotions he had been feeling at Great Yarmouth, built up upon each other, each idolized in their own way. They were the feelings he had chosen to worship when Jon had stopped being his friend and started being his enemy, when Sasha had been discovered to have never been, when he had looked Nikola in its eyeless face and pressed the detonator. It all felt good to feel.

All of a sudden Tim was struck with a sudden knowledge. If he accepted this heat, this painful destruction, he would never need to worry about being hurt again. He could protect himself, the loved ones he had left (if he still had any), and burn the hearts out of anyone who dared hurt him or his ilk. No one would ever leave him again except on his terms. He understood what the Lightless Flame meant, what it promised, what it could give him in return. He would be able to live on the destruction of those he deemed unworthy of the love of the pyre, those who had so much to lose. Like he had had, once. Like Danny had had. Like Sasha. They had had the world before them, and it was stripped away. The Stranger had the potential to take over the world and he had destroyed every last bit of success it had. And it felt good. He could chase that feeling again and again and again with a family that knew what it was like to love and lose and destroy.

All he had to do was take it in.

7 Days After Great Yarmouth

Tim woke up gasping for air. He could feel an icy hand on the back of his neck, colder than anything he knew, dragging him back into reality. He opened his eyes, wincing at the harsh light of his hospital room and yes, he was in his hospital room, not a great expanse of nothing nothing nothing, searching for answers. He reached a hand to the back of his head and felt a frozen rag, dripping icy water down the back of his neck, down his spine.

A nurse was at his bedside, a thin woman with dark blonde hair, checking his vitals with a delicate hand. “Welcome back, Mr. Stoker. You gave us a scare, there.”

“Wha-”

“Your monitor was beeping like mad last night. Said you had a fever of 42, but the machine was probably broken. Thermometer put you more at 40, but still, concerningly high. Gave you some fever reducers and a cool rag, kept an eye on you. Are you feeling any better?”

Tim rolled his neck, hearing his joints crack as he did so. “Uh-” He took stock of his faculties. He felt great, actually. No pain, no stiffness, just a tingling warmth spread throughout his body. Something about that felt...right. But he wasn’t sure why. “Yeah, fine.” He pulled the rag out from under his neck and noticed, for the first time, he was naked.

“Sorry,” she smiled apologetically at the flush that spread across his face and neck. “First rule of fevers: tight clothing comes off. It seemed to have done its job though. You were out for a whole day. According to our thermometers, your temperature’s gone back to normal, but we’d like to keep an eye on you a bit longer, especially with your injuries. They don't seem to be infected, so the fever might have been a latent trauma response to the explosion.” The woman shrugged, her smile light. “Our bodies do crazy things to keep us safe. Even when it hurts.”

“A-apparently so,” Tim nodded softly, squeezing his hands into fists, feeling the nails dig into his palms. At least this wasn’t a dream. He rested his head against the pillows propped behind him and sighed heavily.

The nurse left eventually, when there were no more monitors to check and Tim had promised eight ways to Sunday to press his call button if he needed anything. He settled back into his pillow, listening to the steady beep of his heart amplified on the monitor. The TV droned low in the background, newscasters revisiting today’s tragedies. Had they been on the news when it happened? Tim huffed and shook his head. Not if Elias had a say in it. Probably chalked it up to a gas main.

He grabbed the remote strapped to his bed, and flipped through the channels aimlessly, looking for something interesting…or at least to lull him back to sleep. Kids programming, soap operas, more news, interior design—wait. Tim flipped back to the news channel. Demolition of an old primary school. The reporter spoke to a heated young woman, round cheeks framed by wild curls, who spoke to the camera about the memories and traditions the school represented, how unfair it was to lose such an important monument to the history of her town.

“A shame, isn’t it?”

Tim started at the voice, whipping his head to the door, gripping the remote tight in his hand. The woman standing in the doorway of his room was short and wide, hair cropped close. She wore a grey tank top and black shorts, revealing tattoos of flames licking up the backs and sides of her calves. Something about her face was odd. A little too smooth? The grin on her face seemed wider than normal smiles were meant to be, drooping a little too low.

“Pardon?” Tim managed, grip on the call button tight, even if there was…something keeping him from pressing it.

“About the school.” She pointed to the television as she crossed the threshold, crossing her legs as she sat in the cushy visitor’s chair next to his bed. “So many childhood memories, so many job opportunities, so many opportunities for self-improvement-” She spat the word with malice. “Truly some of my favorite forms of destruction.”

Tim stared at her dumbly. “Do…am I supposed to know who you are?” Her returned chuckle burned him from the inside.

“Oh,” she crooned, more to herself than to Tim. “For keepers of the Eye, you are all so stupid. I am Jude Perry and I serve the Lightless Flame. And, if I’m right, you do too.”

#fanfic to a tea #tim stoker #martin blackwood #desolation tim #lonely martin #jude perry #the desolation #the unknowing #tma fanfic #the magnus archives fanfic #tma fic #tma season 3

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mxpseudonym · 4 years ago

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Just Good Business III

Pairing: Tommy x Reader

Reader Gender Expression: She/Her pronouns, “wife”

Summary: Reminding Tommy that he didn’t marry a fool was the greatest thing to happen to your bedroom.

Length: 1650 words (allegedly)

Warnings: 18+, sex, hints of rough sex, cursing, and as usual, underlying tones of forced/arranged marriage

A/N: There’s a forehead kiss and a sprinkling of Dom!Tommy in here for your patience! I am pretty sure I’m going to have this be a total of five parts. Part IV may not come right away because I’m in the middle of a WIP though.

Part I | Part II | Part IV

Reminding Tommy that he hadn't married a fool set several things in motion. First and foremost, you and Polly managed to successfully persuade your husband into conducting family business, not that it was hard. You knew London quite well, and one glance at the Eden Club's books had you asking Arthur if he could count to ten. Much of the above-board dealings in London were now your responsibility- properties, charities, and a social life that allowed you to see your friends more often.

Unfortunately, this meant regularly making the trip to Birmingham for the family meetings you'd been avoiding. It wasn't so much the meetings as it was Birmingham itself. One has no great hopes of Birmingham, as they say. However, there was a significant consolation that made it all worth it.

Tommy Shelby, in action, turned you on.

Actually, it was one of many things about Tommy that turned you on. With Tommy's guilt out of the way, you saw him around the house more. He came to bed, albeit late, nearly every night, and you got at least two breakfasts out of him a week. Along with finding that Tommy was much funnier than he let on when he wasn't talking about work, you also noticed that you had much in common. Tommy was as stubborn and prideful as you were. After six months, you still credited happenings between you with a desire to conduct good business- and business was excellent. Stubbornness, pride, your appetite for adventure, and Tommy's addiction to risk resulted in one shameless, exciting sex life.

You'd had partners before. Why deny yourself the world's physical pleasures? But while none could keep up with your desire to find and push boundaries, Tommy had mastered it. You thought you'd have to ease him into it, but it really just took you asking, "What are you going to do, Thomas? Spank me?" while bickering to get you on the same page.

Not that Tommy wasn't enjoying himself as well. He'd met his match in his back talking, neck biting, hair pulling new wife he could hardly bring himself to say no to. What was coming to work late more often or your hands down his trousers while driving the Bentley in the grand scheme of things?

So at the Birmingham family meetings, there was something about the way he was no-nonsense when he firmly told you where to sit and give updates when asked. If you were both being honest, while you loved taking orders from Tommy in the bedroom sometimes, you were on the fast track to giving them too. For now, you watched with thighs pressed together, and bottom lip pulled between teeth as he commanded the room.

After Arthur wrapped up the meeting, you'd meant to mingle with your sister in law, but were quickly distracted. Ada didn't need to follow your gaze to know what was stopping you from listening to a word she said.

"Good god, stop staring at my brother like that," Ada pleaded. You looked at her only long enough to say,

"I almost wish I could say I was sorry." You had just caught Tommy's eye and smiled. "He can be quite good looking."

"Ugh, okay, he's coming over here. I'm going to find Finn," Ada scoffed, then all but ran away only to have Tommy replace her.

"Can I help you?" he asked, amusement evident in his voice. You chuckled and looked up at him.

"You're already spoiling me, Mr. Shelby. What more could I ask for?"

"I'm sure you have a list," Tommy said. You plucked his cigarette from between his fingers and took a pull.

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"Should I make you beg for it?"

"I don't beg," you said, defiant as ever. Tommy rolled his eyes but moved closer. You could feel the warmth of his wool suit, and it matched the heat that was rising to your cheeks.

"Then what do you call what you were doing the other day in my office?" Tommy asked. You thought for a moment then smirked.

"Minding my manners. Please and thank you, Sir," you said, making him laugh.

"Oi, stop flirting on come on," John yelled in partial disgust from where the family was gathering near the door.

"Yeah, yeah, we're coming," you shooed him. You gave Tommy a knowing look as you grabbed your bag to join the group at the Garrison.

"Gonna tell me not to get any ideas?" He asked.

"Of course not. Get as many ideas as you can from here to that pub." You pointed a stern finger at him.

"Yes, ma'am."

Tommy had long given up trying to get a grasp on what to expect from you.

"God only knows what's going on up there," he'd say while tapping your temple.

But nothing surprised him more than your absolute willingness to have him any time, anywhere.

"Skirts hike up for a reason, Thomas," You once told him in the stables. Tommy had yet to find a good enough argument against that, so here you were, shushing him through breathy laughs as he almost tumbled into you.

It was a busy night at the Garrison, and it wasn't hard to leave your group to find the back room. Now you were pressed up against a shelf that wasn't nearly sturdy enough. Tommy's pants were unbuckled in a hasty moment, and your knickers were pulled aside, and you were both stifling your moans.

"Oh god, fuck, Tommy, how do you always feel so good?" You asked, your grip already in his hair. He groaned at the question and thrust deeper.

"You're the one always warm and wet for me, aren't you?" He squeezed the flesh of your bottom, making you moan. He quickly relocated you further into the dark and onto a crate. "Such a naughty little thing I've got on my hands."

"Just the way you like it." You bit his ear as you played with fire. His thrusts got hard and deep, earning more high pitched moans from you until he pressed a hand over your mouth. He kept his grip firm, just how you liked and spoke in your ear.

"I'm giving you what you asked for with all of these people just out there. Do you want them to hear you?" He leaned back to see you nod. Of course, you did. Tommy shook his head as he chuckled. By the sound of your yearning moan, he just knew you were pouting beneath his palm.

"I know love, but when we get home, you can be as loud as you want. You can let the maids hear you, what was it? Minding your manners for me. How's that sound?" You accepted his counteroffer with a nod and was rewarded with Tommy moving his hand. He relished in the smeared lipstick that was now on your chin before adjusting his grip on you.

"Now, be good, and stay quiet for me."

Tommy had to give you credit for carrying out your version of quiet. You forfeited your usual words of encouragement and panted hotly in his ears, a whimper or moan periodically coming forth.

"Tom," You pleaded his name under your breath. His grip tightened around your waist, and you knew it would bruise, which only shoved you that much closer to the edge.

"That's a good girl," he praised you, knowing what it did to you. In this case, it made your thighs tighten around him. "So good, you can tell me where you want it. Should I make you walk around with me all over your face?"

He felt you shiver and swallow a moan that came out like a sob. His thumb reached between them, and it only took a few circles of your clit to send you over.

"Oh fuck," You bucked against him as you came. Tommy's eyes squeezed close while you kissed his neck. It was truly incredible, you had to admit. You knew he was close and you had to decide. "In me."

"In you?" He repeated, not fully registering anything as he got closer.

"I want you in me, Tom. Please," you said again. You kissed him, then pulled back to look in his eyes. "I'm begging you."

You loved watching him come undone. Even in the low light, you took in his parted lips, creased brow, and flushed cheeks. He rested his forehead against yours for a moment before you pulled away and began putting yourselves back together.

"I'm excited to go home if you keep your word," you said, leaning against the crate while Tommy pulled out a cigarette.

You quietly smoked and thought about how strange this was. Before it was sprung on you, being married was something you hadn't expected anytime soon. Being married to someone you actually enjoyed was a fate every woman you knew hoped for but knew not to anticipate. And here you were with both a marriage and an enjoyable husband.

"What's wrong?" Tommy asked, tossing away his cigarette. He brought his hand up to stroke your cheek, but you caught it and observed the silver band around his finger instead, running your thumb over the metal.

"Do you like this?" Your eyes lifted to meet his. "The ring?"

The ring, the marriage, what was the difference? He smirked then turned his hand, interlacing your fingers.

"So much that I think there must have been a mix up of fortune. A better man should have it, maybe." He said, then kissed your forehead and started towards the door. "Come now, I think I'll let you walk around with me dripping out of you for at least a half-hour."

"I may just have to give you a proper thank you on the ride home then, Sir."

Tommy expertly ignored questions about his whereabouts from his brothers and knowing looks from his sister, all while holding your hand. You smiled to yourself and thought,

I have a crush on you, Tommy Shelby.

Tommy Tag List: @soleil-dor; @amysteryspot

JGB Series Tag List: @biba3434

#Tommy Shelby Imagine #Tommy Shelby #Tommy Shelby x Reader #Tommy Shelby Fic #Tommy Shelby Smut #peaky blinders imagine #Dom Tommy

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justice4harwin · 4 years ago

Text

Light's Corruption- Chapter IV

Pairing: The DarklingxAlina

Summary:With few friends at the Little Palace, Alina must work to win the favour of her fellow grisha and their commander, who makes her feel light headed every time she sees him.

After training in Os Alta for two years, the king grows tired of waiting and demands the Sun Summoner joins a western post near the Fjerdan border along with the rest of The Second Army to test her abilities.

Something happens. Suddenly, Alina wants blood to run down the rivers and those who stand in her and The Darkling’s way will be blinded by her light and swallowed by his shadows.

It won’t be pretty

Rating: 18+

Click here for chapter 3

Tags are in the comment section. If you dont wanna be there or wanna be added please let me know 😊

Anyways, I hope you like this one. I'm really excited over a particular scene 😏😏

Chapter 4: golden butterfly, black rose

Alina woke up with a new purpose: to observe and listen.

She hastily threw the blankets and sheets off of her and put on her kefta as she realized she might be late for breakfast.

Running down the stairs, hair a mess, the Sun Summoner smiled and greeted everyone on her path.

Some replied. Others just stared oddly.

She entered the hall to find that, as usual, Marie and Nadia had left a seat empty between them. Alina gingerly took it.

"Good morning!"

They gave her smiles as they reciprocated the greeting.

"You're in a good mood today." Nadia noticed, taking her spoon.

"I slept like a baby." she lied. She hadn't gotten that much sleep -Genya must've gotten even less- but she felt good that day.

Just the day before, she had been able to summon on her own for the first time, and she had to stay positive if she wanted to accomplish her new mission.

She engaged more in the chatter with the grisha women that day, venturing so far as to reply with questions of her own to get to know them better.

"I didn't know you had a brother, Nadia." she said, genuinely surprised as they made their way to Botkin's stables.

The woman nodded with a half-annoyed, half-endearing smile.

"He's grisha too. A few years younger, so he's still at school. His name's Adrik."

"Is he a Squaller too?"

Nadia confirmed that he was, because of course, the little rat had to copy everything about his older sister.

Alina laughed at that.

"The little girl seems very happy for someone who's about to get into a fight?" were the words with which Botkin received her.

Alina fought back the need to recoil. The only time she had won so far had been against Zoya, …if one could consider that a win given what happened right after.

"Maybe I'll be lucky today." she beamed at him.

Botkin seemed almost surprised.

"Positivity is fine, little girl, but you need to focus during a fight. But first." he clapped his hands twice, immediately getting all the attention. "Run around the lake. Twice. The last one to get back here will help the stable hands for the rest of the day."

Alina really ran like never before that day.

Her side hurt, and she almost felt like she wasn't getting enough air; but after the first half, her legs didn't burn so much anymore, and she felt almost as good as she did when walking.

"Damn, Starkov." she turned her head to see that Michail, a heartrender with a hard-shaped face and kind, green eyes, was easily keeping up with her. "When did you get this fast?"

"Practice." she said, a little breathless but feeling nice with the cold air slapping against her face. "Besides, I really don't wanna end up in the stables."

He laughed at that.

"That makes two of us. I hate those animals."

Alina frowned. She just didn't wanna clean up their shit, but other than that, she could find nothing wrong with horses.

"Why?"

"Those long faces," he said, gesturing over his own. "they're scary."

"You're scared of horses?!" she asked, disbelieving.

"Why don't you yell it a little louder?" he asked, looking around at the disperse group, but he was smirking. They weren't at the front, but they weren't slagging at the back either.

"Sorry." she leaned in. "I'll keep your secret if you help me not to be the last."

"I don't think you need my help," he laughed. "but sure."

She got knocked down on her ass by a short Inferni woman with dark blonde hair, but Alina laughed it off, hiding her embarrassment, and stretched out a hand. The Inferni rose an eyebrow and then helped her up.

"Thanks." she told her, dusting off the back of her kefta.

"For kicking your ass?"

"Hey, I think I did learn a thing or two." she winked. "Next time I'll be ready."

"Oh, so you want a rematch?" the woman asked, amused, as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"If you're up for it." Alina shrugged.

"Deal." they shook hands. "But it'll have to wait until we're done with him." she said, nodding towards Botkin, who was busy making rounds, watching the others. "I'm Natasha, by the way."

"Alina."

"Oh, I know. Everyone knows." she smiled once more before retreating to a small group of Inferni that had reunited by a corner.

As she passed by the lake in her usual route to Baghra's hut, Alina got startled by the damage she had done to the perfectly green grass. Gardeners were still at work getting rid of the black mass she had left in her path, going so far as to dig into the earth. They saw her passing and glanced up, some frightened, others definitely not amused.

"I am so sorry." she whispered frantically, before hurrying her steps.

"Don't let the heat out!" was all the greeting she got from the ancient woman.

Alina closed the door and hurried to the chair that awaited her. She was smiling.

"I don't think that will be a problem." she said, proud of herself.

She scoffed. "So I have heard. Show me." she said, hitting her in the arm with her cane.

"Ouch!"

With a nasty frown, Alina placed her palms in front of the others and called the light that she had rejected for so long. So eager to answer, her power rushed through and out of her, and she was almost puzzled by its intensity. She focused on keeping the orb small.

"Uh. Well, it took you long enough."

"A 'Congratulations' would be nice."

She got hit again. Her light wavered and then solidified again.

"Congratulations? What? Do you want a parade thrown in your honour as well? For what? Doing what you were supposed to do your entire life? Shut up and expand the orb. Make it encompass the entire place."

With deep breaths, both to concentrate and control her anger, Alina steadily expanded her light, making it fill the hut.

"Bend it to its shape."

Carefully, she tried to do as she was told.

"You were right, about being held back." she uttered as she tried to shape her light to blend in with the walls.

"I know." the woman said, petulant. "Now call it back and repeat until there is no effort to it."

Alina tried, and tried again, but as eager as her power was to explode, her body was eager for a long, long nap. There had been so much repression, so much denial for so many years, that it was as if the light wanted to just explode out of her body and consume it all.

It scared her a little, but she focused.

The Darkling had told her she was magnificent, Alina remembered, and he had made it sound like she was capable of anything.

The way his grey eyes shone with such intensity, like he wanted to engulf her into his arms and have her all to his own, the way in which his hand felt against hers, or how just even being next to him made her want to lean into and over him like a lazy, overly clingy cat.

She'd lay on top of him all day if she could.

Alina wondered what would've happened if Genya hadn't arrived at the moment she did. Would The Darkling had kissed her? What would his lips taste like? How would his beard feel against her skin? Just exactly how good was he with his tongue?

Alina blushed. The light flickered, as if excited at the mere idea of the man.

She had kissed a few people before, but him, there was something about him that told her that if he should kiss her only once, she'd spend the rest of her life running after the very same sensation and more.

"Dreaming about your dark prince again?"

She looked at Baghra.

"What?" looking around, she noticed that her light had expanded farther than the hut and she was glowing.

Alina snapped her hands, and everything was dark again. Her fingers tingled with power, her eyelids closed with exhaustion.

"I-I wasn't-" she blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the new environment.

"Stupid, stupid girl. You need to focus on your task."

"I'd concentrate better if I wasn't being hit every five min-OUCH!"

"Do not make excuses with me. You are lazy, easily distracted, you do not know what you are getting yourse-"

"You know, for someone who's supposed to be such a great teacher, I've still got to see some actual teaching." Alina snapped. "All you do is yell at me, hit me and belittle me; yet one conversation with The General I can finally summon." the brunette spat, each word more angrier than the previous one. "So don't try to blame me for your shortcomings."

Baghra was silent, nostrils flaring. When it looked like she might raise her cane and hit Alina right in the head with it, she opened her thin lips instead:

"Out." she uttered, almost inaudible. "Out! And do not come back!"

"Gladly!"

Alina stood up and marched for the door, her steps almost as loud as the insults the old woman was throwing after her.

"Stupid girl! Unconscious! Just another pawn of his! You never learn! Lazy! Stupid! Blind!"

It was a good thing the old crone couldn't see the tears of frustration and shame in her eyes.

She was on her way back to the Little Palace, trying to decide if she should bathe or go to the library first.

Baghra’s words still rang in her head.

Maybe, if she was quick, really quick with her bath,...but then again, she was getting too used to such a luxury, that once in there it was quite difficult to leave unless the water turned cold.

But if she went to the library, she’d be there until the words blurred and her eyes burned.

On the other hand, there were other grisha in the library, and she couldn’t afford to walk in there smelling like-

"Alina?"

General Kirigan's smooth voice had her turning on her heels, hand still massaging the spot on her arm Baghra's cane had so harshly landed. She had managed to hold back the tears, but the woman's word still stung.

"Moi Soverennyi." She greeted but forgot to bow.

He looked at her arm.

"How was your lesson?"

"I spent months with her and nothing; five minutes with you and I can summon." She basically spat, still bitter at Baghra's harsh words. "I think that speaks for itself."

He smiled, almost.

"Give the old woman some credit. She is good at what she does."

"Terrorizing isn't teaching." she replied, and then, with her head high, added: "She didn't get me to summon."

"No." The Darkling agreed, taking a step towards her. All engulfed in his black cloak, he almost seemed to float. "You did it. It was all you." He said it with such reverence that her breath became shallow.

She didn't look away from his eyes. The storms swirling in there were magnetic. There was so much going on in there at the moment, yet it all sped up through those grey orbs so fast she couldn't make sense of it.

"Why don't you teach me?" The words slipped from her tongue before she could think better of it.

He rose an eyebrow, taking another predatory step towards her.

"I serve the King. I run an entire army. I do not have the time to train everyone personally, nor would I want anyone to think they are favoured above others."

He was so close to her now, she had to crane her neck to look up.

"You once said there was no one else like us; who could be a better teacher?"

In truth, she also wanted to see him more often. Glimpses as he passed through the Little Palace or left Os Alta, and the occasional conversation weren't enough for her.

"You flatter me, Miss Starkov."

"I only state my opinion." she took a step, shortening the distance, like he was a magnet calling for her.

Mirth shone in his eyes. It made her smile.

"I will be going away for a few weeks." At this, her smile fell, and his formed as he tilted her chin up with his gloved fingers.

Alina stared up into his eyes, dark with something.

"I'll miss you." She whispered, foolishly, without thought.

"Will you?" He asked, almost perplexed for a moment.

She found herself nodding.

"I know we don't get much chance to talk, but I like talking to you." She confessed, a knot in her throat. "You understand all,...this." she flickered her fingers and a tiny orb of light formed above her hand.

His eyes followed suit, almost fascinated, like he still couldn't quite believe her power was real. And when he looked at her, it was like he couldn't believe she was real.

His hand rose and shadows swallowed her light. Alina watched them dance, entranced by his power, and noticed it taking shape.

"For you." The Darkling said, handing her a black rose, from the base of its steam to the very last petal. "To remember me by while I am gone."

Disbelieving, she reached out and gasped as she touched the shadow. There was a little bit of gold in there, her own power hidden within, shimmering weakly here and there.

"I don't have anything to give you." She said, lamenting.

He leaned down, his beard rough against her soft cheek.

"Trust me, Alina," he whispered, her name on his lips against her ear making her tremble. "I could not forget you if I tried."

There was the whisper of a kiss against her cheek that seemed to linger for the longest moment, …and then he was leaving, cloak flipping behind him as he left the sun Summoner holding onto a small piece of shadow and a piece of her heart gone with him.

Click here for chapter Five

#shadow and bone #alina starkov #the Darkling #darklina #alina x aleksander #darkling x alina #fanfic #shadow and bone fanfic

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iamdeku · 4 years ago

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Broken Ribs and Whole Hearts

Description: A Deku x Reader where the reader is a nurse who finds an unexpected guest in her emergency room. A continuation of this post.

Warnings: Descriptions of injury/some light gore. Talk of painkillers administered by a medical professional. Fluff.

It was safe to say that when you woke up this morning you weren’t expecting to find the life of the number one hero in your hands.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t worked with heroes before. You had plenty of experience with them, since they had a way of getting themselves hurt. That being said, you’d never worked with this particular hero before, and you were a little bit starstruck.

You wouldn’t call yourself a fan of Deku, but you weren’t not a fan. You saw him on the news all the time, but that was virtually impossible to avoid since he seemed to find his way onto every crime scene. If there was someone who needed help, Deku was there.

Right now though, he was here, bleeding out.

You had heard about the fight from your coworkers. It was hard to avoid hearing about a battle on that scale when you worked in a hospital. You had already been getting civilians in for treatment, but the heroes came last and were, naturally, priority since their injuries tended to be far more severe. Deku was no exception to this rule, and when he was rushed through the doors you were quick to fill your empty hands, not even realizing who he was until you went to assess the patient.

You jolted back a little bit in surprise, seeing the shock of green hair and bleary green eyes peering up at you. In your moment of surprise leaning over him, he cracked a blood-smeared smile.

“Are you an angel?” He asked softly.

“He’s delirious from the blood loss,” you declared, quickly getting to work surveying the rest of the damage. “Several cracked ribs, and I think he may have punctured a lung.”

As you continued to rattle off instructions and commentary, Deku continued staring at you. You, unwittingly, had become his lifeline. He kept his eyes open out of sheer desire not to look away from you. You were so capable, not faltering once after your initial shock. He was in awe of you.

Eventually, Deku was rushed into the operating room, and then he had no choice but to go under. When he woke up though, lo and behold, it was you there, checking his vitals and adjusting some things.

He opened his dry mouth, preparing his cracked voice to speak. “Well if it isn’t the prettiest nurse in all of Musutafu.”

You jump slightly, not having expected him to wake up. You fidget with your hands, a nervous habit.

“Oh, hello Deku. You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been worse.” Deku would have shrugged, but he knew from experience that would make things worse.

He turned his eyes to the rest of the hospital room, taking a look around. He was in a standard hospital gown, which he joked was his “back-up uniform”. An IV fed drugs into his arm as necessary, and he knew he must be on some pretty good pain killers if the slightly hazy feeling in his head and the warm confidence in his chest were any indication.

“So, any chance you’ll go out on a date with me?” he asked.

You stiffen in surprise, but then grin teasingly at him. “Wow, the morphine is talking pretty loud today, huh? Who knew the number one hero was such a light-weight? Maybe I should lower your dosage.”

Deku winced. “Please don’t. I have a high pain tolerance, but not that high.”

Your beautiful smile turned to a look of concern.

“Are you in any pain right now?”

Deku quickly shook his head, which actually did cause him some pain from the force of the movement.

“I’m fine. Just keep doing what you’re doing. It’s working great.” He smiled encouragingly at you.

You visibly relaxed from where you stood by his bedside.

“Okay, well just let me know if you need anything, okay? I’m sure you know the drill, but you can just press this button right here for help.” You showed him where it was.

“Any chance I can get your number before you go?” He asked hopefully, unwittingly throwing you into cardiac arrest.

“I will take away your painkillers, Mr. Midoriya,” you threatened over your shoulder as you walked out.

Little did either of you know it, but Izuku was going to be spending a lot more time with you. His tendency to get injured on your shifts almost made you believe he was doing it on purpose. You asked him once when he was drugged up, but he would admit to nothing, only giving you a slightly loopy smile before falling asleep.

Once he was settled into his hospital rooms though, he made no secret of it. He would blatantly request you, or rather, “the prettiest nurse in Musutafu.”

“You know I have a name right?” you asked, looking at his chart like you didn’t have it basically memorized.

“Yes, I just happen to think this more fitting. I can stop if it bothers you though.”

Suddenly your confident hero had turned into a Christmas tree, whole face from the neck up turning red as a cherry. Feeling a desperate need to sooth him, you hurriedly corrected yourself.

“No, this is fine! I mean, I can’t really complain, can I?”

“Pretty sure you just did,” he teased.

You two continued on in this way until you would nearly consider yourself friends with the hero. In fact, you had started a routine of eating lunch with each other after an incident where you had both been in the hospital cafeteria at the same time and had sat together. Since then you had repeated the encounter a few times, though never exactly on purpose. You had even gone to dinner with him once, just as friends, to some fancy new restaurant he claimed to need a date to, since eating alone was ‘boring’. You had grown into a comfortable rhythm with him over time, and then it happened.

It was the first rain of the season, and you had your window open to let in the smell. You were peacefully making some soup in your kitchen on your night off. Your gray sweats clung to your hips, comfy t-shirt wrapping you up under the warm lighting of your cozy kitchen. The cheerful paint of the walls beamed at you as you swayed softly, humming along to the song on the radio.

All of your peace was shattered the moment Deku fell through your window, hand clutching his side, at the exact same moment your tea kettle screamed at you. You quickly moved it off the heat, nearly sloshing water onto your usually steady hands before rushing across the room to your fallen hero.

“Izuku!” you gasped, turning him over on the floor.

He smiled up at you, not looking nearly as concerned as he should be.

“Hi.”

“Why are you here? You should be in a hospital.”

“I just wanted to see you.” He reached up to cup your cheek in his warm, broken hand.

“You can’t be here Izuku. You’re hurt.”

“You’re my nurse. You’ll take care of me.”

He smiled at you with so much faith it cracked something in your chest. An overflowing font of affection for this man, this hero, welled up in you, begging to be let out. You thought of every time you had seen him broken, the implicit trust he had in you to piece him back together. To take care of him.

You swallowed down your tears, mirroring the smile on his face, trying to be as brave as he was. “You have a stab wound in your side. It doesn’t look too deep, but you still need serious medical attention.”

“It’s just a scratch.”

He was staring at you, those deep green eyes brushing up against your soul, flirting with your deepest secrets, dancing around the unspoken truths weighing down your tongue, things you both knew. Things neither of you could say, as far as you were concerned, but Izuku Midoriya had always had an open heart and a loose tongue, and so he said them slow and easy, honey slipping through his teeth and coating his cracked lips.

“Kiss me.”

“That...that wouldn’t be very ethical of me.” Despite your words you are leaning in, nose brushing his.

It is not a demand, not a question, not a request. It is a gasping, haunting, wavering plea, he is begging and you are teetering on the edge of a cliff you wouldn’t admit existed until you were borderline tumbling off of it.

"Can I...?"

This time it is a question, and you find yourself drawn into him. He is the Jupiter to your Io, and you are lost to a constellation, entwined in your own milky way. Your shadow blends into his, pressed flat against the grain of your wood floors, as your lips whisper against his. It is barely a touch, just a taste of what is to come, but it is all the permission he needs.

He surges forward to kiss you, and it is something foreign, something incomprehensible as he catches you with his chapped lips. He tastes of bitter, salty blood as the rush of his breath fills you, slipping down your throat and curling through your lungs. You have never done this before, never felt whatever is warping the planes of your chest and the contours of your heart. It is as though you have met yourself in him.

It is a ravaging sort of feeling, even though the kiss itself is achingly soft, heartbreakingly slow. He is so gentle with you, as though you are the breakable one here, when in fact you have had to put him back together too many times to count. You allow it though, you allow it because you have seen firsthand how Izuku Midoriya’s large, scarred hero hands touch everything with this sort of gentle kindness, a piece of his heart slipping through the spaces between his knuckles and digging into the pads of his fingertips.

When you pull away it is slowly, reluctantly, a smile taking over your face. Izuku's smile matches yours, his eyes sparkling as he reaches up to brush a thumb across your lip, a light laugh escaping him. It is this action that brings you back to yourself, snaps you out of your haze as his thumb streaks blood across the swell of your mouth. Your body jerks back away from him suddenly, and worry flickers over his face.

"Izuku Midoriya! How dare you distract me like that! Did you think I wouldn't take you to the hospital if you kissed me?"

He has the nerve to look a little guilty.

"I don't need to go, really. It will just inconvenience them."

You grind your teeth. "We. Are. Going."

And over time, Izuku learns that eventually, all roads lead to the hospital. Because all roads lead to you.

#bnha #mha #deku x reader #prohero!deku #nurse!reader #deku #izuku midoriya

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writteninkat · 4 years ago

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iv - carnival tickets

word count: 2,246

warnings: mentions of blood and dead animals

"I'ma break you off, let me be your motivation"

index

Today was the day you and the rest of class 1A can finally try out their hero costumes. You smiled, looking at yourself in the mirror, giving yourself butterflies as you do so.

Your hero costume was a simple black bodysuit type. Garters attacked to the clothing helped keep your thigh high boots up. The top covered your entire arms, hands and fingers- you designed it this way so your palms wouldn’t be littered with callouses given that you deal with weapons like swords and scythes every time you use your quirk.

The bodysuit is a title neck type that showed off your shoulders. Your costume is finished off with a full face black kitsune mask with glowing blue paint around the eyes, it makes up the whiskers as well as a little nose of a fox.

You keep it up on your head, not wanting to put it on unless you're engaging in combat.

You close your locker, joining the girls who are hyping each other up in what they’re wearing. You all step out of the changing area and you can’t help but feel giddy as you approach your teachers, excited with the activities for today.

Everyone begins freaking out at the site of All Might- which you don’t get at all. He’s blond, has a freakish smile and a built body. So what? “Who’s he?” You whisper at Mina who looks at you as if you’ve grown two heads.

“What?”

You sigh, “Who’s he? And why is everyone freaking out about him?” You ask again and Mina gives you that same look, but much worse. She’s acting as if you’ve just asked a very stupid question. “That’s All Might.” She answers, tone unusually calm and soft.

“I meat who is he?”

“The number one hero.”

You furrow your brows, gaze scanning the man who’s busy talking in front of the awestruck class. You tilt your head to the side, “That’s your number one pro hero?” You ask, pouting.

“You sound a lot of things- underwhelmed? Disappointed? Dissatisfied?” Bakugou says from behind you, the look in his eyes catching you off guard. You pause for a moment, choosing your words carefully to make sure you’re not offending anyone who’s within earshot.

“You look up to him?” You ask and he raises a brow at you as if you’ve just asked the most obvious question in all time. “He’s been my hero since forever. I look up to him more than anyone in the world. He’s my inspiration and the one of the biggest contributors to my dream go being a hero.” Your eyebrows lift in shock, you’ve never heard nor seen Bakugou respect a person so much. And by the looks of Mina, Kirishima and Denki, they haven’t seen this side of him either.

Your heart breaks as you return your gaze to the number one hero in front of you, smiling sadly. You don't know how or why, but your judgement tells you that the seven-footer man in front of you isn't all that powerful- not anymore at least.

"Here's the breakdown. There will be four teams of two- half of them will be heroes and the other half will be villains. The hero team can win in two ways; you can either capture the villains or retrieve the bomb. The villain team wins if the hero team is unable to do any of the tasks within the time limit." He explains quite clearly and thoroughly.

You feel your heart beat against your chest, you're feeling very giddy. Your excitement causes Bakugou's lips to twitch upwards, carving out a soft smile to which he hides almodt immediately so no one can see him.

All Might pulls out a draw lots box, letting fate decide which teams everyone belong to. You end up being teammates with Aoyama and Mina who you happily greet.

Everyone is asked to stay inside a monitoring room to watch and observe their classmates in battle. When All Might announces Bakugou and Izuku's team being up first, you don't think before walking up to the blond and placing a hand on his shoulder. He turns his head to the side, raising an expecting brow.

"Good luck out there." You smile softly to which he scoffs at. "I don't need luck to win." He punches his palm as he sets of his quirk, "I already know I will."

You roll your eyes, walking towards Izuku to wish him good kuck as well before following the class to the monitor room. Your eyes scan over the wall of monitors, finding it closely similar to the monitor room your house has back in the US.

As you watch Bakugou and Izuku in battle, it's clear to see that there's something going on between them. There seems to be a conflict between them that you can't quite point and as much as you wanted to ask Bakugou about it, you decided to wait until he'd tell you.

Why on earth do you think he'd tell you?

You shake your head and clear your stupid thoughts, stepping away into a corner and sitting down to mentally prepare yourself. As you try to meditate, you don't realise how much time has went by until you're being called by All Might for your turn.

You scan the room but don't spot an angry blond nor an angel look-a-like green haired boy. You pout, hoping to at least see thosep pretty vermilion eyes before the activity.

As you take your steps towards the building, a small smile stretches across your lips when you see Bakugou's familiar back towards you, only for it to smile when you see just how upset he looks like.

"C'mon, Y/n! We're the villains right now we can't be late!!" Mina calls out to you, waving her hand up. You look back at Bakugo one last time, your gazes catching each other before you step inside the building, pulling your mask down to cover your face.

"Hey Mina? Can you let me take charge of our group?" You ask as the three of you make your way towards the room where the fake bomb is. "Alright! We'll be at your command!" She salutes to you a little too enthusiastically to which you chuckle softly at, making sure to smile with your eyes to make sure she sees you're smiling despite the mask covering your face.

After All Might makes sure each teams' statuses are a go, he commences the activity. "Alright. What would you like for us to do, captain?" Mina asks. You stay quiet for a moment, summoning two katanas in each of your hands. You move them around, making sure your wrists are loose and flexible before actually using them.

"You guys can stay still and guard the bomb." You say, adjusting your gloves before turning around to face the only entrance and exit of the room. "I'll have to go and hunt me some heroes."

"It's been a few minutes since they started and when Y/n suddenly disappeared like that. What do you think the villains are planning?" Tsuyu asks, eyes on the screen as the class continues to search for you in every monitor in the wall, but to no avail.

"I've been seeing a few mice here and there. Do you think that's Koda's doing?" Kirishima asks, to which Denki asks back, "Are the mice you see dead or alive?"

Kirishima furrows his brows at the blond, about to explain how the mice are alive but stops himself when he looks back at the screen and sees the mice he was looking at just a few seconds ago was now dead, body sliced in half. He checks the other monitors as well and his confusion rises even more at the sight of multiple dead mice all over the floors.

"Time is ticking, heroes. You better get to the bomb or if this was a real life situation it'd have blown up by now." All Might says into the mic which puts pressure on the two boys.

The class watches in anticipation as the two steps into a wide and open room, somewhere similar to where Bakugou and Izuku were fighting in a while ago.

"No one's here." Sato states, turning around. "Then, there should only be one room left-"

"Leaving so soon, heroes?" You ask, body leaning on the closed door with one foot pressed on it and your arms crossed across your chest.

Sato and Koda raise their guards, stepping into a fighting stance as theylook at you with such focused eyes. You chuckle, "Your little friends running around the building were pretty hard to find. Not to mention there were quite a handful of them which caused me to reach my speed quirk's limit."

"So it was Y/n who sliced all those rats? But we didn't see her at all. There were no movements in any of the cameras." Sero points out, confusion evident in his face. "Well, she did use her speed quirk. And if what she stated was true, then she'll be no longer to use that quirk of hers, at least during this fight." Iida voices out.

"Two guys against one girl? Isn't that too unfair for her?" Mineta asks, receiving a growl from Bakugou. "If you think her being a girl puts her at a disadvantage you're wrong. If you wanna be a hero, it doesn't matter what your gender is, as long as you're strong."

Despite being in a foul mood, Bakugou still found himself wanting to fight for you. He didn't like the thought of people lookibg down at him, but he found it weird how he preferred it when people not look down at you instead.

"Come on boys. I'll keep this quick and short for you so we can end this activity already." Fingerless boxing gloves appear in each of your hands, they're black but with neon blue accents. You get into a fighting stance, "I really hate sweating."

Sato charges at you, throwing a naive punch at your way to which you dodge easily- scoffing. What was he trying to do, intimidate a little child? As you moved your body to the side, dodging his immature punch, you punch him in the gut, eyes on Koda as you do this.

You hear Sato wheeze before his body falls to the ground. You crack your knuckles, walking towards Koda who begins to panic, using his quirk to call in all sorts of birds and squirrels.

"Koda, this is as scary as being chased by a street gang of kittens." You say, stepping towards him. You step to his side, bringing your hand up to his forehead and flicking it, the contact causing him to tremble before losing consciousness.

Your mother's body guard taught you this- it was a skill he said that most assassins he worked with knows about. He never clearly explained to you how to do it, but as long as your opponent had the slightest bit of fear for you, it will end up working. For Koda's case, he looked like he was about to piss his pants, so it worked out a little too well for you.

"Y/n's team wins this round." All Might announces as the rest of class 1A stands behind him, unsure of what they had just seen.

As the day comes to an end, you learn from Kirishima and Mina that Bakugou has been feeling off since the fight lately. "We tried to stop him from leaving, but he just wouldn't listen. Izuku went and ran after him too. If you go now you should be able to catch up to the both of them." Urataka explains, setting the stack of books she's carrying on a desk.

You run out of the classroom, jumping down flights of stairs to get to the entrance of the highschool as quickly as possible. By the time your eyes finally caught sight of the two boys, they were already talking with each other.

"I wasn't hiding my quirk from you. It was given to me by someone else, recently."

You raise your brows, quickly hiding yourself from the both of them. You place a finger gently on your lips as you stared at the floor, listening as Izuku explained to Bakugou.

The next thing you know it, Bakugou was now yelling at the green haired boy. He sounded so upset, as if he wanted to cry. It was clear as day that the blond didn't like losing, not to anyone and especially not to Izuku.

You took a peak, eyes widening as you see Katsuki Bakugou looking so vulnerable with tears in the corners of his eyes, his brows knitted from being so upset with himself. He walks away, slouching as he wipes his tears with the back of his hand.

You step out of your hiding spot, Izuku's expression growing nervous when he sees you. "O-oh hey, hey Y/n! I didn't... ummm... did you..." He looks down, scratching the back of his head. "Did you hear something?"

You stare him down for a moment, unsure of what to answer before sighing. "I'm not going to say anything to anyone nor ask you about it. But I will tell you this." Your words causes Izuku to look up at you in anticipation. "The second you master that power of yours, you have to fight me with everything you've got. Alright?"

Bakugou grumbles to himself, kicking at a rock, watching as it rolls into a canal. He huffs, annoyed. "I'd tell you you look ugly when you're mad, but then I'd be telling you you look ugly everyday." You yell at him from behind, causing him to turn around.

"School isn't over yet." Bakugou furrows his brows as he watches you make your way towards him. "And yet here we are." You point out, smiling as you put your hands behind your back.

He sighs, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. "What do you want?"

You take out two pink carnival tickets from your pocket, shoving it at his face and waving it in front of him. "I've always went to this carnival with my mom back in the US and I'm feeling kind of homesick. I accidentally bought two tickets too so now you gotta go with me."

You begin to pull at him to which he pulls back, a bored expression resting on his adorable face.

Adorable?

"No." He grunts.

You smile at him, "I wasn't giving you a choice."

#bakugou fanfiction #bakugou katuski x reader #bakugou x y/n #mha bakugou #bakugou bios #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x you #bakugou imagine #mha fluff #bnha fluff #my hero fluff #boku no hero fluff #bakugou fluff #katsuki fluff

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fandom-imagination-ss · 4 years ago

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Imagine: having a encounter with your best friend Clark Kent one night.

Author note: I couldn’t help myself I had too write a Clark Kent imagine, the Superman and Lois version Not Henry Carvills version. This imagine has mention of being shirtless. No Smut.!! If you haven’t watched the CW show Superman and Lois. Go do it! It’s great and I’m obsessed with the show and Tyler lol

Charters: Clark Kent, Lois lane , Jordan Kent, and Jon Kent

Warnings: Shirtless scene But not descriptive

Fandom ; Superman and Lois

You known Clark Since basically birth. You been friends since Kindergarten, He was the first boy you ever Kissed, the First boy you ever confessed your feelings too, which Clark happily accepted and it was wonderful relationship for two weeks. Your family’s were very surprised you both lasted that long.. you were eight at the time. Then at Sixteen Clark confessed too his best friend that he was a Alien. Your first thoughts were if he could read your mind. And he said he couldn’t which was a load off your mind because your crush on the boy returned and it was stronger then ever. But then he said he could shoot rays out of his eyes and your thoughts went from your crush too random questions about THAT!

As the years went on your crush on Clark vanished when he met and fell madly in love with Lois Lane. You were the best gal at his wedding. You were the god mother too his twins. You instantly became friends with Lois. the motto in your life if. clark was happy you were happy. after seeing him with Lois. it was clear that boy was in love.

Knowing he was superman and knowing that Lois abused her powers of being with him. Using it too jump start her career was slightly hard too adjust too but Clark didn’t seem too mind so you kept your opinion about that too yourself.

You didn’t move out of Smallville you loved it. You loved waking up and knowing everyone the town felt safe. Then Clarks mom died and the Kent family moved back home. You loved visiting with your God sons especially when Jordan started developing his powers. But you noticed the stein in the relationship between Clark and Lois. The boys noticed also. Jon asked for advice about what too do or how he could help and you suggested too watch the boys for the weekend and Let your best friend have a romantic getaway with his bride…. When they returned they announced they were getting divorced. It shocked Everyone Lois instantly moved back too the the city. Jon naturally went so he could return too his friends and back on track too the football team. Jordan didn’t want too leave he was Happy in Smallville it probably Also had too do with the crush he had on a girl here. Clark was struggling you spent nights helping him drinking and wishing he could get drunk but He can’t. Knowing that drinking wouldn’t solve his problems you wished him some relief but. Downside too being a Alien. He can’t get drunk.

A few months passed you were over at the Kent farm drinking on the front porch Clark invited you over too have dinner since Jordan was In the city with his mom and Jon was also. It was a Rare night the house was quite. Clark was staring out at The field as you tossed your popcorn you were snacking on at him. One kernel and nothing. He didn’t flinched. He didn’t look over until the fifth kernel hit him. Right on the cheek that he turned too look at you.

He had a small smile on his face as you smiled back, ‘what you thinking there superman?’

He chuckled taking a long sip of his beer looking off, “why we break up?”

Chuckling you took a sip of your drink rolling your shoulder, the warm air made for a perfect night outside. Clark was relaxed. “The relationship we had when we were eight?”

He nodded his head, “yea. Ive been thinking about it. Lately I don’t remember why we broke up”

The only thing you could do was laugh a putting your drink down getting comfy on the chair. This wasn’t the conversation you expected too be having with Clark tonight. You were Hoping too maybe talk about convincing him too fix your boiler this weekend. Not about your Childhood relationship.

‘we were Eight.. I think- we broke up because you wanted me too move into your house and I wanted you too move into mine and we couldn’t decided.” He laughed loudly at that as you shook your head ‘why you thinking about that?”

“you never married.”

Staring at him you chuckled, “i’ve been close! Twice!” Clark shifted looking at you, ‘you were far too good for them but seriously you haven’t been out on a date since I returned home. No one special?”

“your talking like my mom Clark. Next you’ll be asking me when I will be giving you a godchild.’ He chuckled as he spoke, “I’m serious those. How is it possible? Your beautiful, brilliant unbelievably kind. How are you still single? I use too have too pull guys off you in school.”

“Oh please! No one wanted me in school.” Clark smiled as you looked at him.

“Why you so curious about my love life?”

“honestly I don’t know. I just.. kept thinking about it.”

Smiling weakly as you reached over poking him. “Aww is Clarkie getting a crush on me?”

He reached up catching your hand as he caught sight of you “what?. What if I do?”

‘Me?’

He looked at you confused at you. You shifted up too your feet as you paced “I mean.. I’m me.. Clark I’m boring. I’m So boring and ordinary.. I’m- I’m Me!”

Shifting too his feet. Clark grabbed your shoulders stopping your pacing as he spoke, “extraordinary, beautiful, amazing, stunning, I- can you stop me? I’m blabbering.”

Covering your mouth you looked. At Clark as you spoke, “Do I have too?”

Clark stared at you for a second before moving your hand and pulled you closer as he grasped your face and kissed you deeply. Your stomach had a knot in it. As it tighten as you felt your hand instantly grasp his head cuddling his closer too you. You only pushed back too breath as he pressed his forehead too yours as you breathed deeply as you spoke, “Holly Toast Clark.” You both broke into a soft laugh as you kissed him back.

Feeling him grip onto you as he lifted you up as your legs wrapped around his torso as he turned and pressed you against the side of the house as he held you respectfully on your sides. His hand held onto your hips. Your body felt like it was on fire. He reached up tracing his hand over your collarbone softly as he pulled back looking at you, “should we stop?’

Your head was foggy as you pressed your head against the side of the wall looking at him. You reached up touching his shoulders softly, “No.” he didn’t hesitate too kiss you again.

You didn’t realize you were sitting down in the kitchen until Clark pulled back too lift his shirt off. He went too kiss again but you reached your hand up too marvel at his chiseled pecks. “God Clark is it a alien thing too give you god like looks?” He chuckled at your comment telling you too shut up . You laughed as he kissed you again.

Your shirt was yanked off. Ripping as you gasped as he said sorry till he heard a engine he recognized the sound it was Lois’s Car he cursed out before grabbing you and your torn shirt and grabbed his shirt and you were in his bedroom.

You were stunned till you heard the front door open.

“Hey DAD!”

Hearing Jordan your eyes grew large quickly putting your shirt back on. Too only see it was ripped. You gasped quickly grabbing a plaid shirt as you went too talk until Clark Reached up covering your mouth singling too stay quite. He pointed too his ears as you remembered.. Jordan has super hearing. Which made you more terrified that he would Hear you! Clark walked out calling out too Jordan “Jordan? Hey. What you doing home/“

You looked around stunned NOW what? You have sneaked out of this house Hundreds of times But when you were sneaking out you were mainly just trying too hide from Clarks parents. He’s human parents who didn’t have super hearing Or any super abilities. Not Clarks teenage son!

“Hey Is Auntie Y/N here?” Hearing Jordan you fixed the shirt as you found Clarks coffee cup from this morning as you quietly spilt it over your torn shirt as you put it on under the plaid shirt as you walked downstairs as you spoke, “Hey Jor.”

They both looked at you stunned as you spoke up, “Jor life lesson! NEVER drink liquor- can you get drunk?” You stopped your statement with the realization Jordan may Never experience a hang over ever. Clark said he probably couldn’t as you groaned, “Damn I’m so jealous.”

“wait what?!" Jor stated as Clark coughed tol stop this conversation but you added.

“Oh. Now you got no excuses for stupid experiences in life.” Jordan chuckled as Clark said he was trying too limit those stupid experiences. You laughed ignoring the fact that your best friend just had you sitting on the counter that Jordan was leaning against now.

“what you doing in Dad’s shirt?”

Lois walked in with Jon as you spoke, “I spilt coffee all over my shirt and your dad let me borrow a shirt.”

“pretty late for a coffee” Lois stated as you rolled your shoulders, “It is Never too late for a ice coffee plus what is sleep?” She chuckled weakly as Clark asked what happened too cause everyone home as Jon spoke up, “Mom has a assignment in Spain.”

“Oh lucky!” You gasped as Lois shook her head, “Not really- Sorry clark for –“ “no it’s alright I’m. happy too hang with the boys this weekend.”

“Hey Aunt Y/N you want too watch wolf man?”

You gasped as you touched your heart, “your Movie tastes are Perfection! I taught you well grass hopper.” Jon chuckled as Jordan said he would make the popcorn as I spoke, “I probably need too sober up a bit before I drive home. You. Mind?” Asking Clark like he had a choice.

He shook his head saying it was fine. As Lois spoke, “rough night?” Turning too her you rolled your shoulders, “just had too many.. I forget clark can’t get drunk. I was keeping up with him.” She chuckled as Clark spoke, “why did’ you call?”

“I didn’t think you would mind.”

You slipped passed as they talked as you got into the living room sitting with the boys as they started the movie.

sitting on the sofa your mind burst with what Just happened!! you just made out with your Best friend!! What the heck!!

#fandom imagine #imagine #fandom #superman and lois imagine #superman and lois #superman imagine #superman #dc comics imagine #dc comics

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whump-town · 4 years ago

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Been Having A Hard Time Adjusting

Summary: Alternative to the peaceful homecoming of Emily Prentiss - Aaron Hotchner never truly comes home with her.

Warnings: medical trauma, amputation, scarring, blindness, mental health, hallucinations, sexual assault, self harm, and just sad stuff

Part One, Part Two

They find the sweet spot where nothing exists past the tip of his nose. Where his mind slips and he dissociates, gets caught in the old wall just a few feet away. In the spackled off-white paint. His eyes unfocused and unmoving. A nestled warmth where he finds himself outside his mind and body and bathed in entire numbness. Compliant to their overwhelmingly constant touches and questions. Without the heavy thrum of sedatives in his veins, he’ll kill himself. Tears stitches back open with his searching fingers to find where to dig and rip into the skin to feel the warmth of his blood.

“Is there someone we can call?” he’s given up. His fight depleted to leave him bareboned and dying. “You didn’t list anyone in your files but if you give us a name…” He hadn’t listed anyone for a reason. He’d wanted his death to be as nonexistent, as unpleasant as his life. So that the others might be given the chance to move on. So that his son will not think of him. He’ll slip through the cracks and they’ll just forget. It could go unnoticed. Now, he’ll be left to go slowly. They can place feeding tubes and restrain his mobile limbs but that will not breathe life back into him. He’s not active by any means but he’s reserved and he’s lost. He doesn't want to stay. He’s done.

He’s been fighting his whole life but he’s never been good at knowing when to give up.

There had been life in him, initially. In the back of his mind, he’d hoped for this eventual returning to his life. His old life. It’s a complicated, convoluted thought that he carries for a week. His presence of mind comes back slowly and the drugs can not hide what he knows intuitively. He finds the wounds on his face, holds his fingers near his right eye and the sight is… The doctors tell him it was shrapnel and that he’s lucky he has some sight in it at all and that there is no perceived brain damage. He looks at himself in the mirror. Looks at this man that he can not recognize.

There is a mass of bruises and wounds on his face. His eye isn’t easy to notice the pupil blown wide and a well-meaning doctor tells him that the scarring he’s typically used to seeing will happen over time. Just as many of the wounds on his face, they just need time to scar.

They sit with him, run their fingers along the wounds as they guess at which ones will heal and which ones he’ll never get rid of. “This one looks like lightning,” a nurse tells him like he’s supposed to appreciate finally understanding what Harry Potter looked like. Does she think Jack will appreciate that? That he’ll look at his father’s face and see a hero and not a horrible mess of these warped scars?

It’s sick, he knows. He’d never think these things about anyone else. But he looks in the mirror and he sees someone that he hates.

And it all goes to hell when Dave shows up.

It’s… He doesn’t know what day it is anymore but he’s turned away from the door of the room. Propped up on pillows and looking out the small window in his room. The physical therapist had come in to move him, forced him to practice moving from the bed to the wheelchair, and then from the wheelchair to the recliner, a nurse had kindly pushed in. He’s left alone because he’s content like this, turned like a flower to the sun. Eyes closed and nearly forgiving, compliant.

“Hotch...”

He jerks at the sudden intrusion. Panicking at the sight of the man before him. It’s a little too much. “D--Dave?” he hasn't spoken in so long that his voice grates and cracks. Tears sting his eyes and he chokes, crying as Dave steps towards him. Sobbing as Dave bends down and shakes his head, his own eyes filling with tears. “You came,” he whispers, leaning into the palm that Dave presses to his cheek. Warm and rough and here and he hadn’t realized how lonely he was. How tired of his own mind…

Dave looks like he always does, carefully suspended between two ages. His hair greying near the temples but his eyes betraying him and his age. He’s tanned, dressed softly in a way that makes Hotch feel like a young cadet all over again. As if he’s marching into the bullpen to meet his hero. But here he is. Dave is right here.

“You’re too thin,” Dave whispers, stroking his cheekbone. “Being a pain in their ass, huh?” He smiles, fondly and softly and Hotch feels its warmth in his chest, in his face. He nods and smiles even harder when Dave brings their heads together. Rustling Hotch’s hair playfully. “It’s good to see you, Hotch.”

He nods, unable to trust his voice. He closes his eyes, leans entirely into the touch.

“Aaron?”

He hums.

“I brought you lunch, sweetheart.”

Eyebrows furrowing at the sudden change, he opens his eyes. The room is empty. He’s still in the recliner. He looks for Dave, going frantic as he realizes there is no proof of Dave ever having been here. But he must have just fallen asleep. “I’m not hungry,” he whispers and lays limply, bites down against his tears as they hook up to the supplements they pump into him. The only way they can think to keep him alive for just a little longer.

Dave keeps coming.

He shows up as Hotch’s falling asleep, whispers through the exhaustion about the next morning. Smiles and assures Hotch he’ll be here when he wakes up. He never is. Emily comes. She brushes her fingers through his hair and he asks her to tell him one more time the names of the countries that she visited as a child. The ones she loved best. He needs her to do the accents to squeeze his hand and throw her head back with laughter but she squints her eyes. She shakes her head and never answers. Never tells him.

“Who are you talking to?”

Hotch blinks, confused but not nearly enough. Some part of him knows what this is but he needs them so desperately that it keeps him from falling apart. He’ll lean into this delusion because it is all he has. “No one,” he whispers but they know. The nurses, the doctors, the therapist. They've noticed.

He doesn’t know why (he knows exactly why).

There are no thoughts leading up to it (it’s everything, it’s all too much).

No ideations (he just wants to sleep…).

It hurts. He rips the IV from his hand with his teeth, grunting at the pain as the needle comes free. He means to run away but he looks down at his leg - to where his leg should be - and he sees red. He feels red. Digs his fingers into the gauze, crying out when he finds the stitches. The hole of mangled flesh and the warmth of his blood coating his fingers. He doesn’t get very far. Isn’t capable of enough damage - not to him, at least. He wants to do worse. To hit and scream and throw himself somewhere dark and cold to die.

He passes out in a puddle of his own blood. Wakes enough when the nurses come in, dragging in crash carts behind them. The head of the bed falling and his hands being moved away. He’s floating. Not really there. He feels the odd little dance of his heart in his chest like it’s stomping quickly to a rhythm not quite right.

He wakes… alive, unfortunately. They restrain him - his two mobile limbs. His left arm still pinned with crap he doesn’t care enough to look at. It’s not as humiliating as it would have been just a year ago. He’s too drugged, too laden to care about the strap they have to put over his thighs to keep him from moving the stump of his right leg. His right hand is held to the bed by the wrist. He looks at it, occasionally, tests the flection of the fingers, and sleeps.

He’s restrained for three weeks but he doesn’t try anything. Doesn’t move or speak. Just looks at the wall. For three weeks they watch him - it’s suicide watch but unbothered. He’s more of a pacifist, anyhow, maybe it would be helpful to know that’s a return of character for him - to just wither away instead. For a week they have this grey area where he’s never left alone during the day and the restraints go back on during the night. They turn on the TV and try to get him to eat but he can’t or maybe he just won’t. He ignores them.

Dave doesn’t come back.

He’s just too tired to care anymore.

He’s there for a month and makes no progress.

“Agent Hotchner.” His physical therapist lets himself into the room. There’s no use in asking to come in, he won’t answer. “I was thinking we work on transfers today,” the other man informs him. He pushes the wheelchair into the room. There’s no point in working with prosthetics, he fluctuates in weight too dangerously to keep them to size. Besides, he is too weak. Too weathered and caved to hold himself up. His left leg is cramped in that bed. He isn’t’ strong enough.

Hotch doesn’t do what they ask but he goes numbly into their directions. Spurring to life like a machine before sputtering back out. He’ll sit up but his movement is mechanical.

He goes elsewhere because they can’t come here.

To Derek. Falling asleep after long cases in the backseat of whatever beat-up car Gideon rented, their shoulders rocking back and forth. Waking for just a moment either leaning, if not held, in Morgan's lap or to find the other man sleeping on him. The unspoken nature of the two of them. Laughing in the bullpen and the time that he carried Morgan across a field because they fell down from some rafters of a barn that Gideon warned them about. They made it to the driveway and laid atop one another called Gideon to come get them. He remembers cracking his eyes open when Gideon had stood over him, shaking his head. “The two of you are nothing but trouble.”

It distracts him from the pain and the way that he can still feel his right leg. They tell him it’s phantom pain but he feels it. He wakes in the middle of the night certain he can wrap his fingers around where an ankle or a calf would be. Is certain his toes hit the end of the bed. He moves to transfer from the bed to the wheelchair and he still tries to put either on a leg that isn’t there.

He’s stationary and that’s how they find him.

Penelope finds him on Tuesday and it feels far too much like the morning she spent frantically calling hospitals to find him. His name isn’t given - not public because he’s American and he’s in a veterans hospital because the federal government won’t fork over the money it’s going to take to airlift him home. Besides, he’s got no family listed. No one to call and raise hell to get him home. No one to care. It’s hard to say they did until just a week ago… Hotch was always good at hiding in the emotional sense but he’s never been good at hiding himself. It made his childhood miserable for reasons with much higher stakes than just children’s hide and go seek.

Dave goes because the plane ticket is nothing and his absence will be fine. Emily tries to come but he tells her to stay, makes her stay. Hotchs’ done all this for a reason and he fears the state he’s going to find him in. Never mind, Emily’s still dead to Hotch - still someone who is dying and needs protection. It’s too much.

Dave drives an hour to Washington D.C. and takes a one stop flight straight to Pakistan. It’s nearly eighteen hours and with too little sleep he arrives at the hospital at 3 p.m.

David had taken to Hotch effortlessly. He’s just that sort of person-- the sort that draws you in with their mystery, with the kindness they couldn’t be bothered to pretend it’s so challengingly genuine. That’s just how Hotch’s always been. Honest but somehow so intuitive, knew things you could never remember telling him but right still. Always says the right things without ever telling you a thing. Until you’re a decade into a friendship with him and you can’t remember if he’s from the east coast or if he’s from the south or maybe if he’s ever had a pet or even what his favorite color is. Not because you didn’t pay attention but because he’s careful. Never tells more than necessary and he’s got that perfected.

And it’s how Dave knows something isn’t right.

Because Hotch could be dying and he’d never bother you. He’d never put you off by asking for a thing.

“At the two week mark he got an infection, his right leg was severely damaged in the accident. The wound and the leg started to necrotize. His organs started to shut down. Sepsis set in--”

Dave’s eyes snap to the doctor’s, sepsis. He looks back to the man in question. Hotch had this way about him, the way he moved and breathed and lived like those old stop motion pictures. Every moment so carefully constructed to create this flowing motion, entirely soundless. Dave has always thought he looked like the grasshopper from James and the Giant Peach with his too long limbs. Thin and pliable. Now, he rests heavily. That grace and flow stolen from him.

“Agent Rossi?” Dave tears his eyes away from Hotch, forces himself to concentrate once again on the doctor. “He’s… He’s been experiencing some rather unpleasant signs of post-traumatic stress. He won’t speak to the therapists on staff--” The doctor looks hopelessly to the man so oblivious to them. “We had to perform a unilateral bk-- we-- I amputated his right leg just below the knee.” By that time, Hotch had lost his abilities to make these decisions himself. Mind ravished by fevers, he was hallucinating. Seeing people that weren’t there.

Dave feels a knot form in his throat as his eyes wander. Slowly over those thin shoulders, down the curve of his back and the bones betray, the bones that protrude through his thin t-shirt. Down to… to see where one foot sits in the rest and the other stops. Where they’ve tied the access material of his sweatpants off.

“He has a prosthetic,” the doctor sighs. “We’ve had to resize it twice. We can’t-- We can’t do it again.” The doctor looks so impossibly exhausted. “They have to be... the prosthetics are advanced but fluctuations in weight ten pounds, even, that throws them off. He can’t keep weight on him and so we size them and then he loses more weight and he’s not getting stronger.” And it’s pointless. He won’t walk on the damn things. Refuses aids and he could walk, by now he could likely run and leap and move but he refuses much else aside that damned wheelchair. “He’s damaged the nerves, the bone, that I don’t know if he’ll be able to use a prosthetic.”

Dave doesn’t need any of that explained to him.

He understands it all too well.

Dave shakes his head. Clearing his throat rouses through his trousers, pulls out his wallet, “if money is the issue--” He hands the man the cards Dave thinks he might need. “Size them,” he asks. “Size them one more time and let me take him home.”

The doctor shakes his head, “Agent, maybe… maybe I’ve betrayed your confidence here.” He sighs, “sir, he’s not well. He doesn’t speak. Not to a soul except in his sleep and he screams. In-- In agony, in fear. He wakes and he has no memory of this happening. Denies our therapy. He doesn’t eat. He sustains on intravenous fluids and a feeding tube which he once fought but now doesn’t even… He’s prone to chronic infections.” The doctor frowns sympathetically to Dave and he is truly upset with this prognosis. Of his patients' negligence to himself and it might be good to finally have someone here for the man but he can not be released. Not without imminent danger. It couldn’t even be recommended he make the trip to another hospital.

“Do what you can?” Dave pleads.

And the doctor wants to break down, to confirm that they have. Everything they can think of. From tough love to entirely too understanding. Everything they have ever been trained to do. He isn’t responding. But Dave isn’t hearing it.

Dave crouches down in front of Hotch, placing himself directly in his line of sight. “Hotch?” He reaches, slowly, up towards him because Dave knows to expect a flinch. No matter how many miles Hotch puts between himself and his childhood, it still comes back in the little moments like these. But Dave’s fingers ghost across cold, pale flesh and there is nothing. No flinch or recoil or even an in-take of startled breath. Only empty eyes.

He’s still so foolishly hopeful. There has to be something, an ember to send to life. He’s just in need of a little poking, the right words and the right commands and he’ll come back. “Hotch,” Dave calls once more. He smiles, cupping Hotch’s cold cheek in the palm of his hand. “Aaron,” he amends because, of course, Hotch won’t answer to his first name. It’s impersonal. Everyone knows it. Hotch is sacred. It’s something entirely their own.

Dave had assumed the doctor was a fool. What could this stranger know about his Aaron? But… this isn’t even his Hotch. This isn’t Hotch at all.

David Rossi has no idea who this man is but he’s not Hotch.

The physical therapist makes his way over, wheelchair pushed out in front of him as he edges closer. Looking between Dave and Hotch, trying to make sure the doctor’s okay for him to come is genuinely welcomed. Dave stands up out of the way, taking a short step back as he watches, numbly, the way the therapist talks to Hotch. The gentle way he kneels down and makes sure that Hotch’s eyes find him before he speaks again. “How are you doing, big guy? Up for the trip back?” he gets no answer, which Dave is growing to find less and less surprising.

“Alright,” the therapist answers as if Hotch has said something, like he’s even acknowledged the other man’s presence. “I think that pretty nurse--” the therapist locks the wheelchair and sets it up for ease transfer. “You remember?” the therapist asks all without breaking stride, like he’s having an active conversation with Hotch. “Well, I”m sure you remember, don’t you? You know, the pretty nurse Amy? Tall? Brunette? Damn, man, I swear I’m in love.” The therapist taps Hotch’s right knee and it spurs Hotch to life. He sits up and the therapist keeps talking as Hotch makes slow, lazy movements to push himself to the edge of the chair. “She asked me out for drinks tonight.” The therapist puts his arms under Hotch's, ready to step in and guide if Hotch can't do it himself. “I’m getting drinks with the hot nurse, isn’t that great?”

Dave watches silently.

Hotch maneuvers himself easily enough, his left hand is still covered in bandages, but he places his weight on one arm and one leg. The movement isn’t entirely sophisticated but it gets him where he needs to be - seated in the wheelchair without help from either of them men standing close.

The physical therapist kicks the breaks down. His smile startles Dave, mostly because of its brightness despite the dreary mood of everything else around them. The physical therapist grins at both of them - his spit and shine nearly a bit too much. “So,” the therapist hums. “Do I need to worry about this guy taking my spot as your best friend? I mean, we’re friends, right, but do we have to compete for the throne of best friend?”

Hotch’s head raises, glancing up at the therapist and Dave feels himself choke, as if punched at the look in his eyes. They stop, the therapist shooting Dave a glance before he kneels down. He places a hand on Hotch’s leg, the two of them eye-level with one another. The therapist clears his throat, solemnly offering, “he’s real, Aaron.” He glances up at Dave, motioning him closer.

Dave takes a stiff step closer - biting down to prevent himself from huffing an agitated breath at the younger man when he’s only beckoned closer. Until he’s kneeling down beside Hotch as well, his chest tight at the way Hotch’s eyes dart to him but seek comfort in the therapist.

“Who is this, Aaron?”

Hotch’s eyes dart to Dave, his dry lips parting but falling closed without an answer. He looks away, flushing with embarrassment at his inadequacy. Dave feels his throat tighten like a vice, begging someone to explain what’s happening here. He’d been told Hotch didn’t have any brain damage and that while nightmares and hallucinations had plagued his waking state, he was fine. Those were symptoms of PTSD and the hallucinations had abated and likely, the nightmares would too once his physical body is able to start to heal.

“You know,” the therapist prods. “Introduce me, Hotch.”

Dave moves, shifting as if to speak to beat Hotch to the chase and the therapist cuts him a look. He doesn’t say a word.

“Aaron,” the physical therapist takes his unharmed hand, trying to solidify Hotch’s attention. “Please? He’s real. Just like you and I, okay? You can tell me.”

Hotch turns his attention to his knees and Dave feels his conviction, feels the way Hotch has solidified his final opinion - Dave isn’t here. He looks at his lap, pulling his hand back to pick at his nails. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. He can’t bring himself to say it. Doesn't want to look at Dave and have him disappear again. Doesn’t want to feel his heart get broken again when Dave disappears.

Dave is stopped, he means to move forward to maybe grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Hotch does know. Of course he knows. Dave has known him since he was a twenty-something punk-ass kid with untailored suits and a shitty Windsor knot. He’s his best friend…

“Okay,” the therapist caves and shoots Dave a look that conveys all that it needs to: he’s to fall back. “That’s okay,” the therapist assures him. It’s pointless, Hotch has worked himself to the point of tears over what Dave had thought was a simple question and Dave feels like he’s been kicked in the head.

They go on without another word. None of them speaking. Dave watches Hotch cry, a few soft tears that trail down his face while he glares down at his lap. He wants to say something. To reassure Hotch or to remind him. Hell, anything is better than this silence that they’ve fallen into.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner

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dogduocatquartet · 3 years ago

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@kung-slinger i genuinely almost don’t know what to say to this reply, it reads as if you didn’t even look at my post before responding. i specifically said very clearly that i don’t have anything against pit bulls and nowhere did i imply anything about violence being a need for that or any other breed of dog.

dogs will more often than not prefer to avoid fighting, they have a complex language which in large part consists of navigating around conflict (similar to wolves, since you bring that up, since they’re both social species and good communication skills are essential for functioning in groups). there are many breeds of dog that, due to a number of factors, have weaker or less clear body language than others (language between dogs is also in no small part learned, so socialization is also a factor here). pit bulls are generally considered one of these breeds, which makes a lot of the signals they send out disappear or get misunderstood, leading to heightened stress and may accidentally end up in a fight/bite even though the pit bull may have been trying to signal “i need some space”. the exact same could be said for a retriever with poor body language due to lacking socialization. a lot of owners also punish dogs’ ways of communication, such as growling (“leave me alone”), unintentionally leading to their language growing even poorer and instead of a ladder of escalating signals, the dog in question may end up jumping straight from “this is starting to become uncomfortable” to biting, rather than modifying their language accordingly and having opportunity to remove themselves from the situation. none of this is exclusive to pit bulls, but a higher tendency of conflicts CAN be seen in breeds that have poor body language, just as with dogs that are poorly socialized with other dogs.

if the word “aggression” makes you uncomfortable, let’s call it “stress” instead. a stressed dog may engage in behavior we consider aggressive, so these often overlap or are basically interchangeable anyway. some breeds are more predisposed to stress around either other members of the same sex as them or just other dogs in general, though again there are many factors to consider as to why this is. it’s been a while since i read up on this specifically, so anyone is free to correct me on this, but breeds with same-sex stress often have a higher production of hormones, making them more “competitive” with members of the same sex. for wolves, this can be a useful trait if they break off from their original family group (that’s generally what wolf packs are; two parent wolves and their children) to mate, establish their own territory, and create a new familial group (aka pack). akitas, frenchies, shibas, and st. bernards are some other dog breeds that have a relatively high occurrence of same-sex stress. terriers, guarding breeds, and herding dogs tend to have this in higher degrees than hunting or companion breeds. but again, ymmv.

stress, aggression, fights etc. between dogs are also often triggered by resource guarding. any dog can have issues with resource guarding, but breeds that have typically been bred to guard often have a higher tendency of this, and may be quicker to escalate the situation, because that’s what they’ve been bred for. dogs that have been bred to be independent and guard the home also have a higher tendency to “deal with” conflicts on their own, than dogs bred to be more handler-oriented. again, these are things to consider when getting a dog. for some people, these traits are desirable, for some they’re a downside that other traits weigh up for, for others it’s a dealbreaker. all of these are fine, and should honestly be encouraged more, because, as i said, not all dogs are suited for any person, and not all people are suited for any dog.

the reason pit bulls are often overrepresented in discussions of shelters/rescues is partly because it’s more of an umbrella term than a very coherent breed, referring to bull-type terriers and mixes thereof. there technically IS the american pit bull terrier, though this is not a breed recognized by the FCI or the AKC. regardless, a lot of different dogs often get lumped into the same category, especially when the history of the dog is unknown and it kind of looks like a bull-type terrier breed. ive seen plenty of “pit bulls” that probably have more pinscher or molosser/mastiff in them than bull-type terriers. so just on that alone, you have a huge span of dogs with varying temperaments and historical uses, and that’s before you consider more “immediate” factors like genetic lines and socialization (or nurture, if you will). there’s also the fact that due to their appearance, history, and reputation, there are a lot of terrible bull-type breeders out there, who breed for unethical reasons or for profit, which in turn produces a higher amount of dogs with poor backgrounds and poor parentage, which in turn makes a lot of these dogs end up in shelters (good breeders will commonly take the dogs back if there’s an issue or the owner has to surrender it, so more bad breeders = more dogs in shelters). this is not the dogs’ fault, obviously. in my experience, huskies and border collies are also breeds that make up a big chunk of shelter populations, because they might be cute when they’re puppies, but they often end up being more demanding than someone just wanting a family dog can handle. no amount of nurture can change an individual dog’s energy level or need for stimulation. what you CAN do is meet the dog’s needs. this is not the same thing as nature vs nurture. i cant love or train away a husky’s energy level, but i can let it use its natural resources by taking it for longer/more frequent walks/runs, maybe do some sledding/pulling/packing with it, making it a happier and more well-adjusted dog.

i recently saw a family with a staffordshire bull terrier who was very sweet with them and all around a great dog, but who would bark and pull incessantly whenever he’d see another dog. they had no idea how or why this happened, as he was otherwise really nice and they’d tried to socialize him a lot as a puppy. turns out, what they’d done when the dog was younger was let him meet every single dog they saw or walked past on the street, which created an expectation which created stress which ended up in very strong “stay away from me!!!” signals (barking, showing teeth, leaning forward). this is extremely common for dog owners of all breeds and it’s honestly both annoying and saddening, because no dog needs to befriend every dog they happen across, and it’s often counterproductive and create stress instead, especially since leashes limit a dog’s body language. your dog can hate every other dog in the world, but as long as they can walk past them without acting out, it’s literally not a problem. some dog breeds are less inclined to get along with other dogs, and that’s fine! they don’t need to hang with other dogs to be happy and if you train them to walk past other dogs it’ll likely never be an issue. like i said earlier on, dogs will almost always try to avoid conflict when they can, so you’ll be doing you, your dog, and other people and dogs a favor if you stop trying to “socialize” your dog that doesn’t like other dogs with said other dogs, and instead focusing on walking well on a leash. which is something that all dog owners should be aware of, not just owners of breeds that aren’t generally sociable with other dogs or people outside its family, which are typical traits of bull-type terriers.

and just to sum it up and really spell it out: i don’t think any dog is born “aggressive”. i think genetics, socialization, instincts, and training all play a role, and sometimes you can do everything right and still get a stressed dog that may lash out. dogs have also been selectively bred for all kinds of purposes by humans for thousands of years, so dogs of different breeds and origins may have very different behaviors, reactions, and instincts that we’ve often deliberately created. it’s bizarre and just plain wrong to state that all dogs and all dog breeds are born essentially with the same configuration and everything else is just “nurture”. pit bulls are often singled out or used as examples like in the post i reblogged because of their high density in shelters combined with their bad reputation, media sensationalism, and stereotypes. they’re not inherently worse or better than other dogs. they’re similar to rottweilers to me; fine dogs, can be great family pets, but you should know what you’re getting beforehand because they’re big strong dogs that may possess strong prey drive, same-sex stress, or guarding instincts + for which there are a lot of shitty breeders. id say the same for poodles or retrievers honestly; they can be high energy and were originally hunting dogs, so you should do your research, as with any other breed. i feel like over-defending and figuratively “defanging” pit bulls may end up doing more harm than good, even if the intentions are good, because downplaying a dog or breed’s potentially negative traits and specific needs will likely just result in the dog ending up with people who don’t know what they’re doing and who were expecting, like.. a bichon in terms of temperament and drive. how about we all just have a normal, neutral, informed approach to these breeds instead of this insane, eternal discourse where both sides can be equally fanatical? thanks

#replies #dogblr #dogs #long post #????? you are projecting thoughts and opinions i do not have and have never expressed onto me

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infinitelytheheartexpands · 4 years ago

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My Personal Opinions on Some French Grand Opéras

Here we go. I’ll be focusing solely on pieces in what’s widely considered the “Golden Age” of grand opéra (from 1828 to about 1870).

1828, Auber: La muette de Portici: never seen or heard so I cannot comment, but I do think it slaps that it helped start both the Belgian Revolution and the genre of grand opéra.

1829, Rossini: Guillaume Tell: I love this one. it’s one of the few grand opéras that has a happy ending and it’s fully deserved. it’s long but it all has a point-- the first act introduces us to the community spirit that drives the rest of the action; even though it’s called Guillaume Tell, it’s not just about Guillaume Tell. it’s about a whole movement coming together, with all these vividly-drawn people of different social statuses, ages, heritages, and livelihoods coming together to do good in the world in the face of oppression. also it’s Rossini so it bops start to finish. the finale is one of opera’s best. I could not have higher praise and admiration for this piece.

1831, Meyerbeer: Robert le diable: another rare case of a grand opéra with a happy ending, but it feels a bit more contrived, something I wrote about when I watched it about a year ago for the first time. it’s quite a clever ending, however, and I love that these lovely characters get a happy ending. Robert is the least interesting principal character both musically and dramatically; the musical highlights of the show are mostly Bertram and Isabelle’s big scenes. the former is also arguably grand opéra’s most exciting ballet sequence, the Act III ballet of the nuns (or as I like to call it, the Zombie Nun Ballet). it’s long but it is incredibly worth it. overall, I really do enjoy this opera although it is very much an uneven piece.

1833, Auber: Gustave III, ou le bal masqué: here’s a thing I wrote about it like 3 months ago and I stand by every word.

1835, Halévy: La juive: It’s damn near impossible to find an even remotely close to complete recording. However, what the recordings have is excellent. The score is marvelous all the way through, although for the most part I tend to prefer the ensembles to the arias (the exception, of course, being Éléazar’s 11 o’clock number). Speaking of Éléazar, he’s an extremely complicated and frankly uncomfortable character, toeing the line between being one of opera’s most complex characters, an even more complicated proto-gender-swapped-Azucena if you will, and being an unfortunate vessel of antisemitic stereotypes. This is made even more complicated because Halévy was an assimilated Jewish composer. On the whole, Rachel is the only wholly sympathetic character in the piece, although all five of the principals are lovingly scored.

1836, Meyerbeer: Les Huguenots: *holds things in because otherwise I would write an entire essay about this opera and you all know that because I have done that several times* Both a great strength and a great weakness of this piece is its sheer wide-ranging-ness, particularly in terms of mood. Unlike, say, La juive, this opera does not have one overall mood, instead steadily progressing from bright, brilliant comedy to one of the most horrifying endings in opera. Dramatically, this is great for the most part, although the sheer amount of exposition in the first two acts may take getting used to. Just as the drama gets more intense and concentrated as the opera goes on, the music gets more intense- and frankly, more often than not better- as the opera goes on. The window/misunderstood engagement business is something I still struggle to see the exact dramatic purpose of, because I think the question of religious difference would likely be enough to separate Raoul and Valentine at the beginning anyway; to me, it feels like Scribe and Deschamps were struggling to find a way to integrate Nevers into the story, as he is crucial to the opera’s lessons about love and tolerance, so they stuck in a quasi-love-triangle in order to justify his presence earlier on. (Also, for goodness sake, could you at least have given him an onstage death scene?) Anyway, in this way the story can be a bit unwieldy and uneven at first, but stay the course with this one...and even a lot of the first couple of acts are wonderful. The characters are all wonderfully written if rather episodic in many cases, but this opera is ambitious and by the end, it’ll tear your heart to shreds. It’s amazing. Uneven, yes, but amazing nonetheless, and I will defend it to the death.

1840, Donizetti: La favorite: I’m not as familiar with La favorite as with some of the others on this list (I’ve seen two different productions once each and I have a recording of it saved to my Spotify library that I listen to bits and pieces of very occasionally) but I do think it’s an excellent piece overall. LÉONOR DESERVED SO MUCH BETTER. The music is lovely all around; I know Donizetti wrote at least one other grand opéra in full and part of another, both of which I need to check out because in its own way, Donizetti’s style works wonderfully with grand opéra.

1841: Halévy, La reine de Chypre: here is a post I wrote about La reine de Chypre. basically all my thoughts remain the same except I have to add: Halévy as a whole just needs more love. there’s a few other of his operas I have waiting (a recording of Le dilettante d’Avignon that has been sitting in my Spotify for who knows how long and a film of Clari with Bartoli and Osborn I’m also sitting on) but there are so many pieces that sound fascinating but have basically ZILCH in terms of recordings.

1849, Meyerbeer: Le prophète: before I say anything else about this opera, I need to ask a burning question: WHY THE HELL IS THERE ONLY ONE GOOD VIDEO RECORDING OF THIS OPERA?!?! on the one hand, I adore the Osborn/Aldrich/Fomina production; on the other, I would also like other productions, please. anyway, I said one time in the opera Discord that while Les Huguenots will probably always be my favorite Meyerbeer opera for an array of reasons, this one is definitely Meyerbeer, Scribe, and Deschamps’ strongest work. it is both unusually dark and unusually believable for an opera of its time—and the fact that it still holds up so well is disturbing to say the least. this opera thrives on complexity in all forms and yet has probably (and paradoxically) the simplest plot to follow of the four Meyerbeer grand opéras. the score is brilliant start to finish, mixing the best of bel canto, Romanticism, and something altogether darker, stranger, and more original. definitely one of the most underrated operas ever. the aforementioned production is on YouTube with French subtitles; give it a watch here.

1855, Verdi: Les vêpres siciliennes: Vêpres is an opera I love dearly although I have yet to find a production that is completely satisfying. I think it’s because this opera is a lot deeper, a lot more complex, and a lot more troubling, frankly, than people are willing to go. also it should be performed bilingually and I am dead-set on this: the dissonance of an opera about French capture of Italian land being sung entirely in either French or Italian is always a little off at least (and also part of the reason why my brain probably adjusted to hearing this opera in either language better than, say, Don Carlos). but anyway, neither side comes off particularly well here, particularly due to the violence and sexual assault on both sides of the equation: both Montfort and Procida are heavily in the wrong, and while Verdi sympathizes with both for personal reasons (Verdian Dad in the former case, Italian Liberator in the latter), there is a lot of troubling stuff in here. nevertheless, the music bops, the story is intriguing, and I think we can all agree that Henri and Hélène both deserved better, especially considering how close they got to bliss (although I think we can also all agree that the end of Act IV twist to almost-rom-com is pretty abrupt).

1863 (full opera: 1890), Berlioz: Les Troyens: I wrote this review of Troyens after watching it in the Châtelet 2003 production in December 2019 (first time ever watching it) and I still stand by just about every word. Such a fascinating opera, great adaptation of the first few books of the Aeneid, marvelous score (of course, it’s Berlioz!)...but could there be a ballet or two fewer, Berlioz? Or at least shorten them up? And that’s coming from someone who likes ballet. But anyway, in every other respect it’s absolutely marvelous. Some people say it’s the greatest French opera ever, and while I hesitate to say that, it comes pretty damn near close.

1865, Meyerbeer: L’Africaine (Vasco de Gama): Vasco da Gama/L’Africaine is even more troubling—much more troubling—of an opera than Vêpres to me and I wrote a whole thing here as to why. I still stand by most of it, although upon reflection, I feel like the ending that drove me so crazy has virtually the exact same idea behind it as the end of Troyens/Book IV of the Aeneid: empire has consequences and those consequences hurt real people, who, though different and not among those perceived as “heroic”, are worthy of being treated as human, not being collateral damage. (I’ve written at least two essays about this for different classes, both specifically in regards to the Aeneid.) It may be time to revisit this one. The score is lovely, after all, although it didn’t stand out to me as much as others by Meyerbeer.

1867, Verdi: Don Carlos: *holds myself back from writing a 10-page essay* y’all, there is a reason that when someone asks me what my favorite opera is, I always choose this one even though I’m horrible at favorites questions. it’s Verdi, grand opéra, romantic drama (SO MUCH romantic drama and SO MUCH gay), political drama, religious/social struggle, personal struggle, social commentary, spectacle, intimacy, masterful characterization all in one. what more could you want? I first saw/heard this opera in Italian long before I did in French, so my brain is more hardwired to hearing the Italian but both are good. my motto is “Italian or French, I don’t care, but Fontainebleau has to be there.” fuck the four-act version. I mean, I will watch four-act versions but five-act versions are just superior. I’d prefer uncut performances (the first part of the garden, the Lacrimosa, the extended opening and ending), but these aren’t dealbreakers for me. it’s the perfect synthesis of Verdi and grand opéra, much less unwieldy than Vêpres (as much I love that one), both musically and dramatically.

1868, Thomas: Hamlet: Part of me wishes this was more faithful to the actual source play (why??? the??? fuck??? does??? Hamlet??? live??? although there are alternate endings), but part of me also realizes that the play is already four hours long as is and singing it plus ballet would make it WAY too fucking long. This does a pretty respectable job. The music is gorgeous, by turns almost sugary-sweet and thrillingly ominous. The Murder of Gonzago scene is an absolute masterpiece. The Mad Scene is justifiably one of opera’s best (although I’m not sure it was a good idea to have that and a frequently-cut 20-minute ballet with no relation whatsoever to the main plot to make up all of Act IV). There are a lot of bops in this one. The four principals are closely followed and still very well-drawn. Both of the stagings I have seen were excellent. An underrated opera.

1869 (grand opéra version), Gounod: Faust: Another of my absolute favorite operas. Since this existed for a decade before its transformation into the grand opéra we all know and love, I won’t comment much about its actual format and adherence to grand opéra tropes aside from saying the Walpurgisnacht ballet is one of grand opéra’s best and extremely good at giving off Vibes TM. I used to hate how the character of Faust was written and thought he was incredibly boring. Not anymore (although of course, I still hate him as a person. fuck him tbh). This opera has a reputation for being saccharine and old-fashioned and I think that’s a bunch of garbage right there. It’s about the search for eternal youth and the expectations of conforming to social values and people’s struggles with themselves when a) they “fall short” and b) when the world ostracizes them for being “different” and “out of line”. I am also firmly convinced that Marguerite is the real protagonist of Faust (like how I’m convinced that Valentine is the protagonist of Les Huguenots if there even is a singular protagonist in that opera but I digress). The music slaps. People need to stop cutting whole scenes out of this. I’m still undecided on the order of the church and square scenes of Act IV. Marguerite and Siébel just need everything good in this world.

Anyway, those are my two cents! I tried to keep these pretty short, so if y’all want any follow-ups, let me know!

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petri808 · 3 years ago

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Bakudeku canon divergent, vampire quirk AU

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24

“How are you holding up son, are you eating enough food? You need to keep up your strength.” Mitsuki Bakugou questioned through the phone when her son called to give her an update.

“Yeah, yeah, of course I am! And, um, thanks for the money you put in my account,” Bakugou mumbled his appreciation.

“It’s from us, Inko, and All Might— actually he’s been putting up the bulk of it. We’re all hoping you find Izuku soon, but until then we’ll make sure you have what you need, just bring him home.”

“I’m working on it. Bastard’s not making it easy, but at least the damn authorities haven’t picked up on the trail yet.” It was a good thing, because Bakugou didn’t need them scaring Midoriya further away.

“You’re like a dog with a bone when you put your mind to something, so I know you’ll find a way.”

“I can’t believe you just equated me to a dog!”

“Oh, bite your tongue boy! It’s an expression!”

“Yeah, yeah. I better go, the train’s here.” He could see it pulling into Kawaji station.

“Are you still not gonna tell us where you are?”

“Nope. He moves around a lot anyways. Just know we haven’t left Honshu.”

“Alright. Good luck son. I’ll pass on your update to Inko and All Might.”

This game of hide and seek was physically wearing on Bakugou, but there was nothing short of a full incapacitation that would keep him from searching. After the Ena incident, Midoriya’s tactics had changed somewhat. The man moved more frequently and, in a zigzag, whereas in the past it had been heading in a straight line towards Shizuoka to the southwest. But there was one thing Midoriya couldn’t hide— victims. It didn’t take a genius to put the pieces together.

There were still times victims were drained, but not all of them. Bakugou surmised in order to not leave them fully incapacitated like before, his friend wasn’t always waiting until he was hungry, or he hadn’t learned to control it yet. He probably fed almost nightly, picking drunkards who wouldn’t remember what happened, and even less likely to report the incident. But less reports made it harder to track, and less blood also forced Midoriya to drink more often. Bakugou hoped that with shorter times between attacks, the man would get sloppy and make a mistake.

There were a lot of small towns all over, including abandoned structures from older times. Plenty of places to hide, not to mention dense forests and the mountainous terrain of central Japan that a person could disappear in. When tracking a lack of victim reports grew frustrating, Bakugou started looking for other clues, and in one town, a perceptive police officer commented about thefts he’d been hearing about from the surrounding areas. Random stores or restaurants, even some homes reporting the theft of food, sometimes clothing, basically survival type supplies but no valuables, which are not the norm of a burglary. It was brilliant.

Bakugou had thanked the officer for the information and immediately began inquiring in towns and watching newspapers where they were having both types of problems. It took almost a month, including a couple of near misses, until Bakugou knew he was closing in.

Local newspapers were reporting about unusual happenings in the smaller towns. In Ieyama city, high up in the mountains north of Shizuoka, Bakugou spoke with a police officer and confirmed a rash of strange incidents reported. Three burglaries of just food, one bath house broken into after closing, and a couple of reported attacks where the victims had marks on their necks. So far, Izuku’s new behaviors included sticking around the same area for about a week before moving on. With these latest cases only 3 days old in total, Bakugou knew they were a fresh lead.

“Yesterday, right?”

“Yes, the last burglary was in the afternoon while the homeowner was at work.” Using a paper map, the police officer showed Bakugou the location of the most recent burglary as well as two others over the last couple of days. It was very telling. The three places were centered around a 4-block radius. “If you are looking for hiding spots, there is an abandoned factory in that area. I’ll give you the address.”

“Thanks. I doubt they’d stay so close to the attack grounds, but I’ll check it out.” He didn’t want any of them following him.

It was still daylight, but Bakugou didn’t want to waste any time and risk his friend moving again after dark, heading straight for the dilapidated warehouse. The place looked like it had been emptied for a longtime. There was a rusted, chain link fence around the property, many broken windows, and weeds growing over the structure. Bakugou crept up to one of the windows, and heard nothing, so he moved slowly, quietly around the exterior paying close attention to any sounds or movements inside. But he heard nothing to indicate anything was there, not even an animal. Maybe it was another dead end, or maybe Midoriya was just sleeping. Un-phased, he moved inside the two-story building to make absolutely sure.

It took a while to search cautiously through the darkness, watching his step so not to step on anything or make a noise. The vastly open bottom floor was almost completely empty aside from a few left behind junk. So, Bakugou moved to the second floor where offices once were. Of all the areas, the top floor would provide the warmest cover, as well as quicker access to the roof. Like a trained tactical soldier, he cleared room after room, moving down the hallway that separated the individual offices, and one by one, eliminating them from the search. Finally, Bakugou reached the last one and heard the soft breathing of a sleeping person. Well, that meant two options, it’s just a homeless person or he’d finally caught his friend off guard.

Bakugou peered cautiously around the door frame. It was dark, but just enough light from a small window allowed his eyes to adjust quickly on a form lying down on the floor. Next to the person was a backpack, empty food containers strewn around, and possibly other items from the burglaries. There was also a make-shift hearth of broken bricks and a metal bowl with dark residue inside. He could even smell the light scent of soot mixed with burnt wood. ‘Gotcha!’ He smirked as he pocketed his flashlight and pulled out a special pair of handcuffs used to dampen quirks. It didn’t completely shut down a person’s quirk, but it kept them from using its full power. He was ready for Midoriya this time.

‘Almost there…’ he crept forward in a crouched manner ready to pounce like a predator stalking its prey in careful movements since he no longer had the flashlight out to see by. ‘Damn minefield,’ Bakugou grumbled as he navigated around the strewn mess of stuff the sleeping man had around him. ‘Almost there—'

*Crunch*

A piece of glass shattered below his boot, the sounds reverberating off the silent cement walls. “Shit!” Bakugou dove forward when Midoriya immediately popped up and tried to dash away. “Not this time nerd!”

“Waaahhhcchan!” Midoriya screamed as he was tackled to the floor. The two men fought, vying for footing, but the blonde kept them on the ground. Bakugou grabbed for and slapped one end of the handcuffs onto one of Midoriya’s wrists. “Nooo!” The man screamed.

“Not this time Deku! You ain’t getting away!”

Weakened by the cuff, Bakugou poured all his strength into jerking the disheveled man, flipping him onto his stomach, and tweaking his arm behind him into a wrist lock for leverage.

Midoriya screamed again from the pain, but nevertheless fought with all he had. Unfortunately, the cuffs were doing their job. “Please, Kacchan! Don’t do this!”

“Tough shit!” Bakugou snapped back and attached the other cuff to his own wrist. The effects would hamper them both, but “I dare you, nerd, you can’t beat me in a contemporary fight.” He was confident of such, having always been the physically stronger of the two regardless of quirk. “I’m taking you home!”

Midoriya wriggled, and tugged, but it was of no use. His friend had planted his feet, dropped his weight, and refused to budge. He didn’t want to risk exhausting himself and triggering a full-blown thirst like last time, so he stopped struggling.

After a few seconds, Bakugou got off the man and turned him over so he could sit up. Midoriya nursed his arm and rubbed at his wrist to soothe the pain. “Of course, I want to go home,” he sighed. “But it’s too dangerous Kacchan, why can’t you understand that?”

“Eri’s getting better every day, one day she’ll be able to control her quirk and fix you.”

“That’s not good enough. What are you gonna do, lock me up hoping she can fix me?! You saw what happened! Just like we eat food every day, I need blood, how are you gonna deal with that?!”

“Fine,” Bakugou shrugged, “we’ll hook you up to an IV and feed you blood when you need it.”

“No,” Midoriya started tugging again as tears flowed down his cheeks. “Please,” he begged, “this is too embarrassing, don’t you understand! I’ll never be able to be a hero again, my reputation will be ruined once everyone finds out! Hero society will look bad! It’s better I stay away!”

Frustrated with having his wrist yanked, Bakugou whipped his friend around and put him in a carotid choke hold. “Well, I’m not fucking leaving,” he spat, “so, we need to come up with a solution. Now stop fucking fighting me and get it through your head, the reality is I’m not going anywhere.”

Midoriya clawed at Bakugou’s arm trying to pull it away from his neck, but the man had it cinched in tight. If he kept struggling, he was bound to pass out. Exhausted, he finally relented and turned into a dead weight, sobbing quietly. “Why are you doing this, Kacchan… why?”

“Because a friend once told me I need to save to win, and right now you need to be saved for me to win.”

“Right? Win, I get it,” Midoriya narrowed his eyes along with tone. “This is an ego thing? You’ll take me back to show how you’re still better than me?” His heart didn’t believe those words, but as a coping mechanism, it did.

Bakugou let go of the man and shoved him so hard Midoriya face planted on the floor, stretching the handcuff chain to its limit. “I ought’a punch your lights out for saying that! I’m trying to win my friend back you asshole! You think I’d spend all this time chasing you if I didn’t care?!”

“Kacchan…” The man sighed and slowly propped himself back up. “There’s nowhere safe for me to go.”

Bakugou ignored the man and looked at his watch, noting the sun would have fully set by now. It might best to stay another night while he came up with a plan. “Tch, I’ll figure something out. In the meantime, behave or I will just knock you unconscious.”

“Fine, I won’t fight. But I do need to feed tonight.” Midoriya lifted his arm to flash the cuff. “Guess you’ll have to help me.”

“Why? You feeling the urge?” Midoriya nodded yes. “How can you tell?”

Midoriya thought about the answer for a minute before responding. “It’s like feeling dehydrated, maybe, at least in the beginning, but then it starts to get painful if I don’t feed it. I guess think of it like if you don’t eat for so long your stomach hurts— that’s what it’s like.”

“Sounds like it sucks.”

Midoriya snorted. “Understatement. It takes control of my mind by that point, almost as if it’s a survival instinct to protect itself.”

“Well, mister know it all. You ever heard of this kind of quirk before?”

“No,” Midoriya shook his head.

“Do the vestiges have anything to say about all this?”

Again, Midoriya shook his head.

Bakugou groaned and ran a hand down his face. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter for the current situation.” He looked up again fixing a stare at his friend. “So, what do you do to get the blood?”

#bakudeku #bkdk #bakudeku au #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #bakudeku fan fic #bakudeku fan fiction #vampire quirk #katsudeku #ktdk #ch 7 #bloody passion #eventual smut

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theheartsmistakes · 4 years ago

Text

The Last Night Part XXIII

Parts I-XXII:

Here is Part I

Here is Part II

Here is Part III

Here is Part IV

Here is Part V

Here is Part VI

Here is Part VII

Here is Part VIII

Here is Part IX

Here is Part X

Here is Part XI

Here is Part XII

Part XIII

Part XIV

Part XV

Part XVI

Part XVII

Part XVIII

Part XIX

Part XX

Part XXI

Part XXII

XXIII.

Alastair watched his sister play with her dolls on the rug in the sitting room from the second to last step on the landing. A safe distance away from the fire, her small voice filled the room with color that it sorely lacked. Since their father’s return from wherever it was he had been for the past year, their furniture (what furniture they had) started to disappear.

Cordelia, being only eight hardly noticed. Not when her father’s attention became more of a pressing matter, but Alastair being ten years old and having been the one to mind the estate after their staff stopped showing up and Sona fell into another one her deep depressions, he began to notice.

And he could only suspect one person responsible.

After being satisfied that Cordelia was out of ear range, Alastair turned and jogged up the stairs two at a time. He noted the sconces on the walls were missing along with the bulbs except for one left unprotected and obnoxiously bright without a cover. The rug that ran along the hallway was gone as well leaving the floor bare so that every footstep and noise could be heard. Alastair took a deep breath through his nose and steadied himself.

He’d secretly hoped that his mother would be the one to address the issue, but she hardly seemed to notice the missing things, or if she did, she didn’t feel the need to mention it. The house grew colder and colder by the minute despite his father's enormous presence to fill it.

A part of him chastised himself for not being more elated about his father’s return. The rest of his family members seemed to be, but because of his illusive absence for the past year with no explanation about where he’d gone and the stink of alcohol lingering on his vest, something deep in Alastair’s chest froze towards his father.

Others may be warmed by his false promises and elaborate stories, but he knew the truth. Call it a gift of his, he could see past the pretense his father shoveled in front of everyone to hide his sins.

When he reached the oak door at the end of the hall, with a shaking fist, he knocked.

At first no sound came, so he knocked again; louder this time.

A shuffle could be heard inside. Glass shattering against the floor followed by a string of cursing.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, father,” said Alastair. “I need to speak with you.”

“What’s this about?”

Alastair placed a hand on the handle. “May I come in?”

“Is this important?”

“It is,” said Alastair lifting his jaw.

“Very well,” said his father.

Alastair turned the knob and pushed his way inside. The bitter, sweet smell of freshly spilt whiskey hit him and burned his eyes. He resisted the urge to cover his nose with a handkerchief.

His father wobbled on his hands and knees attempting to clean up a spill with his pocket cloth, but moving as if he were on a very unsteady ship. Red rimmed eyes looked up at Alastair and a grin curved around his father’s face.

“What is it?” He slurred as he fell backwards against the wingback chair that happened to be the only piece of furniture in the room beside the beverage cart sitting beside the window. “Am I late for supper?”

“It’s nearly noon, father,” said Alastair. “I’m here because it appears that our household items have gone missing.”

“Missing?” Elias squinted up at his son.

“Yes.” Alastair rolled his eyes. “As in gone.”

“Like what?”

“My writing desk, Cordelia’s doll house,” said Alastair. “Mum’s good China, the Tehran crafted weapons, the silver, and where’s the furniture that used to be in this room?”

“Alastair—“

“If you’re pawning our household items to support your drinking then—“ It wasn’t a question of if, nor was it an accusation. Alastair knew the truth, he knew even if he didn’t want to believe it.

“Then what?” asked Elias. “Go on, boy, finish your sentence.”

“You’ll not take one more thing from this house,” said Alastair.

Elias scoffed and attempted to push himself up from the floor when his hand landed on a piece of glass. Elias hissed and fell backwards again onto the floor. “Bloody hell!” He held his hand up, dripping now with fresh blood. “Don’t just stand there. Get me something to stench this with.”

Alastair sighed and walked across the room to the beverage cart. A towel hung from the silver handle, stained with spilt alcohol, Alastair grabbed it and brought it over to his father.

“Where is your steele?” asked Elias as he ripped the towel from Alastair’s hand.

“I don’t have one with me,” said the boy.

“What kind of Shadowhunter doesn’t carry around his steele?”

“I’m nearly ten, father,” reminded Alastair. “I’m hardly a Shadowhunter yet. I can go find yours if you’d like.”

Elias took the towel away from his hand and examined the wound in his palm. “No, don’t trouble yourself. You’ve clearly more pressing matters to attend to. Have you spoken to your mother about these missing items?”

“I haven’t wanted to trouble her—“

“Only me?” asked Elias. “I suppose I deserve that.” He got slowly and unsteadily to his feet. When he stepped backwards a few steps, Alastair had to stop himself from reaching out towards him. He looked like a toddler learning to walk for the first time.

The question dangled on Alastair’s tongue as he watched his father pitch forward and back like an aged ship on angry seas: why did he insist on drinking? When did he become a drunk? Alastair, honestly, couldn’t remember. There’d been a time when sobriety found him for a few months and then he’d be back on the streets again. Alastair was seven years old the first time he picked him up from the porch steps when he passed out before he’d made it inside. The first time, he’d thought it kind of comical, by the third time that week, he found it frightening. And now, he wanted to ask his father why. Why weren’t they enough for him? What was his father chasing that could be found or forgotten at the bottom of a bottle?

Alastair feared he might never know.

_ _ _

The pocket watch ticked inside Alastair’s palm where he sat on the sofa in the drawing room waiting for Cordelia and Lucie to enter through the door. It was five past three; the time they were supposed to return. Questionably, James hadn’t returned either. Alastair knew he should have trusted his instincts over his sister’s word, but he’d allowed himself to feel marginally guilty about upsetting Cordelia.

How could she not understand he was simply trying to do what was best for her? She clearly wasn’t thinking straight— and to be honest she never had when it came to the Herondale boy. It would be over his dead body that he’d ever see James hand-in-hand with his sister.

No, not even then.

Alastair shoved his watch back into his pocket, stood from the chair retrieving his jacket from the arm, and marched towards the door.

“Oh,” said a voice behind him. “Are you leaving too?”

Alastair turned to find Thomas descending the stairs in his full fighting gear. His soft brown hair was combed back away from his face and curling slightly behind his ears. His scarred hands were adjusting the straps across his broad chest that just barely fit across him. Alastair swallowed and quickly averted his eyes to his shoes and then the front door.

With a strange pitch in his voice, Alastair said, “I hadn’t realized you were here.”

“I came with my parents to meet the Herondales,” said Thomas tucking in the extra bit of leather left at the end of his strap. “I thought Christopher, Matthew, and James would be here, but it appears I am at a loss. Miss communication.”

“James is with Matthew on patrol,” said Alastair. “At least that’s what I was told.”

Thomas looked off to the side. “Then I’m sure that’s the truth of it. Where are you headed?”

“I’m supposed to meet my sister at the other Lightwood’s estate,” said Alastair. “She’s running a bit behind so I figured I’d spare her the trouble and catch her there.”

“I’m on my way there as well,” said Thomas. “Would you mind if I joined you?”

Surprised, all words evaporated from Alastair’s mind. When he managed to find them again, a bright color had emerged in his cheeks. “Are you quite sure. I don’t mind finding my own way there.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Thomas reaching for the door knob. “We’re going in the same direction, not on an outing together, there’s no reason for us to take two separate carriages to the same destination.” Thomas opened the door and without waiting for Alastair to respond, he walked out onto the front steps.

Still slightly shocked, Alastair combed a hand through his hair, picked up his cane, and followed.

“What plans do you and Cordelia have today?” Thomas asked from atop the bench seat of his parent’s carriage.

Alastair, who’d chosen to remain quiet despite the kindness being extended to him, focused on the main road as he answered. “I’m not sure. She mentioned something about going to a park.” He was quite certain that was all that was going on between them. Perhaps his parents conjured him into being kind to the injured, isolated, and troubled Carstairs boy. Perhaps this was some sort of revenge and Thomas had alternative plans of dropping him into the Thames.

“It’s a lovely day for the park—“

“What are you doing?”

Thomas’s eyebrow jumped. “Excuse me?”

“This?” Alastair motioned between them. “This show of uncharacteristic kindness. I can tell it’s not genuine. Who put you up to this?”

Thomas sighed and straightened his shoulders. “I felt badly for the way I spoke to you the other day.”

Alastair had to fight to keep the shock from his face. “You felt bad? Thomas, you have nothing to feel badly about.”

“Perhaps,” said Thomas, “but the more I thought about it, the more I realized how unfair I was being towards you. Do not misunderstand me, this is not me granting you pardon for what you did, but rather an understanding.”

“Why?”

“Because when you created those lies about my father,” said Thomas, “I created lies for him, or what I thought were lies to help repair some of his reputation. My father, who is an upstanding citizen by most regards, and truly a wonderful father, and I was making up all kinds of lies to protect him even though I knew the rumors about him were lies— even though I believed him. I can’t imagine if the rumors were actually true.”

He didn’t have to say it. Alastair had long since learned to read between the lines of what someone was saying to him.

“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me,” said Alastair shortly.

“I don’t feel sorry for you,” said Thomas, never removing his eyes from the road, “and I don’t pity you. I’m merely saying that I understand. In a way, I understand.”

With the wind brushing against his face, Alastair felt a weight of sorts brush off of him.

“I am sorry for what I’ve done to your family and Matthew’s,” said Alastair. “I’ve been minding my father’s reputation since I was a boy.”

“Why did you do it?” asked Thomas. “I know why I fought for my father’s reputation, but yours was an actual alcoholic.”

Alastair bristled. “Alcoholic or not, he is still my father.”

“I’m sorry if I offended—“

“You didn’t offend,” said Alastair. “I suppose I fought so hard to protect him for so long that I simply forgot how to not to. I’d been able to keep up a pretense about my father that at the first sign of trouble, my instinct was to defend him, and the only way I knew how to do that was to put the spotlight onto someone else. If I’m being honest, it wasn’t him I was trying to protect.”

“Yourself?” asked Thomas, as he steered the horse down an empty brick paved street.

“Cordelia,” said Alastair. “I was trying to protect Cordelia. She grew up believing that our father was someone to be admired. She held him on the same pedestal that the Herondale children held their father. I made sure that she never knew about his… illness.”

“Does she know now?”

“She does,” said Alastair. “I couldn’t protect her forever.”

“No,” said Thomas, drawing the horse to a stop at the brick pathway leading to a white gated entrance to a garden. “I suppose you can’t.”

Alastair looked up at the beautiful ivy crested veranda and tried to remember what had caused him to go fetch Cordelia in such a hast. Surely, she was all right with Lucie and if she was in fact with James, perhaps it was high time that she started worrying about her own mistakes. And if she needed him, he would surely be there for her.

“Perhaps I’ll wait here,” said Alastair. “While you go fetch Christopher.”

From the ground now, Thomas looked up at Alastair as he tied the horse to a post. “Would you like me to get Cordelia for you?”

“No,” said Alastair, adjusting his coat. “I shouldn’t trouble her. She’ll return when—“

Before he could finish his sentence, a high pitched scream came from inside the house. Thomas and Alastair both looked in the direction of which it had come and then back at each other.

“Cordelia,” said Alastair as he swung himself down from the driver’s bench as Thomas drew a steele from the strap on his shoulder and whispered its name to it. It burst to light in his hand, accenting his face in a halo of light.

The two men stalked up to the open front door: Alastair at the front, with Thomas trailing closely behind him, both of them scanning their surroundings.

Upon entering the house, it didn’t appear that anything was out of place through the kitchen. There was no sign of a scuffle or demon activity. Even though he didn’t know him all that well, Alastair wouldn’t put it past the odd glasses wearing one to release a demon during one of his poorly executed experiments.

They inched through the kitchen into the short hallway that went through to the sitting room. Attached to the room was a staircase and from the second floor, they could hear an exchanging of voices.

Alastair broke for the stairs at a run with Thomas close behind him. He followed the direction the voices were coming from and turned to the left, stopping at a door that was partially opened. He was seconds from storming it, when Thomas grabbed him by the coat tail and wretched him back.

“Wait,” said Thomas and stepped in front of him, “listen.”

“I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” said a second voice laced with ill intention and centuries of old lies. “Not unless you want me to start breaking bones in their bodies starting with the smallest.”

Thomas grabbed Alastair’s arm and mouthed a name. “Belial.”

Suddenly, the door slammed in front of Alastair and he heard the faint sound of the lock.

“We don’t have much time. I have a very short window back into my realm and we’ll need to be going now. That is if you want your friends to live.”

“Lucie,” said a male voice that Alastair could not recognize. “Don’t go with him. I’m not meant to be here. I’m not meant to be alive.”

“How rude,” said Belial. “Do you have any idea how hard your mother and sister worked to bring you back to life. The least you could do is be more grateful.”

“If I go with you.” The voice was clearly Lucie’s and if Lucie was in there then so would Cordelia. “If I agree to do what you ask, you’ll promise to leave them alone?”

“You have my word,” said a second voice laced with ill intention and century old lies.

Thomas glanced at Alastair and pointed at the medieval spear hanging on the wall in the hallway. Alastair reached up and pulled it carefully from it’s hooks as Thomas took several steps back, picked his foot up, and kicked their way through the lock with his heel in a single, impressive stomp. As Thomas reached for Lucie, pulling her away from the mysterious figure in the center of the room, Alastair threw the spear with every ounce of his might.

He watched it spiral through the air, quick as an arrow, and then stop mere inches from Belial’s chest. A wicked grin curled around the handsome face, as the spear evaporated and then reappeared faster then Alastair could blink.

It was warm, that was the first thing he thought about. Warmth spreading across his back and his chest. His eyes searched the room for Cordelia, but he couldn’t find her face amongst the ones he could not recognize. Everyone stared at him, the pale haired girl Grace and a dark haired boy sitting beside her looked on at him terrified. His eyes drifted to his left where Thomas held Lucie tightly in his arms both gaped at him horrified. He tried to say something, but his lungs had stopped expanding. When he looked down at his chest, he could see where the warmth had come from. The end of the spear protruded from his chest.

“Alastair!” Thomas yelled.

“Go,” he said, as rust flavored saliva dripped from between his lips. “Go now.”

“Release the girl,” said Belial, with his arms crossed and a rather bored expression on his face, “and the boy lives.”

Thomas’s grip on Lucie faltered just slightly.

“Don’t,” said Alastair. “He’s lying.”

“Let me go, Thomas,” said Lucie. “Let me go. He won’t let him die, he won’t if it means he can have me.”

“Listen to the girl, Thomas,” said Belial. “Save your friend and sacrifice the other or lose both.”

Alastair could see the turmoil in Thomas’s gritted teeth and reddened face, still his hands were white knuckled around Lucie. He wouldn’t let her go. Not unless—

Lucie brought her head forward and swung it back against Thomas’s sternum. With a quick maneuver of her feet, she twisted under his grip and shoved him off balance into the wall.

“Let them go,” said Lucie, her hair loose from it’s braid now and falling around her face giving her the appearance of a mad woman. “Let him live and I’ll go with you.”

Belial grinned and with a slight nod of his head, he and Lucie blinked from the room like a flash of lightning. Alastair was released from the spear in the wall and fell crumpled to the ground on his knees. His hands went to his chest to feel for the wound, but while the blood and hole in his shirt were still there, the wound and weapon were not.

A/N: Hope I redeemed myself just a little bit. Next update comes out 12/20

#jordelia fanfiction #The Last Night #the last hours #chain of gold #james x cordelia #thomas x alastair #thomastair #j

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