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baneswood-sins · 2 years

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Hi! I saw your slasher imagines post and I was wondering if I could make a request of a NSFW of either OG!Michael or peepaw Michael with a transman reader (top surgery done but not bottom)? First time or established I don't have a particular preference. Would love to see some bloodplay and knifeplay and just have Michael absolutely have his way with him. He can just have his mask on most of the time, and when they kiss Michael can just pull it up enough for his lips to show. Would also be great if there was some form of aftercare when they're done, in however Mikey would do it. If he decides he will take his mask off at some point I would not be opposed to that at all. Thanks!!! ;v;

Hey anon! I chose peepaw, though it doesn’t come up much in the story. Also sorry this got a little out of control. Oops.

Peepaw!Michael Myers x trans!male!reader (NSFW) 2.4k words

You were a liability. Every second Michael spent with you, he risked getting caught. Even being as good at blending into the shadows as he was, there was still a chance of him being spotted every time he made the trek from the sewers to your apartment. You were just glad your roommate had moved out.

Explaining why there was a serial killer in your bed wasn’t high on your to-do list.

He’d shown up a half-hour ago, letting himself in the door you never kept locked—why worry when the Boogeyman was your kind of, sort of, maybe boyfriend? You’d immediately pointed him to the shower, a request he was used to by this point in your relationship. You loved him and all, but not so much the smell of rats and dirt and garbage. You could hear the shower running now, the door not closed fully because Michael didn’t care much about privacy. You walked by the door, ducking inside to grab his boilersuit and throw it in the wash. His mask and rusty knife sat on the counter by the sink, also needing a good cleaning, but you were sure he wouldn’t let you near them. There were some lines you didn’t even try crossing.

You left the bathroom without looking at his silhouette behind the shower curtain, feeling like it was an invasion even though you’d barely see his outline. You were basically just killing time until he got out of the shower. You checked on dinner—spaghetti, garlic bread, and a salad, wondering if Michael would sneak out of bed in the middle of the night to eat like he normally did. The sauce was simmering, fragrant with spices. You wondered if you should eat now to shore up your strength, especially for whatever Michael had planned for you.

Down the hall, the shower cut off. Too late to eat a full meal, you realized, and grabbed a piece of garlic bread. Moments later, Michael was walking out of the bathroom, fully nude, mask in place and knife in hand.

“I hope you aren’t planning on going out like that,” you joked, watching him walk down the hallway toward you. You chuckled at your lame comment as he stopped in front of you, putting you chest-level with his naked body. Despite the uncountable badly healed scars, he was still in pretty good shape for a man of his age. His muscles were firm, legs strong. Your eyes slid down his body, taking in the line of his half-hard cock. “Thinking about me in the shower?” you asked, waggling your brows.

Michael, as usual, didn’t respond or acknowledge you in any way. You’d never heard him speak, never really heard anything but heavy breathing, and once, a groan, from the man. He was a good listener, though, letting you ramble on about whatever silly thing popped into your head, still and silent.

“Want to eat now?” You asked, already knowing the answer. Michael didn’t shake his head like he normally did, instead grabbing your wrist to pull you in the direction of your bedroom. His hand on you was firm, maybe even skirting the edge of harsh, and he tugged you along after him as he walked back to your room. You were glad he decided to drag you back there—you’d never tell him this, but he didn’t exactly have the knees or back for a fuck against the wall or on the couch, he was almost three times your age.

He pushed you back against the bed and you went willingly, tugging off your shirt and kicking off your pants and boxers as you did. He followed you up onto the bed, slotting himself between your legs with an ease borne of practice. “Hi,” you said awkwardly, staring up at him from your mound of pillows. He discarded his knife somewhere off to the side, both of his hands coming to your sides to squeeze the flesh there. They ran up your chest, lingering over the scars from your double mastectomy—he was fascinated by the thick scars, often stroking or toying with them. You wondered if he understood what they were from. It didn’t matter, anyway. With Michael, you never had to worry that you didn’t exactly look like your average man. He didn’t seem to mind. You’d explained it to him once, when he’d been petting your scars in the afterglow of some mindblowing sex, so you knew that he knew, in theory, that you were transgender.

You were pulled from your thoughts as the lips of his mask brushed your lips, eyes widening. It was rare for Michael to initiate affection of any kind. Slowly, as not to startle him, you raised your hands to the edge of his mask and started rolling it up. He allowed you to, stopping just above his nose. His face, what was visible, at least, was just as scared as the rest of him. Your hands on either side of his face, he leaned in for a kiss. It was surprisingly slow, for him, and tasted like mint from the toothbrush you left out for him. His teeth dragged over your bottom lip, asking for entrance, and you granted it with a little groan, locking your legs around his hips. He rutted against you, his hardening cock slipping past your heated core. You were more focused on his tongue in your mouth, silencing your little noises and playing with your own. It was as responsive as you could get him to be. He supported himself with one arm over you, the other straying back to his knife.

You startled as the cold metal pressed into your side, but you weren’t afraid of him. It ghosted over your ribs, pressing in and drawing a raised, red line in its wake. “Michael,” you began sternly, “you can’t use that knife. I’ll get tetanus.” You wracked your brain, trying to think of the last time you’d gotten a tetanus booster. It was probably recent enough.

That was a good thing, because Michael didn’t seem to be listening to your complaints about possible diseases. The knife dragged over your hipbone, scoring a line of red that had blood welling up in its wake. It stung, the blade dull, more of a tearing sensation than a smooth cut. You sucked in a breath, pulling him close for another desperate kiss as he pressed the flat of his blade against your core, cold pressure on your engorged clit.

The threat was enough to make your rolling hips still. The knife wasn’t sharp enough to accidentally cut you, not really, but you wouldn’t put it past Michael to try it anyway. The blade pressed harder, spreading your folds, the tip of it a sharp pressure against your entrance. What little slick you produced after years of hormone therapy coated the knife. “Michael,” you warned against his lips, not quite telling him off, but not fully supportive. In theory, Michael Myers fucking you with his knife was hot, enough to send a pang of curling heat to your gut. In practice, it sounded messy—not to mention painful. The knife withdrew, dragging back up your stomach and he was rutting against you again, thick cock sliding against your core, wet with precome and your slick.

He traced a path up your chest with the knife, cutting in enough to send rivulets of blood down your sternum. The blade reached your neck, traced almost lovingly over your jugular, and then he was pulling back slightly, running the flat of the blade over the seam of your lips. His single eye stared down at you as you opened your mouth obediently, cleaning slick and blood off of the knife. It dipped into your mouth, a gruesome imitation of a blowjob, and you hollowed your cheeks, sucking on the rusty metal. It tasted like dirt and copper, unpleasant but heady. He slid it deeper, and tears welled in your eyes as it scraped against the back of your throat. If he forced it any deeper, he’d truly be stabbing you. You took it as the threat you knew he knew it was. Your tongue laved against the blade, mouth lolling open to show him the twist of your tongue against the metal. His breathing turned harsher, lips opening just the slightest amount. For a second, you felt the pressure increase against your throat, and you fought not to gag. You knew he was thinking about it, about killing you. You rutted harder against him in response, tears welling in your eyes as you fought off your gag reflex. The taste of copper flooded your mouth before the knife withdrew and he was surging forward to kiss you, licking up the taste of life, threatening to tongue fuck your throat for another taste of your sweet blood.

Michael dropped the knife off to the side, forgotten, and his hands were back on you, sliding down your body, fingers dragging over stinging cuts, smearing blood along your torso with a touch that was bruisingly hard. Your heels dug into his back, pushing his body against yours with a moan as you arched your back, pressing into the pain. His lips left yours, trailing down your throat to trace the cuts with his tongue, cleaning up your blood. His mouth was a balm against the dozens of nipping wounds, but you wanted more from him.

“Michael,” you whispered, throat sore and stinging from the cut that bled down your esophagus, “fuck me.” His eye flicked up to meet yours in the darkness of your room, black and reflective like an animal’s. Tapetum lucidum, it was called, and it was impossible in humans. Another thing that set him apart from a normal man.

For once, he obeyed you, straightening up to grab the bottle of lube off your bedside table. Besides making him shower, this was probably the only thing you’d taught him to do. Years on testosterone had essentially stopped your body’s natural lubrication, making penetrative sex painful without a little outside help. He slicked up his cock, his fingers, wet with lube, slipping over your folds, two fingers roughly nudging inside to coat you with lube. A gentle lover Michael was not, but you were into the perfunctory motions, the disinterest he seemed to have in foreplay that wasn’t violent.

The only warning you got before he pushed into you was the slip of his fat cockhead against your slick opening and then he was tearing you apart, friction enough to make white sparks dance behind your eyes. It hurt like it always did, but you moaned anyway, pushing into the sensation as he slid all the way to the root, not pausing until he was fully seated within you. You bit your lip, hand coming down to rub at your swollen clit until the pain started fading int a tight, white-hot pleasure. You could feel your body clenching around him, instinctively trying to force him out, or maybe draw him deeper. Either way, it wasn’t working, he held himself perfectly still, and the only way you could tell he was feeling anything at all was his heavy breaths that puffed next to your ear.

You dug your heels into his back, urging him to start fucking you as your fingers teased tight circles around your clit, your other hand drawing his face back to yours. Your lips dragged over his scratchy white beard, mashing your lips against his in a panting, open-mouthed kiss as he began fucking you with deep, hard thrusts. He was unforgiving, the angle of his hips sparking a painful pressure in your guts as he probably got a little too close to your cervix. It made your body cramp and clench reflexively, and you rolled your hips along with his thrusts, forcing your body down hard onto his cock. It hurt in the best way, it was almost euphoric, a heady mix of pain-pleasure-pressure against your insides that lit up your brain like an electric shock.

You writhed against him as he fucked you harder, obscene squelching echoing in your ears, almost drowned out by the moans that spilled out from between your desperately locked lips. Your toes curled, hands shooting to Michael’s back, nails dragging against his skin, drawing blood in their wake. You held on for dear life as he plowed into you, barely faltering as he kept his pace. The only sign that he was working hard at all was present in the harsh pants that bled into your mouth. The hand that wasn’t occupied propping him up strayed to your throat, pressing down enough to restrict airflow without entirely blocking it off.

Lightheaded, your hips bucked against him as your orgasm caught you by surprise. You bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed as you came, back arching while fireworks bloomed behind your eyes, a gasping, drawn-out moan slipping free of your lips. He swallowed down your noises with a groan, fucking hard into your convulsing, vice-tight cunt. He didn’t make a noise when he spilled his seed into you, the only indicator of his own orgasm was the way his shoulders relaxed just slightly. He fucked into you slowly, forcing his seed deeper in an animalistic display of ownership.

You were both left breathing hard in the afterglow, his masked forehead pressed to yours. It was… surprisingly peaceful. Your fingers came off his shoulders stained with blood from where they’d bitten into his back. You grinned at him, lopsided and dopey, and kissed his bleeding lower lip. He was still against you, not returning the kiss. You were used to his stoicism post-orgasm, pulling him down and against you until he was laying on his side, your back to his front. You tangled your legs with his, and his arms came around you slowly, a parody of a lover’s embrace—but was it really parody? Michael’s nose buried itself in your hair as his breathing slowed back to its normal, steady pace. It was almost hypnotic, lulling you into a half-asleep state in the wake of your lovemaking.

There was a laundry list of things you needed to do, but all of those things paled in comparison to a little one-on-one snuggling with Michael Myers, which was rare enough to begin with. He was usually the love ‘em and leave ‘em type, disappearing in much the same way he appeared. Maybe he was getting sentimental in his old age.

Ha. Probably not.

#slasher smut #slasher imagines #trans reader #male reader #michael myers x reader #michael myers x you #slashers x reader #michael myers #knifeplay #bloodplay #baneswood writes #halloween #peepaw myers x reader

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ohtobeleah · 7 months

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Rhett and Fe catch the first flights to Aus that they can to be there for Amilia and Jake and Rhett (the little softie he is) is the first one to bring up Bob and the Baby are probably together

This is so sweet, like you drop everything, the kids and all to go help Amilia through her grief and recovery process. Chelsea goes too, as does Rhett. Bradley and Reuben say back with all the kiddos. Between the two of them they handle four kids plus Phoenix and the twins. So it’s six V’s three.

Rhett goes for Jake more than anything, the guys pretty friendly with grief, he’s lost Bob, his sister in law, his dad. So Rhett has experience in losing loved ones.

“You gotta let yourself feel it man—“ Rhett just sits on the back porch with Jake. “If you try to drown it out that griefs only gonna grow gills and learn to swim after you.”

“It feels weird to mourn someone I never knew.” Is all Jake is able to say. “I’m more concerned about Oz—we wanted kids, now that’s all just up in the air because what if she needs more surgery? Treatment? They don’t even know if they got it all or if it spread and—“ it’s the bottom lip quiver that does it for Rhett before he’s putting his beer down and slinging an arm around Jake.

“It’s all fucked.”

Meanwhile, you and Chelsea are making sure dinners all sorted and Amilia is as comfortable as she can be. She hasn’t spoken since you arrived. You can tell by the look in her eyes she doesn’t have energy. It had all been sucked out of her.

“She’s always been the one obsessed with health.” Chelsea doesn’t even look up from where she’s cutting potatoes. You just listen while you watch Jake and Rhett through the window. “Just goes to show it can happen to the best of us.” Chelsea hasn’t really had a chance to process her sisters diagnosis yet. One minute she was at home and the next she was on a plane.

But it’s ultimate Rhett who gets Amilia to speak first. He takes in some dinner for her and sits on the edge of the bed. The breakfast Jake brought her still sat untouched on the bedside table, so did lunch.

“At least they aren’t alone.” Is all he says in the silence of her bedroom. “Bob always said he’d adopt if he could, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever settle down because of work and the uncertainty of it all.”

“We hadn’t even thought of names yet.” It’s the first thing Amilia says. “Maybe Bobs already picked on out.” And in the dining room, Jake hears a small but audible laugh escape from his wife’s room. He smiles to himself wondering what Rhett was about the say that brought that sound back to life.

“Hopefully it’s better than Bradley Bradshaw, thats for damn sure.”

#terms of endearment// bradley bradshaw #terms of endearment // jake seresin #terms of endearment universe

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whump-town · 2 years

Text

Oh, Sinnerman

Warnings: Child abuse

Word Count: 7k

The next chapter is the last chapter, I swear.

Chapter Five

The front of his gown is open, spread wide for easy examination of the bruises fading up and down Hotch’s side. Too many are of some sort of permanency, unforgiving skin unwilling to let go of its trauma. The few that aren’t are still in the stages of yellows and greens, proof of the hours Hotch spent running in the woods. His disoriented state left him with cuts and bruises from falling into things or running into them. Nasty, painful spots where thorns tore through his clothing.

It’s the hues of his skin that first draws JJ’s attention in. The discoloration beneath his eyes is hardly abnormal, she can’t imagine what he’d be like without them. He’s always had that tired, weary look about him but this is so different. The colors have reached new depths. She thinks of comas as sleeping because that’s what it looked like he was doing. She’d seen him twice before he woke up with Jess. He looked like he was sleeping, resting just like the doctors said he needed to. Sleeping. Yet the bags under his eyes, the markers of his restlessness, are more present than ever.

She watches him breathe for a moment. The same way she’s stood in the doorway of Henry’s room and just watched his chest rise and fall. Insurance, believing it when her eyes can tell her it’s real. Hotch’s sternum rises with his breath and she follows the movement down his ribs. He’s breathing on his own, a feat they thought they’d never see again. She thought they’d have to let him go. Her last goodbye to a ventilator and bandages. But now he’s steadily breathing, her own breathing calming as she matches his pace. So steady.

JJ has never seen his scars. Her official report – tiresome paperwork they filled out for months detailing and rehashing the events of Haley and George Foyet’s deaths – had included the medical history of what Foyet did to Hotch. She had the medical records. That little anatomical man that they’re all so used to seeing with it’s little red hashes. Nine stab wounds. They’re easier to digest on paper.

Crime scene investigators had taken graphic photos for other reports. They got close, close enough to count stitches and staples. Those reports were sealed off. Something that Garcia could get into but not a single one of them had that curiosity in them. So they simply forgot them, pretended they didn’t exist until they just didn’t.

She’d seen them on paper, enough to know locationally where they are. Never in person.

There’s a blanket folded over his lap in the name of discretion and privacy. But everything he’d be worried about showing is on a grand display. Wires snake over his naked chest, one side of the gown loosely folded over his abdomen. She can see four of them. The ones that sit higher on his chest and the one that runs down his sternum. Along the bone. A surgery scar to go atop it all, a more invasive attempt to do more than stop the bleeding and get him stable.

JJ had just forgotten they were there. Blissful, willful ignorance.

“Hotch?” she approaches the side of the bed cautiously. She’s afraid he’s awake and sitting on the edge of the drugs. Pretending to be asleep so that he can ignore them. “Are you awake?” She gets a little closer, and touches his arm. If he were awake he might flinch or his fingers give a little jump. He doesn’t move. She doesn’t know why she expects something more. He’d talked to Jess and met all the others with silence. Opened his eyes to recognize who was sitting beside him and closed them again. Hasn’t spoken a word since.

She’s stood this close to him before, closer. He leans over her shoulder to read the paperwork and she’s certainly invaded all of his privacy by rummaging through his desk. Yet this feels invasive, to see him like this and to be this close. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. She pulls the sides of his gown over his chest, one at a time. Takes one long pause as they are hidden again, from her sight and her mind. She’s sorry for having seen them. Sorry they make her feel so uncomfortable. Sorry no one else closed his gown.

He’s restless. The nurses have left his gown untied but they’d closed it. He just gets agitated and lifts up from the morphine haze for moments of confused consciousness. Tries to move and gets nowhere, sinks back down without any reality. No grasp. He manages to open the gown on his own, twisting around too much.

“Hotch?”

He squints– the lights too bright and he’s got no contacts in. No one’s brought him any glasses but it doesn’t make any sense if he’s not awake and looking around. He grumbles, too disoriented to say JJ’s name, but needs to make a noise. To let her know he’s awake, he’s listening. He can’t trust his mouth to form the words in his head anyway. The things he’s seeing, what he’s already seen… He’s not sure about anything.

“You don’t have to talk.” Her hand is warm and slips underneath his palm. “I just – I wanted to see you.”

He hums, eyes already closed.

She’s gone when he opens his eyes next. A wisp of smoke faded from the room but the scent still lingered. Maybe she was here. Maybe she wasn’t. He can never really tell.

––––––

Aaron hadn’t been afraid of his father since he was ten years old. He’d lost the fear somewhere deep, replaced it with trembling hands and a stubborn clenched jaw. Fear had vanished, he just didn’t have it anymore. He lost it and never mourned it. Other things started slipping away too. Aaron felt like all of his emotions had become mechanical. He could smile but only because he realized it was the appropriate response. Like when Sean told a silly joke, something he’d picked from a book. Aaron knew then to smile. For Sean he could fake any of those feelings – but he never had to fake love. Sean was the only thing Aaron loved, the only thing he stayed for. What he kept coming back for. Sean.

His father had come in crashing drunk. Parked his car crooked in the driveway, a Marlboro already lit between his teeth. He couldn’t get his key in the door, his coordination too sloppy. In his drunken state, he’d assumed that his wife had changed the lock, and tried to lock him out of his home. The mistake Aaron’s mother made in leaving was coming back, the most fatal common mistake. And he never forgave her for either of those things. Whenever anything happened, Aaron’s father assumed she was going to leave again or already had. He punished them all for that choice, for that paranoia. He beat the idea out of her a while ago.

Aaron had come down the steps as soon as he heard his father’s car pulling up. Knew the sound at the door wasn’t a good one. “Stay in bed,” he instructed Sean, shutting the door behind himself and creeping down the stairs.

“Bitch!”

Aaron had stepped right in the middle of them, between his father’s raised hand and his mother’s red cheek. “Sean’s upstairs,” he told his mother, never breaking eye contact with his father. They stood nearly the same height by then, Aaron only a few inches short. He’d get there, he knew it. But even now he was nearly too big to be hit the way his father liked. It was easier when he was smaller and when he was afraid. He’d found courage, a different sort of poison. Not his father’s bottled kind. “Go to Sean, mom.”

She didn’t.

She cried out when his father shouted, turning to his left and slamming his fist into the vase of flowers he’d bought her just earlier that week. An apology and a good time, Aaron’s father had taken her out for dinner. Bought her make-up. Now his apology had burned through, his same old promise broken.

There was no escalation, no ladder of actions that made him do it. No build-up. Or maybe his entire life had been the build-up.

No fully developed frontal cortex, not enough brain development.

All adrenaline.

Aaron fell to the floor, kicked or punched – it didn’t matter. He picked up the glass and made his decision. “I dare you,” the words fell right out of his mouth. “Touch me again. I dare you.”

Sean wasn’t allowed to visit him in the hospital. No one under 16 – he asked. His father wouldn’t have brought him anyway. No one visited. He asked the nurse and he could hear her crying as she left his room. Having to tell him that after his father had signed what he needed to, he left. No one had tried to visit, no one had asked for him. She brought him all the popsicles he wanted. Took his arms out of the restraints and let him watch TV. She talked to him like a kid, a mix he wasn’t sure he understood. He’d been so used to indifference and adulthood he wasn’t even aware that’s what she was doing when she snuck him extra ice cream or cake. Gave him stickers like she did with the little kids for behaving so well for her.

When he was released to the other ward, he missed her the most.

His father did visit, once.

Aaron was sleeping, curled up underneath as many blankets as he could get. The nurse could only give him one and she watched him closely with it but he coveted it. He’d let her strap his arms down without complaint for the blanket, anything to be just a little warmer. He had no clothes, only what he came in with. She took sympathy on him. Brought him sweatpants and a sweatshirt from her son’s stuff, clothes that were too big but warm.

The smell of Marlboro woke him. Aaron told himself he didn’t fear anything but that smell… He never actually shook the panic that overtook him at the smell of those cigarettes.

He woke up in pain, surrounded by the scent of Marlbollo and whiskey. “I bet you think you’re so smart.” Aaron couldn’t understand a word he was saying. His father had grabbed his bandage wrist up, and pinched his fingers into the wound. “Your mother is beside herself. You’re so selfish–” He was too startled to process anything. His father was going on about valor and family. Legacy.

He’d had dreams like this in the hospital but this one was different. No nurse was coming in with a grape juice and an offer to keep his door cracked so the hall light could come in. This was a nightmare that had followed him from his dreams.

His nurse came to his rescue and he’d cried out only then, choking on his sobs as he listened to his father explain his way through a lie. That he’d come in here to see his son and found Aaron digging his fingers through the gauze. Attempting to break the sutures. His father had the broken sutures under his grip, blood was pooling to the top of the white gauze quickly.

He remembers nothing else after that. Sedatives made his eyes roll back in his head, calming him while his father stood there pretending to be worried for the son he nearly lost. Faking tears as he spoke his concern, “he was never like this before.” His father wove a lie of drugs and bad friends.

Aaron didn’t have any friends.

He had Jess and Haley and what he did to them… He asked far too much of them, he couldn’t consider them his friends. He was their parasite, the boy they just felt too sorry for to turn away.

They moved him during the night, he never saw that nurse again. He never got a chance to tell her that he didn’t do what his father said he did. Aaron had worked so hard to earn her trust, to just be good. And she probably didn’t believe him. She couldn’t.

––––––––––

The memories of hospitals and fear twist itself up in Hotch’s stomach. Too much like the woods, the time gets tangled up.

Hotch smells Marlballo cigarettes and pain shoots up his chest as he forces his eyes open. His head screams with the movement but he has to see. Hotch can feel his father before he sees him, leaning over the bed and saying his name. Aaron? That was the warning call – the flicker of a lighter, the smell of a Marlballo cigarette before his father started drinking. He’d always been a Marlballo man.

“Aaron?” Sean stumbles away from the bed, raising his hands as an angry-looking nurse comes into the room. “I didn’t do anything,” he swears. “I was just sitting here!”

The methodical motions of the nurse do nothing to soothe Hotch’s accelerated heart rate. Sean’s distance helps, and the nurse talks to him. He can see her mouth moving, and hear her voice, but the words are too much. He can’t decipher her instructions, only knows his father is right there. Hotch could see him. Lazy five o’clock shadow, dark hair swept back from his head. Smell the Marlballos on him.

Hotch knows he’s in for it this time. He really fucked up. He anticipates a pain that doesn’t come.

“Aaron.”

The panic is forced down, numbed out slowly but powerfully by something cold and heavy. His vision clears, the room’s black spots clearing.

“It’s me.” Sean.

It takes Hotch a painful minute to respond, his eyes open and attentive but face blank. It terrifies Sean to be on the end of that stare, just an empty stare. “Your…” Hotch grunts softly, turning his eyes away. He’s already forgotten the word.

“Your brother?” Sean guesses. They said there might be some memory issues, Sean wouldn’t be surprised that he’s the one that gets forgotten.

Hotch scowls at him, a sharp nasty look Sean hadn’t expected out of him. Such an Aaron face to make when he hasn’t been acting like himself. “Face,” Hotch rasps, “chin?” He knows who his fucking brother is, he doesn’t need Sean being an antagonizing asshole right now.

Sean moves his hand up to his face, suddenly self-conscious. What the hell is wrong with his face? He runs his fingers down his beard and tries to flatten any hairs that might have gotten crazy. There’s no cigarette ash in it, at least. But then he smiles, Aaron hasn’t seen his beard. He’s never had facial hair around Aaron. “My beard?” he asks.

“Beard,” Hotch repeats. Yes, that’s what he meant. “Your beard…”

“You like it?��

“No.”

Sean rubs at it, and huffs, “well I do.” Older women like it too, and the young ones. “No asked you anyway.”

The nurse clears her throat and Hotch groans, dragging his eyes over to her. Every movement makes his head hurt. His heart beating makes his head hurt. Sean’s beard makes his head hurt too. Really contradicts the baby in his head, the way he always imagines a punky little kid and not a grown man when he thinks about his brother. Thinking about Sean hurts his head too but thinking about Sean always has made his head hurt.

“I’m gonna keep a close watch on his heart rate for a little longer,” she says, displeased with how quickly Hotch got upset. “And I’d like to keep his visitors down,” she gives Sean a leveled look but he raises his hands again. Clearly not willing to take the blame for Hotch’s sudden heart problems. But she’s clearly set on him as the perpetrator. “You can stay,” she adds, “but I’d like no more of this in and out business. Keep him calm.”

Sean rolls his eyes. Aaron has always been one minor event away from a stroke. The man is overly excitable. That has nothing to do with him.

“Now,” she pats Aaron’s leg. Her attention back on him. “Can you tell me your name and date of birth?” It’s no better than an alarm clock. Every morning at seven, no later than seven-ten, a nurse comes around with her pen-light and those same questions. Name and date of birth. Hotch answered her questions this morning, already. He’ll have to do it again for night rounds. And tomorrow morning all over again. About twelve times a day. The annoying part isn’t that he knows the answers, it’s how slowly they come to him. How hard he has to fight them.

The nurse repeats herself and Hotch blinks two slow times before dragging his eyes over to Sean. He’s hoping Sean will shoo her away. Sense the intense pressure sawing across his front lobe, back and forth. Friction burn. Ask them in that whiny little brother voice if maybe this can wait. But Sean’s just leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest and yawning. “What?” he grunts, Sean glances over at the nurse and then back at Hotch. “Answers not written across my forehead. Stop gawking at me.”

Hotch scowls at Sean but turns his attention back to the nurse. Swallows uncomfortably, “ ‘otch?”

“That sounds like a question to me,” the nurse smiles. She’s used to his resistance by now. Getting sleepy grunts and groans rather than answers out of him. His friends swear on his behalf, he’s very polite and even-tempered normally. This whack to the head has just thrown him off. He doesn’t like hospitals. It’s okay, she understands. She can tell he’s a good one.

He groans, ignoring them both and moving his hand up to his face. Going to dislodge the canal under his nose but Sean catches his hand before he can raise it that high. Hotch grunts at Sean, scowling again. “If looks could kill,” Sean mumbles, shaking his head and the nurse laughs. He’s been here for a week and they do this routine every day and he is no more willing to comply today than he has any other day they’ve come in asking him questions.

The nurse moves from the foot of his bed over to where Sean’s sitting. Closer because she’s noticed it’s easier for him to pay attention when he can see her. She pats his knee and gets his attention again. That tight, displeased frown. “Let’s start with your name. Can you tell me what your name is?”

He turns his head away from them and grumbles out, “Aaron.” His little fit is making him breathless. Spending too much energy being stubborn and now the answers are foggy, his body not following his commands. “Hotchner.”

“Good,” the nurse pats his knee. “Now when’s your birthday?”

“November,” he rasps, “second.”

“The year?”

He couldn’t remember any of this when he first woke up. Jess got some version of him that hid in the days following. He was following verbal commands, squeezing their hands and pulling his foot away from touch. But the first time they asked him to identify himself or anyone around him, he’d come up blank. He knew them but their names were just coming up short.

He’d managed to identify Emily first. The nurse had given up on asking him his own name, took his reply of ‘Hotch’ as very close, but wanted to see if he was up for just a little bit more. “Can you tell me who that is?” His tired, hurting eyes followed the nurse’s pen to where she was pointing and scowled at Emily. She’d held his hand down to stop him from trying to rip at his IVs. He was annoyed with her, angry rather indignantly. “Prentiss”, he grumbled. The rest followed soon after but there’s still this raw nervousness he holds around names. Afraid every time more than one person comes into the room and his brain short-circuits. All this information just gets all jumbled up.

“If I tell you all but the last digit, do you think you can remember?” the nurse asks. She can see in his eyes that he’s gone elsewhere, grown too distracted in his heavy thinking.

Hotch looks back over to Sean, he’s really not sure what they’re talking about anymore. The conversation changed suddenly from what he was thinking about. He just doesn’t remember. Last digit of what? His confusion is evident, sleepy lines around his eyes heavy

He’s lost them in the silence of moments.

Sean sits up and looks between the nurse and Hotch with a tight new fear hot and heavy in his stomach. “Your birthday, Aaron,” Sean moves his hand anxiously towards Aaron’s and taps at him.

His hospital bracelet. He uses Sean’s hand as an aid as he turns his wrist until he can see the date.

The nurse catches him before he can remember how to say the numbers. “Alright,” she laughs, “no cheating.” It’s the first time he’s done that and it feels like a good sign. He might not remember what year he was born right now but he’s oriented enough to try and use prompts around him.

“Calm.” The nurse says again as she’s leaving, pointing a finger at Sean.

“Calm,” Sean repeats, he gets it.

It’ll be fine, Sean’s certain. This is the first time anything has happened at all. Mostly, Sean comes in here for the two hours Penelope penciled him for and he sits. Sometimes Aaron’s awake but there’s never much more than a side-glance out of him. Slightly recognition that there’s been a guard shift while he was sleeping and then he’s gone again. No “hey, Sean, how’d you get here”. Not even a fuck you.

“Do you want a donut? I want a donut.”

Hotch had forgotten Sean was there. His eyes already drifted shut, he was only mostly sure Sean was there. His father wasn’t so maybe neither was Sean. It’s hard to trust anything that he sees.

“Are sprinkle donuts juvenile?” Sean wonders aloud. He’s biting his nails. Got his finger in his mouth as he speaks. “Like only little kids get them but they are just better when they have sprinkles. It’s science or something… like the colors must make your brain think it tastes better.”

Hotch frowns at him. Where does he come up with this stuff? Sean always speaks every thought that comes into his head. Hotch sighs and rasps tiredly, “ ‘s bad.” Sean lifts an eyebrow, finger still in his mouth. Hotch points, “that.”

“Ok dad,” Sean rolls his eyes but puts his hand down. He picks at his nails instead, asking, “yes donut or no donut?”

“No.”

“Okay, party-pooper.” Sean stands up with a dramatic sigh, “but don’t give me a look when I come in here and won’t let you have a bite.” They’d done that as kids. Aaron would buy them both different donuts and they’d make all kinds of stupid bargains to get a bite of the others. Sean was always frustrated that Aaron wouldn’t let him have a bite of his. He’d beg and beg and only at that last bite would Aaron relent and give him the rest. All that remained of Sean’s donut was the glaze around his mouth, a stray sprinkle on his t-shirt.

Sean would give him a bite if he asked but he doesn’t.

—----------------

There’s a Doberman that sits at the end of his bed, tags jingling every time it cocks its head to the side. It’s sitting there, Hotch’s certain of it but no one else mentions it. Certainly, if there was a dog loose in the hospital someone would say something and yet the nurses come in with their cold hands and the doctors with their charts, no one says anything. He disappears, the Doberman when things get a little too busy. Hotch would like to go with him, wherever he’s gone off to avoid the overcrowded room. He doesn’t want to be here either.

The Doberman gives one big yawn and stands up, Hotch perks up. His voice is hoarse, his speech progressing to clarity as he sits up, “Wh– Where are you g-going?” The dog looks back over its shoulder and obviously hears him. Tail twitching with excitement as it waits.

He hasn’t been allowed to walk anywhere unassisted yet, mostly because he can't. His balance is coming very slowly along, his head still not yet adjusted to the real world. What lays beyond the foggy woodscape he’d fallen into. Pushing himself up from bed makes his vision stir and he shuts his eyes against nausea that builds up, even the dark blacks of the back of his eyelids swim. An uneasy dipping, swaying motion. The rocking of a boat. “I’m coming,” he whispers, pushing his hips up off the bed. He takes one cautious step leaning on the rail and pulls in small breaths to prepare for the next. Machines come dislodged with a sharp tug, he grunts and look down at his arm. The IV ripped out and landed with a plastic plink heavy to the ground. The pulse ox sitting right where he’d been sitting.

The Doberman rises again and Hotch grows too distracted to care about the rest. Each walk is like fire shooting up his left leg, he’s not yet forgiving for running through the woods for hours without one of his shoes. He leans heavily on the doorframe, fingers curled around the cold metal. The Doberman tilts its head, waiting in the empty hall for him to follow.

“Why are you bleeding?” Hotch jumps and before he can turn around, Emily’s cautiously coming around his other side. She grabs his wrist and turns his arm over so she can find the source. She frowns at it, then at him, before swiping at the blood with her finger. Pressing her thumb against. “Come on,” Emily says, there’s a hint of sadness, something else tinges her tone as she nods her head back to his room. “We can go for a waltz in a second.”

Waltz. He turns the word over in his head. Dancing, he doesn’t know how to dance.

A nurse comes in behind them, just as Emily’s pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Sorry, Sarah,” Emily says, putting the take-out she’d brought up on the side table. “I snagged him in the hall, I was just about to call you down here.”

Sarah smiles and shakes her head, “you’re fine. I know Aaron here is an escape artist.” She smiles at Hotch but he’s staring down his feet. Still trying to decode “we can go for a waltz in a second”. Waltz. He knows the word, he knows she’s got some double meaning but can’t make any sense of it. Sarah gently touches his shoulder and he looks up, “you gonna sit still for me? Let me get you hooked up again, alright? Then you and Emily can go for a walk.”

A walk. Hotch nods his head, it clicks then. The correct word is in place and Emily’s meaning is uncovered. “A waltz,” he whispers to himself.

Sarah smirks, and looks over her shoulder at Emily, “yeah, a waltz.”

Emily’s frown hasn’t wavered. She’s standing against the wall now, not hovering like normal. Fingers up at her mouth as she chews on her cuticles, absently trying to contain her worry until Sarah’s done.

“Just a prick,” Sarah warns as she places the other IV. Hotch is still, just watches quietly while she tapes him back up. “I’ll leave him like this,” Sarah says, rubbing the edges of the tape down. “I can just come back in a second to get him hooked up, let you go your waltz.” She smirks at Hotch then, thinking it’s a funny little word for him to use. He’s a funny man when he wants to be. Cranky in a sweet kind of way.

Emily nods and Sarah and goes over to where she’s standing. “Everything else okay?” Sarah asks.

Emily shakes her head but pulls in a breath like she’s going to say something. She shakes her head again, and shrugs, “I don’t know.” She meets Sarah’s eyes and glances over to Hotch, the way he’s just sitting there staring off. “There’s something off about him.”

Sarah nods crosses her arms and looks Hotch up and down. It was hard to tell what he was thinking but she’d curious about what was going on in his head. “He’s quieter,” Sarah agrees. His manners come and go, raspy little apologies and thank you’s. She can usually get him to say a little more but he was the response, she thought. “I can get someone down here,” she offers. “We can run through some questions with him. Is there something specific?”

Emily shrugs again and clicks her tongue but she can’t name it.

“Take him on his walk,” Sarah offers, “and you can call me back down here if you’re still worried. Sound good?”

Emily nods, “yeah. Yeah, that’s good.” It’ll give her time to think. To be sure it’s something and not just… It’s hard to have this version of him in her head and this version of him right here with her. He’s still so sulky and silent, stoic when he’s angry, it’s hard to see the steep cliff that ends where the similarities are.

He’s said the word so many times to himself that it comes out clearly. “Waltz?” Hotch says when she back over, offers him her hand to stand.

“Yeah,” she agrees, “let’s waltz.” The very idea makes her uncomfortable because she knows he can’t do it alone. No one trusts her with the emotional work. She’s good at the stand-by. Standing close and offering him a little thumbs up, a pat on the shoulder if she absolutely must. That’s what she’s good at. Being in his corner. She brings take-out and gets to confirm to everyone else that he’s eaten. It’s an easy, rewarding job. This that’s not her. She’s nearly avoided, completely, having to be this close. Now she can’t let go. It’s desperate and vulnerable, she’s holding his hand as tightly as he’s holding her’s. She’s welded to his side, holding anxiously to his bicep with her free hand. It’s uncomfortable and she wishes she could break the tension by calling this whole thing off. Turn him around right here and take him back to his room. She’s never even been this close to him sober. A few drinks in maybe, he’s a sleepy drunk and she gets cold after a while. Those boundaries fallout, there’s nothing to that proximity that isn’t purely circumstantial. He’s tired and she’s cold.

Emily feels him start to tug to the left, going on his typical route. She goes, not sure what else to do. Hopeful he’s read her mind and they’re heading back. “The window?” she asks. It’s big, she’s walked past it every day without thinking much of it. “What’s out here?” Trees. It’s just trees, a line of them that reaches back far but behind them is the city. Buildings and concrete. It’s something but it’s not that much.

Hotch points and she follows his finger down to a little playground. She hadn’t even noticed it before. It’s sweet, really. That he takes this little pause to absorb what little of the outside world he has access to. Damn. He’s been locked in here for days and hasn’t been outside. Deprived of everything to the point that he has to pull enjoyment out of a fucking walk. A walk she didn’t want to take him on because his proximity was making her uncomfortable. Jesus, she’s an awful friend.

“Do kids come out here often?” Now she just feels guilty.

He barely moves his head but he gives her a sad little no. “Some– Sometimes,” he whispers, as he glances at her. The corner of his eye. “In the–” he forgets the word. After. In the after. “Late?”

“The afternoon?”

“Yes. Afternoon.”

Derek takes him on the afternoon walks. The day wears him thin. He has dinner and they go on their little walk before the night rounds begin. Hotch’s footing is less confident, he’s tired and somehow speaks even less. He takes two walks a day but he’s growing steadily more restless with each day. Today is the first time Emily’s caught him escaping but she knows he walked off on Jess too. She’d just cleaned his hair up, got it all even, and as she was sweeping up the mess he’d wandered out into the hall. Brought back by the first nurse that saw him, Sarah.

Sean does the morning walk. They grumble back and forth depending on what it is that morning that Sean makes the mistake of talking about. Yesterday, it was why Sean had left his car in Winchester. But Sean had left out a lot of details, not sure how much of the truth he was allowed to admit. They’re not supposed to press him about Winchester, none of it. Today it was because Sean was wearing Hotch’s Georgetown t-shirt.

Sarah’s waiting for them when they get back, Emily smiles when Hotch sees her and groans to himself.

“Good to see you too, sunshine,” Sarah smirks and takes Hotch’s other side. Looping their arms together and giving Emily a chance to break away.

He looks back at her and almost doesn’t let go of her hand. She has to pull her hand away and stare hard at the ground willing her brain to push her into motion. All there is, all she can do is uselessly unpack lunch. It makes her heart race, standing there at the side of the bed while Sarah goes through her check-ins. Making her eyes remain frozen and fixed on the bags in front of her. Unpack things. One at a time. All tense, mechanical movements as her heart pound hard enough to feel like it’s outside of her body. She can feel the pulse in her skin.

“Alright,” Sarah beams, satisfied that Hotch is now back in bed and properly hooked up to his machines. “No more wandering off, hear me? You know where the call button is.” The last sentence is a reprimand, she squints her eyes at him so he knows she really means business. “You want something, you call.”

Hotch grumbles back at her, looking away.

“No,” Sarah says, arms on her hips. “Repeat it back to me.”

Hotch sighs, glancing at Emily for some backup but she’s peeling the plastic back from a fork. Purposefully ignoring him. He’s on his own. Hotch carefully clears his throat and looks at his lap while he forces himself to think clearly and hard about how to say it back. He can do it. “Call…” he manages, face heating up. “I will call.”

“Good.” Sarah’s halfway out the door when she turns around, her pleased smile back in place. “I’ll bring you an extra pudding cup at dinner.”

Emily remains silent and says nothing where Hotch expects a comment to be made about how Sarah’s too nice to him. Maybe she wouldn’t bring him an extra pudding cup. Or that he’s just too much trouble with all this running off. Something dramatic and untrue. Accented by whatever treat she’s brought today. Because she’s all hard fronts and taunts but if he asks she’ll let him have dessert first. Can’t say no to his request.

She’s silent. Places his fruit cup, pudding, and juice in front of him and takes her own seat. The groan of styrofoam opening is all that breaks the silence.

Only after a great silence does Emily look up, meeting Hotch’s tired gaze. He’s turned his head, just watching her in silence. “What?” she says, a mouthful of food still in her mouth. “You going on a hunger strike or something?”

Hotch looks at his lunch, it’s not unappetizing but he’s not hungry. Besides, he can’t open any of those lids. A fact Emily should remember seeing as she does this every day.

“Oh, and the silent treatment…” Emily goes back to her food, shaking her head.

Hotch sits a moment longer, stewing on his thought before he dares speak it. Wanting to be absolutely certain, not yet trusting himself with his mind. “You’re… first— furst— frustrated.”

“Frustrated,” Emily repeats, grunting and rolling her eyes. “Of course I am. You’re stuck in a hospital. I’m—I’m…” She motions vaguely around her with an irritated huff.

“Mmm,” Hotch turns his head to look at the ceiling. The time to celebrate his success is not yet here, there are still things he wants to know. “Frustrated,” he says carefully, saying the word slowly. Trying to repeat the ease Emily had. “With… me?” In his temple there’s a pinprick of pain, he knows it’ll spread. A pressure that will build until he feels he’ll burst. “With the… the hospital?”

Emily shakes her head and puts her fork down. “No.” It’s the short answer. She’s not mad at him. He’s being just as she’d expect. Something she might wish to change on other days but the familiarity of his shared silence is enjoyable. It’s reliable.

Hotch hums, closing his eyes against the pulsing spreading to his forehead. He begins to speak but shuts his mouth. Despite the pain, what he knows will only grow worse, he can’t bring himself to tell her. Not even when he knows she could call Sarah back down here and fix it. Pain meds and more sleep.

He doesn’t want to sleep.

“You alright?”

The sound he means to make is affirmative but the end cracks into a grunt of unexpected pain. He raises his hand mindlessly to the pain before he can self-correct, already in motion to grab his head.

Emily hadn’t seen the color drain from his face, just looked up and noticed his attentive staring at turned to pale cheeks and his fluttering eyelashes as he tried to breathe unsuccessfully through the pain. There are pinpricks of sweat already beading at his brow, his mouth opens as his breathing quickens.

“You’re getting real pale,” Emily sits up. “I’m going to call Sarah.”

“No.” He puts his hand and covers the button with his palm. “No, no I’m okay.”

Emily considers believing him. In the past, she might have. This is his storm to wait out. Seeing him in less pain eases her consciousness but he hates the drugs, hates the cloudy head he gets. How his actions become loose and his body ceases to obey him. And with his autonomy already so wreaked, for a moment she does think to leave this.

But no. She wants him back. It won’t be the same, that’s a reality she’s accepted. She just wants him out of the hospital. Back on his feet and likely trying to micro-manage them from his home. So she pushes the call button, ignoring Hotch’s groan of frustration. It’s the right call.

He’s doubled over by the time Sarah gets to them. Emily’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his shoulder leaning against her while both his hands press into his forehead. Willing with all his strength for the pain to break just a little.

The light she dances between his pupils makes him gag and Sarah holds a kidney basin underneath his chin, rubbing his back while he brings up strings of saliva. A doctor comes next, a blur of in and outs. Emily doesn’t recognize the drug that’s ordered and Hotch shows no improvement or refusal as Sarah tells him what she’s doing. The syringe is filled quickly, a lot of clear liquid on a long needle.

Its effects are immediate. Not in pain but the sedative quality. Hotch gives a low whine of protests, his arms getting heavy and his body weighing him forward. Strong hands ease his shoulders back up. “Easy does it.” Sarah leans him back. She moves his hands away from his head. The left goes down easily but the right tries to come back up.

Anxiously, Emily takes his hand. Holds it in her own, pressed into her lap. Hotch groans again, eyes open but blinking quickly.

“I – I do… don’t want…” his words blend out in a whisper.

Emily isn’t sure what to say. This isn’t the part of the job she’s equipped for. She feeds him lunch. Someone else sits with him through the night. Stands guard for the less than lucid moments. Derek walks him up and down the halls. Sean works his brain with stupid conversation. She just feeds him. Fights his fork with her own to steal a grape or a piece of watermelon. She’s not equipped for this.

His eyes finally close and Emily feels like she can breathe again, no longer held under the scrutiny of his ragged breathing. She slips her right hand away from his and freezes when he pulls in a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering back open. He tries to speak but the sound dies in his throat. But his fingers twitch against her palm and she gets the message.

“Alright,” she relents, stiff and uncomfortable but accepting her fate. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

#oh sinnerman #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #emily prentiss #derek morgan #spencer reid #david rossi #criminal minds fanfiction #jennifer jareau #penelope garcia

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medicallymercury · 10 months

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Hooke’s Law (22/07/23)

I’ve spent an excessive amount of my time today making a Sah/Teddy/Paige (mostly Sah and Teddy, this episode really has me thinking about them a lot) edit to Night Shift by Lucy Dacus.

A lot of babies in this episode! The thing about Casualty drama is that I miss it when I don’t have it and when I do, it makes me nauseous. Love Rida, love Donna! Glad to see them getting more time and I was happy to see even the characters’ whose drama wasn’t really at the front getting screen time. My walls of Sah/Teddy/Paige text (my specialty) are at the end of my ranting below the cut.

I LOVED RIDA IN THIS EPISODE!! I’m so glad we’re getting more of her I really loved seeing so much of her, I just adore her and it was great seeing a different side of her. I feel like, of all the new nurses, she has been shown as the toughest one but in this episode we got to see her struggle more.

Jaye Jacobs is brilliant, she did great in this episode and I’m also really looking forward to getting more Donna.

Not much Cam but I just enjoy him quite a lot so I appreciated what we did get!

Iain with a baby; made me think of the fact that when I made this little summary video to explain the recent plot of Casualty to my friend who doesn’t watch it and I described the characters who I felt the need to describe and I think I said that Iain “would quite like to be a dad”.

Ffion surprised me in this episode, I don’t know I feel like it made me feel more invested in her relationship with Jan.

Okay, so Paige. I’ll be honest, she’s kind of on thin ice with me because I didn’t have any strong opinions on her and then I kind of started to not like her that much with everything to do with Sah’s top surgery and then her kiss with Sah and the three weeks I had to think about it made me like her a lot more (I know that’s a weird thing to make me like her but it just got me interested). How she was today, I’m like annoyed but also I’m not surprised. The way she treated Sah was bad, but that’s just how the employees of Holby General Hospital are required to act when a kiss that “meant nothing” absolutely meant something.

Teddy is a sweetheart and maybe a little oblivious. We’re supposed to believe that at least a little while has passed since Burning Bridges and he’s only just picked up on the fact that his best friend and girlfriend are acting kind of off. I think how he is next week will give us a good idea of where this stuff with them is going. Even before we knew that we were going to get stuff dealing with the kiss I expected we’d get a moment where he realises that everyone’s acting weird (and then Sah getting too guilty).

Okay, I’m really going to sound like I’m overthinking with all my Sah thoughts but I felt like this episode really linked back to how they were back like last year and stuff. I’ve already said how that scene where they tell Teddy about the kiss reminded me of the scene from On The Edge where they told him about their dad. They didn’t exactly have all that many scenes but what we did get of them really, really got me thinking about Sah and Teddy’s early friendship, it all just felt so linked to it. I feel like I need to make some posts about my Sah and Teddy thoughts but they are so extremely interesting to me. Sah and Teddy’s initial storylines aren’t directly linked to each other (as in, while I think their friendship is relevant, it’s not their relationship at the centre of it all), they’re independent but the way it’s written throughout makes them feel like such an inherent pair that you just can’t separate the stories (see me describing them as “besties with mommy issues in opposite directions” to my friend, the stuff with Gaynor and Jools has always felt so intertwined to me because of how opposite it all is) and the fact that both characters’ first actual romance storylines have ended up being the exact same storyline just feels a little inevitable for the two of them. I don’t know, I am overthinking them and not expressing it very well but I think that’s a good summary of how this episode has me right now.

Honestly, I still don’t think polyamory is out of the window yet. The fact that Teddy knows already and both Paige and Sah’s behaviour today has me still hopeful.

#cas ep: hooke’s law #bbc casualty #casualty #shoelace fandom #rida amaan #donna jackson #cam mickelthwaite #iain dean #ffion morgan #jan jenning #paige allcott #sah brockner #teddy gowan #the polyfailure <\3

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lemonluvgirl · 2 years

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Blazing Free-An Everlark as Mentors Fic

I’ve been wanting to begin cleaning up my first fic for a while now, and I’m finally getting around to it. Going back and editing your own work is such a weird experience, let me tell you! But since I’ve started the process, I finally got around to making some cover art for 🔥 Burning Bright and Blazing Free 🔥So I decided to share/promote it here on tumblr because I was too embarrassed to promote that story when I first wrote it. I didn’t have a beta reader back then! But hopefully now that the story celebrated its 1 year anniversary a little while ago I’ll be able to edit it properly with an unbiased eye.

Here’s a sample of the first chapter

(Katniss POV)

The 76th Annual Victory Tour,

Two years after Katniss & Peeta’s Hunger Games

President Snow’s Mansion

The Minister of Energy Production places a slimy wet kiss on the back of my hand. I grit my teeth in what I hope looks like a smile.

“My, my, you’re looking lovelier than ever these days Miss Everdeen.” He says in what I think is supposed to be a seductive purr.

I bite back the urge to tell him he’s due for another round of plastic surgery to pull back his double chin that grew in since the last time Peeta and I were here at the President’s mansion, two years ago.

I murmur a quiet thank you and turn away as quickly as I can. I look around for Peeta or Effie or even Deen Sparrow, District 12’s newest victor and the whole reason why this party is being thrown tonight. But I find no one I know. My nose wrinkles up in frustration. Where could he be? We’re not supposed to leave each other’s sides for more than 5 minutes at these kinds of parties, he knows that.

Finally I spotted him. He’s surrounded, cornered really by a group of giggling women in outrageous colors and styles. One of them is wearing a dress so low cut her breasts barely manage to stay contained within the practically sheer fabric. She gripped his bicep through his suit and squeezed playfully. Peeta looked extremely uncomfortable and was slowly trying to inch his way away from the group of predators. I rolled my eyes. He was still too polite for his own good. If it had been me, I’d have stomped on a few toes by now.

This sort of thing has been happening a lot lately. Peeta had mentioned to Haymitch how aggressive the Capitolites had become in pursuit of him ever since we announced our engagement at the beginning of this year. At first I thought he was exaggerating, but this sort of thing has been occurring with increasing frequency.

I stiffened my spine as I quietly slipped over to their group. I knew he needed me now. He never left me to fend for myself when we were in the Capitol and I in turn did the same for him. It was what we did, kept each other safe and alive in this dangerous place. His admirers didn’t even notice my approach, they were too busy fawning and pawing at him.

“You’ve grown so much this year! Taller and handsomer!”

“Your muscle tone is absolutely divine these days! What kind of regimen are you using?”

“What cologne are you wearing? It's simply scrumptious!”

They throw out compliments fast and hard, and Peeta, who is known for being silver tongued, finds a way to bring the conversation back into his territory.

"At my age I've got a few growth spurts still in the cards." Peeta replies quickly. Subtle way to remind them you're barely legal, and most of them are old enough to be your mother, good on you Peeta. I thought as I neared enough to catch the edge of their conversation.

"It's just the cut of the suit, our stylists are geniuses when it comes to tailoring." Oh, yes make them all think it's just a tailoring trick or the lighting.

"Katniss picked out my cologne tonight. I thought it was a little too earthy but you try arguing with the girl who took down three careers twice her size." I almost laughed at that. That was far less subtle. He was practically waving a warning sign at them. Cinna and Portia aren't the only geniuses here tonight.

But for all of Peeta's deflections and warnings the women continued to try and close in around him, staring at him hungrily like starved animals. I study his broad back covered in the expensive silk suit Portia dressed him in and the light catches on his carefully styled hair, making it gleam white gold. I can't deny that any of their assessments are wrong. He has grown up quite a lot this past year, and he's undeniably handsome no matter what he wears. But that doesn't give anyone the right to size Peeta up like a cut of meat at the butcher's shop. I quietly slip an arm around his waist. He bristles for a moment, until he turns and sees it's me. Then his whole body relaxes. There’s an uncomfortable silence that follows when my presence is noted. But I don't care. Let them see. Let them remember. Peeta's not here alone. I will always have his back.

By the tense set of his shoulders I could tell Peeta was searching for an escape from this just as I was. I just want to get away from this horrible party and these vapid people and sneak off into a coat closet somewhere with a plate of those apple and cheese filled appetizers. So I go for broke and snake my arms around his neck and stretch up to catch his mouth in mine.

The kiss takes him by surprise for a moment. But then he recovers and returns my kiss with slow languid responses from his lips, and eventually his tongue. I kiss him unhurriedly, almost lazily, like I have all the time in the world. Of course this kind of kissing starts to make me a little breathless. It's still fairly new, but since we're engaged now Haymitch and everyone agreed we need to make it explicitly clear that Peeta and I are a packaged deal. Practically sealed and signed. Most days that thought scares the living daylights out of me. But in moments like these I'm grateful for the protection we can provide each other. Even if it pushes my boundries slightly.

Peeta's lips continue to work on mine and it sends a little shiver down my spine. After all this time practicing we’re really good at this. It can be unnerving, since we’re really just friends despite the outward appearance we show to the world. But a little heat and showiness is required right now to make my point. These harpies will never let him go unless I stake a public claim. We kiss like this until someone clears their throat, and for a few beats after that. When we break the kiss, look around at the group of women with an unconcerned gaze.

“Sorry, sometimes I get a little impatient when he hasn’t kissed me in over 20 minutes. Right handsome?” I say, laying it on thick, as my gaze locks onto Peeta’s blue eyes again. His pupils are slightly dilated, and he looks a little flushed. I wonder if he’s been drinking too much champagne.

“Right, beautiful.” He answers perfectly on cue and drops his mouth to place a small kiss on the side of my neck. Which is new, and makes me feel just a slight bit wobbly in these horribly high heels. But his arm is around me now, and I don’t stumble. He must be eager to escape these women, since he’s laying it on thick.

“Oh, of course dear. Completely understandable. I'd be the same if he was mine!” Someone says in a high trilling Capitol accent. I can’t tell if it's the woman wearing the rainbow colored hat that’s blowing wisps of smoke in the air behind her head, or if it's the woman wearing what looks like a bikini made of vines and strategically placed flowers.

I frowned at her comment and tightened my hold on Peeta for emphasis. But Peeta cuts in to save me from biting back verbally by smiling and smiling at me in an adoring manner.

"I wish everyone could have what Katniss and I have with each other. There's nothing like it. Nothing and no one else even comes close." Peeta says in such a romantic tone I have to bite my lip as I stare back at him to keep myself from slapping his shoulder at his dramatics. But one glance at the the circle of harpies tells me their eating this up with a damn spoon. They're about two seconds away from ruining their expensive make up and hairdos as they blink their eyes against tears and pull anxiously at their hair.

After that most of the tension drained out of the conversation and topics turned to our highly anticipated wedding. While the women babbled in about colors and flower choices I remained tight lipped and took to simply studying them.These Capitolites were so strange and their fashions were simultaneously over the top and overly sexual. It made my head spin. I could only imagine what kind of mischief Deen was getting up to right now. He wasn’t as strong willed or morally fortified as Peeta. Hopefully Effie was keeping him out of trouble. Which meant everyone would probably be too busy to check on Peeta and I if we sequestered ourselves in a coat closet for the rest of the night.

We could get away without mingling for maybe the whole night! The idea took shape in my head and I could tell Peeta knew I was thinking something. He arched an eyebrow at me, as he fielded questions about our upcoming wedding, while I had been tuning out of the conversation.

“Look Peeta! Isn’t that the President’s head baker? You said you wanted to ask him about our wedding cake! Excuse me ladies, but I need to borrow my finance.” I say in a loud enthusiastic rush and grasp Peeta’s arm tightly as I tug him away. He chuckles soft and low, as we zigzag through the crowd.

An attendant carrying an entire tray of the appetizers I adore steps in our way.

“Grab that!” I tell Peeta in a gleeful tone and he has a quick word with the attendant and the tray is handed over promptly. Sometimes I’m really grateful for his silver tongue. I snatch a bottle of champagne and two glasses to go along with our provisions and Peeta actually manages to grab two slices of chocolate cake. I give him my best grateful smile and he grins back at me, obviously in a good mood now that he escaped the clutches of those handsy women.

Read the rest on AO3.

#lemonluvwrites #fanfiction #everlark #canon divergent #everlark mentors #engaged everlark #long fics

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young-dumb-and-vaccinated · 3 years

Text

A Deafened Bard (Stephen Strange x Female!Reader)

I can explain.

Please don't come at me for starting a new project before finishing Cult Girl Doctorate. I hit a wall and needed to take a break. I am trying not to let this one take up too much time.

Y/n is a sorceress-in-training who’s known for being hard to teach. Sensing her potential, Doctor Strange takes her on as an apprentice.

You firmly believed that shattering the urn of Fei-Amie was the best thing that ever happened to you.

It happened a year ago, but it still replayed in your head over and over again. You made a conscious effort to remember it vividly.

Sure, it was terrifying, Stephen Strange's initial look of anger when he heard the ceramic shatter. It softened when he saw that the culprit was just a clumsy sorceress-in-training who looked on the verge of tears with remorse. Still, it was a face you never wanted to see again: his teeth bared, his already sharp features accentuated under the constraints of anger.

It diluted into silent, simmering frustration that revealed itself to you in short sarcastic jabs and body language.

"Just, stop." He cut you off after a string of profuse sorries. With no disarming smile in sight, you could tell he was tense. "Artifacts get broken all the time. Don't cry. It was an accident."

His tone indicated that he was trying to convince himself more than he was you. You were a closed-off person and could hardly stand the idea that anyone out there didn't like you. The idea of the Sorcerer Supreme being mad at you, personally, made you briefly consider ritual suicide. You lowered your head. "Yes, Master Strange."

"Hey, butterfingers." He called out after you as you tried to make a painless exit. You looked back at him and he gestured to the pile of broken ceramic pieces. "You gonna fix what you broke?"

It hadn't dawned on you that an ancient relic could be fixed. Especially one that once contained the ashes of the ancient necromancer Fei-Amie. You were embarrassed to say that your knowledge of manipulating time was surface-level at best, and couldn't think of any other solution.

You wordlessly gathered the pieces up in your skirt and carried them off, striking out any plans to go into town that evening. Instead, you poured through book after book for any instruction whatsoever on repairing broken artifacts. You ran out of desk space, so books were just floating in the air, suspended on pages that briefly mentioned relic breakage.

You started to believe you were given an impossible task. Or perhaps all the resources you needed, he was withholding. Even so, you didn't want to go back to him empty-handed. You changed into your street clothes and opened a portal to the local craft store.

You returned with two types of extra-strong superglue and got to work. First, you made all the pieces come together and had them hover over the desk. Unconsciously, you began to sing as you pieced the urn back together.

Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels

Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles

Brown paper packages tied up with strings

These are a few of my favorite things

"Haven't heard that song in years."

You dropped the tube of glue and the few remaining pieces fell back to the desk. "Master Strange!"

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." He said, though his apology was undercut by his smug tone. "Carry on."

You picked up a piece and began to line the edges with glue.

"Aren't you going to finish the song?"

You looked up to see that he hadn't been just passing by. He was leaning against the threshold, watching you.

"I don't usually sing for an audience." You laughed, uncomfortably. "Just me."

"A man and his sentient cape should not count as an audience," he scoffed. "But, if you insist, I guess I'll have to just listen to Julie Andrews instead."

"What's wrong with her?" You raised your eyebrows in surprise.

"Oh, nothing. She's a treasure." He put his hands up. "But everyone gets to hear her sing. And I take it that only a very select few get to hear your rendition of my favorite things. I just have to be one of them."

You blushed, suddenly forgetting all the words to my favorite things.

"Girls in white dresses..." he offered, an impatient edge to it.

You swallowed. "Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes. Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes-"

"Hey, butterfingers." He interrupted again. Before you could object, he pointed to the way that the pieces floated gracefully overhead at the sound of your voice.

"I'd like to see Julie Andrews do that." He said with a wink.

"Looks alright," Master Strange said, running his finger along the tight seams that showed where cracks once were.

"Will it still work?" You asked. That was really all you were worried about.

"Beats the hell out of me." He shrugged. "I didn't know how to use it to begin with."

"What?!" You spat back. "Are you kidding?"

"I'm afraid not." He said, taking the urn and placing it back on its pedestal. "Don't worry, you did a good job. I'm not mad at you anymore."

That was really all you needed to hear. "Thank you, sir."

"You're an apprentice, right?" He asked.

"I'm..." Your voice trailed off in embarrassment. "Between masters right now."

He raised an eyebrow. "If I were to ask around, would I receive glowing reviews from your last masters?"

You admitted it point-blank. "No."

"Let me guess," he folded his arms. "Something didn't make sense to you and instead of giving you the space to question it, they insisted you follow blindly."

You wanted to throw your head back and shout in relief; finally, someone understood!

"Bingo, bullseye." You put your hands up in surrender after being read so easily. "Right on the money."

"I see." He said, tucking that thought away for later. "Could I trouble you for one more odd job before you go?"

"That depends." You folded your arms. "What is it?"

He looked over his shoulder at his cape. "How are you with sewing?"

‘Sewing' was not the verb you would use to describe repairing the tears in the Cloak of Levitation. It was taller and stronger than you and it did not want to be repaired. It was closer to performing surgery on a fully grown mountain lion that could rip your head off at any minute.

"Like putting eyeshadow on a cat," Master Strange said. It flicked its edge contemptuously, while still clinging to his shoulders for dear life. "I'm a licensed surgeon and it won't let me within 20 feet of it with a needle."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." You said, thoroughly discouraged. All he'd given you to work with was a spool of thread and a pack of needles.

He tried with sincere force to remove the cloak, but it wouldn't budge. "Of course, now it knows you're coming at it with the sewing kit and it won't leave my shoulders."

"Maybe I can work with that?" You shrugged. You threaded the needle and hid it in your hand.

You approached the cloak, only for it to shove Master Strange in your way like a human shield.

"Listen, you naughty little blanket." He scolded, turning around to face it as if it were a puppy that had just wrecked the living room. "If you don't let her fix you, you're going in the washing machine. Extra spin."

It shuddered, and, for a moment, you thought it was going to comply. You slowly took a step forward, only for it to dart as soon as your foot hit the ground. It made its escape with a large crash through the heavy wooden doors of the library.

"Hey!" You shouted, chasing after it. "Get back here!"

You caught a glimpse of it headed towards the relic room, so, without thinking, you opened a portal to make it there first. You reached it only seconds before the cloak breached the threshold, with only enough time to grab it by the edge.

"Come here!" You exclaimed, giving it a full force tug. It tugged back, overpowering you to the tenth degree. It dragged you across the room and into the foyer. You yanked on it, only for it to escape from your grip and send you flying back into the wall. You wondered for a second how such a sturdy piece of fabric could possibly be in need of maintenance.

"Bastard." You mumbled, rubbing the spot where your head collided with the wall. The pain didn't stop you, though. You were on your feet within seconds, pursuing the naughty blanket all over again.

You heard the words of one of your many, many masters ringing in your ears; "never outrun what you can outsmart". Or maybe that was from a Garfield comic. Either way, whether or not you could outsmart the cloak was still unknown, but you had to at least try.

You took a second to catch your breath and tried to remember where you saw it heading next. Downstairs, you thought. To the laundry room. The one place you would never look.

You slowly but deliberately descended the stairs to the basement where the laundry was. You turned the light on and saw overturned baskets of towels, clothes, and sheets everywhere. And then a washing machine door slammed shut. You turned your head and saw a twinge of dark red hiding in the washing machine.

You removed your shoes and socks to minimize noise, then picked up a fitted sheet that had been thrown on the ground. You mounted the washing machine and affixed the sheet to the front. The cloak would have to come shooting out the door, and you would ambush it.

You forced the door open with your heel, holding the sheet like a giant net. As predicted, the cloak shot out like a bullet from a gun, getting caught in the sheet. It thrashed around aimlessly, trying to escape, but you had a tight grip and it wasn't going anywhere.

"It's curtains for you!" You said, then laughed at your own joke. "Stop struggling!"

It flailed and fought, but eventually ran out of energy and sunk to the ground. Not trusting it quite yet, you pinned it down with your whole body weight before releasing it from the sheet. As expected, it tried to fly away, but couldn't get anywhere.

"The less you fight, the faster this will go." You said, examining the fabric for any visible tears. The rip presented itself right away. About as long as your hand, right in the center.

"What did Strange do to you?" You asked, pulling the threaded needle from your pocket. "Hold still, I'm going to fix it."

Once the needle hit fabric, the cloak stopped trying to fly away and instead writhed about on the floor like it was about to die. You fixed the tear with as many stitches as you could make, then pulled it shut. Once you knew the thread was secure, you rolled off the cloak and let it fly free.

It shot up, but froze, noticing something was different. It swished itself around, unaccustomed to the feeling of air not blowing right through its center.

"You're welcome." You said with a shrug. "It's not like I had to chase you all around the sanctum to make it happen."

Without any warning, the cloak scooped you up and squeezed you. Your initial reaction was that this was its revenge and you were taking your final breaths, but you could tell it was gratitude by the way it gently set you down on the ground.

"Happy to help." You gasped for air. "Just remember this feeling if I ever have to do this again."

"Not bad, butterfingers." Master Strange told you, though the tone of his voice conveyed he was impressed beyond a simple 'not bad'.

"Not bad?" You protested. "I absolutely crushed it."

He ran his finger down the uneven but sturdy stitching. When his face met yours again, he was smiling with genuine enthusiasm that managed to eek through his dry, sarcastic exterior. It came out as an admittedly very handsome sideways smirk as his eyes scanned you up and down.

“If you don’t need anything else, I’ll get out of your hair now.” You said, heading towards the open doors.

“Wait.” The doors slammed shut before you could reach them. You turned around to see Master Strange still examining the stitching. "You wouldn't leave without tea, would you?"

A pot of chai tea sat between you, filling the air with an aroma of spicy vanilla. You held the teacup in both hands, determined to never give him a reason to reinforce the "butterfingers" nickname he'd become so fond of.

"Chai is my favorite." You said, letting the scent waft into your nose. "Yerba mate used to be my favorite, but if I drink more than two pots of it I get sick."

"Yeah, definitely don't do that." He chuckled, bobbing his teabag up and down in the cup. "Out of curiosity, are you wondering at all why I invited you to tea?"

"Oh, definitely." You nodded. "I was just wondering about that."

"Would you believe it's just because I find you interesting?" He raised an eyebrow. "Good company, perhaps?"

"Interesting? Absolutely." You agreed. "Good company is debatable."

"I can't believe I never thought to trap the cloak in the washing machine." He rested his chin in his hand. "It seems so obvious now."

"If it makes you feel any better," you shrugged. "It was mostly dumb luck and reckless disregard for my own life, considering it almost threw me off the balcony.”

He glared at the cloak. “What did I tell you about trying to kill our guests?”

It lowered its collar shamefully in his direction.

“Don’t apologize to me!” He scolded. “Apologize to her.”

It turned to face you and repeated the somber motion.

“It’s okay.” You shrugged. “My family adopted a retired army German Shepherd growing up. I’m used to high-strung creatures that could end my life at any second.”

“Well, rest assured, butterfingers,” He said, leaning back in his chair. “This will never happen again.”

“I, uh-” You opened your mouth before you could even really pick up on the implication he was putting down. “Wasn’t aware that there would be a chance for it to happen again?”

“I suppose we should get down to brass tax, then.” He folded his hands in his lap. “How would you like to stay here?”

“Well-” You said, not wanting to come off as too enthusiastic, which you certainly were. “Not if it’s going to kill me-”

“If I could promise you that your life won’t be in constant danger, I would.” He cut you off. “But if you wanted safety, you wouldn’t have started studying the Mystic Arts.”

“Got me there.” You conceded, your made-up objection withering away. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He shook his head. “I’ll help you train and in return, you help me preserve the integrity of the sanctum.”

“So an apprenticeship?” Your eyes widened. "Are you saying you want to take me on as an apprentice?"

“I know you’ve got bad associations with that title, but yes.” He answered. “If it brings back memories of your previous masters treating you like garbage, we can call it a ‘partnership’, if you’d like.”

Partners with the Sorcerer Supreme? You thought, butterflies materializing in your stomach.

"That sounds great, but-" You broke eye contact and fidgeted with your fingers. "I feel like I should disclose that it wasn't really all that one-sided. I am… notoriously hard to teach."

"And who told you that?" He tilted his head. "The ones who refused to teach you?"

You hadn't thought about it that way. "I guess."

"The way I see it, you've repaid your debt and are free to leave," he began. "But seeing how dutifully you reassembled that urn, wrangled my favorite piece of defiant outerwear, and how desperately this place is in need of some life, it might be a good idea to keep you around."

You put your hand over your chest to still your heart. "It would be an honor."

"Excellent." He nodded. "That saves me the trouble of having to convince you."

He brought you to a small but comfortable room with a bed and connected bathroom.

"There's plenty of closet space for all your clothes." He said, gesturing to an antique looking bureau set.

You dumped your duffel bag out on the bed, revealing the extent of your possessions. "Thanks, but this is all I've got."

"Travel light, huh?" He asked.

"Yeah, I moved around a lot growing up." You admitted. "Got no real roots and all that jazz."

"That changes now." He told you. "This is your home now so I want it to feel like it. Make the space your own."

“I don’t know how I can thank you for this.” You lowered your head, still feeling undeserving.

“Don’t thank me yet, butterfingers.” He chuckled. “I’ve been told I tend to be a little on the egotistical side. That I don’t work well with others.”

"It's actually [F/N], if you were curious." You said, sitting on the bed and folding your hands in your lap.

"Okay, [F/N]." he smiled. "You've been in and out of enough apprenticeships to know the drill. Early mornings, late nights. And I've got a laundry list of odd jobs for you that I'm too important to do."

"Naturally." You nodded. His dry self-awareness inspired a little confidence that he wouldn't be a complete tyrant.

"You did a good job today." He said, bluntly. "Thank you for your help. Keep it up and you'll make an invaluable addition to the sanctum."

You smiled downwards. "Thank you."

"Do you often sing when you're trying to focus?" He posited. "Just, as an aside."

You could tell the gears in his neurosurgeon's head were turning, undoubtedly trying to pin some kind of diagnosis on you as doctors were known to do.

“I guess it’s just a force of habit.” You admitted. “I used to play piano, so when I’m working with my hands, it just kind of happens. My last master was not happy about that.”

"Oh, screw him." He waved his hand dismissively. "He pissed away an opportunity to nurture a sorceress with a special gift for the sake of tradition. That's a mistake I won't make."

Special gift? You thought. Nobody who practiced the Mystic Arts had ever referred to anything you'd ever done as a 'gift'. Annoyance? sure. A symptom of ADHD? All the time. But 'gift'? That made it sound useful.

#stephen strange x reader #doctor strange #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange #doctor stephen strange #what if #what if marvel #doctor strange supreme

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glassartpeasants · 3 years

Note

That ending was a stab on the heart from beginning to end I'm gonna steal bob 🏃🏾‍♀️

The One That Got Away

Shigaraki x GN!Reader

Warnings: Angst, cheating, death

A/N: Don’t threaten Bob

~~~

The bed felt different after that night.

2 months ago you had caught Shigaraki cheating on you with someone random woman. You stood in the doorway just watching, trying to find the words to say but nothing came out. It’s only when you dropped your groceries and your present to him is when he noticed your presence.

*flashback*

“Shit! (Y/N) it’s not what it looks like-” He tripped over his words. You said nothing as you just looked at him, knowing that no matter how much you loved him that there was nothing that could ever make you forget this.

“Fuck just say something!” You were still silent as you dropped the groceries you were holding. It just wasn’t clicking for you. How could he do this to you? what had you done wrong?

“What did I do wrong?” Your voice seemed to echo throughout the room. Nobody said anything. Until she spoke up.

“Oh my god, Im so sorry! I didn’t know he was taken! Please forgive me.” The girl spoke as she jumped outta bed and started putting her clothes on.

“It’s okay. I forgive you.” Those words spilled from your mouth before you could actually say anything you meant. The girl had hugged you before saying she was so sorry a final time. Flipping off Shiggy on the way out.

“(Y/N)...i promise we can talk about this.” You just kept looking at him. Those eyes seemed to burn into his soul. He doesn’t think you noticed the tears spilling from your eyes. He was about to say something to you but you started to walk towards him. Thinking he was gonna get hit he just stood still before feeling your part of the bed dip.

He turns around to see you laying there, eyes still open with tears rushing down your face, your clothes of the day still on your body.

Shigaraki tried to put his arms around you but you had hit his hands back. and used your feet to push him to the edge of the bed while you laid clung to the wall.

*flashback over*

Thinking back on it you don’t know why you didn’t just walk away. Maybe you were to tired from being busy and running errands for him all day? Did you want it to be a bad dream and hope to walk up to realize nothing ever happened? Whatever the reason was, you weren’t sure but a part of you wishes that you left that night.

Now you sit at the bar, sitting far away from what use to be your boyfriend, not even taking a glimpse of him and he knew it. You just sat in the corner drinking and looking on your phone until a familiar smell approached you.

“Oh hey Dabi.”

“Hey there (Y/N), why aren’t you hanging out with crusty over there? He keeps staring at you and the tension in here could be cut with a knife. It’s been two months and apparently everyone said i should ask what's going on.”

“Im not going near him at the moment. We’re on a break per say.” this seemed to peak Dabi’s interest as he leaned closer.

“Oh? Did crusty do something? Your secret's safe with me, i swear on my soul.” What did it matter if you told Dabi? He already doesn’t respect Shigaraki so why not, plus, so what if that fuck didn’t want anyone knowing, he shouldn’t have cheated when everyone else was sleeping in the base.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you but, 2 months ago I caught Shigaraki cheating on me...” You felt small tears prickle the corner of your eyes. Bringing your hand up to your face you rub it away, hoping to ignore the pain that was banging against your chest.

“What a dick, wanna make him pay?” You look up at Dabi who had a huge grin on his face. You thought about it for a good few seconds before shaking each others hand.

“Once Shigaraki goes out on that mission today, we’ll talk more.” Dabi said before getting up from his seat and grabbing a drink from the bar.

You didn’t know what Dabi had planned but you hoped it would bring Shigaraki the same pain you felt that fateful night 2 months ago.

~~~

You sat on the ground in Dabi’s room as he paced back in forth, coming up with revenge plans. All of them sucked or ended up with you guys might going to Jail.

“New plan, everytime Shigaraki wants to hang out tell him you had plans with me and leave the room. You can go somewhere and i’ll go somewhere with you. Effectively ditching him.” Thinking, you try to come up with all the pros and cons this proposal Dabi shared with you. But soon your hurt over ruled the logical side of you and you agreed to it not a moment later.

“Great! Now all we need is for Shigaraki to ask to hang out with you. Don’t know how long that’ll take though...”

“I usually ignore him after what happened but sometimes he asks to hang out with me whenever its a slow day at the base or if he’s bored.”

“ Well guess we have to wait tell then huh?” Nodding your head, you get up before putting a thumbs up in his direction. You walked out of his room and see Shigaraki sitting at the bar. He must have finished his mission early. You rolled your eyes before sitting on the other side of the bar counter. You could feel shigaraki look at you through father.

“Hey....”

“.....”

“Look im sorry, a-and i know that doesn’t excuse what I did but please-” You got up before he could finishing his sentence as you walked towards your shared bedroom. Going in there use to give you comfort but now everytime you step into that room you see that fateful night over and over again.

You sat on the bed before hearing Shigaraki’s footsteps coming towards the room. Furrowing your brows, you ignore him as you put your shoes on. You needed a little bit of fresh air so you were planning on going to the local park to relax a bit. You weren’t a villain like the rest of them, you were just a simple civilian. Not that you minded really. It was peaceful not fearing for your life everyday and having the fear of failure not on your shoulders.

You didn’t really have a quirk so you just ignored the questions when people asked you if you had one.

“Can I talk to you?” You were dragged back to reality when Shigaraki’s voice rang through your ears. Annoyed you just answered hoping that the conversation would be short.

“What do you want?” You voice was snappy and you could feel the venom dripping from it.

“I understand that your mad. And you have every right to be but your not even giving me a chance to redeem myself and-”

“Redeem yourself? Why the hell would I do that? YOU cheated on ME. LIke hell im gonna forgive you so easily.”

“It’s been two months! What happened was in the past!”

“It was in the past my ass. How would you like it to see your lover in bed with another?!”

“I-”

“I felt like my soul died that day. I thought I was your only one! Only to find out that you slept with her! Was she a one time thing or were there more hookups?!” You stood up from the bed as your fists turned white and your anger slowly erupting.

“.....”

“TELL ME DAMNIT!”

“Three...there were three different occasions...” Now the tears were kicking in. You were hoping that it wasn’t true. What if there was more and he was only saying three just to ease your heart?

“Why? Why would you do this to me? What did I do to deserve this?” Your questions were like knives stabbing into Shigaraki’s heart. He wanted to tell you the truth, but he didn’t want your heart to hurt more than it already was.

“Im not going to ask again Shigaraki. You either tell me the truth or I will walk out of this base and never come back.”

“The...the first time it was a drunk accident, the second time Dabi had brought her to the base and one thing led to another. The last one was the same as the second one.”

“Did...did Dabi know about the affair?” You were begging, no pleading for him not to have known. You didn’t know if your heart could take it.

“Yes...” That was it. That was the thing that broke you. Walking up to Shigaraki you pushed past him before flipping him off and saying one final line.

“I would rather die that ever be with you again.” And with that, you left the hideout. You speed walked through the alleys to get to you parked your car. Your friends house was pretty far and you didn’t feel like walking in the dead of night were criminal activity was more active.

Getting in your car, you turn on the radio and start breaking down. Your tears were blurring your eyesight as you put the car in drive.

The streets weren’t busy except for the occasion car with some college students. Or drunk people walking along the sidewalk. The sound of the radio blasting songs that were supposed to be happy barley brightened up your mood as you drove down the dark highways.

All of a sudden a bright light hit your eyes from the right side. Some fuck must have had their brights on. But you had the right away so you went. All of a sudden a huge crash rang through your ears and the world became dark.

~~~

A ring came from Shigaraki’s phone. Looking at the clock he noticed it to be 2am. Annoyed he just decided to answer it.

“Hello, this is (hospital name). You were listed under a emergency contact for (Y/N) (L/N).” Shigaraki jolted awake as his hands reached his neck, standing up and already begun to pace the floor of his room.

“Yes did something happen?!”

“At 12am tonight miss (Y/N) was in a car crash. A hit and run to be exact. Their car was totalled after it rolled about 3 times from the speed that the driver hit them. A bystander of the accident called 119. They were in need of surgery immediately once paramedics noticed that they were crushed and bleeding out quickly due to a shard of glass that was stabbed in their chest.”

“Are they okay?!” The doctor on the other end went silent.

“Im deeply sorry for your lost sir. They died during surgery trying to remove the glass that was lodged in their skin. The police are on the look for the suspect. if you wish to see them were on (blank street). Once again, im sorry for your loss. Goodnight sir.” The phone went silent as the doctor hung up.

Everything seemed to stop as the feared villain feel to his knees. Tears fell from his eyes as his body shook. He realized that now it was impossible to even try. And the last words you had ever said were ‘ you’d rather die than ever be with him again.’ Crying into his hands as his tears made a puddle on the floor.

I guess you took your words seriously.

#shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #Shigaraki #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x reader #tomura shiragaki #mha #bnha #mha angst #bnha angst #tomura shigaraki angst #:)

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sequinsmile-x · 3 years

Text

High

Aaron gets hurt protecting Emily.

For my pal @aubreyprc

Words: 2.3k

Warnings: Canon typical violence/injury. Some cursing. Aaron Hotchner high on pain meds.

She was going to kill him.

First, she was going to check he was ok, kiss him until she was sure and then she was going to kill him.

Emily anxiously twirls her wedding and engagement ring around her finger, attempting to channel her nervous energy into something other than tearing her cuticles apart. A cup of coffee enters her eye line, and she looks up to see Dave standing in front of her, a reassuring smile on his face.

“It probably tastes awful, but at least it’s something.” He says as she takes it from his hand and he sits next to her. “The others are finished at the scene and are on the way.”

Emily grimaces at the taste of the coffee as she takes a sip, but for a second it distracts her, takes her mind off the fact her husband is an idiot.

An idiot who she loved more than anything. An idiot who happened to take a knife to the shoulder for her less than an hour ago.

“He’ll be ok, Emily.”

She scoffs before taking another sip of the coffee, grimacing at the taste again. “He won’t be once I’m finished with him.” She shakes her head and looks at her friend. “Why did he do it, Dave? We’ve been together for years and this has never happened.”

“The guy had his arms around you and a knife against your throat.” Dave says, his eyes flicking to the tiny cut on her neck. “He would have done the same for any of us.”

Emily closes her eyes at the memory. She wasn’t exactly sure how it happened, how she had ended up on the floor and the unsub had his knife in Aaron’s shoulder in a matter of seconds. The first thing she was really aware of was a gun going off, Derek taking a well aimed shot at the unsub to disarm him, but not kill him, and Aaron lowering himself to the ground next to her with his hand pressed against his own shoulder.

She had held him against her as they waited for the paramedics, her hand against the wound and her lips against his forehead as she told him she loved him and how fucking stupid he was in equal measure.

“I know he would have.” She agrees, knowing it was true. Aaron would do anything for the team, take any of their places if they were in danger. She knew he carried a burden if any of them got hurt, more so if it was her, and it would take weeks for the guilt to fade, for her to be able to convince him that just because he was their leader it wasn’t his fault. “It doesn’t make him less of a self sacrificing asshole.”

“Em-”

“Maybe you can save the lecture for when I’m not sitting in a hospital waiting room wearing a shirt covered in my husband's blood?” Emily says, an edge to her voice that has Dave hold up a hand in surrender as he takes a sip of his own coffee.

Emily knew Aaron would be ok. He hadn’t lost consciousness once, even when she had sat next to him in the ambulance, his hand grasped in hers as he tried to hide the amount of pain he was in. But he had been so pale, the blood loss making him look weary as he tried to reassure her that everything would be fine.

“Family of Aaron Hotchner?”

Emily looks up to see a doctor standing and looking around, a kind look on her face as Emily stood, Dave not far behind her, and walked over.

“I’m his wife, is he ok?”

The doctor guides them back over to the waiting area, indicating for Emily to sit down, which she does, feeling anxiety rise through her chest.

“The stab wound your husband came in with was very deep, and the scans show that the tip of the knife broke off against his clavicle.” The doctor explains gently. “The tip of the knife is still in his shoulder, so we are going to have to do surgery to get it out and close up the wound.”

Emily felt like the wind had been knocked out of her, memories of when Aaron had been stabbed before, so many years ago now, flooding back in a way that took her breath away.

“Is he going to be ok?” She asks, shrugging Dave’s hand off of her shoulder as he tries to provide some comfort, knowing right now it wouldn’t do her any good.

“There are never any guarantees.” The doctor says, but she smiles at Emily again in a reassuring way. “But he has remained conscious this entire time, and spent a long time trying to convince us he didn’t need pain meds.”

Emily chokes out a laugh at that. “That sounds about right.” She clears her throat, forces down the emotion trying to claw its way up it. “Can I see him?”

“Of course.” The doctor replies. “I need you to fill out the paperwork too.”

Emily stands and follows the doctor, briefly turning back to Dave. “Can you let the others know?”

“Of course, bella. You go make sure he’s ok.”

She follows the doctor to the room Aaron is in, and she blows out a breath when she sees him. The wound to his left shoulder is packed tight and he looks so pale it does nothing to calm her concerns.

“Sweetheart.” He says as soon as he sees her, a strain to his voice as he tries to hide the pain he is in. She walks over to the bed and sits on the edge of it facing him, taking his hand in between hers. “Are you ok?”

He lifts his good arm to press his thumb to the tiny cut on her neck, the one that had stopped bleeding before the paramedic even arrived, and Emily rolls her eyes at him.

“I’m fine. And I’m not the one with a piece of a knife stuck in my shoulder, honey.” She scoffs as she straightens the cannula in his nose delivering him oxygen. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry.”

She leans forward and kisses him, a gentle thing against his lips to remind herself that he is alive, and then she rests her forehead against his.

“It’s ok. Just don’t do anything stupid like die during surgery.” She says, her smile wavering as tears flood her lash line. “I’d hate to have to bring you back to life just to kill you myself.”

He laughs at that and it makes him jolt in pain, wincing as the movement makes his shoulder burn. She shushes him, her fingers soft against his cheek.

There’s a clearing of a throat behind them and Emily turns to see a nurse standing there.

“We need to take you down now, Agent Hotchner.”

Emily turns back to Aaron and kisses him, more forceful this time as she tries to pour everything into it. She pulls back and smiles at him.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” He says, squeezing her hand.

“I’ll be here when you wake up.”

__________________

The first thing Aaron feels is pain. His shoulder is killing him, a burning sensation lancing all the way down his arm and across his chest. Then he realises how fuzzy his head feels, the tell tell signs of anaesthesia and heavy pain killers in his system, making his brain feel light and heavy at the same time.

He opens his eyes and looks around, unsurprised to see he is in a hospital room. He groans at the light in the room, the brightness of the fluorescent lights making his head swim even more.

“Aaron.”

He turns to see Emily sitting next to him, a look of relief on her face. Her presence confuses him, unsure why she was by his side, and why her hand was in his.

“Prentiss?” He asks, missing the way she frowns when he calls her by her surname. “What happened?”

“You were stabbed, you had to have surgery.” She stands up, both of her hands now grasped around one of his. She presses a kiss to his cheek and he shrinks backwards, the pain in his shoulder stopping him from moving more.

“What are you doing?”

She looks at him, equal parts concern and amusement on her face. “Trying to kiss my husband.”

“We aren’t married.” He says, and he watches her smile slip away. “That’s mean, Prentiss.”

Aaron had loved her for years, longer than he had cared to admit. He’d often wondered if she’d felt the same, but this felt cruel. Like she was messing with him when he was so in love with her just having her touch him made his skin feel like it was burning.

“I could show you our marriage certificate but I don’t carry it with me everywhere we go.” She jokes, a nurse walking in before she could say anything else.

“Oh look who is awake.” The overly cheery nurse says as she sends a smile to Emily. “Your wife was very worried about you.”

“Not my wife.” Aaron mumbles. Just my beautiful coworker I’m in love with. He thinks, although a small laugh from Emily and the nurse tells him he may well have said it out loud.

“Is he ok?” Emily asks, concern for him sneaking it’s way into her voice. “He knows who I am but keeps insisting that we aren’t married.”

The nurse finishes checking Aaron’s vitals, making a note on the chart in her hands. “He’s fine, this isn’t totally unusual for someone coming round from anesthetic. I’ve seen some people completely forget who their loved ones are.” She presses a few buttons on one of the machines he is hooked up to. “I’ve set up the next set of meds, so he should sleep soon. Next time he wakes up, try and get him to eat some of the crackers we’ll bring in.”

Emily nods and turns her attention back to Aaron as the nurse leaves. “See, the nurse knows we’re married.”

“I’d remember marrying you.” He grumbles, eyeing her wedding rings with jealousy. Her husband is a lucky bastard.

Emily smiles at him, biting her lip to suppress a laugh as he realises he had accidentally spoken out loud again. She pushes some hair off of his forehead, her touch warming him immediately, something familiar about the gesture that his confused brain can’t place. He thinks he sees her get her phone out, but the room is starting to get blurry, his eyes closing against his will.

“I don’t think you even remember what town we’re currently in, Aaron.”

“Too pretty to marry me.” He says, his voice thick as the painkillers the nurse had given him start to make him drift to sleep. “Too good.”

“Go to sleep, love.” She says, a kiss to his forehead as she soothes him.

He falls asleep to her soft lips against his skin, and he thinks there would be much worse things in the world than being Emily’s husband.

__________________

It takes another couple of hours for him to wake again, and she can immediately tell he’s more lucid this time. A focus in his eyes that hadn’t been present in the few minutes he had been awake earlier.

“Hi sweetheart.” He says, smiling at her in the way he did on their first date, the way it made her feel now no less significant than it had been then.

“Hi honey.” Emily stands from the chair next to his bed so she can kiss him, and then she settles on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”

“Sore.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, but leaves it, knowing that she won’t get any further admission of pain from him. “I need to make you eat some crackers.” She says, a smirk on her face as she indicates the package on the table next to him.

He groans, the idea of eating anything making his stomach turn. “Do I have to?”

“Yes. But I’ll give you a few minutes.”

“I’m your husband, you’re meant to be nice to me.”

“Oh, so now you remember we’re married?” She asks, a wry smile on her face that develops into a laugh at his confusion

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll tell you later. I took a video.” Her smile fades slightly as she takes in the bandage poking out from his gown, the way his arm was strapped to his chest.

“I’m ok, Em.”

“I know.” She says, looking back at his face and giving him a wobbly smile. “Today was rough.” She lifts his hand to her lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “As soon as you are better we’re going to have a conversation about you sacrificing yourself like that for me.”

“I’d do anything for you.”

Emily shakes her head at him and rolls her eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

“But you love me.”

Emily smiles and kisses him, pulling back just enough to to speak. “I really do.”

__________________

She shows him the video footage of him in the hospital as soon as they get home, him in their bed on rest for at least a month. She giggles as he tries, and fails, to take her phone from her, his usual strength failing him with one of his arms out of action.

He promises all sorts of filthy things, once he’s better, in exchange for her deleting the video, which she does in front of him.

It’s only at the office Christmas party a few months later when it pops up in the montage Penelope puts together every year he realises he’s been duped.

#hotchniss #hotchniss fic #hotchniss mini fic #hotchniss fanfiction #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #aaron hotchner whump #hurt comfort #fluff #CM fanfic #Criminal Minds

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ageofevermore · 3 years

Text

Eighteen | T. Holland

Summary → you’re tired of feeling like the world silences you, but after an interview with sebastian and anthony, you start to wonder if maybe it’s your fault.

Warning(s) → mentions of anxiety, mentions of sexual harassment, mentions of inequality in gender roles, use of the word slut, fluff if you squint

Word Count → 1.9k

Note → this is a heavier topic, one that might be personal to some. if you don’t think you can handle the subject matter, please don’t force yourself to. this is relatively watered down, but it doesn’t take a genius to see what’s not being said. the ending features boyfriend!tom consoling the reader, so it does end on a fluffy note, but don’t hold out for those few ending paragraphs.

add yourself to my taglist

It’s getting hotter in the interviews. A thin layer of sweat sparkles on your skin, and even though the air conditioning has been turned down multiple times, there are too many people in the room to feel any drastic differences. It’s unfortunate for you. Hot flashes are a lovely addition to your anxiety disorder, and press always sets your nerves ablaze. It doesn't matter what project you’re promoting, who you're partnered with, or what you're wearing-- you’re always hot.

Your cheeks are flushed dangerously when the last interview before lunch is called for yourself, Sebastian, and Anthony. This is your first press tour as an adult. You joined the marvel franchise years ago, when being eighteen felt like the equivalent of turning thirty, and you weren’t blind to the changes of tone. People were harsher to you, more forward. If they weren’t shutting you up, they were hinting at something less then appropriate, usually something sexual.

The next interview started with a short introduction to the media outlet, and your interviewer. He was middle aged, kind smile, salt and pepper hair. He asked for your names, then he told you his, and one by one he shook your hands. His grip on you was criminal, lasting longer than was comfortable. Sebastian and Anthony we’re oblivious to the few extra seconds of contact between you and him, but it made your skin crawl in a familiar discomfort.

Your fingers curled into fists, heart high in your throat. The questions started out easy. They were mostly directed towards the boys, like always, but this time you couldn’t find yourself to be annoyed. You had dealt with handsy and sexually charged men before, but he set a fire beneath you. It wasn’t behavior you should tolerate, but being a woman in the industry, inappropriate touches and glances we’re easier ignored then dealt with. When you spoke up you caused drama, made headlines, attracted nasty social media comments that called you a whore. It was easier to just internalize.

“Y/N.”

You hummed, looking towards the call of your name. He was smiling sweetly at you again, a predatory glint in his eyes that put you on edge. You shifted your weight closer to Anothony unconsciously giving the hungry man your professional attention and a nod.

He shuffles through his index cards, but his eyes don’t read the scripted questions his employers have supplied him with. It’s not often male interviews do their own research, usually they’re briefed by a colleague and handed a set of questions and topic point by a higher level employee, but this man doesn’t even read the card before he’s staring you down and opening his mouth.

“You finally got the Stark suit update,” He says, motioning towards the promo poster that shows off your CGI suit in all of its edited glory. Although the actual costume is breathtaking, the computer effects give it an entirely different, more technologically charged, feel.

“Yeah,” You nod, a forced smile on your lips as you try to ease the uncomfortable tension from your tone. “She’s finally--”

He cuts you off before you can give him any explanation for the upgrade. He isn’t the first one to address your new wardrobe, but he’s the first one to leave you antsy and uncomfortable. Sebastian frowns when you’re cut off, but he doesn’t think much of it. He lets the man continue, though a professional sharpness pulls his grin into a scowl.

“Were you able to wear undergarments underneath it? It’s tight, doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Was there ever a moment where you reflected how much your wardrobe has changed through the years?” He asks, a dirty grin on his lips.

Sebastian and Anthony are shocked at the blunt, inappropriate construction of his question. The public eye knew nothing of your battles with body image, or health concerns that lead to surgery. Your mind was plagued with doubts and self-criticism, and his invasive, pervy question both infuriated you and broke you apart.

You stutter to find an answer, heat overwhelming you. Your hand grips onto Anthony’s arm, and you can’t decide whether anger is what burns your skin or anxiety. Are you making a big deal of this? You don’t know. You feel like you have every right to feel violated and uncomfortable, but you’re a young woman in the entertainment industry, isn’t this the kind of ignorant commentary you signed up for? You don’t know anymore. You grew up with people always having an opinion on your appearance, sexualizing you as early as twelve. You’ve carried around pepper spray and self-defense keychains long before you even had an understanding towards predatory men and sexual assault. You’ve been conditioned by the world and the media to carry on with your day, no matter the broken boundaries or disrespect. You’re tired of remaining silent, feeling like your less than your male counterparts. Women and men should hold no differing values in society, and yet you walk to your apartment with keys between your fingers and Tom doesn’t even lock his front door.

“I don’t think that’s an appropriate question.” You choke out, voice hard and nowhere near the soft and frilly pitch it usually obtains. You’re livid, absolutely pissed to the point of a quivering cupids bow. You’re humiliated, and horrified. Your feelings are everywhere, but you remain as professional as you can. If you yell, try to defend yourself at all, you’ll be painted as a diva in every media outlet for the next week, subliminally inviting backlash and slut-shaming comments into your social media messages. If Sebastian and Anthony come to your defense, they’ll be sung high-praises.

The double standards men and women are held to, especially in the industry, is infuriating.

He stumbles out a response, but his time is already up. For the first time today, you’re thankful these interviews are only ten minutes. He leaves the room, shown out by security, and even then he still sends you a wink over his shoulder as if your glimmering eyes meant nothing.

“Hey,” Sebastian's voice is soft, his hand on the small of your back. You flinch away from his contact, head heavy in memories you’d rather forget.

“Sorry,” You mumble, voice trembling with tears that you refuse to let fall. You’ve already been humiliated, you don’t need to further paint yourself as some helpless teenage girl. “I’m sorry. I’m going to go find Tom.”

Anthony and Sebastian nod tightly. They watch as you quiver in your heels, hands clenched into fists at your sides. They’re proud of the way you handled yourself, though still absolutely enraged that any adult would find it appropriate to address you like that, especially in a professional setting.

You stumble into the dressing rooms, right into your boyfriend's chest. Your mind is racing, but the minute you attach yourself to him, you break down. Shy sobs break Tom’s heart. He holds the back of your head to his chest, other hand on the small of your back and wrapped around your waist as you cry. You’re trying to stay quiet, but the attention is already on you. Chris and Robert are worried, and Zoe’s trying to act like she hasn’t noticed, but they don’t all watch as you try to console yourself with your boyfriend's warmth.

“What happened?” Tom’s voice is soft, trying to keep this a private moment. He tries to move the both of you back into a corner, but you panic and squeeze around his waist tighter. “Baby,”

You and Tom have been dating for six months, and although you’ve shared with him stories of your traumatic experiences as a woman living in LA, he’s never seen anything upset you like this.

“I’m such a slut.” Your words come out so shy and small, you aren’t even sure you can hear yourself. No matter how many times you tell yourself that your makeup and clothes don’t give men permission to make passes or feel you up, it’s getting harder to believe that your verbal consent is as strong as your clothes. Maybe you are asking for it, and in a wave of nausea, disgusted with yourself, your arms leave Tom’s waist to pull at the bottom of your borrowed dress.

You’ve been hit on in sweats before. In ball gowns and crop tops. Somebody’s even pushed themselves against you while you wore Tom’s hoodie, but you still convince yourself that it’s your fault. That you we’re asking for it.

Tom’s jaw sets harshly into place, and he tilts your chin upwards to meet his eye. His brown stare is hard, only adding to your distress. Maybe he agrees. Maybe he’ll blame you for what just happened. He’s probably going to break up with you. Other guys just can’t keep their hands and eyes off of you. He doesn’t want a slut for a girlfriend.

“What the fuck did you just say, Y/N?” His tone causes you to flinch, words bouncing off of the dressing room walls. Everyone flinches, hearing only his heavy response. You try to divert your attention, but Tom squeezes your jaw, forcing your eyes back on his. “Say it again.”

“I’m such a slut.” You sniffle, submitting beneath his fiery glare. Tensions are high as you try not to break down again. Apart from Tom, everyone in the room has watched you grow up, never losing that shy and sweet sense of yourself. You’re an exuberant light, a brilliant scene partner, a rising star who has big things in store for the future. You are many things, but a slut, isn’t one of them.

Tom looks behind you, glaring straight at Anthony and Sebastion who are both stone eyed and still. They’ve not calmed down any since leaving the production room, instead, it seems their anger has only risen. The sight of you so distraught churns their stomachs.

“Some asshole tried to make a pass.” Sebastion said in short, words angry and delivered as such.

Tom’s breath hitched, his arms tightening around you and pulling you closer to his chest. His chin digs into your crown, eyes pinches shut as his hot exhale feels heavy.

“You aren’t a slut, Y/N.” He doesn’t leave any room for argument, but you try anyways. Tom has no patience for it, and so he tilts your head back and plants his lips against yours harshly and eagerly, desperate to show you love and intimacy. “You. Aren’t. A. Slut.”

You nod, ducking your head back down into his chest as you try to believe him-- try to remember that you never asked for hands around your waist, or cupping your boobs. Wolf whistles, or handshakes that turn into forced frontal hugs. You didn’t ask for any of the harassment, no matter the outfits you wore and what they revealed.

Tom lowers his voice, whispers melting into your hair, “This isn’t your fault, baby. Please believe me. None of this, is your fault. It’s disgusting and inappropriate, and you don’t deserve to deal with any of it.”

You sniffle. You can’t tell him you believe him, not yet. Not when your heart is so heavy. Maybe one day you’ll believe him, but that’s just not now.

taglist (urls with a strike through won’t let my tag) →

@deionswannabegirl @killingbxys @mauvesdior @mischiefandi @dmonchld @waddlenut @tanakaslastbraincell @hollandsxheart @quacksonhehe @tothemoonandbackx3000 @stiles-o-dylan24 @tikapollak @tomthetease @spookybooisa @geminiparkers @teen--marvel @rogersparkerbarnes @sarcasticallywitty15

#tom holland #tom holland fic #tom holland x reader #sebastian stan #sebastian stan fic #anthony mackie #anthony mackie x reader #sebastian stan x reader #anthony mackie fic #tom holland angst #tom holland fluff #tom holland x actress!reader #chris evans #robert downey jr

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consumeconstantly · 4 years

Text

A Discowing at the Wayne Gala

Summary: Getting Jason to go to the Wayne Gala each year was more difficult than putting the Joker away in Arkham; he insisted the part was full of pretentious, rich social climbers who were horribly boring. As it turned out, all he really needed to persuade him was an upset, drunk girl rambling about how much she was going to deck her highschool enemies there to convince himself that he’d be in for a great show. (AKA the extremely chaotic and nonsensical salt/crack fic)

____________________________________________________

“I, Mar--” she hiccupped, “Marinette Dupain-Cheng solemnly swear to rip Lila a new one with Discowing’s godawful costume.”

“You say it girl!” called some random person from across the bar.

“I will--” another hiccup “--use Batman’s Batmobile to run over Kim. And slam Red Hood’s ugly ass helmet onto Adrien’s stupid face.”

“Better yet,” Marinette pounded the table, “I will use their stupid utility belts to dismantle Gabriel’s empire. Somebody give me a yeah!”

“Yeah!”

All in all, the sight wasn’t that atypical for a bar in Gotham, if it weren’t for the fact that Marinette Dupain-Cheng was barely five feet, wore pigtails, and knocked five men on their asses when they tried to approach her.

“Take that, Hawkass,” she hissed. “Think you can pull a fast one on me when I’m drunk, do you? Well I’ve got news for you!”

Her words slurred together, and she leaned on the bar for support. “When I get my way, you’re going to be tied up into a pretzel and dumped into a volcano, then the tundra and then we’ll see how you like your stupid little jewlery touched.”

“Dupain-Cheng,” her blonde companion hissed. “Get yourself together. We don’t need another one of your breakdowns now. You know we’re going to be busy tomorrow night, and I don’t want to deal with you completely hung over all throughout the gala.”

“Aww,” Marinette squished her cheek onto Chloe’s “You know you love me.”

“Yes, yes, but I’m not going to tolerate this bullshit. If you want to make good on your plans, you need to be in tip top shape.”

“Ughhhh, why are they even invited to the stupid gala? It’s not even like they’re rich! Oh wait, I guess they are…” Marinette pressed her face to the bar, which was undoubtedly dirty. She reveled in it’s coolness, brushing her bangs out of her face. “And why do you have to be right? I guess I have to stop drinking if I want to make any of my plans work.”

“Your plans will work, hungover or not. It’s just a question of how much you’ll be able to enjoy them. I don’t want you complaining for months after the fact that you don’t remember half of what happened.”

“I guess you’re right. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and I'm feeling a little too warm to ice them out.” Staggering, Marinette got to her feet. “Call an Uber?”

“It’s already here.”

“What made you change your mind?” Tim frowned at Jason, doubtful that he wasn’t going to cop out at the last second. He was sure that he was only putting on his suit as some sort of deliberate ploy to get out of the Gala. Truthfully, it wasn’t required that all of them attend the Gala, but it was one of the few events that brought together most of the Wayne family.

Jason ran a hand through his hair and smirked. “Let’s just say I’m expecting quite the show.”

Jason kept a hawkish gaze on the entrance, waiting for the appearance of one short, pigtailed girl, and a taller blonde. They arrived almost forty five minutes into the Gala, which was good timing; not late enough to be considered rude, but most people have already arrived and have made their rounds.

Marinette looked different out of the dim lighting of the bar, and even though she definitely looks like she’s nursing a light hangover, she still managed to look stunning. With a matte-black floor length dress that attracted all light in the vicinity towards it, it’s hard not to look her way; Tim, for one, stared at the outfits that Marinette and her companion are wearing with stars in his eyes. Any moment now, he’s going to approach them. Or he would if he weren’t on Jason-sitting duty.

“I’ll play nice,” Jason promised.

“You? Nice?” Tim sounded incredulous, and it’s not like he can fault him. Whenever Jason did successfully get roped into coming to the Gala, it’s a sure thing that he gets at least one fist fight started, if not an everyone for themselves sort of situation.

“They’re the reason I decided to come. It’s not me you have to be worried about.”

Tim groaned. “Really? They’re trouble makers? But they’re wearing MDC!”

Jason chuckled, slipping a hand into his pants pocket. Tim was weirdly obsessed with the highly secretive French designer. Nobody ever saw them in person. “Wearing your fashion icon doesn’t mean they can’t kick ass.”

Tim rocked back on his heels, looking at the two girls calculatively. “That’s right. If anything, they’re more likely to kick ass, because that’s the kind of confidence that MDC inspires in their designs. Well, if you’re not going to fight them, I’m going to introduce myself.”

“And I can’t leave my little brother alone.” Jason said, watching the blonde girl point in the direction of, if he wasn’t mistaken, Gabriel Agreste’s son and his plus one.

Who knew that doing a preliminary reading of the guests would be so informative? He could only guess what kind of beef Marinette had with Agreste Jr.--Bruce had enough problems with Gabriel; even though Wayne Enterprises only dabbled in fashion, Gabriel was a ruthless man when it came to his competitors, and tried to edge them out of the market multiple times. Foolish on his part, not taking into consideration that both Bruce and Tim were very, very stubborn people who only get more difficult to face when dealing with a challenge.

Wayne Enterprise might primarily be considered with R&D and technology companies, but underestimating the amount of influence Tim could gather when someone pissed him off was just a bad idea.

“Hi, I’m Tim--”

“--and it’s lovely to meet you, but we’re on a mission right now,” finished the blonde girl, who Jason was now 98% sure is Chloe Bourgeois, daughter of Paris’ mayor and Style Queen Audrey Bourgeois. “Dupain-Cheng, it’s your time to shine.”

“God,” Marinette muttered underneath her breath, ducking her head. “I can’t believe you’re holding me to what I said while drunk last night.”

“It’s not just what you said drunk last night, it’s the most effective way of dealing with that liar. She’ll be so embarrassed she’ll hide away forever. Maybe get some plastic surgery and change her name. Daddy will make sure she can never step foot in Paris again.”

“Chloe,” Marinette groaned. “We all know how that panned out last time. Do you want a repeat performance?”

“By that time Hawkmoth will already be taken down. No need to worry about evil butterflies.”

“Evil butterflies?” Tim frowned.

“We can fill you in later, Marinette has a car to steal.”

“Chloe!”

“Oh stuff it, Dupain-Cheng, you’re no goody two shoes, even though you pretend to be one.”

Marinette whispers into Chloe’s ear, eyeing Jason and Tim. “Do you have to discuss that with other people around?”

“Well,” Chloe crossed her arms. “You boys aren’t going to rat us out, are you? They’re part of the infamous Wayne family. They’ll definitely be in.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You know they already reached out-- I can’t risk--” Marinette kept cutting herself off. “Fine, but if you-know-what falls through, I’m putting it all on you.”

“Like they’re going to pass you up just because of what’s going to go down at this gala. If anything, they’ll be glad to know that you’re as vicious as you are creative,” Chloe checked her nails and touched her hair, making sure it was in place.

“Sorry, what? I’m a little bit lost.”

“Keep up, Drake. I’m beginning to doubt your title as child-genius.You have the unique opportunity to watch history in the making.”

“Wait,” Tim’s jaw almost dropped at the display in front of him. “How did you even--”

“Trade secret. Marinette doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“But that’s the Batmobile.”

“Yeah, and?”

Jason laughed. He stole the hubcaps off the Batmobile, Marinette stole the whole thing. What a sight.

Here’s how the rest of the night went: Chloe plied Marinette with copious amounts of water, trying to get rid of her headache. Marinette hopped into the driver’s seat of the Batmobile (to which Chloe cackled, “And she doesn’t even have a driver’s license yet,” and Tim paled to the shade of freshly fired ceramic plate.) They ran over Kim, who, somehow managed to get into the event as a server of sorts, at which point Tim swore that the background checks would have to be upped again. Marinette landed the Batmobile in the middle of the gala, barely managing to avoid several innocents who were in her path. She reached into the convenient storage compartment that Jason was previously unaware of and pulled out the Discowing outfit and his helmet-- seriously, how did she get those?-- and slammed the car door.

Security, of course, was waiting for them. How couldn’t they, with that big of a disturbance? Half of the guests were up in a tizzy-- mostly the ones who were experiencing their first Wayne Gala-- and the other half were looking on, amused. Tim waved the guards off as Marinette made her way to Lila and Adrien, like a vengeful Valkyrie.

“You,” Marinette grimaced. “Chloe, say the words, I forgot them.”

“We decided that words were useless, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Marinette said, before promptly slamming Red Hood’s helmet onto Adrien’s head hard enough for him to fall to the ground, likely concussed. Lila, who started screeching and running away made for a surprisingly difficult target. Well, difficult in the fact that she was using other people as shields, but once she came across a group of Experienced Wayne Gala Goers, she got pushed out of her comfort zone.

In eight inch heels and with her hair down, Marinette stalked towards her prey.

“Lila Rossi,” Marinette intoned. “Your sins will be judged.”

“What are you going to do, Marinette? You have no power here. We’re in America now. No Ladybug to back you up. No public opinion in your favor.”

Marinette shuddered. “Ugh, your voice makes me want to vomit. In any case, I sentence you to life in Discowing’s costume.”

“You can’t make me wear anything!”

Famous last words, Lila.

“I’m still so confused. What just happened?”

“Don’t worry,” Chloe gave Tim a pat on the back. “You’ll get used to this kind of thing if you end up hanging around Marinette more often.”

“I think I’m in love,” said Jason.

“Get in the back of the line. The only thing Marinette has time for now are her plans to take down Hawkmoth.”

“I’m not opposed to joining you. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.” Jason paused. “By the way, has she already stolen the utility belts to take down Gabriel or does she need more? I’ve got contacts.”

"Fair warning, everything in Paris is at least twenty times crazier than what you’ve seen here today.” Chloe swiped through a few notifications on her phone. “And please, do you think someone who hotwired the Batmobile needs your help getting her hands on a couple utility belts? If she really put her mind to it, she could get the Lasso of Truth from Wonder Woman.”

“Yeah, Jason, I’m definitely not going to join you on that trip.” Tim turned his attention towards Marinette, who was currently passed out on the hotel couch. “Anyways, You two are wearing MDC, right? I have a meeting with them tomorrow!”

Chloe looked at the poor boy with pity. “Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

@jasonette-july-2k20

________________________________________________

i’m really churning out these jasonette prompts like butter (god butter is so freaking good you ever eat butter straight? i do. heart attack city & the next paula dean) even tho i only thought about joining in right when july was ending but here we are

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songbirdsingingthings · 3 years

Text

Polka-dotted Bandages

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters, they belong to Kohei Horikoshi

MHA Masterlist - Main Masterlist

WARNINGS: Mentions of injury, the tiniest bit of angst, and fluff galore <3

Requested by @luluwiie :

"There is no limit in the number of requests", you said? Welllll... then can I request ? 😳❤ if the answer is yes: can I request a slow burn / pining Todoroki x Reader Oneshot ? 😶👉👈 Like, when they train together, Reader got into the habit of always taking care of his scratches and wounds, which at first confused Todoroki, cause Recovery girl is there for this, right ? But with time he got used and even grew attached to this little habit of ours. And one day, for some reason, Reader ends up badly injured (in a fight, against vilains? Idk), and he rushes to the hospital and is like sooo worried.. and when Reader wakes up they find like some band-aids on their little scratches, just like the ones they often use for him ? And we get to see their reunion Ajajdusdj TYSM if you do it 😳❤

A/N: I LITERALLY FELL IN LOVE WITH THIS REQUEST.... which is why I had to rewrite it like twenty times before I was finally satisfied with how it turned out lol. I really hope you enjoy and thank you so much for the request! <3

Word Count: 2.2K

Ever since the age of five when his quirk made itself known to him, the world, and most unfortunately his father, little nicks and cuts were always a common thing to find all over his body. To this day, however careful Shouto was in training, they were ordinary occurrences. It wasn’t like he was careless, far from it in fact, he just got a little… distracted sometimes. How could he not when you were training right across from him? Your skill and poise were originally the traits that drew him in to hoping for a friendship with you. Those paired with your optimistic personality and effortless smile captured his attention completely. So, when he accidentally grazed his leg against a piece of metal that was jutting out haphazardly, he was unprepared for your attention to be on him.

“Shouto, are you okay? That looks like it really hurts,” you huff, out of breath from the last set of crunches you had just completed. The red-and-white haired boy looked in between you and his now bleeding cut with a somewhat blank stare.

“Oh… yes I think I’m fine,” He answered awkwardly, assessing the wound and slowly moving his hand to cover it. That is, until your hand caught his wrist.

“Wait, your hands aren’t clean!” You exclaim as you dig through your bag with the hand that wasn’t currently occupied. “Here, I have some disinfectant in my bag.” Shouto watches as you pull the little bottle of antiseptic out of your bag as well as some cotton balls and a little box of bandages. You douse one of the cotton balls with some disinfectant, accidentally spilling a little on your hands in the process, and hold it right in front of his cut. “Do you mind?” You ask, making sure Shouto was okay with your movements.

“No, go ahead,” He manages, keeping his composure but feeling his heart skip a bit. You flash him a grin before placing one of your hands on his leg to steady yourself.

“This might sting a bit, but it goes away pretty quickly,” you explain, slowly pressing the cotton ball to his wound. You made sure to clean the dirt and grime away quickly, your gentle and dexterous fingers going around the edges of the cut.

“Y/N?” Shouto’s voice was somewhat jarring in the comfortable silence you two had, causing your gaze to snap up to his.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” You asked hurriedly, your eyes filled with concern. He shook his head, allowing you a breath of relief before turning your attention back on his wound.

“I’m just curious as to why you are doing this, since we have Recovery Girl on call all day. I’m sure it would be no issue for her,” He asked as you disposed of the now slightly bloody cotton ball and digged around in the box to pull out a blue and white polka-dotted bandage.

“Well I didn’t want you to accidentally infect it,” you begin, smoothing the bandage across the cut, “plus, it's nice to do things like this for a friend, don’t you think?” You smile, satisfied that the coverage of the polka dots fit perfectly over the damaged skin. Your eyes finally go back up to Shouto, whose hand was held out to you. You take it as he helps you stand from your crouched position on the floor. Shouto smiled at the little notion and fell into a comfortable pace with you as the both of you walked back towards the direction of the dorms. Over time, Shouto began to like the little habit the two of you developed - he liked it quite a lot. Not ever had he been touched in such a caring and tender manner, and when it was coming from you… it was pure solace that he felt. And, gradually, as the two of you fell into a comfortable friendship - with more than a few lingering glances on his part - he felt that finally he was at a time in his life where he found someone that could understand him completely.

Buildings were leveled, the streets had craters in them, and your breathing was uneven. Of course, when Class 1A was on a day trip into the city, villains had decided to take action. The day was going too perfectly, you guessed. It really only was once in a while that the teachers would let you have a long day off to go shopping or enjoy the city life. Due to this incident, though, you’re pretty sure that they’ll be revoking those privileges as soon as the class steps their feet back on UA property. If you were lucky, maybe you wouldn’t be confined in the big dorm building for a week due to safety concerns.

“H/N, you take the guy on the left, I’ll take the annoying one in the middle!” You heard your classmate, Mina, shout to you. The pink-haired girl was currently fighting off a criminal with a nasty quirk - blood manipulation, as long as they were in some physical pain themself. That was probably why the guy was intentionally biting down on his tongue.

“You’ve got it!” You yell back, launching yourself into the fray and readying your quirk to attack. With the villain set straight on in front of you, you let your eyes zero in on them, everything besides them becoming a blur. That was why, when the enemy that was fighting Mina set their sights on you, you were unable to react quick enough.

Shouto was, more or less, beginning to panic. Everyone was accounted for… everyone except for you. That’s when he caught sight of a familiar pink-haired girl crouching down with tears leaking from her eyes.

“Ashido, have you seen Y/N?” He asked exasperatedly, beginning to grow frustrated with the lack of information involving the Y/H/C haired girl. This only caused Mina to sob more, her pitiful gaze finally looking up into Shouto’s.

“Th-they hit me with their quirk and it made the wind get knocked out of me,” she hiccuped, wiping underneath her eyes to try and rid the moisture from her cheeks. “They hurt Y/N really, really badly.” As soon as those words left her lips, Shouto felt his entire body grow cold. It wasn’t like the cold he used to regulate his body temperature when he used too much of his left side. This was a chill that encompassed his body as a whole, making him feel hollow. As Mina’s words grew more jumbled, Shouto felt his breathing go shallow and his hands beginning to tremble.

“Where,” He asked forcefully.

“Musutafu General Hospital.”

And with those three words, Shouto began running, and didn’t stop until he was at the massive glass doors of the lobby. He walked swiftly to the help desk and slammed his hands on the top of it, a little harder than he intended.

“Y/N L/N, she’s a member of Class 1A at UA, and she was taken to this hospital due to events that occurred downtown. Where is she.” The receptionist looked up to find an angered Shoto, his eyes blazing and narrowed.

“I-I’m sorry?” They asked, a little terrified of him.

“Y/N L/N, she is a patient here. WHERE IS SHE?” He demanded. The receptionist jumped in their seat and began to vigorously click on their computer, searching through patient charts.

“She’s, uh, on floor four, just got out of emergency surgery and is recovering. Room 107.” He didn’t stay to hear anything else they had to say as he sprinted to the staircase, ascending the stairs in record speed. When he arrived on the correct floor, a sudden feeling of misery descended upon him. Sitting in a little seating area, he saw as surgeons - still clad in their scrubs - were hugging a family of four, all of them sobbing in despair. This stirred him to now stumble down the hallways wildly, frantically checking the room numbers on both sides until he found the three numbers he was looking for. 107. Slowly, he pushed the door open to find you laying down on a hospital bed.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, the first thing you felt was the whole body ache that held onto your body like a vice. I’m never complaining about stomach or calf cramps again, you think, squinting to try and see anything in the harsh hospital room lighting. You groaned as you sat up, feeling the pang of pain in the small of your back. You smiled, though, when you saw all the things dotted all over your room. Vases of flowers were placed on the tables, from your vantage point you could spot the familiar petals of peonies - the flowers that symbolize life and good health. On the table next to you, lots of cards were propped up. Some had cheesy “get well soon!” messages scrawled across the front, others a bit more demure. And, as you reached to grab and read one, that’s when you saw them. The familiar pattern of blue and white polka dots left you breathless as you stopped your previous movements and began to inspect them further. These were exactly like the ones that were always in your bag, the ones that are so specifically designed that only one store sells them. You were sure that the hospital you were staying in didn’t make an effort to buy pretty looking bandages for their patients and nobody else knew where to find them in your bag. Nobody else except...

“Shouto…” you breathed, your eyes welling with tears.

“Y/N?” Standing in the door frame stood the exact boy whose name was just uttered from your lips. Dressed in a soft, black turtleneck - the one you always found so flattering on him - and a pair of beige pants. In his hand held the most beautiful red carnations you had ever seen, the petals so dainty and the stems so thin you feared they would break if he even moved them.

“Here, put them in this vase next to-” your speech was interrupted as Shouto let the bouquet fall to the tiled floor, his body moving on autopilot to encase you in his arms, his head wedging itself between your neck and head.

“You’re okay.” He mumbles.

“I’m okay.”

“You’re safe.”

“I’m safe.” Shouto lingers there for a moment before pulling himself back into a standing position, helping you reposition your body on the bed, trying to get more comfortable. The two of you stay in silence for a moment before you speak up.

“Thank you for patching me up,” you say simply, your voice soft as you tilt your head towards the polka-dotted bandages. You see Shouto’s lips quirk up a bit.

“You’re always taking care of me, so I wanted to take care of you. Even if the hospital staff had to do the heavy lifting.” He says, sitting down in the chair next to your bed, pulling it closer so that the two of you were as close as possible. Your hand immediately finds his, grabbing hold of it.

“Shouto, I-”

“Y/N, when I’m around you, I feel the skin on my face grow hot.” His statement caught you off guard. “My stomach turns, too, when you smile at me and look at me in the eye.” You suck in a breath, hoping that what he was trying to say was the same thing you had been feeling for ages. Shouto takes a deep breath before squeezing your hand. “At first I thought I was sick and caught something, due to the increase in temperature, but I realized that I only began to feel this way when you first put a blue polka-dotted bandage on my leg. And then that feeling only came around when you were near.” Finally looking up to meet your eyes, Shouto gazes at you with such care and affection you felt that you could melt. “I think… I think I love you.” Your shocked face soon softens into one of adoration and a grin spreads across your cheeks.

“I love you too.” You see Shouto breathe in relief before taking the hand he was holding and pressing a soft kiss to the back of yours. Your heart flutters at his gesture, encouraging you all the more to pull him towards you so that he could lay on the bed. Quickly, the both of you found comfort as he held you, letting his fingers trace lightly around the polka-dotted bandages. “Will you let me keep on taking care of you? Whenever you get scrapes or bruises… or if something makes you happy or sad or feel anything at all?” You murmured, letting your head fall against his chest. You feel him nodding his head.

“Only if I can take care of you, too.” You smiled, glancing back at the blue and white polka dots to see Shouto’s thumb brushing against it.

“Okay, deal.”

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pynkhues · 3 years

Note

Please recommend some of your fav Rio fics!

Of course, anon! Since you asked for Rio fics, I'm going to guess you meant Rio POV fics? If not, I'm sorry, haha, because that's what I've collated, but I hope you give these a shot regardless! They're all fics I think are pretty great. ;-)

Below a cut, because this got long.

But when he does reappear at the store—she still doesn't hear him coming, she needs to work on that—she's wearing a fuckin' dress, and he's glad she hasn't seen him yet because he can't stop himself from grinning.

Maybe it ain't for him, but given the fact that he doesn't think he's seen her legs since he came back—aside from that one night at the bar when she was definitely feeling herself—it seems like this is an intentional break in the pattern. Either way, he fuckin' loves the idea that she's been dressing up all week, not sure if he's coming but wanting to be ready if he does.

Now Use Both Hands by ms_scarlet / @mego42 6k words. Explicit. Beth x Rio. S3 canon divergence.

Ooooof, this fic causes me physical pain, but I love it a whole lot. Meg really captures Beth and Rio at their most acidic, their most sharp edged, while also managing to balance that with the feelings they desperately don’t want to have. It’s a bit magic, and the fact that she follows this up with another fave, Listening Through the Air Shaft is *chef’s kiss*.

- - - -

When he wakes, he's in a hospital bed, mouth dry as bone and he can taste blood, stale and metallic, on his tongue. The pain in his chest has been dulled by the drugs, but it still lingers, a persistent ache that spikes with every breath.

By all rights, he's a dead man walking.

Ten hours, they had him in surgery. From the look of his chart, he'd flatlined twice, and he can feel the consequences of that, see it in the bruises on his chest, the exhaustion lining the faces of his family. He'd woken to a little hand in his, Pop's cheeks damp with tears, and shit, it'd been close. Too close.

Bury a Friend by @ejunkiet >1k words. Mature. Beth x Rio S3 canon divergence.

Pivoting from 3.01, this fic is a wonderful, quiet character study that looks at Rio in the aftermath of the shooting before he explodes back into Beth’s life. It pulses with emotion and with the promise of catharsis, and it’s just a really special little fic. The Rio voice is terrific too.

- - - -

He finally gets what he needs one day when Elizabeth’s wearing this tight black sweater with a keyhole that shows off just enough to make Rio’s jaw rock. It’s so out of the ordinary, so unlike her ugly li’l sweaters or her surburban mama button-ups, he does a double take, head whippin’ around so fast that she catches it immediately. Then she catches where his gaze lands, where it keeps landin’ through their whole stilted, irritated conversation, and he sees her chest pinken til he can count her freckles. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, and her lips fall open just the smallest bit, and then she looks up at him.

Eyes locked on each other, Rio takes a step closer. Elizabeth doesn’t back away.

I Will Collect You and Capture You by @foxmagpie 17k words. Explicit. Beth x Rio S3 canon divergence.

I feel like I've recced this fic 1,200 times at this point, haha, but it really is one of my favourite fics in the fandom. It has this sort of grip on you as a reader that almost embodies Beth's grip on Rio in the story, and the way it builds and builds and releases only to build and build again is really delicious, affecting writing.

- - - -

“Com’n her and her lady friends were shakin’”

“Shakin’ about the lemon on the fuckin’ granite, sure.”

They chuckled as the car rolled on, the suburbs slipping away with the sun.

“Think they’ll pay up?”

There was a groan as Rio shifted in his seat, flexing his fingers along the dash.

“Neighborhood like this? Everybody knows someone who knows someone with a trust fund.”

Mick’s lighter flickered, followed by long, rasping inhale. “And a boat.”

Smoke swirled lazily through the open window up into the purple sky.

“And a boat.” Echoed Rio.

Drivin' through the Suburbs by gangfriend / @00gangfriend00 5k words. Teen+. Mick + Rio friendship, Beth x Rio. Canon compliant.

It takes a lot to make me laugh out loud in a fic, but this one does multiple times. It's just insanely fun, and captures Rio and Mick at their most boyish in a way I find utterly charming. It's really, really delightful.

- - - -

She’s got her crimes wrapped up and categorized in folders with labels and post-its. Wrapped up in gift paper with a big blue bow on it. And she’ll probably ask Turner do you want freshly baked cookies or some shit when they go raiding her kitchen.

Rio should really get it under control. Her, get her under control.

She opens the door and slumps onto the front seat, her eyes set angrily on him. Nineteen voicemails and she’s still got things to say: he sees it in the twitch of her hand, the restless, frustrated pattern. Any minute now she’s going to settle on new words to voice her complaints like he’s here to listen. Like he’s got the time— like he cares. Like he’d better.

It’s a Work Thing by isoldewas >1k words. Mature. Beth x Rio. 2.12 canon divergent.

I'm a bit of a sucker for a good canon divergent fic, and this one pivots the car break up in 2.12 in a smutty way that just works unfairly well. It's such a great little fic that really settles well into Rio's headspace during the messiness of s2, and I love it.

- - - -

They settle in their respective places and Rio takes the opportunity to give Elizabeth the same once over that asshole did. Her ass really does look great in those pants and she could fill out any shirt. Her eyes linger over him too, tracing his skin, the bar tattoos peeking out from under his t-shirt that she’s seen a million times but she devours at every opportunity. Then her eyes meet his and she gives him that small, crooked lil’ smile.

He’s not one for religion, but every so often he takes his mom to Spanish mass. All the viejitos and pious Catholic types think he’s a banger but his ma’s still excited to show him off. He sits with her in the pew and when the priest asks for the congregation to give thanks to God, he says a prayer for the riches that have come to him, the health and brilliance of his son, the vitality of the other little ones in his life now, and Elizabeth. And when he thinks of her in those moments, he sees her in his mind’s eye with this exact look on her face.

A Bit of a Stretch by @septiembrre 5k words. Teen+. Beth x Rio. Established relationship.

Beth and Rio do a yoga class together! There’s such a lived-in feel to this fic that it feels impossible not to fall a bit in love with it – their relationship is explored in a way that feels true to who the characters are, while sanding down the edges to create something that feels sweet in the way they usually aren’t in canon. It's a great fic, but more than that, it really just works in a way that's a lot more complicated than it looks, and it’s all the more charming for it.

- - - -

He’s happy to keep kissing her like this. To savour it. Realises she’s undone the last few buttons of his shirt at some point as she shoves it down his shoulders. Doesn’t have a second to think about his ugly scars pressed to her skin. Can just feel her little hot palms snaking up his back and grippin’ him tight. Refusing to let any light between them as they kiss for what feels like hours.

He realises these are the lips he’s been tasting. Searching for in other women when his night’s got too unbearably quiet, hunting for an echo of the thing he really wanted. Comin’ up short every damn time. Sweet and soft and lethal. Unique to her.

It’s longing in a way he’s never felt. This is the taste of it.

As Good as This by @riosnecktattoo 5k words. Explicit. Beth x Rio. 4.05 canon divergence.

Okay, I know I just said how much I loved canon divergence fics, but it bears repeating – I love canon divergence fics, haha. This is such a great alternate take on how the wire scene in 4.05 goes down, and it simmers with tension from the opening line. The way it escalates as Rio navigates this newest betrayal works really well too, and it results in a pretty sexy and surprisingly emotional sequence. Magic!

- - - -

“Do we have a deal?” She asks.

When he turns to look at her she’s smiling, and that’s when he realizes he’s absolutely fucked. He’d just fucked himself out of almost a quarter of a million dollars. He lets his eyes drop down her body, licks his lips and nods.

“I choose the place,” he says and turns on his side to face her. “You owe me half - with interest,” he says and slides a hand into her hair. She’s damp, the sweat slowly cooling.

“That’s not what - “ she opens her mouth to protest and he takes that opportunity to slide his mouth across hers and lick into her mouth.

Long Nights by zetuslapetus / @querenaxx 2k words. Explicit. Beth x Rio. S3 canon divergence.

Rio and Beth bone while negotiating a deal! What's not to love, haha. This has such a fun checks and balances feel to it which just makes me want to peel my skin off, it's so good. It's exactly the way I like my Beth and Rio - hot and snarky and constantly trying to get a leg over the other, literally and figuratively. It's the best.

- - - -

He should go out and find someone to fuck. Maybe text one of his hookups. See if Jen’s working. He has options.

He knows what he should do.

But it turns out fucking other people is a worse hell than the one they create when they’re together.

And now that he’s yielded to this wicked ecstasy, he knows he’ll do anything to keep sitting in the fire with her.

To Sit in Hell with You by @daydreamstew 2k words. Beth x Rio. Explicit. s4 canon divergence.

Canon-divergent from 4.06 – Beth and Rio keep hooking up after the time at his grandma’s place. It’s fun and sexy while also keeping the complicated push-pull and lack of communication at the heart of them. Deeelightful.

- - - -

“Does it make it easier?” Maddie asks him once they’re spent, maybe emboldened because he has already brought her into their bed. Which may be unfair, because Lee had been in their bed from the beginning.

“What?” He seems lost in his thoughts, his arm behind his head. In a few minutes he’ll get up and get ready to get back to the factory. Like always, she’ll be looking for her keys so she won’t be late for work.

“Getting it out of your system before you see her.”

Rio glances at her. “I don’t always see you when I see her.”

It’s so rare for him to explicitly mention this woman, however tenuously, and Maddie waits for more. Rio’s gotten like this about a few women in his life but it doesn’t happen often.

Sure am Using You by aniara 2k words. Explicit. Rio x OC, Rio x Beth.

It's not for everyone, but I absolutely love fics that feature characters with other people in ways that tell you something about the characters' feelings about somebody else. In this fic, Rio's fucking one of his childhood friends, but it's all about Beth really, and the way both Rio and the OC negotiate that is really compelling writing, and feels so in character for Rio. I really love it.

- - - -

Rio dreams of her that night, again. It’s irritatingly pedestrian – Elizabeth’s kissing him deep and then, ah, suddenly his gun’s in her hand and she shoots him, with a double encore. It’s always variations on the same futile theme. When he wakes it’s not that he’s freaked, unaware of reality or his whereabouts. But he’s been soaked in anger for so long. He can’t think straight, not on her. It’s honestly terrifying. Cos stubbornly keeping his head on right is – that’s him. Maybe her entire raison d’etre is destroying every single one of his attributes though.

He ain’t sure if his subconscious is desperately screaming that he’s made the wrong move, letting her live. Or if it’s the total opposite. Could be fucking neither. It’s not – it’s not getting any easier. And that main reason for not biting the bullet, that he’d be mad as hell for being mad as hell at himself over killing her, it's not smelling any less idiotic.

Climbing up the Walls by s_t_c_s / @sothischickshe 8k words. Explicit. Beth x Rio. S3 canon divergence.

Another canon divergence from 2.13 and an interpretation of how s3 could've gone, and another one I really love. There's a throughline of chaotic frustration to this fic that rings true to Rio's character for me, and the way that that reverberates through his moments not just with Beth, but alone and with other women, feels really textured and interesting and real. It's pretty great.

#this was fun to put together #so many good fiicccss #truly a blessed fandom #beth x rio #beth boland #rio #nbc good girls #gg fic #fic recs #welcome to my ama

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sarcasmandships · 3 years

Text

how to save a life part 2︱spencer reid

word count: 8.7k

spencer reid x slight oc

spencer and veronica argue over him keeping their relationship from the team, but when spencer sustains a life-threatening gun shot wound it puts everything into perspective

angst + hurt/comfort with a n eventual happy ending

this is not an x reader because i hate writing y/n in place of a character name and it often forces you into writing in second person which i also hate - however I have avoided giving specific descriptions of hair/eye/skin colour, height and body shape so feel free to imagine it like an x reader

this is also heavily inspired by greys anatomy and ive taken characters from the show to be side characters, however you do not need to have watched a single episode of greys to follow the story

warnings: spencer being shot, descriptions of blood, descriptions of surgery

read part one here!

Veronica readjusted her dress for what felt like the 100th time that evening. The green, silk bodice was too restrictive; her feet ached from the stiletto heels April had picked out for her. She grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

"That is for the guests!" April hissed, smacking her arm with her tiny clutch bag.

"And the hostages," Veronica said, raising her glass to an imaginary toast.

"Amen to that," Cristina agreed, taking a long sip of champagne from her own glass.

"You two are hopeless," April said, shaking her head before storming off.

"I like angry Kepner," Cristina chuckled.

"God, I can't breathe in this thing," Veronica gasped, pulling at the top of her dress again, "I think I've got a tension pneumothorax."

"Unfortunately, if I had a needle big enough to help you, I'd have stabbed myself in the eye hours ago," Cristina said, deadpan.

Veronica gave her a shaky laugh.

"Ooo, is that Kevin Gibbs?" Cristina said, suddenly filled with a burst of newfound energy as she spied a man at the next table, "oh, he is rich rich, I'm so getting a donation from him," she grinned before dashing off to take Kevin Gibbs' arm.

Veronica rolled her eyes as she watched Cristina twirl her hair and flutter her eyelashes; she was far too good at this. Veronica was left alone at the table, tired of pretending she was interested in anything these rich, old men had to say; she pulled her phone out to scroll through Twitter.

However, as she unlocked it, Spencer's name popped up on her screen, and her shrill ringtone cut through the low-level chatter and ambient music in the room. She hastily switched the phone to silent after receiving a few pointed glares but continued to stare blankly at the screen as it rang.

She did not want to speak to him.

But she had told him to keep in touch.

Via text, not a phone call.

But what if something was wrong.

Eventually, she clicked 'accept'.

"Spencer, I told you-"

"Hi, Veronica," the voice on the other end cracked, "it's Derek Morgan. We met earlier today..."

Veronica's blood ran cold as Derek spoke to her through the phone. She could hear the piercing wail of the sirens; it harmonised with Cristina's shrill laughter as she flirted with Kevin at the next table.

Blood was pounding in her ears. Her entire body was in free fall like she was being hurled down the drop of a rollercoaster that seemed to never end.

"... they're taking him to Stafford Grace Mercy West Hospital, meet us there when you can - I gotta go."

Derek hung up the phone.

Veronica stood frozen, her body trembling and mind spinning.

"Veronica!" Jackson snapped as he strutted towards her, "you're supposed to be getting donations, not standing in a corner drinking all the champagne…."

Veronica was staring straight at Jackson's face as he ranted, but she couldn't focus her eyes enough to see his furrowed brows or flared nostrils. Her mind was spinning at hyper speed, but everything around her moved in slow motion; she gripped onto the edge of the table.

"…are you even listening to me?" he snapped his fingers in front of Veronica's glazed eyes.

"Spencer was shot. In the chest, he's on the way to the hospital now," she said in a monotone, "I have to...I have to go...I..." Veronica clutched her head in her hands; the room would not stop spinning.

"Oh my god," Jackson gulped, "of course, go, go. Do you want me to come?"

Veronica stumbled away from him and towards the door. Why was the floor moving like that?

"No," she called back to him, "this is your event you can't leave, I just- I need to go," she turned on her heel and dashed out of the door.

The hospital was just up the street. Jackson had picked a venue close by so the doctors who didn't have the day off could get there quickly after work. Veronica pushed people out of the way as she staggered up the street; her feet didn't hurt anymore. Her whole body was just pins and needles.

She burst through the doors of the ER, in her floor-length, green dress and dazzling emerald necklace, with tears streaming down her face. Sections of her neatly pinned hair had broken free; she clutched her chest as she gasped for air. It was only a matter of time before someone called for a psychiatric consult.

With most of the other attendings at the gala, the interns and residents had swarmed like locusts to get their hands on a surgical case. Veronica pushed through the sea people, looking for someone she knew – why did all the residents look the same?

Veronica scanned the trauma rooms, hoping to catch sight of his messy hair. They were full of bloodied and beaten-up people, but none of them were Spencer. She had just stumbled through the double doors to the waiting area when she heard someone call her name.

"Veronica?"

She whipped her head around to see Derek Morgan standing in front of her. Several steps behind him, she noticed Penelope Garcia, who she recognised from this morning, and several other anxious FBI agents.

"Derek," she gasped, gripping onto his outreached hands, allowing herself to stabilise slightly, "w-what happened?"

"We were chasing down the unsub and Reid...he fell and just when he was getting back up, he got hit. It was bad luck. It caught him just above his vest."

"And he's in surgery now? I didn't see him in any of the trauma rooms?"

"They just took him up; come with us. You need to sit down," he said kindly, and Veronica allowed him to guide her over to the seats.

"Hi again," Garcia squeaked, but Veronica stared straight ahead and didn't answer her.

The others tried to introduce themselves, Aaron Hotchner, Emily Prentiss, Jennifer Jareau, David Rossi. They were names she knew well from Spencer's last night rants about work, but she couldn't bring herself to look at any of them long enough to put a face to the name. Derek was trying to reassure her when Veronica caught sight of a familiar resident walking past with a tablet in her hand.

"Murphy!" she barked, "get over here."

Murphy's head snapped up, and she looked around rapidly to see where the voice had come from; when her eyes finally landed on Veronica, she looked at her quizzically but shuffled over.

"Dr Grey, I thought you were at the gala-"

"I need you to look up a patient for me, Spencer Reid - came in with a GSW to the chest and should be in surgery now."

"Dr Grey, what's going on?" Murphy said slowly, her eyes darting between Veronica and the team of agents behind her.

"Just do it, Murphy!" she ordered, and Spencer's teammates looked slightly taken aback.

"Okay, okay!" she said, typing rapidly on her tablet, "he's in surgery with Dr Hunt and Dr Altman for an exploratory thoracotomy...chest x-ray showed a GSW to the chest with the bullet lodged near the thoracic aorta...he was tachycardic and hypotensive when he came in, with substantial blood loss-"

Bile bubbled up in her throat, "what OR are they in?"

"Dr Grey, I can't-"

"What O.R, Murphy?" she snapped; she gripped the edge of the plastic chair to prevent herself from strangling the resident.

"OR one!"

"Okay... OR one. OR one has a gallery," Veronica mumbled to herself, she tapped her foot against the floor and her stiletto clacked against the linoleum.

"Dr Grey, you know you can't go up there when you aren't working-"

"Murphy, do you want a medical career?"

"Y-yes," she stammered.

"Then you'll get out of my way before I have the AMA strip your medical license," Veronica snapped; she stood up and gathered up the skirt of her dress as she began to power walk towards the elevator.

"Wait, where are you going?" Derek called after her.

"Spencer's in OR one, that OR has a viewing gallery... I'm going to watch his surgery," she said flatly before turning away and continuing along the hallway.

It wasn't until she was in the elevator and ready to push the OR floor button that she realised that Spencer's team was directly behind her.

"What are you guys doing?" she sighed as they piled into the elevator after her.

"He's one of us. We aren't gonna hang around a waiting room if we can be there with him," the blonde woman that Veronica thought was called Jennifer, retorted.

She was ready to argue. To protest that they weren't allowed in the gallery, that surgery wasn't for the faint-hearted. But then she looked at all their faces, desperate and distressed; they looked how she felt.

So, she closed her mouth and jabbed the button for the fifth floor.

The elevator seemed to take forever to reach the fifth floor. It stopped on three, and a huddle of surgical interns tried to cram in, but Veronica snapped at them before they had the chance.

"No. You get the next one," she glowered at them, and they could only give her nervous stammers and shaky head nods in response.

Veronica rolled her eyes at them as the doors crept shut again, with her arms folded tightly across her chest and tapped her foot against the floor.

"You seem to have a lot of authority here," Hotch commented.

"I'm an attending," she said bluntly, "they're interns - bottom of the surgical food chain, their only job is to stay out of our way and try not to kill anyone."

"That seems...harsh," Garcia whispered to Derek.

Veronica whipped her head around, "a hospital like this doesn't work without a hierarchy; it's how we learn. If we don't treat them that way, then they get too confident. Would you rather have an intern perform Spencer's exploratory thoracotomy or two surgeons with years of experience who are chiefs of their respective departments?"

Garcia gaped at her, but the elevator doors creaked open, saving her from trying to respond to Veronica's scathing comment.

"The gallery is this way," Veronica grunted under her breath as she exited the elevator and crept up a short flight of stairs.

"That wasn't very nice; Garcia was only making an observation," JJ whispered to Emily as they followed Veronica.

"Who is this woman?" Emily responded, equally as confused as to why they were following this random woman around a hospital.

Derek turned round to face them, "she's Spencer's girlfriend-"

"Girlfriend!" Emily gasped, "did he ever mention a girlfriend to any of you?" she asked, looking between JJ and Derek.

"No, not once…." JJ frowned.

"He didn't tell me as much as he was forced to, that's why he's been acting so off recently, but I couldn't really get many details from him about her, so don't ask me anything - she's just worried about him like we are, she's on edge too."

Veronica burst into the gallery, which was thankfully empty. She pressed her forehead up against the viewing window and saw Spencer lying on the table. The glass was cool against her forehead, which seemed to somewhat soothe her pounding headache.

Spencer's face was draped, she couldn't see his eyes, but she could see his half of his rib cage. That unsettled her; she wasn't supposed to be able to see into her boyfriend's chest cavity. Veronica clung to the glass as she staggered to the intercom on the wall; she pushed the button that allowed them to hear what was being said in the OR.

"... there's a lot of bleeding here, more suction!" Dr Altman demanded.

"Right away, doctor."

Veronica flicked the switch that allowed her to be heard in the OR, "Owen," she said slowly, and he looked up at her in shock, "I need you to save him."

"Veronica, you're supposed to be at the fundraiser. What are you doing here?"

"Owen, listen to me," she pleaded, her voice cracking, "I need you to save him."

"Well, of course, I'm gonna try and save him, Veronica I don't understand-"

"Oh god," Dr Altman said as she suddenly realised what was happening, "Spencer Reid... he's your Spencer. I met him at Owen and Cristina's wedding; we talked so much about the Mechanical Complications of Acute Myocardial Infarction I thought he was a surgeon too…."

Veronica nodded silently.

Her Spencer.

She couldn't control the sob that wracked her body. She was vaguely aware of Garcia placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Yeah, so I need you to save him," she sniffed, "because if he dies, I will literally go out of my fucking mind, and I won't be much of a neurosurgeon from the psych floor."

"Veronica, you should be up here," Owen said as he forced another clamp into Spencer's chest, "how did you even know where he was?"

"Murphy told me," she said, "but it wasn't her fault, so don't go and yell at her; I told her I'd have her medical licence taken away."

Owen paused, "you can't do that, though."

"She doesn't know that! Please just save him. I need you to save him."

"I-" Dr Altman hesitated, "we'll do everything we can, V, I promise you."

"Thank you, Teddy," she whispered through her tears; she flicked the button off again so they wouldn't be distracted by her sobs.

Veronica collapsed into a chair in the middle of the front row and kicked her heels off. Spencer's team had shuffled into the rows behind her and sat, whispering quietly among themselves and clutching onto each other.

"V-veronica," Garcia finally spoke after around an hour of near silence, "I know you're a different kind of doctor, but what are they doing? I don't understand any of these medical terms. Can you explain it?"

Veronica twisted slowly in her seat to face her, revealing her mascara coated cheeks and puffy eyes. She nodded slowly.

"They're doing a surgery called an exploratory thoracotomy; they're trying to remove all the bullet fragments from his chest cavity. Their main concern is that the bullet hit very close to the thoracic aorta, which is a major vessel that carries blood from the heart to the rest of the body."

"B-but it didn't hit his aorta, so that's good, right?"

"Right, cos' if it had, then he'd have bled out seconds after he was hit," Veronica paused to swallow the vomit creeping up her throat as she imagined Spencer's bloodless body lying in the morgue, "but the impact of the bullet creates shock waves when it enters the body. Considering the proximity to the thoracic aorta, it could weaken it and cause an aortic dissection."

"And that's bad?"

Veronica nodded gravely, "they're almost always fatal, the blood loss becomes too uncontrollable, and even the best surgeons, like Dr Altman and Dr Hunt, can't do anything," she turned back around to face the OR as a fresh set of tears threatened to spill over.

"Oh," was all Garcia could muster up.

"Those doctors, are they really the best?" Emily asked.

Veronica nodded, "Owen, Dr Hunt is head of trauma surgery, and Teddy, Dr Altman, is head of cardiothoracic surgery. They served together in Iraq; they've put soldiers half blown apart by bombs back together, if anyone can save Spencer - it's them," she reassured.

"Good to know..." Emily said in uncertainty, wrapping a comforting arm around JJ, who was silently sobbing into a tissue.

"What you need to understand is that every GSW is different, which is what makes them so difficult to fix, and when a bullet enters the body, it not only tears through structures, but the transfer of kinetic energy can cause damage to nearby tissues, like what I was saying about his thoracic aorta," she explained slowly, "that's why GSWs are so dangerous because the damaged area can ripple out around the entry wound."

"But you think he'll be okay, right?" JJ sniffed.

Veronica hesitated; she glanced back at Spencer's motionless body on the table. Her eyes scanning the monitors he was hooked up to, the constant stream of O neg he was being replenished with, the rip spreaders and clamps in his chest…

She felt sick again and had to turn away.

"I don't know. He hasn't been in surgery very long… it's just too early to say."

"There isn't anything more we can do for him now," Hotch spoke gravely, "he's in the hands of the people who are best trained to help him; we just need to trust that they are doing everything they can to save him."

Hotch's words had a sense of finality, and the room fell close to silent again with only Veronica, Garcia and JJ's sniffles and sobs echoing around the dimly lit room. Derek help Garcia's hand tightly in his own, JJ rested her head on Emily's shoulder, Hotch and Rossi sat next to each other, their faces stoic and stony. Veronica sat alone, tugging at the restrictive bodice of her dress every few seconds.

They sat like that for at least another two hours.

Suddenly, the monitors attached to Spencer began beeping rapidly, Veronica's heart seized, and she jumped to her feet to get a better view.

"What's happening to him?" Garcia whimpered; she clung onto Derek's arm as he also stood up and strained his neck to see.

"He's in DIC!" Teddy's voice echoed through the intercom, "push heparin," she ordered.

"Veronica, what's going on?" Derek asked; he tried to keep his voice steady, but it wavered slightly.

"He's in DIC, disseminated intravascular coagulation - it means that proteins in the blood that cause clotting go into overdrive, which actually causes excessive bleeding. If they don't control the blood loss, it's fatal."

"Lap pads! And more suction! I can't see a thing," Owen demanded as he packed Spencer's chest cavity to absorb the excess blood.

"And hang another unit of O neg, he's losing too much blood," Teddy added, "there was nothing in his medical history that indicated he was at risk of DIC...Veronica! Is he on blood thinners?"

Veronica dragged herself over to the intercom and pushed in on the button, "n-no, nothing like that, he takes zolpidem sometimes, but that wouldn't cause DIC..." she muttered.

Something clicked in her brain, and she spun round to face Derek, "you said he fell before he got shot."

Derek nodded, "that's right, the woman the unsub had abducted pushed past him to escape, and he fell down the full flight of stairs. That distracted me long enough for the unsub to get a shot in at him...."

"Teddy! He fell before he was shot, he fell down a flight of stairs, he could have a splenic injury or a laceration on the portal vein or hepatic artery- it wouldn't have been picked up on a chest x-ray. You have to do an ex-lap!"

"Veronica, we've already cracked his chest-" Owen began to protest.

"Pressures dropping, doctor!"

Veronica banged on the glass, "he'd rather be alive with two incisions than dead with one."

"Dr Hunt, you're the trauma surgeon this your call," Teddy said calmly, "but we need to do something and fast."

"We don't even know if he has a splenic injury! We can't take medical suggestions from our patient's hysterical girlfriend; that isn't how it works-"

"He's dying," Veronica wailed, "and he's going to die if you don't do something. If it were Cristina on my table, you would be begging me to do whatever it takes to save her. Teddy – you promised me you would do everything you could, and you're not doing anything! He's bleeding to death, and you aren't helping him," she sobbed against the glass.

Teddy and Owen exchanged a look.

"10 blade," Owen grimaced, and Veronica breathed a sigh of relief, "you better be right about this Grey – convert drapes for an ex-lap!"

"Oh God, I can't watch this," JJ said; she flopped back into her seat as Owen made a deep incision into Spencer's abdomen.

Despite dealing with horrific crime scenes daily, everyone else in the team had to follow JJ's lead as floods of blood gushed from the incision site. Garcia, who had screwed her eyes shut the minute the monitors started beeping, was rocking herself back and forth and mumbling under her breath.

"Okay, I need more suction! I'm seeing some damage to the hepatic artery," Teddy said, "can you ligate it from your side?"

"Yeah, I think so, clamp!"

Veronica wished she could be like Spencer's team. She wished she didn't have a medical degree; she wished she didn't know every possible thing that could go wrong from this point forward. She wished she could close her eyes or at least tear them away from the scene that would plague her nightmares for years to come.

She could hardly believe it when his pressure finally stabilised; she embraced the smile that crept onto her face as she watched the readings on the monitor slowly begin to climb up.

"You can open your eyes now; they ligated the artery and stopped the bleeding, combined with the heparin that should be enough to keep him stable for now."

"For now?" JJ questioned.

"He's doing well; that injury could've been fatal, but he pulled through, and that's good; it's just that I don't want to tell you he's out of the woods when he's far from it."

"It's been hours," JJ said, "how much longer before we know if he'll be okay?"

Veronica shrugged, "probably a couple more hours; they need to make sure the wall of the thoracic aorta is strong enough before they close and remove all the bullet fragments; they need to take their time."

"You'll have to forgive us, Dr Grey," Hotch spoke quietly, "we don't have the patience for this kind of thing like you do."

"It's okay, and you can call me Veronica," she smiled nervously and picked at her nails.

This was what she'd wanted all along, to meet Spencer's team. But now, she was standing in front of them and couldn't think of a single thing to say. She had imagined this moment every night for months, but never in her wildest dreams did it go like this.

"Veronica then," he said stiffly, "so you said you're a neurosurgeon?"

"Yeah," she said, tearing her eyes away from the surgery in front of her to face him, "that's how Spencer and I met; he came to a lecture I gave on the Endoscopic Fenestration of Arachnoid Cysts Through Lateral Pontomesencephalic Membranotomy, cos' that's just the kind of things he does for fun," she snorted.

"Sounds like him," Hotch said, smiling fondly.

"I just can't believe he never told us about you," Emily commented, "and I can't believe we never figured it out; I mean, come on, guys, we're meant to be profilers."

Veronica gritted her teeth, "Yeah, me neither..."

"Veronica!" Jackson said, bursting through the door to the gallery, "I just got away from the gala; how's he doing?" he asked, rushing over to embrace her in a tight hug.

"He's stable for now; his temp has come up a lot since he got here, but he did go into DIC, and they had to convert to an ex-lap..."

"Owen and Teddy will be doing everything they can; he'll be okay."

She nodded, "I know...I just want it to be over; even if he was in the CCU, I could handle it, but he's lying open on an operating table, and I can't help him."

He rubbed circles on her back soothingly, "it'll be over soon. Can I get you anything?"

"Something to change into. I don't think I have any clothes in my locker, but just grab me some scrubs... I'd take a patient gown if it meant I could get out of this dress," she said, tugging again at the restrictive top.

"You got it," he said, breaking away from their hug, "April wanted to come and be with you, but Harriett's with the sitter and she had to-"

"Don't worry about it, just get me something to wear. I can't breathe in this thing."

"Yeah, I'm on it," he said, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead, "Cristina's on her way; she'll be here soon."

Jackson shuffled out of the gallery, giving a nod and a tight-lipped smile to the others as he passed them. Veronica retook a seat.

"That was Jackson," Veronica explained, noting the confused faces of the BAU team members, "Dr Jackson Avery, he works here too, but he was stuck at the gala - we were having this fundraiser for this hospital...stupid...."

"V! I just heard; why didn't you tell me?" Cristina burst into the gallery in a similar fashion to Jackson, "I had to hear from freaking Avery that your sexy FBI boyfriend got shot?" she berated as she sat down next to Veronica.

Veronica shrugged, "Jackson was there when I got the call. You were busy turning up the charm for that rich old sleaze."

Cristina shoved her lightly, "I'll have you know that rich old sleaze donated 1.5 million dollars to this hospital," she said smugly.

"Show off," Veronica grunted, folding her arms over her chest.

Cristina stood up to peer through the glass, "supervisory sexy agent, has Owen and Teddy working on him? You need to calm down and stop chewing your nails; he'll be fine."

Veronica rolled her eyes, "you need to stop calling my boyfriend supervisory sexy agent, or you'll be the one on the table."

"Aw, come on, I'm kidding! My husband is right down there...oh my god, my husband saves your boyfriend from a GSW? That'll be such a good story for me to tell your kids."

"Can we wait to see if he makes it off the table before we start discussing our hypothetical children?"

"Boring."

Jackson returned at that moment, "sorry, I didn't know your scrub size, so I just guessed. And you didn't have any shoes in your locker, so I stole some sneakers from April, you're the same size, and she won't mind - I also brought you some of her makeup wipes," he rambled, handing her the pile of clothes.

"Stealing shoes from your ex-wife now?" Cristina teased as Jackson sat down on the other side of Veronica, "I thought pretty boy Avery was rich enough to buy his own," she cooed.

Veronica stood up and slid the scrub pants on under her dress, and pulled the scrub top over the top. Cristina unzipped her dress, and she let out a deep breath as the pressure on her rib cage was released; she shimmied the dress off and threw it over an empty chair.

"Shut up, Yang," Jackson grunted.

"Children, behave," Veronica said warningly as she slipped on the socks and shoes she was borrowing from April.

Veronica sat back down and finished wiping off the makeup that hadn't been flushed away by her tears. Jackson gripped her hand tight in his, and she smiled appreciatively at him; Cristina gave her a pat on the shoulder.

"Guys, what if he dies?" she whispered as they watched Teddy and Owen work away on Spencer.

"He won't," Jackson protested, "he didn't code in the field, and the majority of GSW victims without penetrating vascular injuries survive if they get to a hospital on time."

"There is a bullet in his chest cavity! That is a penetrating injury," she blubbered.

"But it didn't directly damage his heart or any major arteries; yes, they could be weakened by force, but he's been in surgery for hours, and nothing has ruptured – plus after they close him up, we'll monitor him closely, and he will be okay," he said with a squeeze of her hand.

"Avery's right. It's far more likely he'll be a vegetable or something," Cristina shrugged.

"Yang! His best friends are right behind you," Jackson hissed.

"They are?" Cristina said, whipping her head around, "oh, hi."

Cristina gave them a wave, and they stared back dumbfounded.

"Who the hell are these people?" Emily hissed.

"I don't know, but they seem to think that Spence is gonna be okay, and that's all that matters to me," JJ answered.

"He could still die; people die from GSWs all the time. There could be complications, he could get an infection-"

"Look, Veronica, if the worst happens, then we can cross that bridge when we come to it, okay? And you know we'll all be here for you, no matter what," Jackson said, and Veronica smiled appreciatively at him.

"Thank you," she said, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Y'know, you should've married him when you had the chance - cos' if he dies and you were his wife, you'd get that life insurance. If he dies now, you'll just be poor and sad."

"Cristina!"

"No, it's okay," Veronica said with a slight smile, "it helps."

"God, talk about a dark sense of humour...."

"I think I'm just still drunk," Cristina shrugged.

"I think I'm hungover already; my head is killing me," Veronica groaned, massaging her temples.

"Want me to get you a banana bag?" Jackson asked.

"Yeah, why not."

Jackson stood up and made his way across the gallery and to the door; he turned back to face the BAU team members, "can I get anything for you guys? Coffee, water…I wouldn't recommend the food, but we got vending machines."

"No, thank you," Hotch answered politely, "anyone else?"

The rest of the team shook their heads or mumbled no thank-yous in response. Jackson gave them a sympathetic smile before leaving; JJ's stare was still firmly fixed on Veronica.

"What did she mean? You should've married him when you had the chance?" she asked.

"It means that supervisory sexy agent-"

"Cristina!"

"Fine, Spencer, asked V to marry him, and she said no cos' she can't let herself be happy."

"That isn't why I said no, and you know it."

"Well, no. But your real reason is stupid, so I'm gonna say it's your self-destructive tendencies instead. Do you know what I've give to never have to interact with Owen's dumb work friends? You're getting the best of both worlds here."

"You work in the same hospital! Owen's dumb work friends are your colleagues."

"Ugh, whatever."

"You turned Reid down because of us?" Rossi questioned, speaking for the first time since they had entered the gallery.

"It's a bit more complicated than that-"

"What's wrong with us? You didn't even meet us until today?" JJ snapped.

Veronica sighed and picked at her nails; her first interaction with Spencer's friends already wasn't going very well, and now she had to tread lightly as to not offend anyone.

"That's the problem; it took Spencer getting shot in the chest for us to meet because he refused to tell you about me; how could I marry someone when I'd never even met his friends? It's what we argue about more than anything else. We argued about it this morning actually...."

The blood drained away from Veronica's face as the events of the day flashed through her mind.

She turned to face Cristina, "oh God, we were arguing this morning about it, and again when I dropped his phone off at work - the last conversation we ever had was about that stupid argument. What if he dies thinking that I'm pissed off at him? I didn't even tell him I loved him before I stormed off," she said, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Well, he's a profiler, right? Even if you didn't say it, he would be able to tell...."

"He's a genius, not a psychic, Cristina."

"She's right," Derek interjected, "before he lost consciousness, he told me to call you and tried to say something else; he kept saying tell her... he never got to finish, but I'm sure it was just that he loved you."

"He really said that?"

Derek nodded, and a weight was lifted from Veronica's shoulders, although she quickly felt uneasy again when Jackson returned, IV kit and banana bag in hand.

"Okay, I know you don't like needles, but it'll make you feel better, so give me your arm," he demanded.

Veronica huffed and begrudgingly gave him her arm; she winced as he pushed the needle through her skin, "ow! I thought plastic surgeons were supposed to have a gentle touch."

"Plastics is barely even a real speciality; Avery gives boob jobs on the daily – we do real surgeries and save lives."

"Hey! I'm also a qualified ENT, and I practically run the burn unit-"

"Guys," Veronica groaned, "can you have your little dick-measuring-contest another time? Maybe like when my boyfriend isn't lying open on an operating table?" she said, gently massaging the tender skin around her IV.

"You said you liked my dark humour!"

"Only when it's funny," she sat down again and massaged her temples "hey, I think they're nearly done," Veronica cheered.

She dashed over to the intercom, "Are you guys closing him up?"

Teddy nodded, "yeah, and then we'll be taking him up to the CCU. You should get some rest before he wakes up," she advised.

"He's going to be okay, Veronica," Owen said; she couldn't see his face under his mask, but she could tell he was smiling.

Veronica couldn't fight the grin spreading across her own face; Spencer was going to live. He was going to make it off the table. Now all she had to do was pray that he woke up because Veronica didn't know how she would cope if she never saw his eyes again.

"He's really going to be okay?" JJ whispered; she held her hands up to her lips in a prayer formation as fresh tears spilt over onto her cheeks.

Emily pulled her into a tight embrace and stroked her hair, "Hey, don't cry. The doctor said he's going to be okay."

She nodded against Emily's chest, "I know, these are happy tears – it's just I've been sitting here for the past four hours wondering what I would tell Henry if his Uncle Spence died and now, he's going to be okay, and I'm crying more than when I thought he was going to die…stupid," she mumbled.

"It's not stupid," Veronica offered kindly, "your body has been in panic mode and how that you're finally able to relax a bit, you get an emotional outburst that makes you cry – it's totally normal," she said, tentatively reaching out her hand to take JJ's.

She nodded and gave Veronica's hand a squeeze, smiling at her for the first time since they had met. The mood in the room had shifted as the BAU members slowly began to accept that their teammate was going to live, and the nervous tension began to dissipate.

"Teddy's going to close him up and then wheel him up to the CCU, Cristina are you staying or coming home?" Owen's voice echoed through the intercom.

"I'm staying obviously!" she said indignantly.

Veronica shook her head, "no, it's okay, you go home."

"V, I can't leave you here-"

"It's fine, Cristina. You're working in the morning, and you'll need to be here for rounds at 6am, and you won't be any use to anyone if you're sleep-deprived. So, go home. Besides, I've got Avery to keep me company."

Cristina gave her an appreciative smile and squeezed her hand one last time before she left the room. A wave of jealousy surged in Veronica's chest as Cristina disappeared from her line of sight; it wasn't her fault that she was going home with her husband whilst Spencer was being stitched back together. But that didn't make it hurt any less.

"I'm so sorry, V," Jackson said, holding up his phone, "it's one of my burn patients, she's got an infection, and I think I'm the only sober attending after the gala…I can send a resident-"

"No, no, it's okay," she smiled sadly, "go and help your patient; she needs you more than I do."

"Page me if you need anything," he said, kissing her forehead gently before leaving her alone with the BAU team.

She was in a room with seven other people, but she had never felt more alone. They were clutching onto each other, whispering amongst themselves and smiling; Veronica didn't have anyone.

She shuffled away from the displays of affection and picked up her dress and shoes, "I'm going to put this stuff in the attending's lounge, there's coffee in there if you want anything – and on-call room seven is always empty if any of you need to sleep. He won't be awake for a while; you should get some rest," she said, giving them a tight-lipped smile.

"Thank you, Veronica," Derek said; he nodded over Garcia's head as he held her in his arms, "I don't think any of us will get much sleep until pretty boy wakes up, though."

Veronica laughed, "pretty boy, I always thought he was exaggerating when he said you called him that. If you don't want to sleep, that's fine, but you can't stay in here – the interns like to hang out in here before pre-rounds, and they'll be here soon," she said before gripping onto her IV pole and swiftly exiting the gallery.

Tears burned in her eyes as she made her way to the attending's lounge, grabbing a replacement banana bag from the nurse's station on her way; Spencer was going to be okay. He was going to wake up and have his team to comfort him, fetch him jello, keep him company through the recovery and bring homemade meals to his apartment. What else could she do for him that they couldn't?

She burst into the attending's lounge and slammed the door shut behind her. She let out a heart-wrenching sob as she shoved the dress into her locker, growing frustrated and kicking it when the poufy, underlayers of the skirt wouldn't fit.

Maybe that's why he had never introduced her to the team because he already had seven people who loved him unconditionally and could give him all the love he needed. And Spencer didn't want her to know that; what could she do for him that they couldn't?

Veronica darted into the bathroom and held her own hair bag as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl. Maybe she was just a fuck to Spencer, an outlet to release his frustrations after a hard day. Assuming he wasn't fucking any of his teammates, that was the only thing she was good for that they couldn't give.

Derek said that his last words before he passed out were about her; he asked him to call her. He tried to give her a message – why did Veronica not share Derek's confidence that the message was I love you?

She flushed the toilet and washed her mouth out with water from the tap. Her headache was beginning to subside, but she still switched out her banana bag before she limped out of the bathroom, using the IV pole as a support.

Veronica threw herself onto the couch. She wanted to scream, or kick something else or rip her own hair out, but she simply didn't have the energy to do anything except shut her eyes and drift off to sleep. The image of Spencer's open chest cavity and the knowledge that his team were everything she was and more burned into her brain.

***

Spencer's brain was awake before his body was. He was acutely aware of people moving around his room, but their voices were muffled, and he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes to see who they were.

There was a tight sensation in his throat, and suddenly, Spencer started gagging violently.

"He's fighting the intubation!" a voice called out, "page Dr Altman."

Dr Altman. He knew that name, he thought to himself. But his brain was still too hazy from the anaesthesia to think straight. Dr Altman…something to do with cardiothoracic surgery – probably one of his doctors. But where had they met before?

He felt hands all over him, grabbing at his neck and face; there was a horrible scraping sensation in his throat, and then he could breathe freely again. He's fighting the intubation, the voice had said. That was good; that meant he was breathing on his own.

However, he couldn't appreciate the joy of knowing he wouldn't be hooked to a ventilator for the rest of his life whilst his throat ached like that. The tube had been removed, but he still felt his gag reflex at the threshold of triggering.

He really needed to get Veronica more credit for that.

His limbs were heavy, he tried to at least wriggle his fingers, but they wouldn't move. The muffled voices which echoed around him were beginning to become clearer; he could make out what sounded to be JJ's voice by his head.

Finally, his brain allowed his eyes to flicker open. But he immediately wanted to screw them shut again when the blinding fluorescent glare of the ceiling lights shone down on him.

"Oh my god," JJ gasped, "he's awake!"

He couldn't move his head to see her, but her worried face quickly appeared in front of his, "Spencer? Spencer, can you hear me?" she asked frantically.

"Ow," he mumbled in response.

"Thank God you're okay," she said, stroking his hair as tears streamed down her cheeks.

"You gave us a scare, pretty boy."

Spencer strained his eyes enough to see Derek standing in the corner; he leant against the wall with his arms folded tight across his chest, but Spencer could clearly see the grin he was fighting.

"What happened?" he groaned, trying to readjust his body into a more comfortable position.

"Hey, don't try and move," JJ scolded lightly, "the nurse said that you'll be groggy from the anaesthesia for a while," she took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently.

"Did we get him? The unsub?"

"Yeah, don't you worry about him, kid, he's going away for a long time," Derek reassured, "he got a shot in at you before we could take him down… I'm so sorry, kid, you fell, and it distracted me long enough for him to shot you before I could shoot him."

"Hey, it's not your fault," JJ said, "it could've happened to any of us."

Spencer nodded in agreement but didn't try and speak again; his head was throbbing, and he closed her eyes again, the darkness providing some brief relief from the brilliant light above his head. But with every passing second, Spencer became increasingly aware of the dull aches in his chest and abdomen, the pain growing sharper with each intake of breath.

"How many times did I get shot?" he groaned, "I can't remember anything…but my whole body hurts."

JJ bit her lip as she continued to stroke his hair, "just once, Spence, but you fell down the stairs just before you got him and it injured…something, I don't know what – I can't remember what she said," JJ looked over to Derek for a prompt, but he shook his head in response.

"Hey, don't look at me; I didn't understand a single word any of those doctors said," Derek shrugged, "Dr Altman is coming to check on you, though, kid. I'm sure she'll explain it all to you."

Dr Teddy Altman!

They met at Cristina and Owen's wedding; Spencer could tell she was in love with the groom and distracted her with a rant on Mechanical Complications of Acute Myocardial Infarction. She was Veronica's friend.

Oh god, Veronica. She must be so worried – if Derek had even called her that was, she might be oblivious to his condition. Spencer was ready to open his mouth to as about her, but JJ was already speaking again before he had the chance.

"…and our resident genius will definitely be able to understand better than us," she said, pressing a gentle kiss against his forehead, "I've never been so nervous as when we were sitting in that gallery, thank god those doctors fixed you up."

"Wait, what gallery?" Spencer asked, opening his eyes to squint at her, her words distracting him long enough to forget to ask about Veronica.

JJ paused and exchanged a look with Derek, "we hoped you wouldn't mind – we were in the OR gallery during your surgery, but we didn't actually see anything," she reassured, "none of us could actually bring ourselves to watch, but we just wanted to be there, in case anything happened to you."

"Not that we'd have been much help," Derek chuckled, "but I got you to the hospital in one piece. I wasn't about to let you out of my sight until you were stable."

Spencer nodded slowly, "how did you even get in there?" he mumbled.

"Veronica," Derek said, "you asked me to call her, and she came straight over, but she wasn't about to sit around in any waiting room, so she found out where you were…we just followed her up there."

Spencer tugged on his blanket, "so…you met her then?"

JJ nodded stiffly, "we did."

"Oh. Suppose I did ask you to call her, I don't know what I expected…."

"We didn't get a chance to talk much," Derek said carefully, "you were touch-and-go a bit in surgery, so it was a bit too tense for small talk."

JJ moved away from him and sat back in the chair next to his bed; she picked at her nails, "I don't get why you never told us about her, Spence?"

Spencer didn't answer her. This was not how he wanted this conversation to go; in fact, he was hoping he'd never have to have this conversation at all. The rational part of his brain knew that was unrealistic, but the rational part of his brain didn't seem to exist when it came to protecting Veronica.

He shrugged, "I didn't think you guys needed to know."

Derek unfolded his arms and moved out of the corner, coming to rest at the end of Spencer's bed, "didn't need to know? You've been making excuses about this to me all day, kid. And I'm not buying the - you wanted to have something to yourself - bullshit anymore-"

"You asked her to marry you," JJ said, her voice cracking slightly, "you wanted her to be your wife, but you didn't even tell us about her? Were you just going to get married without any of us there?"

"She told you that?"

Spencer had the strength to ball one of his fists; this was going horribly. The tension he had created in his hand spread up his arm and along to his chest. He grimaced as another sharp stab of pain rippled across his body.

JJ shook her head, "no, her friend mentioned it, and we overheard. I don't get it, Spence, we're supposed to be like family, and she…we didn't get to talk, but she seems nice. And she's a doctor – she's smart like you, and she obviously loves you. Did you think we wouldn't like her?"

"No, and she said no to me anyway, so it doesn't matter…."

"She only said no because you wouldn't introduce her to us," Derek stated bluntly, "that's what she said when we asked her about it and considering I didn't even know she existed till this morning, I can't say that I blame her."

"Guys, I will explain later, I promise," Spencer began as he tried to sit up in the bed, "but I need to talk to Veronica. Right now – where is she?"

"She is in a patient room down the hall," Dr Altman said as she waltzed into the room and picked up Spencer's chart from the end of his bed, "nice to see you awake, Dr Reid."

"A patient room – i-is she okay?" Spencer stammered.

Teddy peered over the chart to look at his concerned face, "she'll be fine, she's just dehydrated and a bit hungover – we've got her on an IV. Besides, the couch in the attending's lounge is not the place you want to sleep unless you want to give yourself scoliosis."

Spencer tried to move one of his legs, "I need to go see her, I need to explain everything, I-"

"You need to lay back down," Teddy said as she moved over to his bedside and pressed her stethoscope against his chest, "I need to listen to your chest, take a deep breath for me-"

Spencer begrudgingly breathed in.

"-breath sounds are clear and equal, that's a good sign," Teddy said, hanging the stethoscope back around her neck, "and your latest round of labs are all within normal limits. Dr Hunt and I were able to remove all the bullet fragments during surgery, we were concerned that the impact could've weakened the wall of your thoracic aorta, but it seems unaffected."

Spencer nodded, "okay."

“We had to convert to an exploratory laparotomy mid-surgery; you had some bleeding in your abdomen which we needed to repair; that's why you have two incision sites. They will likely leave scars, I'm afraid, but the abdominal bleeding triggered a condition called DIC and would have been fatal had we not caught the bleeders."

Spencer's brain was spinning. He knew he had been in bad shape, but he really nearly died. He needed to talk to Veronica, and fast.

"…it was actually Veronica who made the connection between your fall and the bleeding. She wasn't even operating, and she saved your life," Teddy smiled at him, "I just need to take a peek at your incision sites, and then I'll be out of your hair."

Spencer winced as she lifted up his bandages to take a closer look.

"Okay, they look all good and no signs of infection. You will need at least another day for observation; I'll get the nurse to administer your post-op antibiotics, so let her know if there's anything else you need."

"He won't admit it, but he's in pain. Can he get any more morphine or something?" JJ asked, biting her nail.

"What? No, I'm fine. I don't need any more painkillers; I'm all good!"

Teddy raised an eyebrow at him, "you just had major surgery, but you don't want more pain meds?" she asked sceptically, "you aren't maxed out on anything; I can order more-"

"No," Spencer snapped, "I mean…no thank you, Dr Altman. They make me too disoriented, and I need to be clear-headed when I talk to Veronica," he said, adjusting his tone.

Teddy gave him one last suspicious look before she moved back towards the door, "okay, no more pain meds. I'll let Veronica know you're awake," she said before exiting the room, closing the sliding glass door behind her.

Spencer let out a deep sigh of relief and relaxed back into his pillows slightly. Even the brief conversation with Dr Altman had left him exhausted, so he wasn't sure how he would manage when the rest of the team flocked to his bedside to question him about his condition and Veronica.

Veronica.

That was going to be a long conversation.

JJ and Derek stayed by his side as the nurse came in to administer his antibiotics, just as Dr Altman had said.

"Hotch and Rossi had to go sort some things out with the arrest," Derek had informed him, "they said they'll stop by later when they can."

"And Emily and Garcia are in the cafeteria, we've let them know you're awake, but we didn't want to overwhelm you with too many visitors at once," JJ explained, "and Garcia really needed some sugar. She's been freaking out, Emily's trying to get her to eat something," she chuckled.

"I feel bad I caused all this stress…." Spencer mumbled.

"Course we're worried about you, Spence; we're a family. But you didn't cause us stress; it's not your fault," JJ reassured; she leaned closer to Spencer to grip his hand in hers.

"Exactly, it's the unsub's fault. You didn't choose to get shot," Derek added; he shuffled over to the bed from his corner and took hold of Spencer's other hand.

The three of them sat in comfortable and heartfelt silence for a few moments with their hands intertwined until they were interrupted by a hesitant voice in the doorway.

"Uh, sorry, I did mean to interrupt. I'll come back later…."

part 3 coming soon

sorry there’s not too much spencer in this part, i promise there will be more in part 3 when veronica and spencer have their confrontation

if you enjoyed this please consider leaving a comment as it really keeps me motivated, and reblogging! i really appreciate likes but on the tumblr reblogs are the only way to get my work out there x

tagging anyone who commented on part 1, message me/ comment if you want to be tagged for part 3:

@dilaurantisbitch

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remakethestars · 3 years

Text

CABIN 7 — APOLLO

Headcanons.

❝There ought to be more drama, I think. A musical crescendo. Confetti.❞

— Jess Cooper, I Am Still Alive

Headcanon masterlist.

Oh, boy — this is my cabin, y'all; buckle up! 😁

Not all Apollo kids are good at everything their dad's good at, okay? I sure as heck can’t paint or play an instrument.

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of violence?

They run an underground tattoo parlor.

That's where Will & Butch got their respective sun & rainbow tats.

Apollo kids with lyrics tattooed into their skin.

Rick says there isn't much by way of décor inside, which is f*in' B.S. Apollo's the god of art; those walls have been graffitied Tangled style.

🎶 i'll paint the walls some more — i'm sure there's room somewhere! 🎶

The east wall is covered in a landscape of a sunrise, & the west has a sunset (because the sun rises in the east & sets in the — yeah, I'll see myself out).

The north & south walls & the ceiling are white, though, because it really brightens/opens up the space (C7 has the 2ⁿᵈ most campers under C11 because Apollo's a slut; things can get a little crowded in the summer).

When there’re celebrations, the artistically inclined kids bust out the face paint. Especially for the younger campers.

The artistically inclined are the ones that paint the camp beads for the end of the summer. Despite the numbers, it doesn’t take them as long as one might think.

Rick said the ceiling had cedar beams, but we're not gonna do Cyparissius dirty like that. Cypress wood is good for building; the beams are cypress. You know what? F*ck you — the whole dang cabin's cypress!

There’s a massive, potted aloe vera plant by the steps that gets moved into the C4 greenhouse in the winter. It’s one of those old ones — because everyone knows the old aloe plants work better for burns & blisters than these sh¡tty new ones. (It’s constantly getting broken off to heal burns & stuff.)

Rick said there are potted red & purple hyacinths in the window & yellow flowers from Delos. That's true.

I'd say the flowerbeds around the cabin are full of healing plants, but I feel like they'd be better off around the infirmary for obvious reasons.

I do feel like there's a laurel tree planted outside C7, though, because Apollo's a pining b¡tch.

And there's an actual infirmary building, okay? Rick's kinda inconsistent about that. Sometimes he says "infirmary," sometimes he says the Big House is running over with injured, & apparently there's a cot dead center for injured in C7? B.S.

Or maybe I've just read too much fanfic, and the authors don't get it right?

Either way, there's an infirmary building with surgery & delivery rooms. One floor. Locker room for C7 kids to store their scrubs & sh¡t.

They go for yellow scrubs, though, because orange C.H.B. scrubs make them look like escaped convicts.

Fun Band-Aids™

They give out little orange stickers with laurels around the edges that are like I voted! stickers, but they're injury-specific.

I got my leg(s) reattached! & Percy Jackson shot me in the butt! & I ticked off Clarisse! & I made out with an Aphrodite kid in the poison ivy! & I fell off the lava wall! & I got pranked by the Stolls!

After a war or just when there’re a lot of campers in the infirmary, there seems to be a constant flow of Apollo kids singing one hymn to their father in unison to heal someone.

Sometimes, an unconscious camper wakes in a cot & thinks they’ve died & gone to the wrong afterlife for a moment because their singing sounds like angels.

The medically inclined wash their hands like surgeons.

Kind of germophobic?

They also go around tying surgeons knots in everything.

In the summer, they’re walking Banana Boat sunscreen & after-sun aloe lotion dispensers.

The medically inclined also have the world’s sh¡ttiest handwriting.

They have to work hard to fix it if it bothers them.

Can check your vitals & run a blood test just by touching you.

A lot of them casually touch their loved ones (at least, the ones that aren’t in C7) every morning to check their vitals & see how their health’s doing.

They do it subconsciously every time they touch someone & don’t notice it until they pick up something’s wrong.

They can do this for themselves as well. Though it may not be as accurate? And they take daily vitamins depending on what they need.

Organize their lives via pill box (never lose an earring).

Fight surgically. Every blade in their hands becomes a scalpel, & every time they’re going in for a kill against an armed anthropomorphic monster, they slice the tendons in its arm required to grip its weapon to disable it before going in for the kill.

Back to C7, it’s got a little porch with a porch swing. The kids sit on it sometimes & teach people how to play instruments.

They leave the porch light on at night when they’re waiting for one of their siblings to come home from a quest.

Jumping into the depressing sh¡t, they never found Michael’s body, so they only presumed him dead. They leave the porch light on every night now, hoping he’ll come home.

Apollo kids are afraid of the dark. They use the buddy system after the sun goes down.

The cabin’s central light fixture is a papier-mâché sun that’s been charmed to glow when someone sings 🎶 clap on 🎶 & stop glowing when someone sings 🎶 clap off. 🎶

The curtains are a gold fabric. They’re only closed at night. Because, again, C7 kids are afraid of the dark.

The Wikipedia says Apollo kids are cursed to be afraid of snakes (I assume by the Python Apollo killed). I feel like they’d burn a lot of aster leaves then. I read somewhere it was said by the Greeks to ward off evil spirits & snakes.

They play Go Fish with their tarot cards. They’re really good at tarot games.

Hand-drawn tarot decks featuring figures form Greek myth.

There’s a target on the back wall they practice throwing cards at. They can throw them in combat for a distraction with terrifying accuracy.

There’s a Magic 8 ball that’s passed around on the Winter Solstice (the longest night of the year), when — as a headcanon I’m sure I’ve read somewhere has indicated — they’re up all night.

Crystal balls are allowed. However, they must be covered with a cloth or placed in a box when not in use because they’re double-convex lenses, & we don’t want another incident like the fire of 1993.

Sometimes, they make little predictions throughout the day other campers may find disturbing. Such as whipping around and catching a stray arrow without warning (spidey sense?). Or cutting you off when you’re talking about someone moments before they walk into the room.

There’s a tea cart in the corner. Because tea is good for healing & they’ve accumulated an addiction.

The cart has a radio on it that’s always on at night because a lot of C7 kids can’t sleep without noise. (Inspired by @sugarandspiceandkindanice.)

Most of the time, it’s on a nearby country station that actually plays good country at night. But sometimes they switch channels — especially when there’s a new kid settling in & they could use the comfort.

There’s a portable record player there too. The shelves under the cart are full of C.D.s & records.

I’m sure I’ve read a headcanon somewhere that they sing every morning while getting ready for the day. That’s true.

The number of times it’s been “When Will My Life Begin” from Tangled is disturbing, though.

🎶 seven a.m., the usual morning lineup! 🎶

Luke said in The Lightning Thief C11 is up at 07:00 & breakfast is at 08:00, I think, but we all know Apollo’s waking his kids up when the sun rises.

A lot of the time, someone will just start out with whatever song they have stuck in their head & everyone else will pick it up.

Sometimes, this leads to members having the aforementioned song stuck in their head for the rest of the day.

Even the people who aren’t musically inclined will sing along, as they’re usually drowned out by the music kids that get really into it.

So sometimes those not-music kids will find themselves singing by themselves during the day years later & are surprised to find — they actually sound good?? Or at least not bad??? And it’s because singing is a learned skill & they picked it up.

I’m sure I’ve also read a headcanon somewhere that they sing “Look Down” from Les Mis when they have to do menial chores, but I'm adding “It’s a Hard-Knock Life” from Annie, “Whistle While You Work” from Snow White, “Happy Working Song” from Enchanted, & the Smurf song.

They break into song all the time.

Lee was glaring at Tantalus once & made the mistake of saying, “Sometimes, I wish —” and the entire cabin broke out with “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

🎶 — i'd never been born at all! carry on, carry on… 🎶

As mentioned in at least The Lightning Thief & The Lost Hero, they spend a lot of time playing basketball. You can bet your butt they do a rendition of “Getcha Head in the Game” from High School Musical every time there’s a new camper passing by.

They have a sister named Jubilee, and every time someone greets her — "Hey, Jube!" — the entire cabin breaks into “Hey, Jude” by The Beetles.

🎶 hey, Jube! don't make it bad. take a sad song & make it better… 🎶

Sometimes, if there are two campers that really need to get together, C10′ll commission C7 to sing “Kiss the Girl” from The Little Mermaid (or the same song with different pronouns, obviously).

It’s usually a capella unless someone happens to have an instrument on them.

Rickrolling.

The “Macarena.”

Apollo takes clandestine recordings of their jam sessions & distributes them professionally. Whatever money’s made goes directly into their college funds or they periodically find it under their pillow tooth-fairy-style.

There’s a lot of denim because the artistic members like to paint on the backs of jackets & the pockets of jeans.

A lot of them have excellent aim with most projectiles, so they toss stuff to each other a lot. This results in them being oddly in sync, so they can catch something from another sibling without warning & without looking like Sam & Dean Winchester do in Supernatural.

Their life looks like a Dude Perfect trick shot video.

It also results in some funny looks when they hurl things halfway across camp to each other. Namely, the whistling Nerf football.

C7 is two stories. The second story has paint on every wall.

The east wall upstairs has arrows mounted that got Robin Hooded along with a little tag with the name of the C7 kid & the date it happened.

They also have arrows mounted from the first bullseye if there’s a member being taught.

Lots of musical instruments & art supplies up there.

There’s an old T.V. up there. They have all of Bob Ross’s show on V.H.S.

C7′s south wall (ground floor) holds the door to the bathroom on one side & a door leading to the stairs.

It also hosts framed photos of Charlotte, Lee, & Michael.

Instead of saying “shoot,” they say “loose.” For everything. Instead of saying “Shoot!” when they drop something, they say “Loose!”

It's kinda one of those things — like your friend starts saying something & you just integrate it into your vocabulary subconsciously.

They like to play a game where you shoot an arrow straight up & try to catch it as it comes back down.

That sounds really stupid on their part, but it actually comes in handy when someone tries to shoot them in combat & they catch the arrow, dumbfounding whoever's attempted to skewer them.

The cresting on their arrows is in Morse code of their nickname (·—— ·· ·—·· ·—··). They can take one look at an arrow & tell what’s whose.

And the paint color of the cresting tells them what kind of arrow it is — bullet tip, broadhead, explosive, etc.

Every bunk in C7 is made with hospital corners. No exceptions. The kids who aren’t medically inclined learn because all the beds being made the same way makes it look cleaner for inspection.

I can’t decide if Apollo kids have really good eyesight so they fit the Hawkeye bill or if they’ve all just read — Apollo’s the god of knowledge — & painted so much they’ve messed up their eyes.

The number of times one of them has used bowstring wax on an art project in a rush instead of glue is hilariously large.

I use String Snot, and it comes in a container that looks like a glue stick.

A lot of them wear bracers all the time.

When the time it takes to sling one’s quiver onto one’s back, grab one’s bow, knock an arrow, & draw is so long, one really doesn’t have time to also strap on their bracers before rushing out of the cabin to threaten a giant bronze dragon.

Not to mention if they use a recurve, they’ll also have to string their bow.

And a number of them do use recurves due to the abilities to both knock multiple arrows at once & to restring in the field.

Bows with risers coated in golden, reflective paint & limbs painted with artistic strokes.

Trick arrows are their jam. C9 is constantly being asked for new arrows.

Explosive arrows, sonic arrows, grappling hook arrows…

That’s another saying they’ve all taken to: “___ is my jam!”

There’s a bookshelf or reference material on Apollo for new C7 kids (as Rick’s indicated), but the rest of the case is full of medical journals & textbooks & books on art & poetry & divining the future.

A lot — if not all — of them have either gold flecks in their eyes or central heterochromia.

Freckles across their noses & shoulders & on the tips of their ears. Tans. Sun-bleached hair.

Long, nimble fingers perfect for playing musical instruments.

Either they hate the winter because the sun's out for less time (so you’ll find them walking around with blanched skin & faded freckles & with both a hoody & a parka on), or they’re perfectly fine with winter & are used by everyone around them as walking space heaters.

They spend a lot of time with Castor & Pollux.

Rachel sits at T7. She’s practically an Apollo kid at this point.

While her cave was being renovated, she stayed in C7.

Their dad’s the god of truth; none of these M.F.s can lie worth a sh¡t.

But, by the gods, they can tell when you’re lying.

And they take it as a personal insult. That you (A) would dare do something as immoral as lying in the first place & that you (B) would dare to insult their intelligence in such a way because you thought they couldn’t tell.

C6 & C7 are both known for reacting outrageously when their intelligence is insulted (see: chapter 10 of The Battle of the Labyrinth).

The more civil of the reactions of a C7 kid being lied to is cursing the liar to tell the truth, which I believe they can.

They can curse you to speak in rhyming couplets; they should be able to curse you to tell the truth.

You mean to tell me none of these kids have created a functioning Lasso of Truth yet?

This one's really long. 😅

A lot of people fancast Sam Claflin as Apollo, but I'm going with Ross Lynch. 'Cause I do what I want. 😎

Visit my Apollo cabin Pinterest board or my headcanon masterlist.

DISCLAIMER ━━━ These headcanons are what I consider to be canon in my fanfictions. They may be others’s headcanons I’ve subconsciously filed away in my noggin. If one’s yours and you want it removed or credited, please send me your post and let me know.

#Apollo #Apollo kids #children of Apollo #Apollo cabin #headcanons #headcannons #Percy Jackson #PJO #HOO #TOA #remakethestars #art #archery #painting #healing #doctors #sun #hcs #TW: mentions of violence

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lovelylexipedia · 4 years

Note

I would love a jackson avery x reader fic where the reader is pregnant and jackson is running around after her at the hospital to make sure she isn’t putting too much pressure on herself so he takes her to the on-call room for a rest and it’s really fluffy because he talks to her belly? i’m sorry if this was really long! welcome to tumblr!🥰❤️

Rest is For The Weak – Jackson Avery x Fem! Reader

Type: Imagine (2,200+ words)

Requested: Yes! by @elljmaybank

Summary: Expecting her to stay home, Jackson leaves his pregnant wife home alone to go to work. When he catches her at the hospital, he does everything in his power to get her to stop and relax.

Warning(s): Grey's Spoilers, Fluff (lots of it!), Protective Figure, minor Angst

Note(s): Reader is 30 weeks along with Jackson's baby. Thank you for the request! I really hope I did it justice. I kinda rushed it at the end, but I hope it's okay :)

———

I hear the bathroom door close slowly and scrunch up my face. I try to fall back asleep, but the small noises throughout Jackson and my's bedroom keep me from it. After a while, I let out a small yawn and open my eyes, blinking to adjust to the light coming in from the rising sun.

I make an attempt to sit up in bed, but my back protests, sore and achey. I let out a small groan and catch Jackson's face pop out from behind his closet's doorframe.

"Y/n, crap, did I wake you?" Jackson winces, taking quiet steps toward my side of the bed.

"No no no, my back is just killing me, this little stinker won't let me get comfortable. I tried reasoning with him, but he won't give." I groan again, laying on my right side.

Jackson sighs in relief and walks around the bed to my side. He kneels down and kisses me on the cheek, running a hand through my hair.

"Maybe he'll listen to me." He leans down to my tummy, removing the white comforter covering my body and lifting up my oversized pajama shirt. Jackson taps at my tummy and I giggle at the sight. "Hey, buddy," He whispers, "you gotta let your Momma rest... She's already cranky enough."

I laugh and roll my eyes, pushing Jackson's shoulder, and causing him to stumble over. "Okay, maybe no more talk time for you."

Jackson steadies himself with a chuckle and and stands up straight. He brushes off his dark jeans and zips up a grey jacket, fixing up the hood.

"I made breakfast and happened to have some left over. It's just some eggs and toast. I put it in a little container and left it on the island if you want it later." Jackson says as he makes his way to the other side of the bed to grab his keys from the nightstand.

"Thank you, you gonna be okay leaving me here alone?" I ask as Jackson walks over to the bedroom door.

"I don't know, are you gonna be okay alone?" Jackson replies sarcastically. I grin. "Alright, if you need anything, you can call me and I'll try to get here. If you can't reach me, try my mom."

"Okay, okay'" I say quietly, pushing myself up to sit up in bed despite the pain.

Jackson notices and frowns. He walks over again and leans down to kiss me. "Don't do anything too strenuous, okay? Just get your rest."

I scoot back against the headboard and nod, looking him in his bright green eyes. "Okay, I promise."

"I love you, Y/n." Jackson smiles, kissing me one last time before heading out.

I yell back an 'I love you' and wave as he leaves the room. I hear the front door shut a few seconds later and sit in silence. Every few seconds, I shift and scoot around, trying to find a way to ease the aches.

Jeez, bud, parenting better be less painful than this. I complain to myself.

After a few minutes of sitting alone with my thoughts, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I set my feet down and push myself up, holding onto my belly with my free hand in the process.

I decide to take a few steps, wobbling here and there. After what feels like hours, I finally make it into the kitchen. The eggs and toast sit inside a clear plastic container and I nearly gag at the smell.

No thanks...

I take it upon myself to make myself breakfast. I throw out the toast and eggs in the trash can and ponder what to eat. I find a nearly finished bag of Corn Flakes and take a bowl, pouring the cereal and eating it like popcorn. After that, I snack on a frozen Pop-Tart and drink a glass of milk.

Settling myself on the living room couch, I flick through TV channels, bored out of my mind. Minutes pass by like hours and I end up falling asleep on the couch.

The nap ends after an hour and a half, when I suddenly feel a few sharp pains in my right side. I rub my stomach and lean my head back, trying to calm myself down.

You're okay, bud. You're okay, Momma's okay. We're okay.

I take deep breaths, trying to keep my composure. I grip the arm of the couch with one hand and force myself to stand. I stumble across the house, still rubbing my side and making small, calming affirmations to myself and the baby.

This is the fourth time this month...

I make it back to the bedroom and force myself to change into some baggier clothing. The pain subsides slightly as I begin putting on my sneakers. I groan, taking my set of keys and phone from the dresser in front of our bed.

I make my way around and out of the house, locking the door behind me. I force my keys into my pocket and dial my OB, Carina DeLuca.

"Y/n! What's going on? Are you okay?" Carina answers quickly, concern laced in her voice.

"I just wanted to come in... as a precaution," I say as I walk into the building's elevator. "I've been, getting these shooting pains for the past month. I just want to check if the baby's okay."

"Do you want me to make you an appointment?" Carina asks.

"No- I don't want Jackson to know, he might find out somehow. Could you just squeeze me in quickly?" I bite my lip, tapping my foot as I wait for the elevator doors to open at the bottom floor.

"Okay... Okay, I can try. Right now is perfect. Just tell the nurses up front it's an emergency and they should let you right in." Carina explains.

"Oh, thank you, Carina. You're the best. I should be there in a few." I gush, trying to rush off the elevator.

"Y/n, are you gonna be driv-" I hang up the phone before Carina can finish and try to rush out to my car.

———

"Carina, is he okay? Is my baby okay?" I ask urgently, looking between her and the ultrasound machine.

Carina continues moving the wand around where the pain would be. "He looks buono e sano, good and healthy, Y/n/n."

I let out a sigh of relief, laying my head back against the headrest. "Oh, thank God... But what could those pains have been?"

Carina purses her lips and removes the wand from my stomach, cleaning off the residue. "Could be stress, could be the hormones, different foods, your muscles could be constricting because they've had to work so hard with supporting the baby."

I shake my head. "Oh, I was so scared. I didn't want to go into early labor. Thank you for squeezing me in, I really appreciate it."

"No problem, amica mia. Now are you sure you don't want to tell Jackson?" She removes her gloves and I can feel her gaze from behind me.

"No, it's okay. I'm probably just gonna head home." I say, scooching off the examination table and grabbing my clothes to change back into.

———

I tug on my baggy shirt and put my phone in my back pocket, looking up to decide which way to go to get to my car.

Before I can even make a decision, Schmitt runs up, panting like a madman.

"Dr. L/n! We need Ortho. We got a trauma in, motorcycle accident, rider's right and left legs broken in 4 places each, right shoulder dislocated and left arm broken in two places."

He looks me up and down and his face grows red. "You're supposed to be on maternity leave, aren't you?"

"Doesn't matter now, Glasses. Let's go!"

Schmitt ushers me towards the trauma bay and adrenlaine rushes through me. The pain immediately evades my body and everything after is a blur.

I pull on a trauma gown over my loose clothes and tie up my hair into a ponytail. The patient is located in Trauma 1 and I rush in, finding Owem, Meredith, and Amelia already assessing the biker.

"Y/n! Shouldn't you be at home? I thought you were on maternity leave?" Amelia cocks her head to the side and I shake my head.

"Just back for the day," I say quickly. I turn to Schmitt, asking for reassurance, "So, what do we have here?"

He begins, "Multiple broken bones, bruising and cuts everywhere, he's practically roadkill."

"Well by the time we're done with him, he'll be just fine. Let's get an OR booked, order an MRI and page Plastics too!"

———

Jackson and I met when I transfered from Seattle Presbyterian a few years back. I was a 5th year and he was a Plastics fellow.

By the time I became an Orthopedics fellow, we had already established ourselves as the power couple of the hospital, despite not being a couple yet.

Wherever he went, I was likely to follow. Our cases were often linked and we spent a lot of our time together outside of the hospital as well.

When he first asked me out, it was during a surgery of ours together. We spent our one year anniversary watching over an ICU patient. He proposed to me in an empty OR after a successful surgery. I told him I was pregnant in the Attendings lounge. Our whole story was based in the hospital.

I wait outside OR 4, eyeing the elevator from the corner of my view. Any second now our motorcycle guy would be wheeled in and I'd get to scrub in.

"Y/n! Y/n!" I hear him yell from the elevator, trying to get my attention.

Oh shit.

Jackson jogs over to me, concern washed over his face. I frown slightly, feeling bad that he's so worried about me.

"Jackson, hi, um, how...how did you find me?"

Jackson ushers me into the scrub room and closes the door behind us.

"Y/n, you can't be working, remember? You're on maternity leave. Go home." Jackson grabs me by my shoulders, looking me up and down.

"Jackson, I am fine! It's just one surgery, it's not that bad-" I pull out from his grasp and cross my arms under my chest.

"'Not that bad'? Y/n, that surgery could take more than a few hours. You could barely get out of bed this morning!" Jackson's motions to the operating room, raising his voice and I sigh.

"Jackson, we will continue this conversation at home. Preferably, after I finish this surgery." I say stubbornly. I turn to leave and Jackson follows me. I spot Owen and Amelia walking toward us and smile. "Hey, where's the patient?"

Amelia sucks in a breath. "We're holding off on surgery. He's very touch-and-go, so we're holding him in the ICU until tomorrow."

The both of them frown at me and I nod sadly. "Oh, okay. Thanks anyway, you guys."

"Y/n. Let's go." Jackson says sternly, looking only at me.

"I hope it all goes well tomorrow."

———

My breathing steadies after I sit on the bottom bunk in an on-call room. Jackson shuts the door behind us and opens the shutter slightly, letting a bit of the setting sun seep into the room.

I keep my head down, eyes closed. Afraid he'll be angry at me.

We're silent for a few seconds, trying to figure out what to say to each other. He starts first.

"Y/n, you know that I love you, right?" Jackson kneels down in front of me, I can feel his gaze resting on me.

"Yeah," I mumble, slowly lifting my head so we can meet each other's eyes.

"And you know that I'm taking your maternity leave so seriously because I want what's best for you and the baby, right?"

I groan and nod, covering my face with my hands. "Yes."

"Is it wrong? To want you both to be stress-free and healthy? Look at me when you answer, please."

Jackson takes my hands off my face and holds them, kissing the the backs of them before I respond. "No, it's not."

"Carina paged me, she said you came in. That you were worried about the baby. She told me he's okay. That you're okay." I can see tears forming in Jackson's eyes. He bows his head down and still clutches my hands tightly.

"Please, just promise me you'll take these last 4 weeks off. Completely. No work, no stress. Just bed rest and someone waiting on you." Jackson pleads softly, searching my face for an answer.

I lean in and kiss him softly. I take my hands out of his and wipe his tears from his eyes.

"I'm sorry, I just miss being at the hospital, on my feet, ready to go wherever I need to be. This little guy just sucks the energy right out of me." I chuckle, holding Jackson close to me.

He kisses the top of my head and rests his cheek there for a few seconds. "Can I talk to him really quickly?" Jackson asks quietly, I'm barely able to hear him.

I let out a small laugh, remembering this morning. "Go ahead, but no Momma slander."

Jackson grins at me and we sit beside each other on the bottom bunk. He lifts my fresh navy scrubs up to the top of my belly and I hold them there for him. He taps again, lightly and clears his throat.

"Hi, bud. You doin' okay in there...?"

We stay there, taking turns talking to the little guy, excited for the day where we get to call ourselves parents.

#grey's anatomy x reader #grey's abc #grey's anatomy #jackson avery #jackson avery x reader

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