#i repeat: SURVIVAL DOES NOT MEAN A FULL RECOVERY | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Text

can i be gentle?

Words: 7.1k

Relationships: Jon & Tim, Tim & Martin

Tags: Canon Divergence, Tim Lives, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Post-Unknowing, Injury Recovery

Warnings: suicidal thoughts/ideations, blood, injury, hospitals and hospitalization, survivor's guilt, body horror, minor gore, gun and knife violence, mentions of death, mentions of canon-typical worms, implied child abuse, meat, alcohol, swearing, crying, smoking

Ao3 link in source

Tim aches. It’s full-body, radiating through his arms and back and legs, and he wishes more than anything that he could go to sleep, to chase away the pain for at least a little while. It feels like he’s been hit by a bus.

Or been on the receiving end of several kilos of C4 igniting all at once. But that metaphor’s a bit too on-the-nose, in his opinion.

He should be dead. He should be dead.

(Does he wish he were dead? He hadn’t cared, in those few moments of clarity before he pushed the button on the detonator and the colors solidified into black nothingness, whether or not he would wake up when the smoke cleared. It’s hard to tell. He’d attached so much of himself to revenge, before, when it was easier than feeling everything else bubbling up underneath, and now that it’s been ripped away from him, he doesn’t know what emotion should be filling the gap. Probably relief.

He doesn’t feel relieved.)

The nurse is speaking to him. Her lips are moving, but he can’t hear her. His ears ring and ring and ring, and it sounds like spirling, mocking laughter.

They do some tests. Blast-induced hearing loss, the pamphlet they give him proclaims. Prognosis is good. Most patients recover in 6 weeks. Hearing aids can help with high frequencies.

His ears ring and ring and ring, and he’s alive.

He’s alive.

Jon is not.

“It’s because of him, you know.”

Martin startles badly at Tim’s voice. Tim wonders if it had been too loud; the ringing in his ears is incessant, and every word spoken sounds as if it’s coming from a very, very far distance. He moves a bit further into the room that they’ve placed Jon in, his hands shaking where they grip the wheels of the wheelchair they’d given him. Hard to walk when your leg is shattered. And some ribs as well.

Martin says something, Tim thinks, as he’s turning. His eyes are wide and rimmed with red, and he’s looking at Tim expectantly. Tim sighs, then winces as the motion sends tendrils of pain through his ribcage. “I can’t hear you, Martin. Either speak up—way, way up—or just… move your lips more or something. I don’t care.”

“What?” Martin enunciates, and it’s so ridiculous, Tim wants to cry.

He answers anyway.

“Me. Being here. I’m alive because… because of him.”

It was stupid, thinking he could protect Tim from an entire building collapsing on top of them. But his hand had gripped Tim’s wrist and he’d pulled him to the floor and he’d covered Tim’s body with his own, so when the shock wave had hit, Jon had gotten the worst of it.

Tim refuses to feel guilty about it. He does anyway. Because they’d argued, and Jon had stalked him, and Tim had cultivated his anger and fear into a simmering ember deep in his chest, but at the end of the day, Tim wasn’t supposed to survive.

Jon was.

Tim swallows, hating the bitter taste in his mouth, and says, “Do you… do you think he’s going to wake up?”

Martin says something, too softly for Tim to hear. His mouth twists into something small and pained, and he looks at the floor.

It’s answer enough.

Tim doesn’t ask again.

They arrest Elias a few hours later, after Martin’s collected himself enough to bring his plan to completion. Tim’s only regret is that he isn’t able to see the look on Elias’s face as he’s dragged away.

Knowing Tim’s luck, he’d probably have just looked smug.

The name Peter Lukas crosses Martin’s lips, spelled out in exaggerated motions when he visits Tim again. Tim thinks, absurdly, of the hydra. Cut off one head, two grow back.

Lukas probably won’t be better. Knowing their luck, he’ll be much worse. But Tim thinks of the way Melanie had shaken after she’d come out of Elias’s office, of the haunted look in Martin’s eyes when Tim had asked how his plan went, and can’t find it within himself to care.

They release him from the hospital with a hefty prescription of pain meds, small plastic hearing aids tucked in each ear, and a thick folder of discharge papers. Martin’s there when they do; the bags under his eyes are dark and smudged, and he nods mechanically as the nurses talk to him, outlining Tim’s care regime for the next few weeks. His eyes keep flicking to the side, to the corridor that leads to the long-term care section of the hospital. Wordlessly, Tim reaches over and takes Martin’s hand in his, giving it a single squeeze before holding it tightly.

Martin lets out a breath through his nose and squeezes back.

“Do you want me to, er. To take you back to yours?” Martin asks once they’re out, his voice on the softer side of muffled and overlaid with that constant ringing but audible enough now that he doesn’t have to shout.

Tim feels something almost like embarrassment curling in his stomach. “I, uh. I don’t have a place anymore.” Tim drums his fingers on his thighs, looks at the ground, and says, “I canceled my lease. About a week before we left for Great Yarmouth.”

There’s silence between them—or at least, as close to silence as Tim can get right now. Tim thinks Martin says something, a word or two brushing up against the edges of what the hearing aids allow him to hear, but he can’t grasp any of it. So, Tim looks up at Martin, at the pinched, pained expression on his face, and says, “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know.”

“Know what?” Martin says bitterly. “That you never expected to come back? Yeah, I got that part. I even got why, you know? Doesn’t make it better, though. I didn’t want to lose you, Tim.” Martin pauses, then says, so quietly Tim can barely hear it, “I didn’t want to lose anybody.”

“Yeah,” Tim says. But that’s not how this works. We were never going to all survive. Everything is fucked, and it still is, and it always will be.

“I’m sorry,” he says and finds he means it. Then, to clarify: “For hurting you. And… and for Jon.” He doesn’t elaborate on that point. He doesn’t know what he would say even if he tried. “But I’m not sorry for going, and I’m not sorry for pressing that button. If I would have died, I wouldn’t have been sorry for that either.”

“Right,” Martin says slowly. “But you didn’t. And the Circus is gone now, so do you…?”

“Do I still want to kill myself?”

Martin winces.

“Hey, your question, not mine,” Tim says, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture. After a moment, his hands drop back to his lap, and he gives a small shrug. “Don’t know. I knew I would do what I needed to in order to destroy the Circus, and I did. Thought I would die in the process, but I didn’t. I’m still trapped in the world’s shittiest job, and I don’t really…”

Tim shrugs again. “I don’t know,” he repeats. Then, because it feels true: “It was never… it was never the dying bit I was chasing, you know. I didn’t do this because I thought it would be a good way to get killed. I did it for Danny, and that’s it. Plain and simple. So if you’re asking if I want to die, the answer is no. But I can’t guarantee that I won’t make the same decision again if I have to.”

Martin’s quiet for a long moment. Then, calmer than Tim expects, he says, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Tim echoes. Then, with a levity that only feels slightly forced: “I suppose it’s back to your place, then. Just be sure to buy me dinner first.”

Martin doesn’t smile at that like he used to, but his face does soften a bit. His voice is lighter when he says, “Oh, I will. Within your dietary restrictions, that is. Which means no alcohol.”

Tim groans. “You’re no fun.”

“Uh huh.”

They begin the commute back to Martin’s flat, and the atmosphere between them grows more lighthearted than it’s been in months. Tim feels something warm and familiar curl in his chest, and he realizes just how much he’s missed this. It’s not quite easy conversation, not like it used to be, but it’s nice all the same.

Tim’s ears ring, and his entire body aches, and he still feels a numbness in his core in the shape of suspicious glances and calliope music and a face he can’t remember, but for the first time in a long, long time, he allows himself to smile.

Tim doesn’t visit Jon often. At first, it’s the guilt, acute and cloying and weighing him down. Then, it’s old hurt and stale anger, resurfacing and driving away any passing thought of Jon that isn’t tinged with bad memories and broken trust. After that, it’s just habit.

It also hurts, if he lets himself admit it. To see Jon lying there, motionless and clad entirely in white, the heart monitor attached to him reading out a constant horizontal line even as his eyes move in small, jerky motions behind his eyelids.

See? a part of him whispers. He’s not human. Maybe he never was. Maybe he was always a monster, and you just never noticed. It wouldn’t be the first time.

A newer part of him, one that gets more prominent by the day, recognizes that even if Jon isn’t human anymore, he never would have chosen this. This stasis, this half-death. Not what came before, either. That part of him remembers the way Jon’s hand had gripped his tightly as they’d opened that trapdoor, and how it had continued to do so even as the worms had begun to bite into their skin. He’d tried to protect Tim then, too, putting himself between Tim and Jane Prentiss. For all the good it did, when the worms began to come from all directions. But Tim remembers the way the terror and pain in Jon’s eyes had been tinged with sadness, with a silent apology as he gripped Tim’s hand hard enough to bruise and they both accepted that this was it.

It hadn’t been, in the end. And now it is, with Jon all-but-dead and Tim still here, wheeling his way into Jon’s hospital room for the first time in weeks.

He’s halfway in before he realizes he’s not alone.

“Oh,” he says. “I… I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Martin lets out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Where else would I be?” he says, and it’s tinged with something bitter and broken that takes Tim a bit off-guard. It’s become almost routine now, for Martin to visit Jon, and usually, he comes back looking drained but otherwise fine. Sometimes, when Tim asks him for status updates on our resident medical mystery, Martin even manages a small smile and responds, still dreaming.

Martin scrubs a hand across his face, and Tim realizes belatedly that he’s crying.

“Martin?” Tim says carefully, moving a bit closer to where Martin’s sitting. “Are you… did something happen?”

“No,” Martin says, his voice catching in a way that indicates that something very much did happen. “It’s fine.”

“Is it…?” Tim pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Is it about Jon?”

Martin’s laugh this time is more like a whimper. “Nope, he’s- he’s the same as always. Still asleep.”

Tim moves closer but doesn’t say anything. The clock ticks rhythmically in the background, and he waits. Patience has never been his strong suit, but it’s been something that’s been required of him as of late, and he’s getting better at it.

He likes to think he’s getting better at a lot of things.

Martin doesn’t speak again for a few minutes. He stares at his hands where they rest just shy of one of Jon’s, his fingers restless against the sheets, coming up occasionally to fiddle with the thin black ring that rests on the middle finger of his right hand. Then, so quiet Tim almost can’t hear it, he says, “My mother died today.”

Oh.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says. They’re empty words, but they’re better than the good riddance and about time and you’re better off without her sitting on the back of his tongue, begging to be released. He doesn’t think they would be appreciated right now, no matter how true they might be.

“Yeah,” Martin says. He’s still staring at his hands. “They called me a few hours ago. She… she passed away in her sleep. Natural causes. From- from her illness.” He falls silent for a few moments, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Then: “I… I think I should be sad?”

Tim studies Martin’s face—the tear tracks down his cheeks, the unhappy set to his mouth, the way he’s shaking ever so slightly where he sits. His face is one of grief, but Tim doesn’t ask. He waits for Martin to continue, and after a moment, Martin says, “She was the only family I had left. She- she was my mother. I took care of her, I- I did my best to be a- a good son.” He takes in a shaky breath, curls his hands into fists, and says, “I haven’t seen her in months, you know. I- I visited at first, but she… she never wanted to see me. So I just stopped going. I’d call, every Saturday, but it was the same every time. She’s resting. She doesn’t feel up to talking right now. Call later, and we’ll see what we can do.”

Finally, Martin looks at Tim, and the guilt in his eyes is so acute Tim can feel it cut through him to his core. “I should be sad that she’s dead, but… but all I can feel is relief. And that hurts. I- I don’t know… why am I relieved? God, she was right, I- I’m horrible, no wonder she- she never wanted to see me, I- why can’t I- I can’t—”

Martin cuts off with a wet sob, and all at once, Tim understands.

“It’s okay,” he says, and he collects Martin’s hands from the sheets, holds them tightly in his own. “You can feel however you like, it’s- it’s okay.”

He squeezes Martin’s hands, just once, and repeats, “It’s okay.”

He knows Martin won’t believe him. But still, he sits, and Martin cries, and he says, It’s okay.

It’s okay.

The hearing aids are a permanent fixture in his ears now, as most people have full hearing restoration after six weeks apparently doesn’t include him. The tinnitus is still particularly bad some days, but they help with everything else. It’s not perfect, but it’s a small price to pay for living, he supposes.

He’s not sure when, exactly, he decides that he’s glad he’s alive. But he does.

He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear at all, when the Flesh attacks. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the wet, sticky sounds of things that shouldn’t be able to move without bones slipping through the vents, shattering the relative peace they’d begun to cultivate. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the pops of Basira’s gun, bullets burying themselves in things that barely flinched at the contact. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear Melanie’s screams of anger, the responding screams of pain from things with too many eyes and teeth and limbs as her knife carved a violent path through them.

There are yellow doors and hands slick with blood and a sudden quiet as the last of the twisted, mangled creatures falls, sliced neatly in two in a way that’s just a bit too clean.

Melanie is breathing heavily, but her hands are steady and her eyes are hard with something raging and violent. When Basira reaches tentatively for her knife, saying, “It’s over now, Melanie. We’re- we’re safe,” Melanie stiffens but doesn’t resist.

“This isn’t right,” Tim says after Melanie comes back to herself in bits and pieces, enough to shudder at the blood coating her arms up to the elbows and mutter something he can’t quite catch before disappearing into the toilet. “None of this is. God, can we ever catch a fucking break?”

“We can deal with it later,” Basira says. She’s calm, but she can’t quite hide the tremor in her voice. Her Al-Amira is splattered with viscera. “Right now, we need to make a call. Get this cleaned up.”

“What,” Tim says bitterly, “so we can continue hiding away in the Archives? You’re the one who said we should start sleeping here. Should have known it wouldn’t be safe. It’s not like it was before.”

He rubs at one of the small circular scars on the back of his left hand, his skin crawling with a phantom itch that makes him vaguely nauseous.

“We stay here,” Basira says, leaving no room for debate. “We make the call, and we stay here.”

Tim makes a low, frustrated noise, and bites out, “Fine. Because Basira always knows best. Whatever.” He unlocks his wheelchair and says shortly, “I’m going outside for some fresh air. The smell of rotting meat is making me sick.”

Basira doesn’t follow him.

Martin does.

They situate themselves just outside the glass doors, and they don’t say anything for a long time. Martin still looks vaguely ill. His face is pale, and his hands are fidgeting at his sides. His fingers are resting on his ring, twisting it back and forth, agitated. His shoes are stained a glistening red.

Finally, Martin tilts his head back so it hits the wall behind him and says to the air above him, “Is it horrible that I wish Jon were here?”

Tim snorts, anger still bubbling under the surface of his skin. “Because we’d have done so much better with our own flavor of spooky bullshit?” He bites out a bitter laugh. “Maybe he could have compelled them to explain exactly why every single monster out there has a personal vendetta against us. Working for an eldritch horror of voyeurism doesn’t give you much in terms of an offense.”

“Stop,” Martin says sharply. “You know what I mean.”

Tim does. He’s just not particularly inclined to wax nostalgic about the power of friendship and comradery when he’s got bits of meat stuck in his hair.

Still, he finds that he means it when he says, “I wish he was too. For what it’s worth. Which isn’t a fucking lot, but it’s what we’ve got.”

“Yeah,” Martin says. His hand brushes against Tim’s, and they fall back into silence.

The police arrive, followed closely by the ECDC. It’s a messy affair, even messier than the last time Tim had been in this situation, and Tim wants nothing more than to get away. Forever.

He doesn’t make any jokes this time. He just nods in the right places, and when they’re finally released and he and Martin return to a flat they haven’t seen in weeks, he can feel weariness cutting through him to the bone.

When he wakes the next day, Martin’s gone. His note, stuck to the door of the fridge, says, At the hospital. Be back around noon.

It’s ten in the morning, and the sunlight is bright as it streams in through the kitchen window.

Tim digs out the bottle of rum that Martin keeps tucked in the back of his cabinet and pours himself a drink.

“Peter Lukas wants me to be his assistant.”

Tim looks up from what’s turning out to be quite an impressive doodle of the little figurine of a frog in a top hat he’d purchased back in research from a charity shop and says, “Absolutely not.”

Martin sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, holds it there for a moment, and then says, “I don’t know if I have a choice in the matter, really. It’s… it’s not safe here anymore.” Quieter: “He said he can help. Off- offer protection.”

Tim audibly scoffs at that. He sets down his pencil and notepad and crosses his arms across his chest. He can already feel a headache coming on. (More than the usual, that is. He’s almost able to tune out the constant ringing in his ears now.

Almost.)

“What’s he going to do, isolate them to death? It’s not like the Lonely’s any better of an offensive force than the Eye. We’re doing just fine without involving him.”

“Are we?” Martin’s voice is hard and a bit choked when he continues, “We’re living down here because it’s not safe to stay outside for too long. We’re still finding bits of- of flesh in- eugh.” Martin shudders and folds inward on himself. Quieter, enough so that Tim has to watch the motion of his lips to make out the words, he says, “Jon’s not waking up.”

Tim feels something inside of him twist. “We don’t know that. We don’t know what’s happening with him.” A touch bitterly—old habits die hard, he supposes—he says, “Maybe he’s just not done going through his monster metamorphosis yet.”

“Tim.”

Tim sighs. It’s a profoundly weary sound. “Yeah, yeah. I… I miss him too, you know.”

He’s surprised to find that it’s not a lie.

“Right.” A small, shaky smile crosses Martin’s face, and he says, “I- I suppose they’re right, then. Distance does make the heart grow fonder.”

“Somehow,” Tim says, “I don’t think whoever coined that phrase had this situation in mind.”

Martin’s smile fades as quickly as it had come, and Tim feels a pang of guilt. “Sorry,” he says, pushing away from the desk and wheeling across the room to where Martin sits. He hesitates, just a moment, before placing his hand on Martin’s where it rests on his knee. “I… I suppose I’ve forgotten how to be lighthearted about all of this.”

Martin nods. It’s a small motion. He’s silent for a long moment; Tim squeezes his hand and says nothing. Finally, Martin looks down at his hands and says, “It’s been four months, Tim. Nothing’s changed.” He pauses again, his mouth pinching around the edges. “I… I visited him today. I begged him to wake up, to- to do anything to indicate that he’s even still there. I don’t know why I expected him to answer. It’s not like anything’s different now. He- he’s never going to wake up, Tim.”

Martin’s voice cracks, and he repeats, wetly, “He’s never going to wake up.”

Then, Martin’s crying, heaving sobs that overtake him completely and have him hunched over, dripping salty tears onto the back of Tim’s hand. “Hey, hey, hey,” Tim says, leaning forward as far as he’s comfortably able to and wrapping Martin in as hard of a hug as he can manage. He rubs his hands in circles across Martin’s shoulderblades, feeling Martin’s shaky breaths against the side of his neck, and says, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

He repeats it, again and again, as Martin cries into his shoulder and says, over and over, words thick with grief, “He’s dead, Tim. He’s dead.”

“It’s okay,” Tim says. Maybe if he says it enough times, he’ll start to believe it.

Eventually, Martin’s body stops shaking and he pulls back, the tear tracks on his cheeks already beginning to dry. His eyes are red-rimmed and glistening, and he looks tired, grief apparent in every line of him.

“I said I’d think about it,” Martin says, in a voice rubbed raw and hoarse. “When Peter called me. I- I said I’d think about it. I- I don’t know why…” He cuts off, makes a small, distressed noise, and says, “What do I even have left? If- if this can help, what- what do I have to lose?”

Tim feels a pang of hurt flash through him, but he suppresses it. He squeezes Martin’s hands, gives him as wide a smile as he can without breaking, and says, “You have me. And I’m not leaving—you’re stuck with me. So don’t think for a second that if you take Peter’s deal, I won’t be there still. I’m like a bad penny, or, I don’t know, a- a fungus or whatever. The point is, you’re not going to get rid of me. Whether or not you decide to work for Lukas—which you shouldn’t, by the way, in case I haven’t made that abundantly clear—you’re not going to be lonely, okay? Not on my watch. I can be very persistent when I put my mind to it.”

Martin looks at Tim, eyes wide, and another small, hiccuping sob escapes him. “You really mean that?”

“Yes, Martin,” Tim says, exasperation and fondness filling him in equal measure. “Christ, just because things got… rough for a bit, it doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you. Honestly, don’t know if I could. You’re a very lovable person, you know. It’s not like being your friend is a hardship.”

Martin laughs a little at that, his voice still thick with tears. “Well, when you put it like that…”

Tim gives him another smile, and this one feels easier. Like it would be harder not to smile. Still, he’s careful with his words when he says, “So, then. What are you going to do? I’ve made my opinion more than known, but…” Tim swallows around the lump in his throat and continues, “It’s your decision.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, barely more than a whisper. “Yeah.”

Peter calls again. And when Martin hesitates for a long moment before giving a quiet yet firm no, the relief that sweeps over Tim is enough to make him feel weightless.

Two months later, as a man who smells of death shuts the door behind him, Jon takes a rattling breath and finally opens his eyes.

“Tim?”

Tim raises the hand that’s not holding a rather large bouquet of white daisies and baby’s breath in a half-wave. “Hi, boss. Been a while.”

The look Jon gives him is half-shocked, half-nervous. “I… I suppose it has. Six months, apparently.”

Tim makes a sound of affirmation before wheeling himself fully into Jon’s hospital room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “You know,” he says, allowing a blanket of levity to fall over him, “when we said you should get more sleep, this isn’t exactly what we meant.”

Jon just stares at him for a moment, face blank and eyes wide. Then, a laugh escapes him, a small hiccup of amusement. “Yes, well. I can’t say that I feel particularly well-rested.”

Tim imagines what it must have been like, to be locked in a dreamscape stasis for six months. He can’t say that the idea sounds particularly relaxing. “Yep, sounds about right. Guess we can cross ‘spooky coma’ off our list of possible cures for sleep deprivation.”

Jon folds inward on himself a bit, hugging one arm to his chest and gripping the other tightly. “Right,” he says, his voice small. He looks away from Tim, focusing on the small window in the corner of the room, and says, “I… I’m sorry, Tim.”

Right. Jon still thinks Tim hates him.

Tim lets out a long, weary sigh and makes his way to Jon’s bed. He practically shoves the flowers into Jon’s hands; Jon takes them, more out of surprise than anything, white petals tickling the bottom of his chin. “It’s been six months, Jon. You’ve been… honestly, a bit dead? No offense. And I’ve been alive. And we both know it was meant to be the other way around.”

Jon opens his mouth, and Tim holds up a hand. “Don’t. I know. I already hear enough about it from my therapist, I don’t need to hear about it from you too. The point is that I’ve… I’ve had time to think. And some of the things you did, I can’t forgive you for. But some of it…”

Tim shrugs. “Martin would always go on about how it wasn’t your fault. About how you were suffering just as much as us. And maybe I didn’t believe it because I was already angry, or maybe I didn’t believe it because all I could think about was finally getting a chance at the revenge I’d chased after for years. But then you were gone, and the Circus was gone, and I just… didn’t have anything left for the anger to hold on to.”

Jon clutches the flowers tightly in his hands, looks down at the petals. “But you were right,” he says quietly. “A- about me.”

Tim casts himself back six months and sifts through a metric ton of bitter remarks and angry assumptions. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Jon lets out a slow, shaky breath. “About me not being human.”

Oh.

“Jon—”

“Do you know what I was dreaming about?” Jon cuts in before Tim can say anything else. “I- I don’t remember, not really, but… but I can guess. I… I Know, somehow, that- that they were the same dreams, over and over and over again.” Jon takes one of the flower petals between his fingers and rubs it back and forth, a nervous gesture. “I started having them soon after I took this job, you know. Naomi Herne was the first one, and I- I didn’t understand why. Every night, she was trapped in the fog, forced into her own grave, and I would try to move, because it- it felt like I should have been able to, but it- it never worked. So I… I stopped trying after a while. I would stand and watch as she relived one of the worst experiences of her life, every night, and I- I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

Jon crushes the petal between his fingers. “She was the first one, but- but there are so many more now. Lionel Elliott and Jordan Kennedy and- and, Christ, Georgie—”

Jon makes a small, unhappy noise. “I don’t know when I realized that they could see me in their dreams too. That in trying to help, I- I’d just made myself another source of terror.”

Jon falls silent for a few moments; the quiet is filled by the familiar tick tick tick of the clock in the corner. Then, so quietly Tim has to focus on his lips to catch the words, he says, “I… I think I made a choice. Before I woke up. I don’t… I don’t know what it means for me, not really, but I know it means that I’m worse than I was before.” He lets out a bitter laugh, devoid of any humor. “So, you were right. I’m just- just even less human now.”

Jon falls silent again, and for a few moments, there’s just tick, tick, tick. Tim rolls the words over in his mind, looks at Jon’s pinched, unhappy expression, and says, “Okay.”

Jon looks at him then, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Okay?”

Tim shrugs and repeats, “Okay. You’re not human. I’m not going to pretend like that thrills me or whatever, but it’s… honestly, it’s a lot less of an issue for me now than it was back then.”

“I- I don’t…” Jon trails off with a frustrated noise. “What?”

Tim sighs. “A lot’s changed, Jon. Things have… well, things have kind of gone to hell. Honestly, we could use a few monsters who are on our side for a change.”

Jon blinks at him in stunned silence for a few moments more before saying, bewildered, “... Right. Uh, I- I suppose I shouldn’t ask how you’ve been, then.”

A wry smile cracks across Tim’s face. “I’ve been just peachy, thanks for asking. Blow up one Circus and suddenly every spooky monster out there wants to kill you. It’s been one big, long, horrible sleepover in the Archives. But hey, at least Elias isn’t there! Now we’ve just got Lukas, and if one or two staff members disappear every once and a while, well—that’s just how it is at the Magnus Institute. Nothing to be concerned about. Sometimes, we still go out for drinks.”

“Tim,” Jon says flatly. The exasperated expression on his face is so familiar—so Jon—that Tim feels a tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding slip away.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim says, waving a hand absently in Jon’s direction. “Point is, I’m not disappointed or angry or whatever that you’re back in the land of the living.” He pauses, and then, more sincerely: “Martin’s not the only one who’s missed you, okay?”

Jon’s lips part into an O. Then, his mouth twitches up into a smirk, and he says, “Mm, you’re right. Basira did stop by earlier, and then of course Georgie, and I bet even Melanie—”

“Unbelievable. And here I was nice enough to come all the way over here, to bring you flowers.”

“Mm, they are very nice flowers.”

“Damn right they are.”

Jon smiles then, a fragile thing, and says, “Thank you, Tim. I… I’ve missed you too.”

Tim could point out that Jon had been asleep for the majority of the time in question. But he knows that’s not what Jon means. So instead, he offers Jon a smile in return and says, “Be honest: more or less than the Admiral?”

Jon shoots Tim a flat, unimpressed look. “Tim, don’t be ridiculous. Of course less than the Admiral.”

Tim’s been out of the wheelchair for a week when he finally manages to make his way to the roof of the Institute, still learning how to maneuver the crutches he’s moved on to. He swears he can feel every motion of the pins and the rods in his leg—skin covered with even more scars for the collection—as he finally heaves himself through the door and into the cool night air.

The view is just as good as he remembers.

There’s the faint smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, and Tim’s entirely unsurprised to see Jon silhouetted against the glow of London, leaning against the wall that rings the roof with his back facing Tim. The cigarette glows a dull red as he raises it to his lips and breathes in.

Jon doesn’t say anything, even as Tim painstakingly makes his way over to where he’s stood. Tim props his crutches against the wall before leaning his weight heavily against it, arms crossed atop the wall in a mirror image of Jon as they both look out onto the city below, humming with life and light.

Finally, after a particularly long drag of his cigarette, Jon says, “I’m going to get Daisy.”

There’s no room for argument in his voice. But that’s never stopped Tim from trying anyways.

“I thought you were done doing stupid shit that’ll get you killed,” Tim says, turning his head to look at Jon. Jon’s staring forward, but Tim gets the distinct impression that Jon isn’t looking out at the city at all.

“It won’t kill me,” Jon says quietly. He moves his hands as he talks, surprisingly competent sign language that he’s begun using tentatively in his conversations with Tim. When Tim had asked him where he’d learned it, Jon had been quiet for a long moment before telling him that he hadn’t.

Well. At least the Eye was being useful for once.

“Yeah, whatever,” Tim says. “Dead or not, you’ll still be gone. You know people who crawl into that coffin don’t come back.”

“I don’t—” Jon cuts off with a frustrated noise. After a moment, he continues, “I have a plan. I- I read a statement, and it said that I would need an anchor. A- a piece of myself to keep here. I can find it when I’m down there, and- and use it to guide me back.”

“Right,” Tim says dryly. “Because our plans have always gone so well.”

“What would you have me do, Tim? I- I can’t just do nothing.”

“Why not?”

Jon affixes him with an expression that’s half-affronted, half-stunned. “Tim.”

“What? Jon, we barely know Daisy. She tried to kill you. No, don’t give me that look.” Tim jabs a finger in Jon’s direction. “You know I’m right.”

“I…” Jon trails off. After a moment, he hugs his arms to himself, his snubbed-out cigarette still smoldering slightly on top of the wall. “I know. But I… I still have to go. I… I’m still going to go.”

Tim exhales slowly and says, “Right. Suppose I should have expected that.”

There’s silence between them for a moment. Then, Jon removes his hands from his arms and signs as he says, quietly, “Why don’t you hate me?”

Tim stares at Jon for a long moment before saying, “What?”

Jon sighs and repeats, the motions of his hands larger and more emphatic, “Why don’t you hate me? Basira and Melanie, they- they keep looking at me like I’m some… thing, and- and maybe I am. No, not… not maybe. I’m not… I’m not human anymore, and I- I know what you said, but what happens when I—?”

Jon cuts off with a small, choked noise, like the air’s been sucked out of him all at once. Weakly, he signs, “I’m so hungry, all the time. What happens when I… when I can’t take it anymore? When I- I become dangerous, a- a monster, will you—?”

Jon’s fingers curl into fists, and he drops his hands to his sides, angling himself away from Tim and staring at an arbitrary point in the distance. “It’s better this way,” he says, loudly enough that Tim can make out the words above the hum of London at night and the ever-present ringing in his ears. “I… I don’t want to go. I don’t want to lose this, to- to lose you and- and Martin. But maybe it’s better than becoming something that will hurt you.”

Jon won’t meet Tim’s eyes. Carefully, Tim reaches across the space between them and takes Jon’s hand in his, uncurling Jon’s fingers gently in an attempt to release some of the tension. Slowly, he says, “You know, I… I shouldn’t be alive right now. Back after the Unknowing, when I woke up in the hospital, I… I didn’t want to be. It was supposed to be whatever it takes, and to me, that was always going to mean my death. Revenge and poetic justice and all of that. I should have died, but I didn’t. And… and you did. And it’s not something I feel guilty about, because we both made the same choice in the end, but that… that doesn’t stop me from feeling, sometimes, like it was my fault somehow.” He lets out a sharp laugh and says, “Well, I was the one to actually blow the place up in the end, but, you know.”

Tim holds Jon’s hand carefully in his like it might break otherwise, the mottled texture of the scar tissue firm against his fingertips. His eyes find the thin white line slashed across Jon’s throat, the stark white bandage poking out from the collar of Jon’s shirt where it covers a fresh scalpel wound in his shoulder, the pale pink spots that pepper Jon’s skin in a mirror image of his own. He can’t see the splash of jagged scars across Jon’s back, a memory of shrapnel and white-hot explosions, but he knows they’re there. “You asked why I don’t hate you?”

When Jon nods mutely, Tim says, “I just… ran out of reasons why I should. I still wanted to, but…” He shrugs and gives Jon a wry, humorless smile. “We’re all just stuck in the same shitty situation. And I guess at some point, I just decided that you hadn’t chosen to be here any more than I did.”

“Oh,” Jon says, barely audible.

Tim takes Jon’s other hand in his, squeezes them firmly, and says, “And I’m sorry. Not for- for how we used to be, because I think the blame for that falls pretty evenly onto both of our shoulders, but… but for everything else. For what’s happened to you. Figured I’ve spent enough time feeling sorry for myself, I might as well extend you the same courtesy.”

Jon’s fingers tighten around Tim’s, and he mumbles something Tim can’t quite catch. Then, he extracts his hands from Tim’s and signs, shakily, “I’m sorry too. For everything. But for what it’s worth, I… I’m glad you’re here. That you’re not dead. I- I know it’s been bad and- and I wish I could fix that, but I… I don’t know if I can.” Jon’s eyes when they meet Tim’s are sad but determined. “But I can fix this. I- I can get Daisy back. I can find my way out.”

Tim looks at the firm set to Jon’s mouth, the furrow of his brow, and says, “Okay. But I’m going to hold you to that. Otherwise, I might have to go in after you.”

Jon looks horrified. “Tim.”

Tim holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, come back in one piece and we won’t have to worry about it.”

Jon opens his mouth, then closes it again. There’s a long pause before he finally says, decidedly, “I will. I- I promise.”

Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Tim wants to say. Instead, he shuffles closer to Jon and leans against the wall again, crossing his arms on top of it and looking out over the city. “Good,” he says softly.

After a moment, Jon shifts to face the city as well. His arm brushes against Tim’s, and Tim lets that point of contact ground him as he looks up and up and up at the stars above, pinpricks of light on a satin black sky.

“Thank you,” Jon says, just loud enough for Tim to hear.

Tim moves his hand to cover Jon’s where it sits on the wall and squeezes once. “Yeah.”

They stand there until sunlight begins to tickle the edges of the horizon. And when Jon gives Tim’s hand one last squeeze, the other holding the lid of the coffin open, and says, “Be back soon,” Tim believes him.

Three days later, Jon climbs out of the coffin with dirt caked underneath his fingernails and a thin, sharp hand clutched in his. “Tim,” he says, and Tim ignores the pain in his leg as he lets his crutches drop to the floor and hugs Jon tightly.

“Looks like I’m staying above ground after all,” Tim jokes, his voice light even as his words come out wet and choked.

Jon’s laugh vibrates against Tim’s chest. “Yeah,” he says, burying his face in the fabric of Tim’s shoulder to hide his smile. “Yeah.”

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #tim stoker #martin blackwood #creators are revealed now so i can post this!#very exciting #blood cw #body horror cw #injury cw #hospitals cw #suicidal ideations cw #more cw in the body of the post as well #my writing #my fic

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itsagrimm · 3 years

Text

Imperial!Tech 2

Is it even romantic without murder?

Imperial!Tech is a delight and I am worried why I have fun writing a murderous lost nerdy boi. will likely do a part 3.

about 2.000 words

part 1

Part 3

CN insults, violence, murder, discriminatory behaviour, very toxic behaviour, soldier life in a fascist state, tiny bit of fluff or Manipulation depends on your perspective, blood, pain, talk of injury. imperial!Tech is a bit of a tease but he will come around

Imperial!tech X they*them Y/N reader

“This will not suffice. Repeat.”, Commander Tech ordered.

His command was calm and detached, a contrast to the exhausted and heavily panting Elite Squad soldiers.

They looked at each other. None of them having the strength to continue their practice. But also none of them having the will to argue with their commander.

Y/N looked up to the observatory deck. Commander Tech was up there, his black armour contrasting with the white walls.

“Is there a problem, ONCE?”, the voice of the commander echoed in Y/N helmet, using the moniker the elite squad had given Y/N.

“No sir. Can we get a short break before a new try?”

The commander glanced down before looking at the holopad in his hands again.

“The elite squad endurance and recovery time is miserable as expected. I calculated your performance to be at least on par with regular clone troopers. I see now that it was a mistake, and I will have to lower my expectation further & readjust my strategies to your … lacking skill level.”

“I am sorry, sir.”

“It is not your mistake to be born inferior.”, the commander stated flattly, “Your next round will be in 5 minutes standard.”

The Elite Squad looked at each other. Their commander was in a mood. Since his injury on Bracca the Squad had not been in action and commander Tech worked them into the ground with his bone breaking practice runs.

“It is impossible.”, ES-02 said using a private chat without the commander, “Who is he comparing us to? The commanders’ expectations are inhuman. Only some kind of super squad could execute his mind-boggling plans in the time he gives us.”

They nodded in agreement.

“He expects us to be at least as good as the regular clone troopers.”, ES-04 stated.

ES-03 laughed: “Yeah we are better than thosemeat droids. And what does he mean with regular clones? Is there even fancier cannon fodder out there?”

“Commander Tech is noticeably different from other clones. Maybe there are more like him out there?”, Y/N pointed out.

“Oh maker, imagine more copies of that pretentious smart mouth up there.” ES-03 rolled his eyes.

“Get in position and execute plan 8C.3 .”, the commanders voice cut through their chatter. ONCE felt as if they got caught bad mouthing Tech.

“Yes sir.”, they replied and got into position.

A ping from a private channel ringed. It was ES-03.

“You are quiet protective of our commander Tech, my dear ONCE. Is there something I need to know?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, … it is always ‘yes sir’ and ‘of course sir’ and sometimes you are both gone in the night. And our dear commander got a lovely visit in the med bay when he was wounded. You even bring him caf somet-“

“ES-03, mind your business.”

“No need to get so aggressive. I am sure it is nothing. And I am sure it is just a coincidence that he leaves you out of punishments or giving you the safest positions in his strategies…”

ONCE said nothing.

Since that time in the hangar the commander had some allure and to admit that meant a defeat ONCE could not afford.

“Well my dearest ONCE, got nothing to say about that? I-“

Static cut through their transmission.

“ES-03, I must inform you that I am very disappointed by your unprofessional behaviour within the Elite Squad which I will not tolerate anymore.”

“Commander? Is that you?”

“Yes of course, who else did you expect?”

ES-03 turned around and looked up to the observatory deck.

Commander Tech’s expression was unreadable, his eyes hidden by the reflecting glasses.

For a moment none of them moved. Then ES-03 took of his helmet and started shouting.

“Are you spying on us? Are you listening to all our private conversations???”, he screamed with a red head.

The commanders lips moved but up there and without his helmet ES-03 could not hear the commanders answer.

“Calm down”, ES-04 tried to defuse her squad member’s anger.

“I am NOT calming down! The sick dirty clone listens to our private channels!”

“Mate, it is not worth it to start a fight like this now.”, ES-02 added, “put your weapon down and think about it.”

“Are you serious??? Do you think I am a threat with this crappy old DC-17? A danger to any of you?! No, it’s this meat bag of a clone who should be afraid of me!”

ONCE flinched at ES-03’s words and readied their weapon.

He was out.

An angry man was a dangerous man.

ONCE former life as a bounty hunter had taught them this lesson well.

Static cut through their helmet again before ONCE heard commander Techs voice.

“Tell ES-03 that the Empire has issued an order to all commanding officers to listen into all communication of their soldiers. It is also very much encouraged to record it.”

“Are you sure that will calm him down, sir?”

“I don’t care about that. He either learns how to live with imperial command or he does not.”

“You are testing him.”

Tech paused.

“Follow your orders, soldier.”

He cut the transmission.

ES-03 was still shouting. His spit landed on ONCE helmet when he turned toward them.

“What did that clone say, my dearONCE??? You two just talked, didn’t you?!”

He sounded furious. His eyes burning like laser blasts into ONCE body.

“He said, checking all communication between soldiers is the new imperial standard to which the commander simply has complied.”

“Fuck that!”

ES-03 stepped closer, his DC-17 blaster still in his hands.

“Fuck that! Fuck that clone! Fuck the Empire! Fuck YOU, you little imperial whore!”

He raised his blaster, aiming for ONCE.

ONCE got cold. Trained instincts kicking in. They rolled sideways behind one of the training blocks to avoid the shot.

A blue blast slightly grazed their helmet, but the adrenaline made it impossible to tell whether or not ONCE got hit.

“ES-03! Stand down!”, Tech’s voice commandeered from somewhere close. He must have left the observatory deck.

“HA! What are you going to do, little nerdy boi? Do you want to protect your little pet over there?! Don’t even try! You are not even a real man!”

Another blue blast shot through the air.

ONCE could hear the Tech and other Squad members taking cover.

“He really did go full rage.”

“Not everyone is cut out for the soldier life.”

“Not everyone is cut out for the Empire!”

“What do we do?”

“Cut the chatter, soldiers”, Tech commandeered, “Take ES-03 out. Shot to kill.”

“Sir?!”

“We can stun him!”

Instead of an answer Tech jumped over the training block he was couching behind and kicked ES-03. ONCE heard the blaster slide over the floor and the sound of fists colliding with skin.

Over and over again.

The sound got wetter.

ES-03’s screams turned into pleas before going silent.

XXXXXXX

Another rotation on Kamino. Another dark night in the bunk room of the Imperial Elite Squad. Another nightmare.

Y/N woke up and looked around. Everything was calm except for the rain knocking at the window and the slow breaths from their fellow soldiers. Commander Tech was missing as always.

Weeks since the Commander had been hurt on Bracca. Days since ES-03 s death. Hours since he – since Tech – had looked at y/n. Why was that such a painful thought? He was a horrible man, a murderer!

He is just a good soldier, he follows orders. Just like you.

Y/N closed their eyes. Pictures of Tech beating ES-03 to death flashed before their eyes and with them the realization that whatever crimes and murders Tech committed, Y/N committed them alongside him. Two monstrous beings in service of a monstrous Empire.

The door to the bunkroom opened silently, only a light draft giving away the silhouette in the door frame. Y/N glanced to the door. It was the commander. He looked at the sleeping elite squad members and through the room as if he was searching for something.

Y/N got up on their elbows and looked at the commander.

Their eyes met.

“ONCE”, he whispered, “Come with me.”

Y/N got into their boots and followed the commander. The long white halls of Tipoca, the kaminoan capital, were empty and quiet. Tech lead the way but surprisingly they passed the hangar and soon arrived at his little office.

He turned around.

“I require your assistance, ONCE.”, he explained in a calm voice, using the moniker the elite squad had given Y/N.

“Now?”, ONCE answered.

“Yes, now.”

They looked at each other. Tech looked horrible. He had dark circles under his eyes so prominent, that even his glasses couldn’t hide them. His head wound from Bracca had left severe, still bloody scars and his hair was unkept and in patches from the burn he survived.

“What is it, commander?”

Instead of an answer he opened the door to his office. It was a little room, full of unfinished projects and gadgets, a wall scribbled with complex formulars ONCE was not in the mood to fathom and a littered table with various unfinished reports.

The workspace of the commander surprised ONCE. It was a stark contrast to the thoroughly planning and executing commander they knew.

“Can you cut my hair?”

“Sorry, sir?”

ONCE turned away from the room and faced the commander. His face was reserved but his voice had a telling neediness in it. The commander, Tech, he needed help.

“Well, I cut my own hair. I can try cutting yours. But I am no professional.”

He nodded.

“I noticed.”, he paused and smiled apologetically for his ambiguous phrasing, “That you cut your own hair, I mean.”

ONCE was speechless. He had smiled.

“I have my personal reservations towards the imperial service corps and their droid hairdressers. And the other option is to ask another trooper since I do not have the skill to cut my hair. But quite frankly the thought of trained regular soldiers having blades near my throat and more importantly my still healing wounds being opened up by some well meaning yet bad practising self-learned barber, is distressing which is why I require you to cut my hair.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“I was not aware of the need for sunlight in order to cut hair. Can you elaborate?”

ONCE suppressed a smile.

“I am sorry, sir. The circumstances are just a bit unusual. But I can try cutting your hair. And I do not plan on cutting your throat.”

“Good to know.”

He nodded casually, satisfied with ONCE’s answer, and produced a hair clipper from somewhere before seating himself on a chair with his back towards them. It was a captivating moment. ONCE looked at the hair clipper in their hand with its tiny blades and the commanders turned back to them. He had defined yet narrow shoulders for a soldier and a muscular back, visible through the thigh blacks. His bare neck was visible, and his occipital moved under his skin when he turned and looked at ONCE.

“It is alright. Feel free to give me whatever hair cut you choose to be fitting. As long as it is functional, I am content.”

ONCE breathed in. That was the commander. And they were about to cut his hair like they were good ol’pals or family. Like they were more. It was a sign of trust so unusual on Kamino, yet he had asked for it.

“You will need to take your glasses of.”

He complied and waited.

ONCE touched his hair to feel its texture before cutting. It was soft. Like a child’s.

They started cutting both sides to even out the burned parts and help with the sensitive skin around his scars before shortening the rest. Burned curls after curls fell on his shoulders and he brushed them away with his hands.

His hands. His murderous hands. They were large and had long fingers with little cuts from tinkering around. How did it feel being touched by them?

ONCE finished cutting, walked around Tech to look at the commander and squatted to see him from an even perspective. He looked good.

“This will work, sir.”

Instead of an answer he stretched his arm out and grabbed ONCE’s jaw.

“Thank you, Y/N.”

He got up and turned away.

Part 3

#imperial tech #the bad batch tech #tbb toxic tech #tbb #tbb tech #the bad batch #swtcw #order 66 #clone x reader #good soldiers follow orders #tech x reader #tech x y/n #tech x you #clone force 99 #clone commanders #slow burn #romatic murder

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shih-coulda-had-it · 2 years

Note

Everyone lives au but all mights fight with afo the first one that landed him with one lung

Anon, I hate writing fight scenes. Have the aftermath of this one.

In retrospect, Sorahiko should have sent a message to Nana the instant he heard Toshinori was going to throw himself into fighting All for One. A text, a messenger, an illegal firework--any signal could have done, so long as there was a sign for Nana to receive before the news reached her.

He drags himself up from the rubble, struggling to take a full breath that wouldn’t choke him with dust. He’s too old for fights on this scale. It’s a small mercy (if a humiliating point) that All for One decided to knock him out of the area early.

Speaking of the area.

Sorahiko surveys the eerily silent ruins with a sinking heart. The first look-over does not yield a spot of sunshine yellow hair, and neither does the second, so he Jets to the top of a crumbling pillar. He calls for Toshinori. He calls again when there is no answer.

A third time, then. His throat is raw.

The kid (not a kid, he’s nearly fifty) can’t be dead, because Sorahiko hasn’t spent decades watching, guiding, parenting Toshinori into building All Might, all to witness his fall.

Four times--

“Gran Torino,” his kid rasps, and in the stillness of the battlefield, Sorahiko spins on his heel and bolts for the origin of the sound. Toshinori repeats, in dwindling volume, “T-Torino, Torino-sensei--”

He finds All Might on his knees, the massive bulk steaming visibly into the air, blood and viscera soaking the ground and the suit alike. How much of it is Toshinori’s? How much--Sorahiko feels his stomach twist at the fallen figure before All Might. The evidence is all over Toshinori and his viscera-smeared fists.

“Torino-sensei,” Toshinori says through the red spilling over his lips. “I did it.”

“Kid,” says Sorahiko, and he rushes to brace him, gathering his cape into a handful of fabric to press against the visible wound. He ignores his own injuries because they seem so small in comparison to this starburst fracturing Toshinori’s chest; it becomes increasingly obvious that not all the blood can be attributed to All for One. As Toshinori leans heavily against Sorahiko, Sorahiko fumbles with one hand to extricate his phone.

“I did it…”

“Yeah, you did,” he soothes, dialing Recovery Girl. He’ll eat his boot if Nana’s not already on her way. Hopefully, she’s on a helicopter.

Has Toshinori’s temperature always been this high? It’s like embracing a furnace.

“Lay down. Stay awake.”

“It hurts,” Toshinori whines. “Tou-san, it really, really hurts.”

Sorahiko doesn’t want to risk abandoning the site, the body, but for a second, he lets himself think about heaving Toshinori into a hug and whisking him to a location halfway to a hospital. He could make it. He could--Recovery Girl answers the call.

“Torino, what the hell did you--”

“SORAHIKO,” shouts Nana, and Sorahiko jerks his head back before he loses his hearing. They’re together? Convenient. “I DID NOT LEARN FROM MY LACKEYS THAT YOU AND TOSHINORI WENT TO SPRING A TRAP AT AN OFF-RECORD BLACK SITE--”

“You’re on your way, right?”

“Yes,” says Shuuzenji. “What am I getting into?”

“One dead. All Might is--” Sorahiko hesitates, glances at the wheezing frame of his kid, the glazed eyes that blink achingly slow at Sorahiko. Still breathing. Not dying. One for All users can endure; Nana survived her fight with All for One, and Toshinori is practically her son in all but blood, which means he’ll survive too. “He’s hurt. Badly. You know where we’re at.”

“Can you shoot a flare or something?”

“I wear yellow,” he snaps, and he tunes out the bickering.

“It’s red now,” says Toshinori.

“Well, if you’d stop bleeding out--!” Sorahiko exhales sharply from his nose, curbing his temper. He’s unbalanced. He doesn’t know what to do. For decades, he’s had practice in learning when and how to say the right things, to not leave them unspoken, but--but it’s been decades since Sorahiko has had to face the very real consequence of losing a loved one.

“I’m t-trying,” Toshinori hiccups.

He closes his eyes, but forces them back open. He grits his teeth and clamps down on the still gushing, steaming wound, grimacing at the elicited cry of pain.

“E.T.A.,” he grinds out to the phone. The blood is staining his gloves now. How much can a human body survive losing? How much, when reinforced by One for All? Sorahiko has to remind himself in a mantra: Nana survived, Nana survived, Nana survived. He and Toshinori had left her for fucking dead, and the guilt had eaten them up, so they emerged from the water into the ash-choked air, and scrabbled through the rubble, and they found her.

Sorahiko is not leaving Toshinori for dead.

He did not leave Toshinori to die in a Pyrrhic victory--

“E.T.A.!” Sorahiko shouts, and wrenches his head up just in time to see Nana land on the ground, the soles of her shoes and end of her cane dipping into the blood. Her eyes are wide. She’s taking in the scene.

She has a first-aid kit.

“Nana,” he begs, panicked, “Nana, help, help me--”

“Oshishou--”

“I’m here,” she says, and practically throws herself where they are, kneeling beside Toshinori’s body and opening the first-aid kit with a practiced eye. Now that Sorahiko is knocked out of his own head, he can hear the helicopter’s blades chopping the air. Nana must have leapt from the aircraft. “I’m here now.”

#bnha #torino sorahiko #gran torino #yagi toshinori #all might #shimura nana #nana lives!au #shih.txt #anon #asks #hey look! toshinori finally calls torino dad in one of my fics #had this ficlet run a little longer #he would've certainly called nana mom

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nyctolovian · 3 years

Link

Summary: Where Jon and Martin get to grow old together and live out the rest of their lives in a village. Told from the POV of a 7-year-old girl, Trish, who just moved in next door.

Written in preparation for the emotional trainwreck that would be the finale of TMA :”)

Trish peeked out from behind the bushes to look at the cottage. She was new in the neighbourhood, but she had already heard all sorts of stories about it from the other kids she played with. There was a ghost in there, or a wizard, and anyone who stepped foot into its boundaries would be cursed and get kidnapped by a giant clown with claws for hands.

If you asked Trish, she’d tell you she didn’t believe in stupid fairytales and ghost stories like this. While the other kids still believed in Santa Claus, she already knew that it was just her parents sneaking treats into her Christmas socks. There was no way there was some sort of cursed monster living at the bottom of the hill.

Still, as she stood outside it’s fences, wiping her sweaty palms against her skirt, she gulped nervously. The way the other kids acted as they told her to get the ball because “you were the one who kicked it there!” still scared her. What if there was a bad guy in the house? She was only seven! What could she do?

She ran through several possible scenarios. She’d run. If she couldn’t, she’d kick the bad guy as hard as she could; her aunt had always said she had a good kick. If not, she’ll bite as hard as she can. Or she could–

“Excuse me. What are you doing in front of my house?” came a low voice.

Trish leapt backwards in fright with a squeak.

Standing behind her was an old man with a stubble in a long yellow dress (woman?), carrying several bags of groceries on her left arm. With her other hand, she wielded a cane. There were pale scars all over her dark skin and Trish wondered if this old lady might have been a pirate. Her dark eyes seemed to stare into Trish's soul as her lips were set in a downwards curl. Her eyebrows were thick and tightly knitted in a permanent-looking scowl. She reminded Trish of Mdm Taylor from school, except older and grumpier.

"I… Uh, I…" Trish shifted from foot to foot, her palms growing even sweatier. "I… My ball…" She pointed towards the ball in the lawn.

The woman with the beard followed her gaze to the bright pink ball beside the front door. "Ah," she said, sighing loudly. She walked to the front gate.

With her hands full, she had to fumble with the latch for a good minute before pushing the gate open. "There we are," she said. "Get your ball."

Trish blinked. It was that easy?

She ran past the lady with the beard and picked up her ball. She hugged it close to her chest and looked back up at the old lady, half-expecting her to declare that there was a price for taking the ball back, or that she was trapped here forever.

However, instead the old lady just hobbled through the gate. Some of her grocery bags got caught between the gate and she let out a groan. Trish's eyes darted between the old lady and the bags before she placed her ball back down, stepped forward and took some of the groceries from the lady with the beard.

"Oh, um," she said. "Thank you."

"It's okay," Trish replied, lifting the bags and walking towards the front door of the cottage. "I help my Ma take the groceries all the time."

The lady with the beard followed after and reached into the pockets of her dress (which were very deep pockets, Trish enviously noticed). As soon as she unlocked the door, Trish lugged the grocery bags into the house.

It was a clean house, and it smelled a lot like her Gramma's house. Old people smell, she reckoned.

"Where's your kitchen?"

"Over here."

Trish followed after her into the kitchen and she placed the groceries down where she was told.

"What's your name?" the old lady asked.

Trish froze. Her mother told her not to trust strangers and not to tell strangers her name. But perhaps she had already broken some of the rules since she just walked into a stranger's house. But she wasn't kidnapped yet so it was probably safe.

"I'm Trish."

"Ah, thank you so much, Trish. You have been of tremendous help." The lady with the beard began to pack her groceries away. "Usually, my husband would help me with all this."

"What happened to your husband?"

"He's in the hospital."

Trish gasped.

"He's going to be fine. Don't worry. It's just his knee. He'll be back in a week."

"Phew!" Trish dragged her hand across her forehead. "That's good. What's your name by the way?"

"Oh. My name's Jon."

"Jon?!" Trish shouted. "But that's a boy's name!"

The old lady looked confused. "I… yes? It is a masculine name, I suppose?"

"Are you a boy?"

Jon's eyes widened. "I see. Well… I'm neither a boy or a girl. But I am a he. As in, um, for example, 'his name is Jon and he likes eating peaches.'"

"How are you both not a boy or a girl though?"

Jon frowned in thought. "I just am. It just happens sometimes for people. Some people aren't a boy or a girl."

"Then, what are you?"

Jon frowned. "I'm nonbinary."

"Non…"

"Non-bi-na-ry," Jon repeated, slower, and Trish followed after. He smiled. "It can be a difficult word to pronounce."

"It's not that hard. I can do it," Trish said, rolling her eyes. Adults always made it seem like everything was too hard for her to do. "Nonbinary! See!"

Jon smiled. It was a small one, but Trish spotted it anyway.

She puffed up her chest and announced, “I need to go now. Bye bye!"

"Bye," Jon replied, waving his hand.

On the way out, Trish picked up her ball and made sure to close the doors behind her.

***

When Trish next spotted Jon, she was at the market with her father. As soon as she sees him, she tugs her dad's shirt and whispers loudly, "That's Jon at the fruit place. He lives in the cottage at the bottom of the hill."

Her father hummed absently as he picked out the vegetables. "Why don't you go say hi, sweetheart?"

With a nod, Trish headed over to the fruit stand where Jon was. He spotted her before she reached him and gave her a little wave. Today, he is in a button-up shirt and black pants.

"Hello, Trish," he greeted. "Helping your mother out?"

"Nope. My Da's shopping this time." She points to her father, who was still engrossed in examining the vegetables. She peered into Jon's basket and saw that in it, there were apples, mangoes and peaches. "Is your husband back yet?"

"Hm? Yes, he is. But he's resting at home. The surgery did a number on him."

"Surgery?!" Trish screeched. Jon winced at the shout and she muttered an apology.

Forgivingly, Jon shook his head. "Sometimes, when you get old, your joints will get a bit painful so the doctors have to replace it with an implant. He's on the road to recovery now so no worries."

“Implant…?”

Jon took time to explain what that meant. Trish had a million questions swirling around her head and she continued to press him for answers. Unlike a lot of adults, Jon took time to answer her questions to the best of his abilities.

Trish was about to ask how on earth someone can survive being cut open by another person when someone interrupted them. "Retired to teach primary school children, eh, Jon?" the fruit seller said, folding her arms. "Didn't know you were taking in new students."

Jon scowled. "You know full well—"

"Enough of you," the fruit seller brushed him aside in favour of leaning over her counter to look at Trish. "Heya, pipsqueak. Haven't seen you before."

"I’m not his student… My Ma and Da and me moved in last last week. My Da's there," she said, pointing.

It was also then that her father seemed to have settled the payment for vegetables and came over. “Trish, there you are. Where’s your friend? I thought you went to talk to him.”

Trish tugged Jon’s shirt. “Here.”

Da's eyes widened. “Oh! You’re Jon?” He quickly schooled his expression into a friendly smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. The way she talked about you… I just thought she was talking about her classmate so I was…”

“Expecting a seven-year-old and not a seventy-year-old,” Jon replied, raising an eyebrow. “That’s understandable. I’m Jonathan Blackwood-Sims. Nice to meet you.”

“Nathan Fujisaki. I’m Trish’s dad. Nice to meet you too.”

Jon’s phone began to ring and his brow furrowed. “Apologies,” he muttered as he placed his grocery bag on the stand before fumbling out his phone. He frowned as soon as he saw the caller-ID and picked it up immediately. “Martin, what’s wrong?” His eyes darted from side to side before he cupped a hand over the receiver and turned away from the rest of them to whisper into the phone.

“His husband,” the fruit seller said. “The two of them fuss over each other a lot.”

"Is that so?"

The fruit seller's eyes lit up with glee at the opportunity to gossip a little. "Yeah. When they first moved in, I was, like, 15? It's a lot better now but back then, the two of them were hardly ever apart. He taught me for a year, you know? And I don't know what arrangement they had with the school but they were practically glued to the hip anytime outside of class."

"So he is a teacher!" Trish exclaimed. "He reminded me of Mdm Taylor so I thought he might be a teacher."

"Yeah, he does have that vibe about him, doesn't he?" the fruit seller said. "Cross about everything and anything. He had that even when he was my teacher. And he was pretty scary back in the day too. Nothing seemed to get past him."

"If you truly believed that, you would know better than to gossip about me," Jon countered as he returned to pick up his grocery bag.

"How is he?" Trish asked.

Jon winced. "It's… better now. But I should head back as soon as I can." He began to make his move and said, "Take care."

"Would you like a lift?" Da offered. "It's on the way."

"I…" Jon glanced down at his cane before he let out a sigh. "Yes, please. I would appreciate that."

It didn't take very long to fetch Jon to his house. Da gave Jon his contact number in case he and his husband needed any help. Jon stared openly, expression unreadable for a moment, before he gave a brief nod and rushed into the house.

On the way home, Da was frowning. "He seems familiar…" he muttered when Trish asked. "Like I've seen him somewhere before."

***

Stupid Da. Stupid Ma.

They weren't listening to her. In a fit of anger, she ran out of the house and to the first place she could think of. It wasn't fair, she thought. Trish's lower lip wobbled as she curled harder into herself.

Suddenly, the door to the cottage at the bottom of the hill opened. A large old man with a thick beard wearing a pair of boxers and a singlet emerged and his eyes fell upon the small girl who had squished herself into a corner of the porch. "Oh my god!" squeaked the old man. "Wh-What are you doing out here? Where are your parents?"

Trish glared up through the tears in her eyes. "You're not Jon," she said, her voice rough from crying.

"Oh, he's… he's out right now," the man said, smiling apologetically. "Would you like to come in and wait for him? Or, uh, or not. We can wait for him outside."

Trish nodded.

"Feel free to sit in the chair there.”

Trish shook her head.

“Okay. Would you like something to drink then? We have tea, and milk."

"Milk."

With a gentle smile, the man went back into the house and came out, dressed in a knee-length skirt and a loose shirt. He had also brought out a cup of milk, which he placed in Trish's hand. He went back inside for a moment, before returning with a piping hot cup of tea for himself.

The man limped over to a rocking chair and sat down heavily with a sigh. As he placed his own cup down on the table beside himself, Trish noticed the massive scar on his left leg that ran from his mid-calf up to his knee. "Are you Jon's husband?" she asked. "Martin?"

The man's eyes practically lit up. "Oh yes!" He drummed his fingers against his belly delightfully. "I'm guessing that you're Trish then?"

She nodded.

"Jon's told me a bit about you," he said.

"Are you also non… nonbinary," she said the word slowly to make sure she got it right.

From the look of it, she had because Martin smiled again. "Nope. I'm a man. Just one who finds skirts incredibly comfortable."

"I don't like skirts," Trish said frankly. "They're too wooshy and swishy."

"Perfectly understandable." Martin nodded.

"Where's Jon?"

"He's doing groceries."

Trish stuck her lower lip out. "He's always doing groceries."

Something between a laugh and a sigh escaped Martin's chest. "He is, isn't he? My poor husband just can't sit still. He has to go to the market once a day or he'll get cranky. Or crankier than usual."

Trish nodded as she took a sip from her cup.

"So, what are you doing here?"

Trish lowered her cup. "I don't know."

"Did something happen to make you cry?" Martin asked.

Curling in harder into herself, she muttered, "I'm not telling."

"Oh, um… Sure."

"Does it hurt?"

"Hm?" Martin followed her gaze to his knee. "Oh, you mean my knee? It was hurting really badly before I went to the hospital. I mean, it's still hurting a bit now because I'm recovering so I take a bit of painkiller to deal with that. It'll get better soon."

"Does it hurt when they do it on you?"

"Mm… not really? They give you an injection that makes you sleep through the entire surgery. It's kind of when you wake up that you start feeling the pain."

Trish frowned. It sounded a bit unrealistic. How could you sleep through being cut open? She didn’t get the opportunity to ask Martin anything though because, in the distance, a small figure could be seen hobbling towards the house. Martin immediately straightened up. "There he is," he said, before waving.

Trish followed suit with a big wave of her own, putting her entire arm into it.

“You have a little visitor,” Martin said as soon as Jon stepped past the gate.

“I can see that very well,” Jon said, rolling his eyes. He made a small detour to their side of the porch to give Martin’s forehead a kiss. Then, he looked at Trish and probably noticed her red-rimmed eyes. "Did something happen?"

Trish frowned. "Ma and Da won't let me have a birthday party. They said it's a waste of time and I'll forget it anyway."

"Oh…" Jon pursed his lips. "Do they know you're here now?"

"No. And I don't want them to."

"They must be worried sick," Martin remarked with a small frown.

Shrinking into herself, Trish muttered sourly, "Let them."

“I know you’re angry at them and you don’t want to see them right now but it is quite unkind to cause them needless worry,” Jon reasoned gently. “I shall give them a call, okay? Just to let them know you’re here. I promise I’ll let you stay here until you’re ready to talk to them again. But you wouldn't want them to think you're in danger, right?”

Trish pouted hard, but eventually nodded.

“Right,” Jon said with a nod before heading into the house. He came back out after about 5 minutes with some cut fruits. “We have permission for you to stay until dinner,” he said as he sat down in the other chair with a low grunt. “Now, I hope you didn’t have to suffer Martin’s nagging for too long while I was away.”

“Nagging?!” Martin shot back with an offended voice. “And don’t you think I suffer when you insist on leaving a trail of cups all over the house? Do you think you’re Gretel or something?”

“Actually,” Jon said, knowing full well what he was doing, “Hansel was the one who left the trails.”

Martin groaned comically and Trish giggled a little.

***

“You know what?” Trish yelled as she threw the door open. From the kitchen, Martin made a weird squeaky noise.

“It would be polite to knock. Martin’s already got a weak enough heart already,” Jon chided as he stood up from his sofa and went to the entrance.

“Oh… Um...” She gently closed the door again before knocking. Then, she patiently waited as the sound of Jon’s shuffling slippers got closer.

“Trish,” Jon said exasperatedly as he opened the door. “You don’t have to close the door again if you’re already inside. We know you’re here.”

“Oh, okay,” Trish said, walking in.

Martin came into view and he was laughing a little. “God, you sound like such a curmudgeon.”

Frowning, Trish asked, “Cur…?”

“A grumpy old person,” Martin explained. “You know, like Jon.”

Teasingly, Jon poked Martin’s rib. “Oh yeah? Is that resentment in your voice, Mr Blackwood-Sims?”

Martin grabbed the offending hand. “Oh, absolutely not. You’re my curmudgeon. I’m not resenting you anytime soon.”

“Sap,” Jon muttered, covering his mouth with his hand, but that did nothing to hide the smile in his voice.

Trish rolled her eyes. “Aaaaanyway,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, “I’m here to announce something.”

“Yes, yes, announce away,” Jon said.

But he was making goo-goo eyes at Martin so Trish decided she’d leave the very important announcement of her birthday party for another day.

***

Having chicken pox and being forced to stay in her room for an entire week was already bad enough. But then, it just had to be on the week of her birthday. What’s worse was that Trish had gone and scratched at her skin, and even though it was healed, she had some scars on her arms and face. And she really did not appreciate scars as a birthday present.

Ma chided her for not listening and handed her a bottle of cream to apply over the scars. “If you properly apply it, then maybe it’ll get rid of those scars,” she said.

Not wanting any of the scars to remain, Trish religiously applied the cream every night. But they didn’t seem to be going away anytime soon.

“It isn’t the end of the world if it does leave scars anyway. Look at the both of us! We have scars and we’re doing fine,” Jon comforted her, which wasn’t very comforting.

“It’s okay if you two have scars. You’re old people anyway,” Trish said, popping one of Martin’s freshly baked cookies into her mouth.

“Ouch!” Martin said, sitting down beside Jon at the dining table. “That’s a bit mean, Trish.”

Wincing, she muttered, “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Jon said. He peered over at her arm. "I think it's fading. It's just a bit slow so be patient with it."

Trish nodded. However, even as she sat there talking with them, her index finger kept returning to rub over the most prominent scar on her forearm. The tiny bump of the scar annoyed her and she wished she could tear it out, but she knew that would likely only make the scar worse.

"You know, Trish," Martin said, "it's normal for kids to get scars. We all get scars from at your age too."

"Jon too?"

"I…" Jon frowned. "I don't recall much of when I was young unfortunately."

"How come?"

"Complicated stuff," Jon said, making a vague gesture. "It'd be too long a story to explain."

"Well," Martin interjected, "he doesn't remember his. But I do." He lifted his arm to show the pale jagged patch on his elbow. "This one I got from when I fell off a tree outside my house. I got a kite snagged onto the branches so I had to get it down. It's a bit faded now actually."

"Yeah, but that's a cool scar. Mine is just from stupid chicken pox," Trish grumbled. Then, she lifted her head. "What about those though? The dot-dot ones both you and Jon have? They're not from chicken pox too, right? They're really big."

"Oh, these?" Martin said, running his hand over the pockmark scars on his face and arms.

"Yeah. How did the both of you get it? It looks really bad…" Trish frowned. "What kind is it?"

"Um… yeah," Jon said. "It... It was a… bad disease."

Martin sighed. "It was an office-wide infection. From when Jon and I worked in the same place." He then switched the subject by showing a long scar he had on his finger. "Oh, Trish, look at this one. Guess how I got this one? It was kind of dumb. I got it when I was, I think, 5 years old? I stuck my finger into the fan."

Trish scrunched her face. "Why did you do that?!" she shouted. "What if it got chopped off?"

"I don't know to be honest. I was five, Trish. I wasn't a very smart five-year-old."

"Five-year-olds generally aren't very smart," she assured Martin, who threw his head back and laughed.

They continued to talk about scars and dumb injuries for the rest of the afternoon. And by the time Trish went home, she realised that even if the scars remained in the end, she wouldn't be that upset.

***

As Martin’s knee got better, he began to join Jon’s grocery trips more often. The marketplace got a little bit more noisy on the days Martin went with Jon.

Firstly, Martin and the fruit seller seemed to have this bit that involved making fun of Jon, even though Trish didn’t necessarily understand most of the jokes. (For some reason, Martin likes to make fun of Jon for liking peaches.)

Then, Martin had what Jon called “itchy fingers'', which meant that Martin liked touching things he wasn’t supposed to. There was this one time when Martin had decided to poke something pink on the side of a carton, which turned out to be used gum. “You’d think you’d grow out of touching things unnecessarily, Martin,” Jon reprimanded as he dragged his husband to the toilet to wash his hands.

Trish just thought they were quite funny.

Sometimes, she would be with Da for groceries when she bumped into them. On those days, Da would talk to them about grown-up stuff that Trish had no hope of understanding. But it was fine since, with Martin at the front seat most of the time, this meant that Trish can lean to her side and whisper to Jon.

Sometimes, Trish would see Jon and Martin walking around together in the neighbourhood. More often than not, Martin joined Jon on his daily trips to the market, and they would slowly walk hand-in-hand. It was during those times that Jon most often had a smile on his face, and at times bursting into uproarious laughter.

Sometimes, Trish would dash over to greet them. People often told Trish that she was a bit too chatty for her own good. But around those two, she felt that maybe it was alright to talk a bit more because Martin would always smile warmly at Trish as she talked about the frog she found on the side of the road or about her stupid homework assignment. Jon, on the other hand, often had something to add to whatever Trish was saying, be it with questions or a weird trivia of his own.

Of course, there were days where Trish was far too busy to call out to them. It was highly impractical to rush out to them during a game of Hide-and-Seek.

Sometimes though, the two of them would walk especially close to each other, and they’d be whispering, or at least, one of them would be. There were times when Martin looked greyer than usual, and his gaze would be distant even as he ran his fingers along railings, fences, or any surface available. Other times, Jon would look rattled, his eyes darting about and breaths shallow. The non-cane-wielding hand would not be holding Martin’s on those days, instead, it would be tracing the scar over his neck, or twisting his hair in a quiet frenzy.

And then, sometimes, they would sit together on the park bench, holding hands and whispering and chuckling to themselves.

Those were the days when Trish knew better than to disturb them.

#tma #the magnus archives #magpod #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #nb jon #fanfic #my writing #canon divergent #cos ofc theyll grow old tgt after the apocalypse #im not in denial ;-;

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wishingicouldfly · 3 years

Text

I've been actively blogging for more than six months, even though I've had a tumblr account for ten years. I started reading One Direction (specifically Larry) fanfiction about the same time.

Originally, I read exclusively canon compliant fiction--I was hungry for industry insider, what-could-have-happened narratives. But I've slowly branched out into other genres. I find fanfic--good fanfic--super calming. When I've had too much stunting, too much noise, I grab a fanfic and immerse myself. So I thought it was time to do a post about my favorites. Keep in mind, I'm terrible at cataloging, and I have over 150 bookmarks on my A03 Account, so this is by no means an exhaustive list.

I'm not including the classics like Tired, Tired Sea and Escapade. While I do love both of those (so well written), because a lot of people know about those already.

My all time favorites are by @helloamhere

1. The Multipicity of Powers - https://archiveofourown.org/works/28580229

Maybe in another universe he isn’t different. Maybe he hadn’t been given an impossible choice. Maybe he wouldn’t have lost everything and broken everything and then fallen impossibly, irrevocably in love with the first next thing that was kind. Maybe in that universe he doesn’t feel like he’s never breathing, always pretending, teaching the kids even though they all have to learn alone, trying hard not to read the headlines, and so afraid, every day, that he won’t be a good enough teammate to the superhero he can’t live without. He knows that love isn’t supposed to feel this way, slid secret under your skin like a surgical razor, an invisible war held close over the tender vein that keeps you alive. On the other hand, Louis wonders, had he ever known how to do it any other way?

Maybe there’s a universe where he doesn’t have to keep all his secrets on the inside.

But this isn’t that universe.

//an X-Men AU.

Me: I never thought I'd love a super hero 1D cross over, but this is so well done. The backstory, the pacing, the characterization, the friendship. Read it.

2. Saving Symphony Hall and it's prequel Night Out - https://archiveofourown.org/works/12633921

“I think I have an idea,” Louis said. Slowly, and reluctantly, but with a growing sense of the inevitable. “God damnit, I think I have a really good idea.”

“Oh christ, that's the problem-solving face,” Babs said. “Last time we saw that face, he sold a company.”

“Wait, what?” Zayn asked.

“Right place, right time,” Louis said. “Also, fuck my life,”

“What?” Zayn repeated. Niall patted his hand.

“I usually just roll with whatever Louis is about to do,” he said. “It’s better for us all.”

“That’s the attitude,” said Louis, “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Tonight, I need to do some research. Zayn, give me your number. I’m gonna save our symphony.”

Me: The best sex scene I've ever read is in the prequel Night Out. Sexy, but tender. I love the characterizations in this duo--ABO but not traditional. Doesn't feel out of character.

3. Just Let Me -https://archiveofourown.org/works/11695350

The party was going well. So well, Niall had already sworn undying love to one multi-tiered chocolate cake, two friendly corgi-poodle mixes, Zayn’s hair, and the entire population of Los Angeles. So well, Zayn had only laughed and ruffled Niall’s hair and not even twitched towards a cigarette. So well, nearly everyone had spilled far past the boundaries of the night’s original plans, extracting bottles of vodka from the cabinets and losing a lot of clothes. Harry had proclaimed that he was finally going to throw a small and very grownup dinner party and of course here they were three hours later, fifty people half-naked in the pool. Soon to be full-naked, if Louis had to guess. Everybody in LA loved a heated pool. Everybody loved Harry.

Me: I love love love this. Harry is so gentle, and Louis is so stubborn and needy. It's ABO but subtle. I'll read this one again and again. It's comforting.

@HelloAmHere is one of the best writers I know--amazing stuff. I also love their werewolf story, but it's not finished, so I won't link it here.

Other favorites:

1. Seven Up by cherrystreet - https://archiveofourown.org/works/5828539

Very loosely based on the British TV show "The Up Series" and somewhat inspired by the song “Something I Need” by Onerepublic, we follow the lives of Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson in an interview setting every seven years. They fall apart and come together, their lives and emotions recorded. Harry calls it a time capsule. Louis calls it a pain in the arse.

Me: Trigger Warning, major character death. I literally SOBBED through the end of this. It was lovely and devastating. So good. But be warned.

2. Light, Spark and Fire series by @greenfeelings

Life’s pretty ordinary for Harry. He lives with his best friend, got into university just like he’s planned, and manages to support himself just fine for an unbonded omega. If he sustains that lifestyle by getting paid to help alphas through their rut every now and then, that’s nothing to be hung up on. Until he’s hired by an alpha that turns everything upside down.

Or, Louis and Zayn run a music label, Liam is Britain’s up-and-coming pop star, Harry’s working on taking Louis’ walls down until he builds his own up, and Niall holds them all together without realising he does.

Me: A nice healthy three-parter. Characters you just want to live with for a while.

3. Relief Next to Me by dolce_piccante - https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117942

AU. What happens when a baker and a graphic designer meet via a very specific Craigslist post? Fate, friendship, food, and maybe more.

Me: This one is super long, so be prepared when you dive in. It's got a lot of lovely bits, and some great smut.

4. 2012 'Verse by ashavahishta - https://archiveofourown.org/series/27601

Me: This is a five-parter and satisfies my love of canon compliant stories. It spans most of 2012 and into 2013, and illustrates the difficulties of Harry and Louis' relationship amid the band success and management disapproval.

5. Love After the End of the World by mercurial-madhouse (writing_practice) - https://archiveofourown.org/works/31251434/chapters/77248901

Society shattered when all electricity suddenly cut off across the globe, plunging the world into darkness. Now, Prometheus Industries is the sole remaining supply of power, a saving grace to those who survived Lights Out. As fugitives in no-man’s land struggling to break into Prometheus HQ, death lurks around every corner for Louis and Zayn. Things get complicated when a routine recon falls apart and Louis collides with Harry and his mates Niall and Liam, survivors with their own agenda.

When staying alive is already a constant battle, the deadliest weakness is to be in love. For Harry and Louis, finding each other sits on top of the endless list of What Else Could Go Wrong.

Me: Really unusual (as far as I can tell) end of the world story. I loved the characterizations of soul mates here at the end of the world.

6. Flightless Bird by audreyhheart - https://archiveofourown.org/works/6401653/chapters/14656807

AU where Louis Tomlinson is a principal dancer with The Royal Ballet. When his rival from ballet school, moody dance prodigy Harry Styles joins the company, old wounds are reopened and old passions reignited. During the company's production of Swan Lake the secret that doomed their love is finally revealed, but will it be too late?

Me: Trigger Warning, sexual assault (by an original character to a major character). This was a little brutal because I hated to see a broken Harry, but it was well written and has a happy ending.

7. Wear It Like A Crown by zarah5 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/1816771/chapters/3900322

AU. As part of a team of fixers hired to handle a gay scandal in Buckingham Palace, Louis expects Prince Harry to be a lot of things—most notably a royally spoilt brat. Never mind that the very same Prince Harry used to star in quite a number of Louis' teenage fantasies.

Me: I loved Louis in this one--actually they are both pretty great. Scratch that, they are ALL pretty great.

8. Shake Me Down by AGreatPerhaps12 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331958/chapters/7285322

Harry's new to college, fresh out of Catholic school and conversion therapy camp, and Louis runs the campus LGBTQIA organization.

Me: I don't like the self-hate here, but it was necessary for the story and H comes around. Found family vibe.

9. Gods & Monsters by Velvetoscar - https://archiveofourown.org/works/2090982/chapters/4550871

The instructions were simple: seduce and destroy Harry Styles. Not once did they discuss the option of Louis actually falling in love. So, naturally, that's exactly what he did.

Me: I loved Harry in this one. Louis gets there. I don't like Liam, but I don't think you're supposed to. Zayn is great.

10. Own the Scars by crinkle-eyed-boo (KimmieRocks) - https://archiveofourown.org/series/1010796

Louis has never felt like he was good enough: for his stepdad, for his life-long best friend, for the life he's supposed to want. After an accident that nearly costs him his life, Louis' parents send him to rehab where he’s forced to face his demons. On the long and difficult road to recovery, Louis must confront the truths he’s been avoiding about his future, his relationships, and his sense of self-worth. Because before he can love anyone else, he’s got to learn how to love himself first.

Me: Harry is lovely in this one. Trigger warning, substance abuse and near death.

11. Wild Love by purpledaisy - https://archiveofourown.org/series/1030904

AU: Two best friends try to date each other for forty days. It's supposed to be fun until emotions make it complicated.

Me: I loved this way more than I thought I would. It's lovely and messy and I love it.

12. Victorian Boy by audreyhheart - https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosann1986/readings?page=6

Victorian AU. Harry the virgin Duke of Somerset knows little of love, while Louis the sly Duke of Warwick knows too much. When the two dukes come together for the Bilsdale fox hunt in York, Harry finds himself drawn into Louis' bed. But when secrets from Louis' dark past come to light, Harry fears that the fox isn't the only one being hunted.

Me: Historical fiction I didn't intend to love. I LOVE Harry in this one. LOTS of smut, so be warned.

13. Keep Me Closer by zanni_scaramouche - https://archiveofourown.org/works/30752633

Louis expects Harry to react poorly, maybe even file a formal complaint and that’s gonna suck ass but Louis won’t say shit cause he knows he deserves it, so he prepares an apology before Harry’s even turned around.

What he doesn’t expect is Harry to fucking drop.

Me: lovely, protective Louis just trying to do the right thing.

14. Turning Page by purpledaisy for SockstheDog

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11826345

AU: Harry Styles tries to get lost in a place he’s never been. Louis Tomlinson has been perfecting the art of being lost for years. What they don’t expect to find is each other.

Me: sweet love story. Niall owns a bar, and is pretty great.

15. Freedom Always Comes With a Price by Cyantific - https://archiveofourown.org/works/30278514/chapters/74624262

A shared dream brings them together onto the X-factor stage, but one decision changes Harry and Louis’ lives overnight. Thrust into a world of instant stardom, they're forced to live a lie to sustain their dreams, but years of living in the shadows and under strict management takes its toll.

With the bands impending hiatus, there’s no better time for change, so they think.

Desperate for a solution, they turn to an unlikely source with a radical plan. An unfortunate accident sets everything in motion, but not how they intended, leaving Louis’ memories altered, Harry broken-hearted and full of regret.

Can Harry figure out a way to fix everything? Will he even want to once he sees how Louis moved on after the hiatus? Will Louis ever find out the truth of their past and can he forgive Harry after all this time?

In the end, two friends find out that memories are elusive, trust is everything and love is the only antidote.

Me: Heartbreaking when they lose each other, but really good in the end.

16. Little Technicolor Things by scary_crow - https://archiveofourown.org/works/6025519/chapters/13821628

Louis is a poor writer and recent university graduate, depressed, anxious, and living in London when he meets Harry, an artist with a secret who likes to paint sunrises and pretty boys from California.

17. Hold You Now by solvetheminourdreams - https://archiveofourown.org/works/30253536/chapters/74556744

Three years ago, Harry Styles said goodbye to communications consultancy firm McQuiston Worldwide, leaving a life of travel and agency PR behind. When he accompanies his best friend to a family wedding across the Atlantic, he'll be forced to reopen old wounds and face his past—one that no one wants to hash out, but may just have to.

Me: Niall is great. They almost miss each other in this one, and you just want to bash them over the head. But they figure it out.

18. At Risk, I Fold by clare328 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/26542480

2015 is a stream of hotel rooms and whisky on the rocks, tired glances and touching hands under tables. It’s the bears and the bees under a rainbow sky, and Harry and Louis have to figure out how to grow up together, instead of apart.

Me: A canon compliant fic that feels like it could have really happened. Set in 2015. Lovely first chapter and scene where Harry writes If I Could Fly--i could read that chapter over and over.

19. Into The Blue by zarah5 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035822/chapters/2065499

AU. In which Louis is Harry's scuba instructor and quite happy to provide the requested special treatment, pun fully intended. It can't be all that difficult to convince Harry that they're on the same page, right? Also, Niall and Liam may or may not be dating, and Zayn is surrounded by emotionally stunted idiots. He bears it with dignity.

Me: AKA the Scuba fic.

20. Tie Your Heart by ArcadianMaggie - https://archiveofourown.org/works/546688/chapters/973236

Harry grows wings.

Me: How can you not love a fic where Harry grows wings? Trigger warning: injury of a major character.

21. I think I'll end this here. My last and probably first favorite (read it more than once) is...

my heart is breathing for this moment in time by usedtothebeach - https://archiveofourown.org/works/934996/chapters/1820282

When Louis first saw Harry at the 2010 X Factor Auditions, he thought he was watching a peculiarly special stranger. But Harry has known Louis ever since he was five years old.

Because Louis has a rare genetic disorder that causes him to Time Travel to important moments in his past and in his future - and to Harry, always to Harry. When they're put into a band together, it seems like everything Harry has been waiting and wishing for has finally come true. Except for the small fact that Louis doesn't know that Harry is in love with him- that Harry's always been in love with him. Fate, it would seem, is just getting started.

A story about growing up and growing together, and the impossible love that makes it all worthwhile.

Me: I LOVED the Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, and I'm a huge fan of time travel, so this is right up my alley. It's really well done, weaving canon into fantasy and then going years forward in tme. I love everything about it. Great character development. Really good smut. Trigger warning, there's a little underage sex, so be aware. Anyway, LOVE this one so much.

I'll add to this but it's already longer than I meant it to be.

#fanfic #recommendations #fic suggestions #my favorites #Larry fics #I love the love

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akaluan · 3 years

Text

Erich/Kisuke/Alexis: Soulmate AU + Character in Peril Part 20

The world is quiet when Erich swims back to awareness: no gunfire, no shouting, no noise, just quiet-safety-peace.

(Quincy wards hum in the back of his mind, protection-reassurance-warmth.)

(He’s home.)

(He home, he’s home, he home!)

Erich takes a careful, shallow breath, braced for pain, but— it doesn’t come. Just a slight tugging at his side, more like fresh scar instead of fresh wound, but that’s… that doesn’t… Degurechaff isn’t a healer and neither is Alexis—

But Urahara is, he remembers abruptly.

(If Urahara has healed him once again, after all the suspicion, all the fear…)

Erich grimaces. Tries to lift his hand—

Realizes that there’s someone at his side. Someone holding his hand, their grip tight-desperate-unwavering even though their breathing is the quiet-even-calm of sleep.

He tilts his head towards the other, slowly prying his eyes open—

Stares blankly at the mop of flaxen hair that meets his gaze. Wonders what he should feel, wonders if it should be a surprise that it’s Urahara asleep at his side, holding his hand as if the moment he lets go, Erich will disappear.

Erich contemplates Urahara for a long moment, debating nudging the man awake, then sighs softly and lets his eyes drift closed again.

(He’s too tired to deal with this right now.)

(He’ll just… rest a bit more.)

(Just a few more minutes…)

\\\

“—to you in time,” Alexis is saying the next time Erich drifts awake; she sounds tired but confident, without any indication of worry that he can sense, and it’s… it’s good to hear. Good to sense.

(They’re safe.)

(They’re all safe, and Urahara is here, which means Alexis has done what he’d been dreading and oh, he’s going to need to apologize for that, for getting injured, for failing her, but for now… for now they’re all safe.)

“Mmm, but until then…” Urahara murmurs, his words trailing off with a quiet sigh as his hand tightens slightly around Erich’s and his presence shades towards doubt-worry-exhaustion. When Erich squeezes Urahara’s hand in return, the man freezes then swiftly leans in and asks, “Rerugen-san? Awake?”

Erich hums in agreement and reaches up to rub the grit from his eyes, trying to force his brain back into gear after… however long he’s been asleep. “S’matter,” he asks in concern, then wrinkles his nose and tries to clear his throat, annoyed at how rough his voice sounds.

“Ah, no, nothing—”

“The Clan is torn between ignoring him, being afraid of him, and wanting him to leave,” Alexis cuts in before Urahara can continue deflecting. When Erich turns his head enough to give her a questioning look, she snorts and shakes her head. “No one’s done anything— he saved your life, after all, and everyone could sense that, so it’s making things difficult for the hardliners to stir sentiment against him, but everyone’s… a little jumpy.”

Erich grimaces, knowing that ‘a little jumpy’ is likely to be an understatement, and wonders what — if anything — he can do about it.

(Very little, probably.)

(Damn.)

Discarding that line of thought for the moment, he carefully begins to push himself up, mindful of any lingering soreness or aches. Urahara even reaches out to help, his free hand settling between Erich’s shoulder-blades as a brace. His touch lingers as Erich settles, warm-steady-gentle in a way that Erich… finds he doesn’t particularly mind. The change is… odd, but at the same time…

(Power sheltering him, healing him, echoing trust-home-loyalty as it does.)

…at the same time, maybe it isn’t such a surprise.

Erich gives Urahara a thoughtful look, wondering at the emotions he sensed, then sets his curiosity aside for the moment, inclines his head and says, “Thank you.”

Urahara starts and drops his hand away from Erich’s back. “I… it… don’t, uhm…” he swallows and ducks his head, switching to Akitsugo to say, “I should have been at your side instead of leaping ahead. I’m sorry, Rerugen-san, because of me—”

“Stop,” Erich orders with a frown, disliking the twisting snarl of guilt-discomfort-regret that he can sense from Urahara. “Has Degurechaff been snapping at you?” he asks, wondering if this is just the result of Urahara’s own self-worth issues or if Degurechaff has made things worse.

(He wouldn’t put it entirely past her, either accidentally or on purpose.)

(Sometimes she can sound significantly harsher than she is, and Urahara won’t know how to differentiate those times.)

Urahara hesitates, clearly debating his next words, before lightly squeezing Erich’s hand and saying, “Degurechaff-san has said nothing more than the truth,” with careful, solicitous blandness.

“You are not responsible for me getting injured,” Erich snaps, infuriated by the very thought; he hopes Degurechaff hasn’t actually blamed Urahara for what happened — as much as she seems to despise Urahara, she’s not often given to blatant lies — but if she has…

(No, he shouldn’t jump to conclusions.)

(Until he knows exactly what she’s said to Urahara, he can’t assume anything.)

(Not with how Urahara has reacted to other things that have happened.)

“Erich…?” Alexis prompts as she steps closer, settling on the edge of the bed and looking between the two of them in concern. “Is there something I can help with?”

“Just a misunderstanding about fault,” Erich replies, then makes a pleased noise as Alexis hands him first his glasses and then a glass of water. He puts his glasses on, then takes the water glass and takes a sip, using that moment to put his thoughts back in order; there’s nothing to be done about Urahara except to be patient and reassuring — he knows exactly how pervasive thoughts like that can be, after all — but there are other things he can — should! — be handling, now that he’s awake. “How long have I been out, and how are my men?”

Alexis sighs and shares a commiserating look with Urahara — and when did the two of them form an understanding like that? Surely he wasn’t out that long! — before she says, “About two days, give or take. I’ve gotten most of your men squared away in the hidden caverns, and our healers have begun doing their rounds; you might lose a few more of your worst injured, but Kai seems to think the rest will survive and make a full, or mostly full, recovery.”

He breathes a sigh of relief at her words, pleased that at least something is going right. On the other hand… “Two days?” he asks with a touch of disbelief. “Did I really… that seems a bit excessive.”

Alexis arches an eyebrow at him, then pointedly jabs her finger against the new scar down his side, making him twitch away. “Does it now,” she drawls, expression warming as she flicks a glance at Urahara when the man snickers. “I have no idea why you’d think that.”

“Two days, Lexi! That isn’t just— I’m healed, surely I didn’t need two days of rest!”

“No, you need significantly more than that, but we couldn’t get away with longer, not yet,” Alexis retorts with a scowl, then sighs softly when Urahara reaches out with his free hand to brush against her arm. She moves to catch Urahara’s hand in hers, linking their fingers together, and murmurs, “Thank you, Urahara.”

“Welcome,” Urahara murmurs back, head ducked a bit and color dusting his cheeks, then slants a careful, wary look at Erich as if waiting for a reprimand.

Not that Erich is interested in reprimanding his two soulmates for getting along; he regrets that the cause is likely their shared worry for him, but… but at least something good came of the whole mess.

(He’ll take what few shreds of hope he can get, after everything he’s survived so far.)

(He’s learned that lesson far too well.)

When the wary look in Urahara’s eyes only grows when Erich doesn’t immediately react, Erich clicks his tongue and prods warmth-understanding-thankfulness at Urahara through their connection, pleased at the way Urahara blushes and starts to relax in response.

“I would have appreciated being awake for our arrival and the fallout of our decisions, but what’s done is done,” Erich tells them dryly once the danger is past, making sure to keep acceptance-understanding-warmth towards the surface to prevent another misunderstanding. “Everything seems to have worked out, at least.”

“You… needed sleep,” Urahara says a touch awkwardly, blush beginning to fade again. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, then carefully adds, “Degurechaff-san… woke. When you fell. Her strength was… too much, with no warning.”

Erich purses his lips and tips his chin down, dredging through his hazy, scattered memories, but… he can’t remember much past the start of the ambush, the blazing agony of his wound, and hazy sense-memories of Urahara’s power sinking into his body.

It’s not much of a surprise — battles are always a bit of blur, especially if he’s been wounded during them — but he still despises how fallible memory can be.

“Even our Clan felt her fully awaken her powers, over a day’s march away,” Alexis tells him, a tiny, crooked smile on her face. “It was strong enough that she drove no few of your men to their knees under her fury, back where I was waiting with them. She is much stronger than I expected.”

Erich stares at her blankly, unable to process the idea of Degurechaff being strong enough to send a division to its knees when she wasn’t even standing in front of them.

(He did this.)

(He created this… this monster with his poorly thought decisions!)

(This is his fault—)

Pain sparks in the palm of one hand, snapping him from his thoughts, and he casts a wide-eyed look at Urahara.

“She was on the cusp of waking for as long as I was following you,” Urahara says firmly, before Erich can gather his scattered thoughts. “The timing was regrettable, but it would have happened eventually.”

“I started her awakening—”

“For as long as I was following you,” Urahara repeats with a frown, leaning in a bit as he does. “Rerugen-san, I sensed the moment you let your strength free, and while it did help her become aware of her powers, they were there before you did that.”

“I showed her—”

Urahara snorts, freezes briefly as his mind catches up with his actions, then swallows and carefully says, “Rerugen-san, she might have known how to weaponize it because of you, but an outpouring of strength like that is one of the first things people tend to do. It’s a natural reaction to suddenly grasping at power they don’t know how to control. I don’t know if it happens differently amongst the Quincy, but even Shinigami tend to do it when we reach a new stage of our abilities.”

Erich inclines his head slightly in grudging acceptance; he doesn’t know if he entirely believes the man about it not being his fault, but he’ll admit that he’s unfamiliar with how regular humans awaken to their spiritual powers. It sounds logical enough, but Quincy don’t (usually) have such difficulty, since they’re often born with spiritual reserves that slowly grow as they do. Desperation can cause something similar, but even then…

Well, he supposes it doesn’t matter.

Whether he’s at fault or not, it doesn’t change the fact that it happened, and that the fallout is now his responsibility.

“I’ve been giving her more focused lessons, now that your men are squared away and there’s less for her to do,” Alexis says before Erich can ask. “She’s a gifted student, though it’s probably best if she masters the basics before trying anything more advanced.”

“Given what you’ve said happened, control is probably a good emphasis for now,” Erich agrees with a wry smile, then gently pulls his hands free from Alexis and Urahara’s grips and nudges the two back a bit. “Is there anything else I should be aware of?” he asks as he shifts to the edge of the bed and sets his feet on the floor, then repeats the question in Akitsugo just to make sure Urahara understands it.

“No for me,” Urahara answers with a small shake of his head.

Alexis hums slightly and taps something at her hip, drawing Erich’s attention to where Benihime is bound to Alexis’ belt. “If the two of you aren’t bothered, I’ll keep hold of her for the moment,” she says, looking between them. “At least until Erich’s been pronounced healthy by Kai.”

“Ah, it’s… good,” Urahara pauses, considers that, then corrects with, “Fine?” before shrugging awkwardly and rubbing at the back of his neck. “Benihime is… uhm…” He frowns, then turns to Erich and says in Akitsugo, “Benihime’s starting to like both of you a bit, so… either of you can carry her, at least, uhm… at least as long as you don’t separate us by too much, or try to attack me or… or things like that.”

“So regular common sense limits,” Erich replies with a touch of amusement, then asks, “How far is too far?”

Urahara blinks at him in surprise. “Uh— she’s gotten a bit antsy during the times when Alexis was in the caves with your men and I was here with you, so probably not much further away than that?”

Erich considers the distance between the cavern shelters and the main house, then nods and tells Alexis, “Urahara says that Benihime will be fine with either of us, so long as we remember common sense and don’t go much further from him than the caverns are from here.”

“I could sense a bit of her unease when we were there,” she agrees. “It’s why I’ve had Briar and Ilsa take over moving our people into the remaining shelters and divvying up supplies.”

“How’s that going?”

“We’re going to need to ration a bit more than we were doing, but we should be fine for a few months, especially if we keep sending foragers out,” Alexis answers as she stands up and offers her hand to him. “Come on, I’ll give you the full report over a meal.”

Erich rolls his eyes at her, pointedly hands her the almost empty water glass instead of taking her hand, and then stands on his own; he doesn’t need to be babied, especially after being fully healed and then being made to sleep for most of two days.

(The soft, breathy laughter his actions startle out of Urahara is a very nice bonus, though.)

“There had better be tea,” Erich says with a playful huff, even as he gestures for Urahara to follow.

“I’ll make sure there’s an entire pot just for you,” Alexis promises with a warm smile.

Erich gives her the exasperated look that deserves, but he can’t — and won’t — mask the warmth-care-love that bubbles up in response. He’s missed her, and this, and even if the war is still grinding on, still grinding down, he’s done. He’s done. He’s done what little he can do, saved the men who look to him, and now the only thing he can do is take shelter and wait for the outcome.

It’s more of a relief than he expected, if he’s being honest.

He still has his duties but… not as many. Not as complicated.

He can just… be a Clan head again.

And maybe, just maybe, he can build something lasting with both his soulmates.

He thinks… he thinks he’d like that.

He thinks he’d like that a lot.

#soulmate au #and this is the official end of the main bit of story #i may or may not come back to do epilogues but for now I think i'm calling this here

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shortace · 3 years

Text

The Adventures of Gloop and Angry Hamster in the Dimension of Fire Unfamiliar Environment with a Kid Who’s Going To Get Fired

Gloop was pretty smart for a goldfish. It came, he thought, of spending too much time in close proximity to Myles Fowl. That alone, however, would have done nothing; it took the intermediary efforts of the trans-species polyglot Beckett for anything Myles said to make any sense to Gloop.

Angry Hamster wasn’t very smart, even for a sculpture made of shredded IQ tests held together with saliva. He was too busy being angry because he couldn’t figure out which number came next after 37, 34, 31, 28. Gloop could have told him the answer was 25, of course, and Myles would have informed him that IQ tests really only measure how good you are at standardised tests but his was 170 thank you very much. But Angry Hamster never thought to ask. He wasn’t that smart.

Dolphin was a dolphin, and exactly as smart as a dolphin.

The sun shone, and a light breeze played with the tips of the waves. No record survives concerning the nature of the game, but possibly Tic-Tac-Toe. What we do know is that the ocean won. The ocean always does.

But Dolphin, leaping and frolicking, cared nothing for the breeze, or the sunshine, or the Tic-Tac-Toe. Her only concern was to have no concerns. And she was remarkably good at it.

The low hum of a far-off boat reached Dolphin's ears, but she paid it no mind. It wasn't her concern.

Inside Villa Eco, young Myles Fowl was trying to comfort his twin brother Beckett. He wasn’t very good at it, as he often failed to grasp that emotions do not respond to logic.

'She's a wild animal, Beck,' he said again. 'She does wild things.'

'But she said she'd be there!' Beckett insisted. 'Dolphins don't break promises, brother.'

'Your sample size is one,' Myles pointed out, Beckett having only ever met one dolphin, and Myles remained unconvinced that actual communication had taken place, making ‘met’ seem the wrong word for the encounter. 'That is insufficient data to draw a conclusion regarding the reliability of the species.'

'I just know she's in trouble.'

Myles thought that 'just knowing' was poor research methodology, but he just sighed. 'We'll wait for her again tomorrow. Now come on, it's lunch time, and we need energy for our growing brains.'

Gloop, in his bowl, let out a nervous 'Gloop.' He hadn't understood all of the twins' conversation, but he could tell that Beckett was worried and it had something to do with his new dolphin friend. Even though dolphins were mammals, not fish, somewhere deep inside all aquatic creatures was a sympathy with all the rest, and like Beckett, he hoped that Dolphin was okay.

Dolphin was not okay.

Off the coast of Dalkey Island, a fishing boat loitered. The pilot was sleeping off a bout of food poisoning - which, frankly, served him right for many of his illegal and immoral practices. On deck was a single underpaid, unqualified, and underage employee. Not for him a certificate in aquaculture, nor one in first-aid aboard ship. Moby Dick, though, he had read several times: quite an achievement for any adult, let alone a fifteen year old. The boy did his best to make up for his shortcomings with pure enthusiasm, and had, a few moments earlier, cast out a line with a complete lack of precision and the wrong bait. This wouldn’t normally be much of a problem, as tuna fish aren’t known for being overly fussy, but in this case Dolphin happened to be having a wonderful time just off the stern of the boat, and she wasn’t fussy either.

The bait was disappointing, tasting stale and dull, and it had something hard and sharp inside it. It hurt Dolphin’s mouth. This would not stand. What sort of ocean gods would provide food like this? Dolphin raised her voice in complaint.

Sound travels faster in water than it does through the air, so it wasn’t long before Dolphin’s podmates heard her whistles and clicks. Roughly translated, she had said: ‘This fish is bad and it hurts my mouth; send me the manager.’ Her podmates laughed and mocked her, a series of clicks that traveled all the way to the shores of Dalkey Island, where Beckett stood listening.

Gloop’s laps of the fishbowl slowed slightly as he devoted more energy to his brain. Dolphin was in trouble, and NANNI wouldn’t let Myles and Beckett put to sea. Gloop was going to have to solve this problem on his own. It was a bit harder than figuring out what came next after 37, 34, 31, 28, but not for nothing was he the smartest goldfish in Ireland and perhaps the world. He would have to enlist some help.

‘Brother mine, what are you putting in the fish tank?’ Myles asked wearily. He had written multiple treatises on the biology and psychology of twins, and perhaps his most important conclusion was that love and exasperation could, and generally did, co-exist. His second most important conclusion was that doubling the calorific intake of one twin could not sustain the other; Beckett had simply bulked up while Myles’ stomach rumbled miserably. He would not be repeating that experiment.

‘It’s a scaled-down version of your water filtration system, attached to a swimming suit,’ Beckett said proudly. ‘Gloop is going to sea, and he needs fresh water.’

‘There is only one Gloop, and two filtration systems,’ Myles pointed out.

Beckett held aloft the second unit. ‘This one’s for Angry Hamster. Look, NANNI fixed it to make air for him!’

‘Beck, Angry Hamster can’t swim.’

‘Gloop will help him. He told me.’

‘Is this about your dolphin friend?’

‘Yes, Myles; Gloop and Angry Hamster are going to rescue her!’ Beckett beamed. ‘NANNI has no joooo-ris-tic-shun over them!’

Myles had been playing vocabulary lists to his brother while he slept, hoping he might learn subliminally; he was pleased that it seemed to be working, but less pleased about this plan. ‘That is true,’ he acknowledged, ‘but Angry Hamster is made of paper and saliva. He will disintegrate in water.’

Beckett demonstrated the watertight suit he had had NANNI design for him. It was monogrammed with a cursive AH on each side. ‘Angry Hamster wants to go.’

Myles sighed. ‘Very well, brother. How are they going to get into the ocean?’

‘I will flush them down the toilet,’ Beckett proclaimed.

Beck!’

‘Kidding, brother!’ Beckett laughed at his brother’s shocked expression. ‘I will carry them to the beach and throw them in. Gently.’ Despite his boisterous nature, Beckett had a deep empathy and was perfectly capable of being gentle if circumstances required. Myles imagined that introducing two very different non-sea creatures equipped with untested suits into a marine environment counted as circumstances that required it.

Beckett was as good as his word, and Gloop and Angry Hamster safely - if nervously - entered the waves from the Fowl’s private beach. To Myles, Beckett seemed to be making a series of very strange noises, but Gloop and Angry Hamster each heard ‘Fishing boat, southeast! Good luck!’

Being small creatures in a big and strange new world, Gloop and Angry Hamster did not swim particularly fast. They did their small best, though, with Gloop encouraging his papery friend. Angry Hamster got along in a sort of wriggly doggy-paddle, and NANNI’s suits withstood the challenge. Both animals were kept safe and breathing in their own special ways.

In a matter of hours they had caught up with the fishing boat. Angry Hamster was exhausted, and if the boat’s pilot had not been unwell, he would never have made it. If our heroes understood the concept of food poisoning, they would be very glad for it. The boat remained idle. Angry Hamster was able to cling to the side with one claw, even though it was hard to grip through the material of his suit, and hold up Gloop with another, allowing them both to rest.

As they rested, Gloop and Angry Hamster heard a voice above them. Angry Hamster could make nothing of it, but Gloop caught the drift of it. If either of them had a full comprehension of English, what they heard would have been something like this: ‘I don’t think this is a tuna fish. It doesn’t look tuna-y. I think it’s a dolphin. I’m going to be fired. I’m in so much trouble. What do I do? What would Ishmael do?’ all the accompaniment of pacing footsteps and heavy breathing.

Gloop caught ‘dolphin’ several times, as well as ‘fired’. He knew two meanings of the word fire: one was hot and burny, and the other was fast and deadly. Neither sounded good for Dolphin. He tried to convey his concern to Angry Hamster, but the fragmented analogy question on the hamster’s back was itchy and he couldn’t scratch it through NANNI’s suit. This, combined with hunger and exhaustion, was making him very angry. He let out a wild screech and clawed his way frantically up the side of the boat and onto the deck.

The pacing, muttering boy stopped pacing and muttering at the sight of a wet-suited paper-mache hamster climbing on board. He began to wonder if food poisoning was contagious, and if hallucinations were a common symptom. Angry Hamster took advantage of the hesitation to launch himself at the boy’s face, screeching. What he was trying to say was ‘For the love of all the gods, scratch my back!’ But what the boy heard was tantamount to ‘I’m going to claw your face off!’

Gloop knew he had to act fast. High jump is not commonly practiced among small domestic fish, but with determination and a rudimentary understanding of geometry, much can be accomplished even by the smallest of animals. He swam away from the boat to give himself a run-up - or rather, a swim-up - and followed Angry Hamster’s lead in launching himself on deck.

The poor boy fainted on the spot.

To one side of the deck lay Dolphin, tangled in fishing lines and nets, flopping weakly. Dolphins can survive several hours out of the water, if it isn’t too hot or dry, and Gloop was relieved to see that, although she was clearly tired and uncomfortable, Dolphin was unhurt and should make a full recovery. But first they had to get her back into the water, which meant getting her out of those nets.

Gloop knew who had the perfect teeth to gnaw through fishing lines. What he didn’t know was how to convey that instruction to Angry Hamster, who was currently scuttling around the deck looking for something he could scratch his back against - and whose teeth were still enclosed in NANNI’s watertight suit. Angry Hamster finally found a scratching post in the form of a tackle box. It had a sharp corner which dug in through the suit and hit the sweet spot perfectly. Angry Hamster was, briefly, less angry as he scratched. But his suit was meant to withstand water pressure, not tackle boxes. It ripped open, and Angry Hamster wriggled his way out of it. On some level he understood that this was undesirable, and he turned to look apologetically at Gloop.

But Gloop was overjoyed now that Angry Hamster’s teeth were free. He mimed chewing, gnawing, and pointed with a fin at the nets surrounding Dolphin. Chewing comes naturally to hamsters, so Angry Hamster understood immediately, and abandoned his tackle box. It was the work of moments to chew through the lines holding Dolphin on deck. Before she let herself slide back into the ocean, Dolphin took a moment to slap the recovering fisher boy with a fin.

‘Hey!’ he protested weakly, but she was already gone.

‘There, brother.’ Myles and Beckett stood on the beach on Dalkey Island, looking out to the southeast. Myles had just spotted Dolphin scything through the waves towards them. ‘I told you she would be okay.’

‘And I told you Gloop and Angry Hamster would save her.’ Beckett handed the binoculars to his twin, to let him see the small goldfish swimming furiously beside the dolphin, and the slightly mushy hamster riding on her back.

THE END (probably)

#artemis fowl #the fowl twins #gloop and angry hamster #fanfic #writing #beckett fowl #myles fowl

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let-it-raines · 4 years

Text

your wonder under summer skies (11/?)

Summer in Storybrooke, Maine means one thing for its residents: tourist season. This year, for Emma Swan and Killian Jones, it means relationships ending and friendships changing all the while they attempt to figure out just what their relationship is. It’s somewhere straddling the line between friends and lovers, and there’s no guarantee of a soft landing if they fall into new territory.

rating: mature

ao3: beginning | current

tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 |

-/-

“What do you think about – ”

Killian’s fingers flutter across her hip, nails curving into her, and Emma shifts on the mattress, angling her hips closer to him and sticking her left leg between his. The hair on his legs brushes across her skin, and she loops an arm around his stomach, tugging on his chest hair with her fingers as she props her head up with her free hand. Killian tugs her closer, and she grumbles as his hand settles more firmly on her ass.

“What do I think about what, love?”

“Well, maybe if you’d let me finish instead of feeling me up, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

His hand squeezes her again, and Emma would squirm out of his grasp. She really would. She simply can’t find the motivation.

He flashes her a smile, the small light breaking through her closed blinds making his teeth shine almost blindingly white, and she can still see the sleep in his eyes, the blue as bright as usual but somehow the slightest bit duller than usual, an impossibility that is somehow possible.

Damn charming idiot.

“Me? Let you keep talking? I’d never do that.”

Emma tugs on his hair. “Shut up.”

“I think we just established that’s the opposite of what I want.”

Emma rolls her eyes and shifts a little closer to Killian so that she can lean down and brush her lips over his collarbone before moving back until her lips touch the ink on his back.

“I was thinking,” Emma repeats against his skin, “that it’s a Monday, you and I both have the day off, all of the fourth of July tourists are gone, and that we should get some takeout and borrow one of the boats you guys have stored in the marina.”

His fingers move over her ass again, sinking down just far enough that Emma gasps as he ghosts over warm flesh in a teasing touch that might promise so much more if she plays her cards right.

Or wrong.

Or not at all.

All she has to do is ask. Killian isn’t really one to say no.

He hums as his fingers keep moving and as his lips brush against her forehead, light, fleeting, almost invisible. “Liam would love that.”

“Please. Liam has done it before. Elsa talks about all the times they’ve gone out. Hell, we go out with everybody all the time.”

“Ah, yes, but that is Liam, and the rules are a little different for him.” Heat burns low in her belly as he keeps teasing her, and she feels it simmer across her skin. The room is suddenly warmer than it was, her air conditioning and ceiling fan not doing the work they’re supposed to be doing. “However, I’ve never been one for following the rules when I know how to bend them.”

“Scoundrel.”

“Or dashing rapscallion.”

“Same thing.”

He winks and she laughs. His fingers keep moving, and Emma shifts over him, settling herself on top of Killian so that his hand slips away but she can feel the delicious friction of Killian brushing up against her. God, this is not helping how hot she is. Leaning back, she purposely rolls her hips and listens to Killian groan. It’s deep and guttural, and the sound reverberates around the room and settles heavily in her throat so that she has to swallow it down. His jawline is sharpened by his scruff that he shaved yesterday, and he tilts back into the pillow as his eyes shut.

“So, what do you say, KJ?” she whispers. “You want to run away from the world and take me out on some rich person’s boat?”

“For you, sweetheart, I think we can do that.” His hands grab onto her hips and suddenly he’s lifting her off of him until she’s on her side on the mattress and Killian’s back is brushing up against her as his lips run hotly across her neck and his hand grabs onto her breast, fingers moving over her peak and driving her higher and higher far quicker than he has any right to. “But it’s still early, and I’ve had other plans in mind since before you started your hour-long saga about Ruby’s date with Mulan last week.”

“It wasn’t an hour.”

“It certainly felt like one.”

“It was not.” She tries to lean away from him to grapple for her phone, but he tugs her back until she can feel all of him brushing up against him. His breath is warm against her neck, and suddenly, she’s not so bothered by the heat anymore. “You’re not going to let me check my phone to prove a point?”

“Swan, can you be quiet for just one minute?”

“One minute? If that’s all it’s going to take, I’m not sure I want you to be my fuck buddy anymore.”

His hand and his lips still, but it’s only for a second. She wouldn’t have even noticed if she weren’t so damn turned on right now and if there wasn’t a distinct lack of coffee running through her system, but she quickly forgets any qualms when Killian lifts her leg over his hip and he’s brushing against her right where she wants him.

Fuck.

“You’re usually not so talkative in the mornings,” Killian whispers into her ear before she turns her head so that his lips brush over. It’s soft, gentle even, and she keeps waiting for Killian to hurry, but he doesn’t. “Are you still tired? You called pretty late last night.”

“Killian?”

“Hmm?”

“I think it’s your turn to shut up.”

He laughs into the kiss, and she does the same. But then he’s sliding into her, slowly, slowly, slowly, and she loses all of her breath at the feeling of him inside of him, warm and thick and full. He retreats for a moment, but then he’s rocking back into her, slow and steady and so damn delicious that she has to dig her nails into the sheets to keep herself from writhing.

Killian likes when she does that, though, likes a lot of things about how she is behind closed doors and underneath the sheets, and her cheeks flush at the thought. He’s usually one for her being on top or him taking her fully from behind so he can bury himself inside her, but this, she likes this, too.

“Hmm, you feel good,” she mumbles against his mouth as he keeps kissing her, the movement as slow as the thrust of his hips. She tangles her other hand in his hair and pulls him closer as her nose presses into his cheek.

“Now, I’ve certainly heard that one before.”

She pushes her hips back in response, and Killian bites down on her bottom lip as his hips begin a steadier, smoother rhythm that has her gasping for air and wondering why the hell they haven’t been doing this for longer.

Warmth continues to spread over her, and while there’s sweat pooling at her lower back and across her forehead, there’s a warmth that she can’t quite explain, one that she doesn’t necessarily want to.

It’s easier not to.

Killian’s hand palms her breasts once more while his other hand trails down her stomach, scratching across the smooth planes of her stomach before going just low enough that she definitely can’t breathe anymore as her body keeps reaching for that high.

It’s not long before she finds it, and Killian swallows her cry with his kiss, his tongue soothing it away as that warmth spreads even further and his hips keep slowly snapping to work her through it and have him find his own high.

God, it’s so good that it would be totally unfair for him not to feel this way too.

When it’s over and Emma is still boneless, she flops onto her stomach and buries her face in her pillow as her heartbeat still tries to calm. She can feel Killian’s lips on her back, and he moves down, tracing her skin with his mouth before he buries his face just above her ass while his arm loops over her.

She doesn’t want to move for the rest of the day.

This. This is all she wants.

“Can you carry me to the bathroom to clean up?”

Killian huffs against her. “Give me five minutes, and then I can.”

“For someone who has a pretty fast recovery time, that’s a little slow on you getting the strength in your legs back.”

“I ran on the beach last night. I’m still sore.”

She reaches back and pats his head. “Poor baby. How ever will you survive?”

His teeth bite into her skin, and Emma squirms away, moving out of his hold and nearly falling to the floor. She catches herself at the last minute, but only by sticking her leg down to the ground.

“You were saying, Swan?”

“Ass.” She finishes rolling off the bed and stands up. She might as well. “Do you want to shower before we go steal a boat?”

“Borrow. We’re borrowing one. I have to pay a fee.”

“You have to pay a fee to your own business.”

“Aye. That’s how it works.”

“Huh. Okay, well, get some cash out of my jar on the bookshelf, and I’ll pay for half of it.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It was my idea. Technically, I should be paying for all of it. But half is good.”

He nods and rolls back. The light is now hitting the ink on his hip as well as the ones on his arms, and really, she should dedicate more time to tracing that damn compass. “And I won’t shower here. I’ll rinse off at the docks.”

Emma raises her hand and salutes. “Aye, aye, Captain. I’m going to shower, so you can do whatever you want. I think I might possibly have cereal.”

“I would be surprised if you did. You need to go to the market.”

Emma shrugs. “I get fed at work or by you. I really don’t think I do.”

Emma leaves Killian in her bed to walk to the bathroom and shower. She takes the time to shave since she’s going to be in a bikini all day. Halfway through she wonders if it’s really worth it since she’s it’ll only be Killian around. She’s nearly there, though, so she finishes before turning the water off and running a towel up and down her body. She doesn’t bother wrapping herself in it when she walks back to the bedroom and digs out a white bikini from the back. She really needs some new ones, but this is an old favorite. After she puts it on and ties it, she finds a pair of jean shorts and a button-down before walking down the hallway to her kitchen.

Killian’s standing at the counter, spoon hanging out of his mouth, and she’s genuinely impressed by the fact that she actually had both cereal and milk.

It’s pretty much a miracle.

“I’m ready to go when you are. Where do you want to get takeout from?”

“Granny’s?”

“A man after my own heart.”

The spoon falls from his mouth, metal clanging against her countertops, and she swears that Killian’s body stiffens before he shakes himself out of it and reaches over for the spoon.

What the hell was that?

“Clumsy, much?” she teases.

“Don’t make fun of me, love. I will be the one driving us today, and if memory recalls, you have no clue how to drive out on the waters.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you’ll have to teach me.”

By the time they’re down at the marina, it’s past noon. Emma has a bag full of towels, sunscreen, and drinks, as well as their takeout from Granny’s, and Killian’s got Skipper on his leash. The dog keeps trying to jump into the water, and Emma has no idea how he’s going to deal when they’re actually out in the middle of the ocean.

Seems like a disaster waiting to happen.

Killian steps onto a small, clean boat. It’s only got a seat for a driver behind the steering wheel and then a small, built-in section of cushions at the back, and after taking his hand to get on, Emma settles down there with Skipper, who is more focused on trying to get their food than anything else. Killian slowly drives them out away from the docks. He waves to several people on the way out, ones they’ve both worked with enough to recognize them as they lounge on their boats, and then they’re breaking away from everything and to the calm of a still ocean and the sun shining down on her skin.

This is exactly what she’s needed.

This summer is non-stop. She has barely had any kind of break where she could have a full day to herself. Hell, she hasn’t really wanted that. A day to herself means a day to overthink everything that’s currently happening, and she doesn’t need that.

What she needs is to stretch out on a towel and let the sun bake into her skin while the boat gently rocks beneath her and salt water splashes over her skin to keep her from getting too hot.

If only she could be a tourist in this town and have this be her everyday reality.

“Swan, if you leave your food sitting out, Skip is definitely going to eat it all.”

Emma rolls over on her side and opens her eyes to squint at Killian. “Is that your way of saying you’re going to eat my food?”

“Never. Mine is better anyway.”

Her eyes roll, and she sits up on the towel before standing and walking over to sit on the cushions next to Killian and Skipper. She grabs her food out of the bag, as well as a bottle of water, and opens the container to grab an onion ring. Skipper is definitely eyeing her onion ring, but that’s not happening.

These are too precious for that.

“Oh my God, did I tell you who I saw at Granny’s?”

Killian shakes his head and adjusts the aviators on his face before stretching his arms above his head, his muscles pulling at the movement.

That isn’t distracting at all.

“Who?”

“Have you met the new sheriff? Graham something? I think it starts with an H. Um – ”

“Humbert, I believe.”

“That’s it! Anyway, so he was at the counter getting food for him and David, and he introduced himself. Like, he knew who I was and everything, and I’m 100% sure Marg didn’t listen to me when I told her I didn’t want to be set up with him.”

Killian’s arms fall down to his lap. “Pardon?”

“Oh, did I not tell you? Mary Margaret was really into setting me up with him a few weeks ago. I think it was on the fourth, but I told her I wasn’t interested in it. She has obviously put the wheels in motion, though. Or David is super weird and has a picture of me on his desk or something.”

“I feel like one of those is more likely than the other.”

Emma shrugs and bites into an onion ring. “Maybe. It was so weird, though, because I could tell he was trying to flirt, but it’s like I had no idea how to respond.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and props his foot up on the small table. “You mean, you didn’t flirt back?”

“Why would I flirt back?”

“Because you’re a single woman and an attractive man was into you. Flirting seems like the right thing to be doing.”

Emma swallows and puts her container of food down. She closes it so Skipper can’t get into it and then crosses her legs underneath her. “How do you know he was attractive?”

“I’ve seen him around. He looks like your type.”

“My type?”

“I know you’re partial to men in leather jackets with facial hair.”

She scoffs and crosses her arms, onion ring dangling from her finger. “Are you jealous?”

She can’t see his eyes from underneath his sunglasses, but his forehead wrinkles and his brows peak up enough for her to know they’re rising. She probably shouldn’t have asked that question. She was kidding, but Killian does not seem amused.

“Why the hell would I be jealous?”

“It was a joke, KJ. You don’t need to get all defensive about it. I know you’re not jealous because we’re not – you know…whatever.”

“No, no, we’re not, so I’m not bloody jealous. If you want to go on a date with the Sheriff, you should go.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah, fine.” Killian rises from the seat and walks back toward wheel on the boat. “What kind of music do you want to listen to?”

Holy whiplash Batman.

Where did that conversation even come from?

And how the hell did it end?

“Whatever you want. You know I always trust what you pick.”

He nods and thumbs through his phone until she hears the familiar sounds of John Mellencamp playing through the portable speaker Killian always brings out.

“So old school today?”

“Mhm.” He steps down the small step and reaches for Emma’s hand that is now onion-ring free. When she doesn’t take it, he flexes his fingers. “C’mon.”

“What are you trying to do, exactly?”

“I’m asking you to dance.”

“Why the hell would you ask me to dance? You’ve seen me dance. You know I’m bad.”

“That’s because you’ve never had a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

“Oh, and that’s you.”

“That is definitely me.”

She shakes her head as Skipper tries to get into her lap. “I’m not dancing with you.”

“Swan.”

His lips curl into a smile, soft and pressed together before he’s showing all of his teeth. His tongue flickers behind his teeth, and she just knows how his eyes look even without being able to see them.

Charmer.

“You were being a bit of a dick a minute ago.”

“Was I?”

“Definitely.”

He reaches forward and grabs onto her wrist, gently tugging her up until her legs are unfolding and she’s standing next to him, the boat warm against her bare feet. Killian intertwines are fingers with hers and pulls her flush to his chest as his left hand settles on her waist, inching closer and closer to her ass.

“If this was an excuse to touch my ass, you could have just done it.”

“Please,” he groans, “I’m more of a gentleman than that.”

“You keep saying that, but I know for a fact you’ve been staring at my boobs all day.”

Killian tilts his head back with his laughter and quickly spins her around before she settles back in her position from before. “You’re wearing a thin white bikini. It hides exactly nothing. What did you expect me to do?”

She tugs on the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s long enough to be able to flip and flow now, and she kind of likes it. It makes him look handsome in a boyish kind of way, and really, she’d be okay if he didn’t cut it for awhile.

As if that’s any of her business anyway.

“I expected you to do exactly that.”

He chuckles and keeps swaying with her as Jack and Diane still plays and the water shifts underneath them. “You’re something else. You know that?”

“I am aware of my greatness.”

“Do you remember,” he chuckles, “about three years ago, when we all took a boat off the water, and David and Liam thought it would be hysterical to push everyone off and into the water when they were least expecting it?”

“Yeah, but after two people, we were all definitely expecting it.”

“True, but it didn’t keep you from getting tossed in.”

She gently slaps the back of his neck. “Hey, if I remember correctly, that was your fault.”

“Only partially?”

“That’s how I remember it.”

“Partially my ass,” she laughs, tilting her head up to look at Killian. “You were in on it with them. You called me over to get me to help putting sunscreen on your back, and I was doing it, David picked me up and threw me in.”

“What makes you think I was doing anything other than protecting my skin from the sun?”

“Because you had just put some on. I remember.”

“No, no. I don’t think that’s what happened.”

“That’s exactly what happened!”

Killian hums and spins her around again. She nearly trips over Skipper, but he dodges her before coming back to lick her leg.

“I don’t recall that happening that way, so that must mean I’m right.”

“You’re not, and I’ll forever hold that grudge against you.”

“Add it to the list, darling. Add it to the list.”

The song starts dying out, and another one starts. She doesn’t recognize it, but its tempo is slower and softer. It’s peaceful, and if she hadn’t moved from her towel, she could easily be falling asleep right now.

“I miss when Liam was like that,” she whispers. “He used to be so carefree.”

“Liam has never been carefree. He’s worn the weight of the world on his shoulders for his entire life, and it’s rare that he doesn’t feel that or that he doesn’t have a stick up his ass. I love him, but he can be a righteous ass.”

“Hey, I feel the same way about you.”

Killian’s hand tightens in hers, but then it loosens, the iron grip gone.

“Hey, Swan?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you help me put some sunscreen on my back?”

“Yeah, sure, I – oh my God.”

In the blink of an eye, she’s being lifted off her feet and over Killian’s shoulder so that the only thing she has a view of is his ass and Skipper panting.

She is going to murder him.

“Well, I’d wait until you got in close with the Sheriff before you committed a crime like that.”

“Did I say that out loud?”

“You did indeed, love.” He pats her ass and then starts walking toward the other end of the boat. She could get down if she wanted to. She knows that she’s strong enough and that Killian would let her, but she’s honestly kind of curious to see if he actually has the balls to do it. “I bet the water feels great.”

“Why don’t you dive in and see for yourself?”

“I think I’m going to let you go first.”

And then the bastard tosses her in the ocean.

So he does have the balls to do it.

The water’s cold when she lands in it, and salt water ends up her nose. But she doesn’t stay under for long. She’s not necessarily scared of the animals that live in the ocean, but she’s not fond of the idea of getting eaten by a shark or stung by a jellyfish either. So she quickly swims back to the boat and climbs up the later until her likelihood of dying is at a minimum. That’s always something she’s aiming for.

As soon as she can see clearly again, she scans around to try to find Killian. He’s not anywhere on the boat, and Skipper is standing at the edge loudly barking. Emma turns her attention that way, and finally, she sees a mop of black hair emerge.

Huh, he really did jump in after he tossed her.

“How’s that water feel, Jones?”

“Refreshing. You didn’t want to stay in?”

“Not really a fan of getting eaten by a shark.”

“You do look like shark bait.” He pulls himself back up and sits beside her, nudging his shoulder into hers. “Did you really not see that I was going to throw you in the ocean the moment I brought up that story?”

“Oh, no, I did. You’re not sly.”

“So you think, love. So you think. What do you say we finish our lunch now?”

“I’ve been thinking about that ever since you interrupted me. I’m surprised there’s even any left with Skipper on board.”

“He’s like his owner. He has better taste than onion rings.”

“He’s also like his owner in that he smells like a wet dog.”

Killian chuckles and wraps his arm around Emma’s shoulder, pulling her in to kiss her cheek. “It’s best you get used to it since you’re stuck with us for the rest of the day.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

-/-

The sun sets while they’re still out on the water. The vibrant blue sky fades into the most brilliant shades of orange and pink that mix together like only an expert painter could do. Emma see sunsets all the time. She works during them, and she’s got a perfect view of the ocean from her office and from all of the dining halls, but she never sits and watches. It’s the same sight almost every night, the same mechanisms happening in the sky, but there’s always the slightest difference depending on how many clouds are scattered in the sky or the upcoming weather.

Tonight, it’s perfect, and Emma can’t help but stare as she sips on a bottle of water and perches herself on the bow with Killian. His skin is already darker than it was when they set sail this morning, a tan now totally covering him and sharpening all of his features. Meanwhile, her freckles are all more prominent, but overall, she’s the same color except for the red on her cheeks. It’s been a good day, she thinks, even if there have been a few times where Killian has gotten a little short with her or zoned in and out of conversations. Maybe he’s got something on his mind that’s bothering him, but he would tell her. That’s what they do.

Rule number one and all that.

“I much prefer the sunrise to a sunset,” he suddenly says.

“Aren’t they pretty much the same?”

He drags his foot in front of him before pulling his knee to his chest. “The colors are different, just barely, but if you look at it enough, you can tell. Milah was a painter, and she would always talk about the subtle differences. I never noticed until her.”

Emma’s breathing stutters, but it quickly returns to normal. The only time Killian has ever mentioned Milah by name was the night of the fourth because she was having an absolute meltdown over seeing Neal. She knows he only did it to help, to share something to show that he understood, but really, it made her feel so damn guilty.

His girlfriend died, and then he found out she had this entire other life.

Emma can’t…she can’t imagine how he dealt with that, but then again, he and Liam picked up their lives and moved to another country after it, so maybe he didn’t deal with it too well. And yet, here he is still talking about something she loved to do because he still loves her. He didn’t say that, but Emma knows. She gets it.

So maybe his point did work. They do understand each other.

“I also am partial to how quiet it is in the mornings,” Killian continues. “I’ll be on a run or have Skipper in the sand, and the only thing I can hear is the chirping of the birds of the crash of the waves. It’s peaceful. You don’t get that a lot of times when the sun is setting.”

“What about right now?”

“Now,” he sighs, “is pretty perfect, too. You ready to go back home soon?”

“In a little while. I think maybe I need to appreciate the peace while I can.”

It’s midnight by the time Emma sets foot on solid land again. She’s exhausted, but it’s the good kind where she can feel it in her bones and in her smile. Skipper runs ahead of the two of them to the car, jumping in as soon as Emma opens the door, and Killian settles into the passenger’s seat as Emma turns the key in the ignition and starts driving back to her place.

“Where are you going?”

“My place.”

“Oh.”

Emma turns to look at him and watches him twist in his seat. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing. Can you drop me and Skip off at home? I’ve got an early day tomorrow, and I’d really like to get as much sleep as possible in.”

“Um, yeah, I can do that if that’s what you want.”

They drive in silence for the few minutes that it takes to get to Killian’s place, and when she puts her car in park, ready to turn it off completely, Killian leans over and presses his lips against her cheek. “Goodnight, Swan. I’ll see you later.”

-/-

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#your wonder under summer skies #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfic #captain swan #queue poetic noble land mermaid

99 notes · View notes

fuckingfinwions · 3 years

Note

About the guards: Maedhros chose people who he knew wouldn’t make a fuss about Fingon’s treatment, so in a way, yes, he did select guards with sadistic impulses, though he wouldn’t put it that way. He’d say he chose reliable people. They are pissed because 1) Fingon came for Maedhros but no one came for them, 2) Maedhros killed their friend because Fingon lied about him. Neither is exactly Fingon’s fault, but who cares?

Maedhros would never admit it, but sometimes he pretends not to notice the unnecessary cruelty of the guards because then he can appear kinder to Fingon and condition him to develop a dependency from Maedhros (poor Fingon does need to google how not to develop Stockholm Syndrome). Fingon is smart enough to realize this, but it doesn’t help him at all. Not when he’s lying frozen and in pain after a rough treatment from the guards, who tell Maedhros that Fingon was misbehaving and that’s why they did that, and Fingon is terrified that Maedhros will punish him too as he usually does and repeats over and over again that he didn’t do it, then Maedhros tells him ‘I know’, treats his wounds, wraps him up in warm furs and blankets and holds him in a way he knows makes Fingon feel comforted and safe. (And then fucks him gently, which Fingon doesn’t want, of course, but also doesn’t protest because he’s afraid to anger Maedhros and end the pretense of kindness.)

Things will definitely keep getting worse for Fingon. After another escape attempt, Maedhros may decide that Fingon can live with a broken leg or two. If he tries to hit Maedhros or to fight back, he will have a broken finger, then two, then his hand may be broken. If he’s strong enough to fight, maybe he’s getting more food and water than he needs? Maybe he has no need to lie down when Maedhros isn’t there to fuck him and instead should be chained to the wall the whole time? If only he was good, Maedhros would be kinder to him, but Fingon is doing this all to himself by not obeying Maedhros’s every whim and not being grateful enough that Maedhros treats him the way he does. Maedhros would have killed for someone to treat him the way he treats Fingon when he was Morgoth’s prisoner. Clearly, Fingon is just spoiled.

I imagine him finally escaping and running through wilderness, covered in nothing but a blanket, constantly terrified that he will be found and dragged back again. Then he finally reaches Dorthonion, where he’s treated like a person, where he gets to wear clothes and sleep in a warm bed for the first time in decades. But he still doesn’t feel safe, he still feels like any minute the door will open and Maedhros will come in. And then imagine the huge relief he feels when he finally sees his father.

Omg, Fingon thinking that Fingolfin might send him back! Ouch, that’s painful! I don’t think Fingolfin would ever do that, but realistically he might be forced to let Maedhros go unpunished because they still have Morgoth to fight and he can’t afford to lose a huge chunk of his forces. So they can’t even tell anyone what Maedhros has done because it would still create a divide. So what are they going to do? The most believable version is that Fingon has been captured by Morgoth and escaped, but then he is going to be distrusted and ostracized as a former thrall. People are going to demand to remove him from the line of succession, maybe even lock him up. Fingolfin won’t do it, but the threat is still there.

Maedhros would have to sit at war councils and Fingon would have to bear his presence and pretend (probably very badly) everything’s fine. And if Maedhros slips into his chamber one night, Fingon can’t make a fuss, he doesn’t want to divide the Noldor again, does he? Though Fingolfin probably wouldn’t hold back from killing Maedhros this time if he knew he raped his son under his own roof. (A slightly darker and more coldly pragmatic Fingolfin would tell Fingon to endure it for the sake of the Noldor. He isn’t going to send Fingon back to Maedhros, so Fingon can do him a favor and shut up and take it once in a while.)

You’re right, Fingon isn’t the type to stay in his place while others are fighting for him, so he might very well be at the siege of Himring. Him trapped in the fortress with Maedhros is the stuff of nightmares! He will be very well-protected, of course, Fingolfin won’t want him alone even for a second, but he would still feel exposed and Maedhros would still try to corner him alone.

Maedhros’s brothers would certainly come to his aid against Fingolfin. Even if they found out what Maedhros did, they would at best be like ‘what the fuck, man, that’s fucked up’, but still support him.

Outofangband’s dark Turgon AU sounds super interesting. He already dislikes the Feanorians in canon, make him slightly darker and he could do monstrous things to them.

Thank you so much for letting me ramble. If you want me to stop, just tell me and I will. No hard feelings.

This is just amazing, nonny. I've been trying all week to think of as good a reply as it deserves.

I'm not surprised that selecting for guards who will keep a sex slave secret also ends up selecting sadistic assholes. Them using Fingon's accusation and the other guard's death as a justification for their actions (including possibly retroactively, I doubt they were kind before that) is great.

Oh wow, the list of "privileges" Maedhros thinks Fingon can do without. Presumably he'll let Fingon's leg heal, if Fingon behaves. If Fingon doesn't behave, I wonder if he could be tied up such that his leg heals crooked and he can't run fast. (Downside: that would make him less pretty.)

The thing about not needing so much energy if he's going to use it to fight is also great. Maybe he's fed just enough to stay alive most days. But when the guards see a rider approaching from Himring, that's their cue to give Fingon a bit more food, especially simple carbs that will give him energy quickly. That way he can be more "enthusiastic" during sex rather than just lying there limply. (To be clear, the guards aren't hiding their neglect from Maedhros. He totally ordered them to do this.) Most days though, he has just enough energy to stay upright, and not choke in his collar that's chained to the wall. (Maedhros learned the lesson from his own rescue, of don't chain them by a body part whose loss is survivable.)

On the days Maedhros visits, Fingon has enough energy to move around, and to talk, and to think about something other than how hungry he is. Maedhros has him in a bed, with soft blankets, and cuddles him so they're both warm. It's the best part of Fingon's - week? month? he has no way of keeping track of days - even with the unwanted sex. Fingon knows it's rape, but Maedhros is gentle, and makes sure it's pleasurable for them both, and over time such a harsh word doesn't seem to fit.

The escape! Traveling for miles wrapped in nothing but a blanket, his feet getting torn up, only focused on that he needs to go West. And wow, yeah, not feeling safe until he sees his father, and he can relax and know that someone will take care of him and mean it this time.

Also, all the healers who have the most expertise with injuries from captivity are the ones who helped when Maedhros was rescued. If they get the "escaped from Morgoth" story, they might reassure Fingon with telling him how his friend Maedhros was able to make a full recovery, isn't that good? That Fingon will be so physically strong? (arms pinning him down, a hand around his throat-) That Fingon is no more corrupted than Maedhros is?

I bet after the former thrall story gets out, someone sympathetic to Fingon pulls him aside after a court session. "I obviously don't believe the rumors about you being controlled. But they might die down if you let town for a while, let everyone find something new to gossip about. They say Himring welcomes former thralls, you wouldn't have to deal with all this suspicion there." Fingon just barely avoids vomiting at the suggestion.

I think Maedhros would be too smart to rape Fingon under Fingolfin's roof? He might act like they just had an argument and are on a break, but he wouldn't physically force Fingon when he knows Fingon could get away. He wouldn't be above bribing one of the servants to let him in to Fingon's room for a private discussion though, and kissing Fingon while Fingon is still too shocked to react. (although that coldly pragmatic Fingolfin would be so terrible for Fingon. Maybe he heard that Fingon had been raped in his room, and said "You can move to a different room if you think that will keep him from finding you, but please come up with a good excuse for why you're doing so."

I'm picturing Fingolfin and Fingon going to attack Maedhros. Then they're attacked by Morogth and has to retreat into Himring. Things are tense, but Fingolfin makes it clear to Fingon that any judgement against Maedhros is only delayed, not avoided.

Then word comes that there's the banners of another elven host on the far side of the besieging orcs. And it's Himlad, with Clegorm and Curufin.

Fingolfin stops talking about bringing Maedhros to justice. He still reassures Fingon that he'll be safe, Fingolin won't let anyone touch him, there's guards loyal only to Fingolfin on his door at all times. They'll be able to leave Himring soon, and Fingon will never have to see Maedhros again, or come back to this corrupted place.

But they both know that killing Maedhros is not likely to happen, no matter how much he deserves it.

#fucking finwions answers #fingon/maedhros strangulation au

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terrm9 · 4 years

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CHAPTER 3 - Waiting

Keiki was sleeping peacefully in her hospital bed with Sienna, Jackie, Rafael and Elijah surrounding her, waiting for a slightest hint of... something. Rafael couldn't let go of Sienna's hand, not when now, instead of crying, she just kept whispering "it's going to be okay, everything will be just fine, everything must be alright". She was clearly fighting with enormous anxiety and used the positivity so typical for her to deal with the situation. Jackie sat on the chair next to Keiki's head, her head propped on her knees. She was now looking at the ground, finally able to look around the room she was in, but she couldn't bring herself to say a single word. She wanted to badly to snap at Sienna for repeating those stupid words full of hope, she wanted to scream, to make her stop, but she was physically incapable of saying a single 'shut up'. Elijah just stared out of the window, trying to find some sort of distraction on the busy street under the hospital room.

The door suddenly opened and obviously exhausted and uncharacteristically serious Bryce Lahela walked in, the scrubs he was still wearing bringing odd mixture of disinfection and sweat to the room.

"Hey guys. Thanks for staying with Keiki. I met Dr. Mirani on my way here and he said that she suffered from concussion but should be okay within week. I got here as fast as I could."

"How did the surgery go?" Elijah asked nervously.

"Ugh... as well as such surgery can. She is alive."

"What are her chances of actually staying alive?"

It was Jackie, finally able to find her lost voice.

"As for now, I have no idea. Dr. Emery was fantastic, guys you should have seen her, she simply didn't allow Chiara to die on that table. But it was brutal. She has so many injuries, lost such huge amount of blood..."

He trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

"It's really bad, isn't it?" Sienna whispered.

"It is really bad, yeah. Dr. Emery told me not to get my hopes up, because the chance of survival or chance of recovery is very low. But she doesn't need to be always right. Very low does not mean none and if there is even glimpse of hope, I simply believe in full recovery. I already got my hopes up, because if someone can get through this, it's Chiara Ray. I mean, she's been through so much shit, in her early life, in her intern year, in her med school and she always, always pulled through and got stronger on the way. She is a fighter and she will fight this. We just have to keep believing in her."

There was a long silence after Bryce's speech, everyone dealing with their emotions on their own. Sienna's cheeks were soaked with silent tears again, Jackie played with hem of her shirt and Elijah just kept staring out on the street.

"I'm gonna get us some hot chocolate," Sienna declared out of nothing

"On the wheelchair?" Rafael raised his eyebrow, looking at her freshly casted leg.

"I need to do something."

"I'm coming with you."

Sienna and Rafael left the room without any other word and Bryce followed her, intending to change into clean set of clothes. Shortly after they left, the door flew open again revealing Aurora furiously walking in.

"What the hell, guys? What happened? I came home after the night shift expecting all of you to be home and the flat was empty! So I tried to reach Chiara, then Sienna, then Jackie and Elijah and none of you responded, so I tought maybe you went to the beach or something. I called my aunt, who is supposed to have three days off and she picks up at last telling me she just got out of the surgery of Dr. Ray? What does this mean? I ran all the way from home."

As Elijah started to fill her in on what happened, Sienna, Rafael and Bryce came back with five cups filled with hot chocolate.

"Ah Aurora, hi! Sorry I didn't know you would come, I'll go for another one," Sienna was about to go get another hot chocolate.

"No need. Just tell me what happened."

Aurora was left speechless when they finished. She grew very fond of Chiara and admired her as a doctor but also as a person. She couldn't imagine her lying on the cold operating table, more dead than alive.

"How about you girls? Sienna, Jackie?"

"We are fine. I have a broken leg, that's all," Sienna answered.

"Oh, I look much worse than I feel. I'll be back to work in a day or two," Jackie said angrily, not wanting to talk about herself at all.

"You think we could go and see her?"

"I don't think they would let us, not now. But when I went to get the chocolate, I talked to Danny and he told me that Dr. Ramsey is staying with her."

They all shared a silent look deciding whether they should talk about Dr. Ramsey or not.

"He really cares about her, right?"

Elijah broken the silence with sincere question.

"Oh he does," Rafael nodded. "I mean, I knew he had a soft spot for her when all it took for her to convince him to play softball was to ask him, but damn this was something different."

"Of course he cares about her. He is her mentor, she is important part of his team. And she saved Dr. Banerji's life."

"I guess he really does respect her for that," Rafael admitted. "But still, this was something else. He was going to lose it in the E.R."

"What happened in the E.R.?"

Aurora and Bryce asked at the same time.

"His whole body was shaking when he heard the news. I didn't know if he was going to punch someone or faint. And when he heard she was in the operating room, he just stormed off."

"She means a lot to many people."

Sienna closed the discussion up with only one sentence and the group remained silent. Every person in the room felt the same heavy feeling on their chest, but somehow sharing their fear has brought some ease into their breathing.

On the other side of the third floor, there was nothing nor someone that could possibly bring ease into Ethan Ramsey's breathing. He was sitting on the wooden chair as close to Chiara as he could get, his hands resting in his lap helplessly, afraid to touch even her finger, scared that he would cause more harm to her. Ethan kept staring at her, failing to swallow the bulge that formed in his throat hours ago. He hated crying. He hated it so much that he learned how not to cry even when needed to. Sitting here next to her, he wished he could just cry. Cry and scream, let some of the emotions out of his system, share them with someone. But the only person he could imagine sharing such grief with was the very same person that made him feel this way in the first place. And so he didn't make a move or a sound, remaining motionless on the chair, his jaw clenched.

How could I let this happen? If I wasn't such coward, I would start the speech I was preparing myself for and she would never leave the office.

Damn the speech, I could've just kissed her and she would stay with me.

The thoughts of what if's and what could and should have been were costing him his sanity, but Ethan couldn't just stop thinking. He couldn't forgive himself for losing so much time. For not expressing how he really felt. Oh, he should've done that long time ago, but he was afraid of admitting that he cared for her enough for them to be more than just star crossed lovers. How much he wanted to be with her, to call her his, his Rookie, his Chiara and yet, he couldn't bring himself to talk to her about them, guilt eating him up for being so selfish. He wanted her despite their potential relationship being unprofessional, unethical, so wrong on so many levels. Still, he longed for her.

She deserves better than me.

He couldn't help but think so, knowing that she expects much more from relationship than he could provide. He could give her his time and attention and physical affection, he would adore her and push her to be the best doctor she could be, but that would never be enough. She needed him to love her the way she loved and he wasn't capable of love. He didn't believe in such thing in the first place. Caring for someone, liking them, wanting to spend their time together, those things made sense to him. But love, love was like hope or faith, there were zero science explanations to back those feelings up. To make them valid. He couldn't tell her he loved her, because he didn't believe in love.

Not like any of that mattered now. He never told her how he felt or how scared he was of ruining her career and her life by wanting to be with her, he never expressed his belief that she should find someone better for herself, someone who would shower her with 'I love you's' every day. He never said a word and now she could die any minute.

Ethan lost track of time or of any outside situation for that matter, therefore Harper's presence in the room took him by surprise.

"Ethan, I need to check in on her, so please leave us. And I think Naveen would like to talk to you before he heads home today."

"What time is it?"

"8 PM."

"Can I come back when you are done with examination?"

He needed Harper to say yes. He couldn't leave her.

"You need to sleep Ethan. What was the last time you slept? Or eaten for that matter?

"I'll sleep when I feel like sleeping. I'm staying with her overnight."

With that he left the room, determined to find Naveen without talking to anybody else.

Dr. Banerji was sitting in his office, waiting for the younger man to come. As the door opened and Ethan entered room, he noticed just how devasted he looked. He hasn't seen him like that ever since his own dying.

"Ethan. Thank you for coming. Can I get you something to eat?"

"I'm not hungry. Thanks, anyway. You wanted to see me?"

"I wanted to check on you, dear boy. I see that this situation drained any life from you and I am concerned."

"I'm just scared okay? And hopeless. So fucking hopeless."

Ethan thought he would lose it now. That the tears would finally come. They didn't.

"I know you are worried about Chiara and I know that you would raise the hell if that would help her. But starving yourself or refusing to sleep will only destroy you too."

"Maybe I want to be destroyed."

"Ethan, don't say that."

"I don't know Naveen. I just... the last time I felt like this, it was when I thought you were dying. But at the time at least I could do something. I ran tests and studied not-so-known illnesses and I tried to save you. Now all I do is sitting on the damn chair and wait for her to wake up or die. It's killing me."

Naveen took Ethan's hand into his own and squeezed it with all the emapthy he had, hoping that the brilliant doctor in front of him could feel that he knew. He knew how Ethan felt about Chiara. He knew how much she meant to him and that it was her who saved his own life, after all. Dr. Ray stood by Ethan's side everytime he faced tragedy and when he needed her, she was there. Naveen knew that very well, without ever needing to talk to Ethan about it.

"I called her mother. She said she would catch the first flight in the morning and should be here by the noon."

Naveen broke the silence with the statement.

"You expect me to talk to her."

Ethan didn't ask, he knew it was true.

"I think it should be you. You know Chiara very well and her mother needs to hear the truth from someone who knows her pain."

"And what exactly the truth is?"

"Oh, Ethan..."

"Okay, I'll talk to her mother. I'll be in the I.C.U. with Chiara."

He left, expecting Harper to be done and without stopping anywhere, he found his way back to the I.C.U. room, spending his sleepless night there.

"Mrs. Ray, hello."

Ethan shook hand of the woman in front of him, trying not to stare at her hair. Hair with the same colour as Chiara's.

"Dr. Ramsey, it's nice to finally meet you. Chiara talks about you all the time."

She tried to smile and failed miserabely. Her eyes were puffed from crying and she was holding her purse so firmly as if it was her own dear life she was holding onto.

"Oh?"

"All the good stuff of course. Dr. Emery informed me about the surgery. Now you tell me... and I need the truth... will she get through this?"

At this point, she was crying again and Ethan couldn't help but hug her.

"She is a warrior, Mrs. Ray. I know Chiara very well and she fights whatever comes to her life. Nothing is certain, but I believe in her."

Ethan didn't know if he was trying to convince Chiara's mother or himself.

"I can't lose her too, Dr. Ramsey. Dr. Emery told me the driver that caused him was drunk. Is that so?"

"Yes, it's true. He has some broken ribs and waits for his time in jail."

"Is that some kind of curse?"

Ethan motioned for them to sit down before asking: "What do you mean, curse?"

"Oh, I should have guessed Chiara never told you. She doesn't talk about it and she would never bear the idea of you pitying her. But you already do pity her now, so I can as well go on."

Ethan nodded with his eyebrows high, holding hand of the woman who looked like she needed to throw up.

"Chiara is the oldest of my children. She had younger brother and sister, both adoring her. She was always such a good kid, taking care of her siblings, doing her homework, helping other kids at school. She wanted to apply for med school since forever and her father couldn't be prouder. He supported her every step, not to my delight. Chiara is excellent painter, art is huge part of her and as an artist myself, I always hoped for her to follow my steps. I thought being doctor wouldn't make her happy. But she applied for the med school, got in and I realized that the special spark she holds inside of her is only released when she talks about medicine. When she was in her second year, her father and brother died in a car crash. Drunken driver on the truck crossed the crossroad on the red light... they were both dead immediately. She lost her spark then, nothing could bring it back. But she stuck with the medicine because she wanted to make her dad proud. She finished the school and when she was accepted to her programm here in Edenbrook, that's when her spark returned. I remeber her screaming: 'Mom I'll get to work with Ethan Freaking Ramsey!' I hardly understood what that meant, but the expression she held at the moment was enough for one of my many wounds to heal. And now... now I am losing her too."

She was crying again, leaning against Ethan's chest, as he tried to soothe her pain by hugging her tightly. The bulge in his throat got bigger, even though he didn't consider it possible.

"You're not losing her. She never gives up and she won't give up this time either. I'll be here, Mrs. Ray, I'll take care of her and I promise you, Chiara doesn't die, not on my watch. I am Ethan Freakin' Ramsey after all."

He felt his own strenght coming back at his words. He started to see what Naveen and Harper were saying about him needing to eat and sleep. At some point, Chiara might need him and he needs to be ready to save her. Mrs. Ray managed to create a small smile, wiping her eyes.

"Thank you, Dr. Ramsey. I can't stay here, Alicia - Chiara's sister - needs me back to San Francisco. Just... just promise me to take care of her, okay?"

"Of course. Here, this is my number," he handed her a piece of paper with his quickly written number. "Call me anytime. We will inform you about everything. Now, I'll let you see her for a few minutes, if you want."

Two weeks have passed and Dr. Emery stood side by side with Dr. Ramsey, consulting results of Chiara's new CT scan.

"Pretty impressing, I must say. The swelling on her brain is retreating and as far as I can see, there's no evidence of irrevisible damage on the brain. Of course we'll know better if she wakes up."

"When she wakes up," Ethan muttered under his breath, not accepting the possibility of her not waking up.

Harper looked at him with raised eyebrows, but never said a word.

"However, we are far from winning this, but so far, Dr. Ray here convinced me that nothing is ever as hopeless as it seems. With her lungs working on their own completely now, I propose transferring her from the I.C.U. to your wing of the hospital, Dr. Ramsey. As a surgeon, my work is done her for now. Her brain needs to start working and that's your field. She's all yours."

Oh how I wish she was all mine, Ethan tought but didn't say a word. He just nodded and left the I.C.U.

One would say that Ethan Ramsey's life was back to normal. He was back to work, giving interns hard time, reading journals, cracking cases, avoiding people. Looking more tired than usually, his hair longer and more messy, his stubble slowly turning into beard, everyone knew that he wasn't completely okay, but how could he be after all? Little did they know that for the past two weeks, Dr. Ramsey only left hospital once. He slept on the couch in his office every night so that he'd be close in case Chiara's state changes. Little did they know that every time he had some spare time, he'd spend it next to Chiara's bed, looking at her. Naveen's heart was breaking for Ethan's pain. He was probably the only one to notice how much weight Ethan lost, eating two raw bars a day at best.

The very same evening Chiara left I.C.U., all of her friends decided to spend evening in at Donahue's again. Sienna spent last fourteen days at home, not being able to work with a broken leg and Jackie with Elijah came straight home after their shifts. But tonight, they let themselves feel certain bliss of normalcy and met at the bar. Aurora was already waiting for them and Danny decided to join them too.

"Shouldn't Bryce already be here?"

"I'm sure he will come any minute now."

They ordered beer for everyone and tried to talk about work, about their patients, about anything but Chiara's still critical condition. Not too long after their order arrived, Bryce walked in and after long time, he looked like himself, smiling brightly while winking at the group of interns.

"Whoa there, scalpel jockey. Enjoying yourself? Did someone make you feel so cheerful?"

Jackie furrowed her brows at him.

"Oh you better believe someone did," he smirked.

"That's why you are late?"

"Exactly. I needed to check one very particular woman's chest, in case you need details."

"Ugh, no thanks, Lahela."

"I waited for Kyra's surgery results," he rolled his eyes. "I wanted to make sure I got it right before spilling the news."

"Are you saying-"

"Yes! The surgery worked! I mean, she's going to be in so much pain for the next few weeks, but the chances of recovery are amazingly high and the cancer is gone."

Sienna started to cry and even Jackie's eyes shimmered with tears.

"Holy crap, so there are still good news available in this world," Elijah sighed and finished his beer. "We are drinking to that. And we should let Rafael know. He might be on the other side of the States, but he still cares, right? Oh I am actually feeling happy right now. Have you talked to her?"

"I haven't. I thought we should all talk to her together tomorrow, since she still doesn't know about Chiara. I know we needed to protect her before the surgery, but she needs to know now. Will you go with me?"

Everyone nodded, except Aurora who sighed: "I don't think Carrick will let me switch shifts. But you guys say hi from me and tell her that I'll come to see her on Saturday."

"Sure thing."

They ordered another round of beer and for the first time in what felt like forever, they didn't feel the heavy stone on their chest. They felt victory.

Later that night, as the young doctors leaving the bar allowed themselves to laugh at some stupid joke Bryce said, Dr. Ramsey laid on the not so comfortable couch, scotch in his hand, looking at the ceiling above him. He missed her. The sound she would make when she cracked some particularly difficult case. The laugh when she teased him. The smile she saved for him and only for him. He missed even her temper that could drive him crazy at the times. Without giving it a second thought, he unlocked his phone and opened the Pictogram app. He needed to see her with her eyes open. He needed to see her full of life. Clicking at her profile transferred him into completely different world, the one where she laughed on the beach, smiled proudly with diploma in her hand, posed for a selfie with her roommates. He scrolled to the end of her feed and starting to observe the photos from the oldest one to the last one she posted. He swallowed hard when he realized that she posted the photo only few hours before the crash, smiling carelessly into the camera with her friends surrounding her. The photo was clearly taken at the concert they attended. She looked so happy, so relaxed, so very much alive. He just kept looking at the photo, memorizing every single detail about her, imagining she was still there, dancing to music and laughing with people she loved. And there it was. After all, Ethan felt a single tear streaming down his cheek.

Days passed in some bizarre blur, summer nights turned into ashy evenings of fall, sun gracing city of Boston with its presence only exceptionally. It was exactly one month since the accident and as the end of his shift arrived, Dr. Ramsey found himself sitting next to Chiara's bed again. It became some kind of bittersweet routine for him to come to her room anytime he could and talk to her about work. Chiara was actually doing good, considering everything. Her lungs worked perfectly, her broken spine was slowly but surely healing. Her brain's swelling was gone now, however the brain itself wasn't working the way it should, putting her into state of coma.

"Mrs. Potter is going home tomorrow, the treatment worked exquisitely. I wish you could see the face of her son when we told him she would be okay. I think even Baz had tears in his eyes when the little boy hugged him."

Ethan realized quite well that what he was doing was stupid and he laughed at himself for being this pathetic. But it helped him keep her sanity, so he came everyday and talked to her about every single patient.

"I almost yelled at Hirata today, though. She asked if I was looking for someone else to take your place at the team. I mean, what the fuck is she thinking?"

Repeating the scene with June Hirata in his head made him wrathful all over again.

"She just kept saying that the team needs the fourth member to work. I told her that we were fine, with Naveen helping us when there's too many difficult cases. But she was really determined and I couldn't listen to her, so I snapped at her, I told her to shut the fuck up. It was... intense. Definitely not my proudest moment but what else could I do? How would I even offer the position? 'Hello, we need a new member for our diagnostics team. The only problem is that we have no idea for how long we can provide the spot for you. Maybe for two weeks, maybe for two years, maybe we'll keep you for good. Nobody knows.' Huh? No one would even accept such position. Listen Rookie. I know I've been telling you the other day that you should take your time and heal, but life is pretty hard without you, so could you wake up? Could you do this one last favor for me and just wake up? Please?"

Elijah, Sienna and Jackie were standing next to the nurse station, too deep into the debate to notice someone watching them.

"...what are we going to do? I tried to talk to Farley but he said that he couldn't afford to lose those money. It's been five weeks since the accident which makes two checks. And none of us actually has that much spare money."

"We don't have that much even if we put our savings together."

"Should we call her mum?"

Sienna asked nervously, biting her lip.

"Nope, that poor woman is going through hell. We'll find a way, okay? We could ask Aurora."

"Mass Kenmore has cut its budget just like Edenbrook. She basically works for free now."

"We'll figure it out guys, okay? We always figure it out somehow. I gotta go, but I promise to find a solution."

The three of them went their separate ways, Jackie determined to get some coffee from the cafeteria.

"Dr. Varma? Could I talk to you for a second?"

Ramsey's voice snapped her our of not so bright thoughts and she turned on her heel to face him.

"Yeah? Is something wrong with Chiara?"

"No change. It's just... I didn't mean to eavesdrop... well..."

"Get to the point, Dr. Ramsey."

Despite feeling anxious and nervous for the past few days, she found some weird sense of satisfaction on how the tables have turned now. She still remembered clearly how he said those exact words to her in her intern year.

"Right, sorry. Look, I heard you talking about Chiara and some money problems. I understand that it's... rather difficult for you to pay for her checks?"

Jackie raised her eyebrow, surprised, but didn't deny what he said. She nodded and let him continue.

"I don't mean to offend any of you by my offer, but would you let me pay for her checks? I've been second year resident once and I know how much you get paid. And I know that Dr. Ray's mother is going through a lot. Paying for your apartment is, well, no problem for me and I would like to help at least this way."

"Wow, I expected you to talk to me about that woman who can't stop vomiting in the room 232. Look, Dr. Ramsey, what you are offering is really nice and, uhm, surprising, coming from you, but I am not sure it would be appropriate."

"Consider it a loan, then. When Chiara wakes up and gets her life together again, she can pay me back."

"I need to talk to my roommates about that, it's not my decision to make after all. Thank you for the offer, though."

"Okay. I'll be happy to help. Oh and Dr. Varma?"

"Yeah?"

"I am sorry for how I acted the night of the accident. I yelled at you and that was wrong."

"It's okay, Dr. Ramsey. We've all got our ways of dealing with pain."

With that she left, leaving Ethan alone with his thoughts. He automatically turned towards Chiara's room and after the door closed after him, he started to talk.

"It's not work today. I just need to let this out. I miss you, Chiara. I really miss you. It's gotten to the point where I just keep staring at your photos and hope that it could wake you up. I never confessed to you about the photo I have of you. After the first night we spent together, day before your ethic trial, you sat on the floor in my apartment, wearing one of my shirts, reading some random history book you found. I was making some coffee for the both of us, watching you from the distance and in that moment I couldn't resist the urge to take photo of you. So I did. And I was too embarassed to admit it to you, that I found you beautiful and wanted to have the moment immortalized. I never found the strenght to delete the photo though. And now that you are here, I find myself looking at the damn photo every day, not believing that I was once lucky enough to have you in my shirt reading my book in my apartment. I really miss you. And I can keep missing you, knowing that it won't last forever, knowing that you'll wake up. I can handle missing you as long as I have hope."

He indeed did sound desperate. He never even believed in hope. But after the long weeks without her, feeling only fear, allowing himself to feel something as pathetic as hope was enahncing.

#open heart #open heart fanfiction #open heart choices #ethan ramsey #pixelberry #ethan ramsey x mc

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scripttorture · 4 years

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Sorry for the multiple asks. In Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom's parents were tortured to what I assume is catatonia by the cruciatus curse. Is this a realistic portrayal of the effects of torture, or does it involve some degree of magical handwaving? If realistic, then would you mind suggesting some avenues, both grounded in reality and more fantastical, by which their condition may be helped?

So I had a long answer written out for this and then it got eaten and I’d deleted my backup (both of them) and don’t you just despise technology sometimes? Join me as I scream into the void.

Once more, from the top-

No need to apologise for multiple asks. They are in fact encouraged. I’d rather you looked for answers to your questions then assumed you already know the answer. Thank you for coming to me. Thank you for taking an interest. It really does mean a lot to me to see people engaging with the subject. :)

It’s been a long time since I read Harry Potter. From what I can remember I don’t think the books handled torture survivors well.

I think this particular portrayal landed smack bang in ‘torture makes victims passive’. It was also pretty explicitly using that misconception about torture survivors being unable to live full, happy lives or make any kind of recovery.

You could make the argument that these are magical, rather then the effects of torture. But I don’t think Rowling did any work to show that was the case. From what I can remember the stuff that’s actually in the books just suggests the curse causes pain and… that’s it.

Which doesn’t stop you from trying to make a bad portrayal better.

@scriptshrink is the mental health professional in the family and may disagree. From what I can remember I don’t think the description of the Longbottoms in the books was exactly catatonia. It seemed more like a combination of catatonia and late stage dementia to me.

Which creates a bit of a problem for a narrative arc if you want to treat these characters in a more realistic way. Because catatonia is easily treated now with drugs and late stage dementia is… there’s basically no effective treatment. There are things patients can be given to slow the progression of dementia but what they’ve lost is gone. (I’ve spent quite a long time around people with various forms of dementia and I’m going to cite experience as my source there).

The reason that’s an issue for a narrative is that there really isn’t a middle ground between ‘take this pill to recover’ and ‘there is no treatment at all’. And that’s not on you, it’s on the source material.

So, suggestion time: I do have a few different ideas depending on what you want from a recovery arc and how you want to characterise Wizard culture in your story.

Let’s assume that (like catatonia) this fugue state survivors of the curse are in is easily treatable. What happens when you take it away? When survivors are present, not dissociating and remember what happened to them?

Well suddenly you get confronted with an actual torture survivor with all the loud, messy, complex mental health problems that implies.

And if you don’t know a lot about mental health? Then it looks like you went from someone who is calm and ‘at peace’ to someone who is incredibly distressed and obviously in pain. It also means you went from someone biddable and ‘easy to handle/care for’ to someone who is exponentially less likely to put up with shit. Someone who demands explanations, cries hysterically, has panic attacks or flashbacks.

With that sort of big visceral difference- A culture that doesn’t know how to deal with mental illness might well decide survivors are ‘better off’ in that fugue state.

Because it would probably be easier to take care of a quiet, unemotional drone then to deal with trying to help someone with severe, complex mental health problems.

With that kind of cultural background the dementia-like state might actually be the result of the treatment survivors are given. Because they’re ‘better off this way’.

This would give you a much more traditional recovery arc in your story but by its nature demands a narrative discussion of how mentally ill people are treated by society. Which may not be something you want in the story.

The other main suggestion I had was to treat this fugue state and this unrealistic depiction of memory loss as if it’s part of the curse itself.

The cruciatus curse is supposed to be designed to cause the maximum amount of pain, so why not factor lasting generational pain into that? Stripping away important, foundational memories with longer use of the curse seems like it could be an additional terror tactic.

‘It doesn’t matter if they survive. It doesn’t matter if you rescue them. You’ll never get them back.’

In that kind of scenario you’d probably end up with a different recovery arc, one that’s as much about magic as mental health. And I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing when you’re explicitly dealing with something magical.

If you wanted a plot line involving some kind of magical quest this would be a really good fit. I think it would also work well with a more… straight forwardly heroic story? There’d be less of the cultural and moral arguments that are naturally brought up if you’re talking about cultural attitudes to different medical treatments. It would also be a good pick if you want to lean into the intelligence/research skills of some of the canon characters: a combination of cleverness and compassion resulting in a breakthrough that saves the day.

I’ll finish off with a short general discussion about writing torture survivors realistically and writing them in fantasy.

I’ve got a post on the common long term symptoms of torture here. And I’ve got a post on what memory problems look like in survivors here.

We don’t have a way to predict symptoms. Different individual survivors get different sets of symptoms and we’re not sure why. Because of that variation I think that it’s best to treat symptoms as a writing choice.

Pick symptoms based on what you think adds to the story and creates interesting narrative opportunities. If a symptom emphasises the themes in your story, creates good opportunities to show the readers something about the characters or makes for interesting conflict then it’s a good choice. Conversely if a particular symptom doesn’t appeal to you or you don’t want to write it for any reason, feel free to choose something different.

I stress realism and writing survivors realistically. I don’t do that because I think fiction ‘must’ be realistic. I do it because the ways we choose to break with reality matter.

And right now most of the ways we choose to be unrealistic tacitly support/condone torture.

The majority of the time that’s not the author’s intention. I certainly don’t think it was Rowling’s intention here. (I’ll admit I haven’t been keeping up with her string of controversies but I don’t think active support for torture was ever among them.)

But these tropes keep getting repeated. Partly because finding accurate information on torture is hard. It’s difficult to search for. It often costs money. A lot of it just isn’t translated (I’m actually saving up to get a bunch of core texts translated into English when the plague is over.) And oh boy do not get me started on the lack of inter-disciplinary communication because I will go off like an unplanned quench of an NMR’s super magnets.

These are issues that hamper academic researchers to a huge degree. It’s no wonder they impact non-specialists trying to make sense of this mess.

Having said all of that: I think that we should make space for metaphor and fantastical elements in our fiction.

The issue is passing off tropes that are unrealistic and harmful as if they’re fact.

I have significant issues with portraying torture survivors as passive objects. I think it really hampers general understanding of torture and ethical treatment of survivors today. It encourages people to think that real survivors are ‘faking it’ because they don’t look like the passive objects we see portrayed in fiction.

That said, if a story explicitly states that what it’s doing is magical and unrealistic, it should be less of an issue.

I do not think that’s what Rowling did in this particular portrayal. I think she presented a curse that the audience was supposed to read as only causing extreme pain and she linked that to the idea of pain turning people into passive objects. You can remove the magic from this scenario and it’s unmistakably torture apologia.

But I can imagine alternatives where a fantasy story could separate these things out. It would be hard work and require a lot more focus on the curse itself.

Say you have a fantasy story that takes one of the non-Western approaches to ideas about human souls. Particularly the idea that our memories and experience constitute a separate spiritual part of ourselves.

Magic that stole and imprisoned that portion of someone would, by the logic of the magic system, create something a little like this catatonia/late-stage-dementia symptom set Rowling presents. And I think if that was presented, divorced from ideas about pain and what suffering ‘should’ do to people- Well it’s no longer really talking about torture. It’s talking about a fantastical scenario.

We’re not really used to thinking through the implications of where we break with reality. But it does get easier with practice.

I hope that helps. :)

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#nobodystormcrow #writing advice #tw torture #tw ableism #writing recovery #writing survivors #fantasy ask #Harry Potter #effects of torture #torture survivors are not broken #attitudes towards torture survivors #pain #catatonia #dementia #mental illness #memory problems #cultural attitudes to survivors

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macgyvermedical · 4 years

Text

Soup: a “Tesla + Bell + Edison + Mac” Medical Review

“You have a perfectly functional syringe pump with the PCA in the background, and you’re going to give him an injection with a metal needle? Also, if you’re gonna sedate him you might as well use the IV pump too??? Like, you have a whole ‘nother channel?? Most floor nurses would kill for that setup?” <--- From my notes on this ep.*

Awl - X-Ray + Penny - Duct Tape + Jack - CD + Hoagie Foil - Guts + Fuel + Hope - Wilderness + Training + Survival - Father + Bride + Betrayal - Lidar + Rogues + Duty - Nightmares - Seeds + Permafrost + Feather - Friends + Enemies + Border - Mason + Cable + Choices - Bitter Harvest - Kid + Plane + Cable + Truck -

In case you didn’t see it, the story went like this: After being knocked unconscious trying to prevent Codex from stealing an encoded map to a Tesla-era WMD, Mac wakes to find he’s lost certain memories of the event that are crucial to interpreting the weapon’s location. In order to recover the memories and stop Codex from getting there first, Matty calls on a friend at DARPA who studies experimental memory-recovery drugs. Drugged, Mac enters a dream state to track down the memories, where he encounters his mother, a man he recently chose to kill to save everyone in LA, his high-school bully, and a darker version of himself who thinks Codex’s directive to kill an eighth of the population to save the world might not be too far off the mark.

So there’s a lot to talk about here medically. For this post, I’ll go into the concussion and its aftermath, the drug and it’s administration, and the medical technology that the Phoenix infirmary seems to have at its disposal.

The Concussion/Amnesia:

Mac is knocked out by a blow to the head. He wakes up “a few hours” later in the Phoenix infirmary. I’ve talked about concussions before (see here, here, and here), so I’m not going to go into too much detail about them in this post, but essentially if someone’s out for that long, they’re in trouble.

It’s reasonably common to lose consciousness in a concussion, but it’s usually only for seconds to minutes, and if it occurs at all, that person needs prompt medical evaluation in an emergency room. Even if there ends up being no major complications, like bleeding in the brain or an increase in pressure in the skull, the recovery time for concussions with a loss of consciousness can be in the weeks or months range. Someone who’s out for “hours” is looking at a stay in a neuro ICU and probably severe and possibly permanent brain damage. Like, it’s a season-long arc at least.

Since we’re not seeing that level of medical need, I think it would probably be safe to assume that Mac wasn’t actually out for “hours” as stated. He could have been briefly unconscious, as shown in the house attack scene, but then had trouble forming memories after that, which caused him to not remember the ride back to Phoenix very well, if at all. These are still concerning enough symptoms that I would have taken him to an emergency department instead of to the infirmary, but at least with that scenario there’s a possibility what happened to him isn’t actively life threatening outside of a neuro ICU.

Unlike the extended period of unconsciousness, the portrayal of amnesia isn’t far off the mark for once. The amnesia that Mac suffers is actually pretty reasonable- trouble remembering the incident and the events just before it is common in head injuries, as is having trouble forming new memories after. Not only is accurate amnesia something that I didn’t expect out of Rob Pearlstein (writer of the infamous Guts + Fuel + Hope), but it’s something that fiction as a whole (including, I’ll admit, 1985 MacGyver**) tends to struggle with. So kudos for that specific part of this episode, Pearlstein.

The Drug:

Even if we assume Mac wasn’t unconscious that whole time, the brief unconsciousness and memory problems indicate that he still had a pretty significant concussion that needed medical care and monitoring. I’m guessing that as advanced as the Phoenix Infirmary is, it doesn’t have the capacity to do neurosurgery or intracranial pressure monitoring. That means the Phoenix medical team’s priority in this situation would essentially be to catch any major, life-threatening complication as early as possible, and if one happened, get Mac to a hospital quickly enough to save him.

The best and lowest-tech tool they have to this end is repeated mental status exams. Mental status exams have the patient answer a series of questions like “what’s your name?” “what day is it?” “where are you right now?” “what happened to you/why am I asking you these questions?” followed up with a series of mental tasks like counting backwards from 100 by 7s or making a logical decision based on a given scenario. If Mac’s answers significantly change, from one assessment to the next, that could mean he’s in trouble.

Because these assessments rely so heavily on Mac’s ability to answer questions and perform tasks accurately, and they’re really the only thing that’s going to catch a serious problem early enough to save Mac’s life, the last thing you’d want to do is give him a drug cocktail that would alter his perception of where he is and what’s going on around him. I’ll just… leave that there.

But let’s assume that for some reason they have a non-CT way of assessing whether Mac’s about to die from a brain bleed while in a drug-induced dream state (they do appear to have limited EEG capability- can anyone tell me if this would still be helpful in the context of the drugs?). I’m not going to talk too much about the drug cocktail itself, since it was stated as fictional (so, essentially, anything they say it does it can probably do), but since they do reference it as containing DMT, I invite you to check out the erowid experience vault for DMT for stories of other people’s experiences with it.

I will, however, talk a little about the administration of the drug. In the episode, a syringe with a needle is used to deliver the medication. Though not explicitly shown, I assume Dr. Cheryl inserted the metal needle into one of Mac’s arm veins and injected the drug.

Something that fiction generally doesn’t understand is that inserting a metal needle into a vein in order to administer medication doesn’t happen in a medical setting. Ever. The ONLY way to administer a medication IV in a medical setting is through an IV cannula- a short, flexible plastic tube inserted into a vein, often just colloquially called an “IV”:

If Mac had one of these ^^^, the syringe could attach to one of the blue and white pieces and the medication could be injected without worrying that the needle could slip out of the vein (many IV medications must be injected slowly over several minutes, and that’s a long time to hold a needle still).

Before Dr. Cheryl gives him the drug, she takes his vitals and asks him some questions, namely whether he has ever had “a psychotic break”, then, without explaining further, asks if he thinks he will become violent.

Now, it does make sense to ask someone about their psych history when administering a drug known to have psych side effects, because those can be a lot worse or more likely for people with certain psych histories. Think about SSRIs and SNRIs- they’re good antidepressants, but when given to someone with bipolar disorder, they can greatly increase the risk of a manic episode, and that possibility has to be evaluated before the drug is prescribed.

The conversation should have started with Dr. Cheryl asking everyone else to leave the room. Asking if someone has ever experienced psychosis in front of their coworkers, is not only a serious breach of patient privacy, but could also be incredibly dangerous. If Mac had experienced psychosis, but didn’t want his coworkers to know, he’d either have to lie and risk side effects without being able to prepare, or feel pressured to release that medical information and possibly risk his job or reputation***.

Then she’d ask something to the effect of “have you ever been diagnosed with a mental illness, been hospitalized for a mental health reason, or do you take any medications for a mental health problem?” And if the answer to that question was anything that would make the drug particularly dangerous to him, she’d probably tell him the risks and her assessment that it was a bad idea to proceed.

If there was no other option for some reason (I’d argue not the case in this situation), she’d tell him what the risks were, and only then would she possibly have to ask if he knew he might become aggressive, at which point they’d come up with how he’d like her to handle that possibility.

I know it’s not quite as snappy, but I would have really liked to see it.

Plus, unless it’s been asked off screen, Dr. Cheryl hasn’t asked him if he has any other health problems, if he takes any medications, or if he has any allergies, all of which could significantly impact how safe this drug could be for Mac.

Phoenix Infirmary Medical Tech

Now let’s look at some of the bits and pieces in the background of the episode. Particularly, I wanna talk about that chair, the IV pump, and the monitor.

So, chair first- it’s a dentist’s chair. It’s good for dental things and maybe some minor procedures (we have a slightly different chair in a doctor’s office I work at- we use it for things like implanting birth control, removing warts and moles, and providing wound care), but it’s not great for anything else. It’s especially not great if you have to sit there longer than a half hour. Considering we know from previous episodes that they have a full-on hospital bed somewhere at their disposal and possibly a couple of carts (narrower beds you see in the emergency department), I gotta say it makes literally no sense to put the guy who’s unconscious from a head injury in the procedure chair.

Next, the IV pump

We talked above about administering medications “IV push”- a medication “pushed” through an IV by a syringe, one dose at a time. Another way to give IV medication or fluids is via an IV drip or “piggyback”- the medication is diluted in a bag of saline or other IV fluid, and set to continuously run into a person’s IV. These are nice for doses of IV medication that have a lot of volume (like IV antibiotics) medication that wears off quickly and may need constant adjustment (like some kinds of sedation or some types of pain medication or medications that counteract shock), or just straight up IV fluids.

IV pumps control how fast the medication or fluid goes from the bag into the person. You can vaguely control this without a pump using gravity, a drip chamber, and a roller clamp, but if you need to know precisely how many milliliters of medication/fluid per hour is getting into a person, and you didn’t start your nursing career in the 1970s, you need a pump.

The one pictured above specifically consists of a central computer box (colloquially called a “brain”) where the pump rate can be programmed, flanked by interchangeable modules that each do a slightly different thing. The modules on the pump in the episode include an infusion pump, which essentially just pumps fluid from a bag hanging above it into a person, and a PCA pump. A PCA pump holds a syringe of medication (usually pain medication) and delivers a dose of it when the patient presses a button.

Honestly I think the whole things is just chillin’ in the background making the room look medical-y, but they really could have used it to continuously administer the drug or the sedation if they’d really wanted to incorporate it.

Side note, the modules are actually kind of heavy, so you have to balance them a little or the whole thing kinda tilts (see the screenshot from the episode). Also, for some reason if you stick an infusion module on the same side as a PCA module, the brain won’t recognize it half the time. Not sure if it’s a feature or a bug. Below is how someone who has ever once used one of these things would have set it up:

The other thing they have in the episode, and the last thing I’ll talk about before I let you get back to your life (I’m sure your cat misses you by now, mine sure does), is the monitor.

I read several user manuals for this (real) monitor system in preparation for this post. I’ve concluded that it’s way, way above my med-surg pay grade, and usually used in operating rooms by anesthesiologists to monitor sedation level (so at least in theory they could be using it correctly? I’m as shocked as you are, really). I don’t even know what half those numbers mean (beyond the SpO2, heart rate, and respiratory rate), more than just being able to say they (surprisingly) do actually reflect real monitoring options on this thing. This leads me to believe this may be some kind of weird product placement thing? As if the gratuitous use of the Toyota backup cameras weren’t oddly forced enough.

Now, beyond the fact that this is a wildly high-tech, completely overkill machine for what is happening in the episode, the thing I would like to impress upon you is that regardless of the high tech-ness, every line on a monitor requires at least some attachment to the patient. Something measuring an EKG requires at least 3 leads on the patient. Something measuring oxygen saturation and pulse requires a clip on an ear or finger. Something measuring blood pressure requires a blood pressure cuff. Something measuring temperature usually means a probe somewhere the sun don’t shine. Mac has two little leads on his forehead. That is actually hilarious. He’d be covered in wires. He would have so much adhesive stuck to him.

In case you’re wondering, the heart/lungs/brain/person outline picture on the monitor just tells you how each part of the body is doing- like, the brain will turn yellow and then red if something starts going weird with the brain-related monitoring, same with the heart and lungs. It took an insane amount of searching to figure that out. I’ve been writing this post for 4 days now.

*I had a much longer and rant-ier intro to this but I feel like I’ve complained enough on main about how the reboot dumbed down and politically neutralized an extremely opinionated and hardline character. I do really like this show, and the storylines are really interesting, but I need you all to understand how science-based and politically charged the original one was, especially in later seasons. You had such a platform for good here, CBS, and I’m hoping against hope the generic-action-show it’s become was some kind of weird, collective misunderstanding and not a censor problem. My main problem, having finished writing this post, is that he looks really weirdly good for someone who was unconscious with a head injury and then subjected to what was another few hours unconscious and hallucinating. Like, his shirt is still tucked in. Great update to the theme song, though.

**Twice. They played the bourne-style-amnesia storyline twice.

***At this point I can only recommend you watch the 1985 MacGyver Season 7 episode “Obsessed”- it’s a ridiculous-criminal-plot episode but the undertones are all anti-ableist (both criticizing the Phoenix Foundation board of directors’ ableism in assuming Pete is no longer fit to do his (desk) job after he loses his sight, and the pressure Pete himself is under to let MacGyver go because of mental health symptoms).

#MacGyver #medical review #tesla + bell + edison + mac #head injury #unconscious #drugged #whump #needles tw #hospital tw #drugs tw

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imaginesmai · 4 years

Text

Tony Stark-Recovery

Because this man deserved the world. Because I can’t get over him being out of MCU marvel. Because I’ve only written sad stuff about him, and because this gif it just too cute to ignore it.

Plot: Tony Stark has a problem. Actually, he has a lot of them. Tony Stark has always been surronded by problems. But now it’s different, and he has found the will of getting out of them.

Warnings: apart from alcoholism, just fluff

Tony was looking at you with longing eyes, laying down on the coach face down. He had his head propped up on his hands, and the puppy eyes he was giving you were making hard to complete your duties. That, in that moment, were going to work.

“I’m sorry, Tony” you copied his pout, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “You know I could spend hours and hours with you here, but I have to work”

“Billionaire, ring a bell?” he raised a brow. “Come on, you could just drop out of that shitty job and I could maintain you forever. We could stay trapped in this lab forever.”

You chuckled softly, but didn’t drop your backpack. If it were for you, you would lock yourself with Tony in the lab and never leave that paradise. It wasn’t as if you were poor; but not everyone could just have what Tony had down there. Things you had never seen. Machines you would never dream to build. Materials that you didn’t even know that they existed. It was all the perfect dream; a dream that you had to wake up from.

“I’ll be back tomorrow” you assured him.

In two quick strides, you were kneeling besides the couch, faces inches apart. Tony’s beard had been taken care of in the last few months, and even his hair seemed much more trimmed than before. Maybe you couldn’t really notice the impact you had had on his life, but people around you did.

“I don’t want you to go” he turned his head so that he was looking at you.

You were already running late. What was supposed to be just a quick visit to Tony, had turned out in a four-hours stay. And it wasn’t as if you had done any work in the lab. After that, you could only hug him and spend the next few hours cuddling. Although his wrinkled t-shirt and swollen lips, and your tangled hair and blushed cheeks said otherwise.

“I don’t want to leave either” you said, cupping softly his cheek. Tony closed his eyes and smiled into your palm. He gripped your wrist to kiss your palm, and when he opened his eyes again, you didn’t think anyone had ever looked at you with so much adoration. “I’ll be back tomorrow, how does it sounds?”

“Hm, good” he mumbled. “But I don’t know if Drum-E can survive without you”

As if the robot had really feelings and could hear you, Drum-E emitted what could be a whine. It tried to get out of the cell that Tony had built to keep it out of the lab, and you chuckled.

“He will survive, so will you”

For the last time that day, you kissed Tony. It was different. Warm, slow, gentle, an anchor in Tony’s mad world. The position was not the best, but the kiss was good enough. After tearing apart, you got up and walked to the elevator. Tony whined once more, but didn’t attempt to stop you.

“Bye, Tony” you smiled at him, as the elevator’s door closed behind you.

“See you soon” Tony answered, smiling at you too.

The second the doors closed and you could no longer see him, his smile immediately dropped off his face. The lab felt way too silent, and lonely. He could almost live again the moment where you had found him that afternoon, in the same position, and that was what fuelled him to move. Tony rose up from the couch, rubbed his face and started walking to the kitchen.

His way there was really confusing. Maybe he met up with someone, maybe he was alone in the tower. When an objective as big as that was on his mind, the rest of the things were insignificant. He opened his top drawer liquor cabinet.

As if he was repeating a motion well known, he opened the first bottle. It wasn’t as full as it should had been, and the cap was slightly misplaced. Which was understandable, since he had closed it not so long ago. The strong smell hit Tony’s nostrils and he backed away. He was tempted; he was always tempted, but that day had been hard. And he wanted to put the bottle on his mouth and close his eyes. Let the consequences come back at him later. His hands itched, but he didn’t pick up the glass.

Instead, he poured the alcohol down the sink.

Then, he did the same with the next bottle. It was one of gins, he liked that one much better. And the whisky’s was a good one too. There were bottles from different sizes, flavours and even countries. Tony poured all of them down, until finally there was none left.

He panicked for a moment, thinking maybe he had made a mistake. But then, he remembered your face and knew that he didn’t. You had surprised him when you had stopped by earlier; Tony had only had a few drinks, still able to control himself. But the way you had looked at him had broken his heart.

Tony didn’t know why that look had affected him so much. Pepper, Rhodey, Happy and a lot more people had seem him like that. Seeing the look of devastation on your face had stirred something up inside him.

After all the bottles were empty, he threw them in the trash. Then, he took the trash out. Not in the common trash bag, but down the street. He didn’t want the bottles staring at him. Finally, he sat on the living room couch, face on his hands and eyes closed. A nap sounded good.

“Tones?”

He looked up to see Rhodey staring at him, confusion clear on his face.

“One and only. What can I do for you?” Tony stretched the muscles on his back.

“Uhm, I asked FRIDAY what were you doing and she said you were cleaning out your liquor cabinet? Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy” Rhodey quickly put his hands up, wide eyes. “But, what brought this on? Are you okay?”

That was the question. Was he okay? Tony had been lying so long he couldn’t remember what being okay was. The battle of New York, people getting hurt because of him, Rogers betraying him, and the constant reminder of what happened in Afghanistan. Tony couldn’t remember what being okay was. But he felt like it was something similar to laying in bed with you, hand running through your hair while watching a film.

“I’m fine” he mumbled, not sure of his words. “Not like-I’m not totally okay. But, I’m getting there. I think. I’m fine, yeah”

A smile crept to Rhodey’s lips, and the man crossed his arms in front of him. He couldn’t hide the happiness and proudness for his best friend. No longer than six months ago, Rhodey had met you. He had been looking for Tony when he had stumbled into the two of you fighting over the custody of Drum-E, and had known in that moment that you were the medicine Tony needed to be finally okay.

“Something I can do to help?”

“I don’t know, have I mentioned that I love you?” Tony shrugged, as if the words didn’t mean anything. As if it hadn’t been years since he said them.

“Love you too, Stank”

Rhodey only had time to duck his head to avoid the flying pillow thrown his way.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Truth was, Tony had expected you to avoid him for a while. You had called him next morning with an excuse about your boss, and his heart fell to the pit of his stomach. If he hadn’t thrown the bottles away, he knew he would have drown in alcohol; because you being angry or afraid of him terrified him. Still, you assured him and promised him you would pass by on Wednesday.

Faithful to your promise, you appeared in the lab Wednesday after lunch. He had a shorter temper than normal, and he hadn’t gotten the proper sleep his body asked him too. That wasn’t the problem, though; he knew he could keep his temper in check around you, and he was a pro at surviving on little sleep.

The thing that bothered him the most were his hands, that wouldn’t stop shaking. He had talked with Dr Cho early in the morning, and she gave him some advice and told him that, with time and therapy, it would go away. Having been hooked up so long with alcohol had its side effects. But he couldn’t really work in the lab because of his hands, and he didn’t want to see your disappointed face when he told you so.

It wasn’t as if you went there only for that, he knew you were there to see him. Yet you hadn’t done anything in the lab the previous day because of him, and he knew you loved it. So he swallowed down the pain and smiled tightly when the elevator opened.

“Hey Tony” you said as you entered the lab. You had your work clothes on, and a few hours free of your break to stay with Tony. That put a cheerful smile on your face.

You sounded normal to him. Maybe you had gotten over finding Tony drinking, or maybe you were just pretending it was fine; Tony’s fears hadn’t sound so real in years. He was half expecting you to greet him with a scowl, a disgusted look or just a nod.

However, you walked forward until you were in front of him, and pulled him down for a heated kiss. The doubts left his mind and he let himself enjoy the kiss, arms circling your waist. When you teared apart, you had still the happy smile.

“I missed you”

“You talked to me this morning” Tony chuckled, faces inches apart.

“Yeah, too long” you ran your hand across his stubble and pecked his lips again. “Well, how’s the day going?”

You set your backpack on the ground and listened to Tony talk about how Rhodey and him destroyed half of the living room a few days ago in a heated pillow fight. He didn’t give you reasons, you didn’t need them. Then, he started to talk about the new robot he was going to build; you two together, if you wanted. When he proposed it, with shy eyes and nervous cheeks, you just giggled.

“Of course!” you answered, pulling your wheeled chair closer to him. “How are we naming it?”

“Haven’t decided yet” he shrugged, hands fidgeting with a tool.

“If it’s going to be our son, it’s important for him to have a name”

“You can choose, but please. Let it not be something stupid” he joked. “No references of any characters in Star Wars, Trek, Game of Thrones, The Office, Lord of the Rings or any other thing”

You rolled your eyes playfully, and hit his shoulder. For a few minutes, you discussed different names, each one weirder than the last. You laughed, and had a good time; and Tony could hide his shaky hands on his lap. He was afraid of messing something up with them.

So he came up with the idea of guiding you through the process of building the robot. If you noticed something about him not doing much, you didn’t say anything. Ideas bounced back and forth for a while, and then you ran over the basic of the robots. Tony almost forgot about the problem with his hands. Until the nail fell and he bended down to take it.

“Damn, could you take that for me?” you asked, hands full of robot’s material.

“Sure”

When the nail was on his hands, he discovered he could just not keep it there. It kept moving from one side from another, and before he had time of steading it with his other hand, it fell to the ground once more. Two attempts later, you were done.

“Are you okay?”

Was the room too hot, or was it just him?

“Tony”

It wasn’t that hard. Only a nail. Tony bended to try again, but was stopped when you gripped his wrist. He looked up, not realised until then he had tears on his eyes. There was a knowing look on your face, and Tony didn’t have the heart in him to lie to you.

“They, uh, they just shake” he explained, retreating his hands back to his lap. “From the withdrawal.”

“Alcohol”

“Yeah” Tony sighed. “I… I threw all of it the other day. After you were gone. I-I just, it didn’t feel right to have it while I have you, you know? Thought I should get rid of it if I wanted this to go somewhere serious. But, it has not been too long, and shaky hands are only the beginning of it. I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to deal with it, so-“

Tony was interrupted by the chair falling backwards, his body following after and your body attached to him like a magnet. He expected to see disappointment in your eyes, a sad frown or just watch you leave, as Pepper had done so many years ago. Tony Stark was no easy person. He wasn’t okay and had a long way there. But you had thrown yourself to his arms, and were hugging him with so much force he was considering the bruises he would have in a few hours.

And you had the most beautiful smile Tony had ever seen. So big that, after looking at each other for a few seconds, he smiled too.

“Thank you” you whispered, cheek pressed against his chest. There was a faint blue light on it, from its arc reactor. “And I’m not leaving, Tony. You’re stuck with me.”

Maybe, the next step would be finally getting ride of his arc reactor, a reminder of everything bad that had happened to him. Maybe, it was forgetting about his bad coping mechanisms. But for the time being, his next step would be believing there were people who loved him, and that would be there whatever happened.

Tony hugged you back, and kissed your forehead. Yeah, he would be okay.

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shih-coulda-had-it · 3 years

Note

193 for... maybe nanahiko? Really just do whatever ship you feel like :D

193. "Are you crazy? The kid is upstairs!" | VestigesTorino [Yes. OT8. The orgies are fantastic, and Torino is Holder bait, 8th and 9th exempt.] | WC: 2,222 of an OFA!VampireCoven!AU except op has taken liberties with worldbuilding.

TW: Blood-drinking. Outrageous flirting. Mildly spicy!

“Vampires,” Sorahiko echoes blankly.

He looks from left to right, trying to spot the differences between himself and the six adult men and one adult woman sitting at this round table. Most atypical appearances can be attributed to the strange and wondrous natures of Quirks, so Sorahiko could excuse the fourteen red eyes (every iris the identical shade) as a matter of Quirk heritage. However, none of the Shigarakis resemble the other.

They still might be pulling his leg.

The leader of the household (presumably) leans his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers. “Torino-san,” he says in a gentle voice, “we greatly appreciate your timely rescue of our youngest. And believe me when I say I would have preferred you stay ignorant of my coven’s true nature.”

“But the boy wants to be a professional hero,” one of the men interrupts. His arms are crossed, and his hair sticks up in rakish angles. An X-shaped scar has been carved over the bridge of his nose, just missing the eyes.

He sounds dismissive of the kid’s dream.

Fair. When Sorahiko had stepped onto the moonlit scene, the kid was frantically scrabbling at a thick-skinned villain’s hand, trying to save his bag from being rummaged. The villain had planted a knee in the kid’s stomach in an attempt to menace him into silence.

Sorahiko pounced on the villain, called in the location to pick up the too-heavy bastard, and escorted the boy home. He fielded questions about heroics and U.A. High for half an hour before they finally reached the Shigaraki compound.

And now he is here, trapped in a gigantic dining room, being told about vampires.

“We agreed to let him try,” says the singular woman sharply.

“If you three hadn’t filled his head about saving the world,” a man with a spiky ponytail shoots back, “then we wouldn’t have this problem. And you too, Yoichi.”

“Nevertheless,” the leader says. His red eyes gleam in the low light, and Sorahiko feels his skin prickling at the attention.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Ah, who hasn’t heard of the toughest teacher of U.A.?” another man asks, sly and teasing. His voice is soft like the leader’s, but perceptibly younger. His coloring is similar to the woman’s, but he’s lean where she’s muscular. “Yoichi believes we should give you a head’s up. Toshinori is a good child, but even he will slip from time to time, and that will draw undue attention to himself.”

Sorahiko considers these seven faces. Slowly, he says, “You think he’ll be accepted into U.A.”

“Three of us are active pro-heroes, and we’ve been training him when we can,” the woman informs him. “I’d say he’s got a headstart compared to all of your first years.”

“My students have always been terrible. That’s what schooling is for.”

She flashes a smile at him, toothy and amused; his throat works through a sudden dry spell. Belatedly, Sorahiko realizes that every adult in this kitchen is eyeing him with intense interest. Even the ones that haven’t spoken yet.

Yoichi speaks again. “He’s smart, and he’ll be strong. U.A. will accept him. I ask you for your discretion and help, Gran Torino.”

He could refuse, but Sorahiko assumes they’ll simply kill him. Being blackmailed is a low possibility; Sorahiko doesn’t have much to be blackmailed about. And pro-heroes disappear all the time. No one really knows why. Principal Shi might demand an investigation on Gran Torino’s behalf (and possibly at the behest of Recovery Girl, who grudgingly acknowledges Torino’s efforts to raise the survival rate of U.A.’s graduates), but otherwise…

Still. Vampires. Another subset of humanity, among the Quirked and Quirkless. It’s weird enough to be true.

“Is this a verbal agreement?” Sorahiko asks.

A bark of laughter from the square-jawed man in the leather jacket, who leans forward and grins like a shark at Sorahiko. The light glints off the yellow lenses of his goggles, and the play of light and shadow highlights the muscle definition of the man’s shirtless chest. In a rich, low voice, he says, “We’ve got something better. A contract.”

“Using what?” Sorahiko bites back. “Paper and ink?”

“Skin and teeth, teach’.”

“Daigoro’s correct,” says Yoichi mildly, snatching Sorahiko’s attention away. “Torino-san, allow me to introduce my coven. I am Shigaraki Yoichi, second of my line. In the order of which my coven grew: Kenzo, Sanjuro, Hikage, Daigoro, En, Nana, and you’ve met our Toshinori.” As he speaks, he points to each person in turn.

He wonders when the kid got folded into this group. The kid’s affection for his home had been sincere, and he greeted the adults (well, Hikage had only come out of the forested grounds at Daigoro’s call) with merry cheer.

Is Toshinori even a vampire? U.A. conducts its business in the daytime.

Sorahiko nods in acknowledgement and doesn’t offer his full name in return. Instead, he says, “If I accept this contract, will you tell me whatever I want to know? About anything I ask?”

“Even vampires aren’t omniscient,” Yoichi answers.

Rolling his eyes, Sorahiko clarifies, “If the kid’s going to develop vampirism over the course of high school, then I need to know things. Like whether or not he’ll go feral over spilled blood. Or if sunlight’s going to be an issue.”

Yoichi’s smile is kind, and surprisingly not patronizing. “What we can tell, we will. The contract will have a mutual hold on us all.”

“What could break it?”

“A different coven, not that you should seek one out,” says Nana. “Trust us, we’re as nice as you get in the supernatural world.”

Sorahiko does not have many options. He hates the idea of agreeing to this without a safety net or a contingency plan. How can this woman ask him to trust them immediately? He’d have to be a gullible idiot, or a fool in lust, or...

He exhales. Sighing in resignation, Sorahiko tips his head to Yoichi and says, wry, “I accept the contract. Don’t kill me if your kid comes crying home about how mean I am.”

Yoichi shrugs, casual as anything. “Toshinori’s quite brave for his age, and stubborn, too. You’ll have your hands full training him.” He then stands from his chair; in measured, unhesitating steps, Yoichi approaches where Sorahiko sits at the opposite side of the round table. What he orders, Sorahiko complies with. “Take your cape off, Torino-san. Your gloves as well.”

“You may have to unzip the top half of your suit,” advises Hikage. “You won’t want the signatures to overlap.”

“Signatures,” Sorahiko repeats, pausing.

One glove’s already off. The flight suit’s sleeves extend up to his wrists, and they don’t have a lot of give. Similarly, the collar is skin-tight and provides ample coverage.

Daigoro playfully snaps his teeth at Sorahiko, once, twice. He says, “Paper and ink, skin and teeth. You forget already?”

The man barely flinches at the snarl directed his way. Seven pairs of eyes are honing in on the exposed flesh; Sorahiko shoves his self-conscious thoughts away. He focuses on the sheer outrage of being asked to strip by strangers, hissing, “Are you crazy? The kid is upstairs!”

“I’ll make sure he stays in his room,” Nana volunteers. She winks at Sorahiko. “We’ll be quick, Torino-san. You just have to keep quiet.”

“You—!”

She slips from her chair and darts off, exiting the dining room and ascending the stairs, floating off the floor. Sorahiko glares after her but snaps to attention as Yoichi stops by his chair, hip resting against the table, red eyes expectant.

Grudgingly, Sorahiko works off the second glove. As he does, Yoichi continues to lecture.

“The signatures can be made in two ways. A lighter bite will result in less pain, but will fade sooner. And I’d like for this arrangement to stand for several years, Torino-san. A lighter bite necessitates more renewals. Possibly, seven bites every two weeks.”

“And a stronger bite?”

“Seven every month.”

He scowls at the thought. The only silver lining he can see is that his suit will cover the marks, which will save him from his colleagues’ gossiping tongues. “Monthly, then. Are you drinking my blood? I don’t think I’ve got enough to cover seven appetites.”

Yoichi offers him a gentle smile. “A mouthful will suffice.”

Sorahiko works his jaw, and then he reaches backwards for the hidden zipper. It’s incongruously loud in the dining room; Sorahiko feels his face burning as he hurriedly rips his arms free of the sausage casing sleeves, letting the slackening front of the suit crumple to his lap. He hears an appreciative whistle.

“Daigoro, he can give you a run for your money,” Sanjuro jokes.

“He’s softer,” Daigoro deems, and Sorahiko bristles. “Must be the suit, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he snaps. “And proper hydration, asshole.”

“I’m not complaining!”

“At ease,” says Yoichi, calm, and that’s when Nana makes her reappearance. She swings back into the dining room, expression confident and content, until she spies Sorahiko’s half-naked appearance.

“Are we going in order?” she questions Yoichi, even as her eyes are trained on Sorahiko’s.

“That’s how it works, Nana,” Kenzo answers for their leader. “How’s Toshinori?”

“Watching his martial arts dramas. We’re good for like, fifty minutes.”

“You said you’ll be quick,” Sorahiko rasps, and his hands are clenching into fists, anticipatory and anxious. This is all so incredibly weird. “You all need more than five minutes to bite me?”

Yoichi laughs. It’s a bright sound, attractive and human and not at all like something that should be coming out of a self-proclaimed bloodsucker. When Yoichi moves, pushing off the table, Sorahiko nervelessly allows himself to be pinned to the back of his chair. One hand cards through his hair and lightly tugs; the other hand settles at his shoulder and presses it down.

His throat is exposed. Though Yoichi bends close, Sorahiko knows it isn’t the jugular he’s aiming for.

“Torino-san will need a moment to recuperate,” Yoichi whispers, and Sorahiko shivers, swallows past the apprehension, and spends half a second regretting his decision to let this happen. Yoichi adds, “We will not harm you, and you will not harm us. Your help, in exchange for ours. Let it be so.”

Teeth sink into the join of Sorahiko’s neck and shoulder, sharp and surprisingly hot. Sorahiko chokes out a garbled sound and jerks in his seat, until Yoichi’s bite goes deeper, deeper, and then Sorahiko gasps. Adrenaline bursts to life in his system; his Quirk sputters a reflexive Jet through his boots, but Yoichi’s slender frame hides an unseen strength.

He holds Sorahiko down.

He draws blood from the wound. Sorahiko barely feels the drain, fixated he is on the pressure exerted against him. Every single one of them is going to have the capacity to do this. If Yoichi, whose frame is most similar to En’s, can keep Sorahiko from bolting—Sorahiko arches his back, an involuntary moan escaping him.

It feels good. It feels really, really good.

Yoichi hums against his skin, pleased as punch, and his teeth retract. Sorahiko feels the tongue lap over the mark, heavy with spit. As Yoichi rears back, Yoichi rolls his neck lazily, licking his lips like a cat full from its meal.

“The saliva is a coagulant,” he explains idly, watching Sorahiko slump back against the chair, lungs still stuttering. A faint sweat has broken across his forehead, and Sorahiko distantly suspects that he’s going to need all the time he can get before the kid grows bored of his dramas.

“Oh, he already looks wrecked,” En observes. His awed tone elicits a laugh and encouraging clap to his shoulder from Daigoro, the latter of which requires En to brace against.

“You think he’ll last seven bites?”

“To be fair,” Hikage says, “that is a common erogenous zone. We’ll focus on less stimulating areas.”

Sorahiko, somewhat nettled at the implication that he won’t last (and what the hell does that mean? That he’ll back out? Start begging for mercy?) all seven signatures, musters his strength and shoves himself upright. He scoffs exaggeratedly, masking a shaky exhale with it. He challenges the coven, “Do your fucking worst.”

Yoichi blinks. Behind him, Kenzo is leaving his seat and stalking towards Sorahiko’s, red eyes gleaming. Before Kenzo can dive at Sorahiko and probably tear an artery out, Yoichi holds him back with one placating hand.

“Do not,” Yoichi warns. “We’re not trying to induce a thrall, do you all hear me?”

“Yoichi,” says Sanjuro, “if the man gets off, he gets off.”

A sigh leaves Yoichi. “Be that as it may. Please try not to leave him resentful for the months ahead.” He pats Kenzo’s collarbone; Kenzo catches the thin-boned hand and raises it to his lips.

“Understood, Yoichi,” Kenzo murmurs into the knuckles. He lets go, and Yoichi moves aside, now more fond than exasperated. A safety net, maybe.

In any case, Sorahiko gazes up at number two, who studies him back.

“The shoulder?” suggests Sorahiko, half-heartedly offering the right one up to sacrifice.

Kenzo inclines his head. “Just above the bicep will work,” and he goes on to prove his point, keeping Sorahiko locked in position, unable to do anything but wriggle and fail to contain strangled moans.

This is going to be a long hour.

#bnha #vestigestorino #torino sorahiko #gran torino #shigaraki yoichi #second ofa user #third ofa user #shinomori hikage #banjo daigoro #sixth ofa user #shimura nana #shih.txt #asks #anon #vampire ofa coven au #i have not figured out the lore yet #but afo should be in here #he's thee progenitor after all

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