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avastrasposts · 2 years ago

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The Accident

Should I maybe be writing chapter 7 of The Pilot and his girl? Yes.

Did I accidentally write 2.1 k of angst and fluff for our sweet boy Frankie instead because I wanted something for #frankiefriday? Yes.

Warnings: we've got pretty graphic descriptions of injuries and blood in a hospital setting so if you're iffy about that, be warned.

The call came through just as Frankie instructed his student to adjust her course and climb to a new altitude. Denny’s voice over the radio sounds agitated and stressed. Pausing his lesson he responds, a bad feeling immediately settling in his stomach.

“Frankie here, what’s up, boss?”

“I’m sorry, Frankie, they called, I don’t know how bad, General just called, General Hospital,” Denny says, stumbling over the words, “your girlfriend’s at their ER, there was an accident, a hit and run, you’d better get over there.”

Frankie feels his throat close up and panic rises in his chest, his fingers close hard around the stick and he feels tunnel vision set in as he breathes out a pained Fuck.

“Fly over there, I’ll clear it with them, just get there, don’t worry about the chopper, I’ll arrange a pick up,” Denny’s voice barely cuts through the fuzz in Frankie’s ears as he goes into solution mode.

He feels like he’s back in the army, back in gear, running a mission to get himself and the guys out. The woman in the co-pilot seat says something but he doesn’t register. He sets a new course, hearing the all clear from General as Denny relays their message. Minutes feel like hours as he flies towards the landing pad onto top of the high rise in downtown, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Images are flitting through his head, he’s trying to push them down. Memories of the injuries he’s seen fits themselves onto the body of the woman he loves. He sees your limbs broken, open wounds, dark bruises, blood matted into your hair, trailing down your face, dripping into unseeing eyes as his mind unwittingly imagines you lying crumpled on the street, unconscious on a stretcher, dead in a hospital bed.

He’s flying on autopilot, going through the motions that are seared into his nerves, and lands on the helipad, shutting down the helicopter, unbuckling himself, he hits the ground running, heading for the door into the hospital.

The elevator down to the ground floor is too slow, he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet as it inches down to the ER, wrenching up the doors the second it stops he pushes past the people waiting and scans the room. Grabbing a nurse by the arm he demands to know where you are, his grip on the nurse's arm almost too hard, the panic in his voice not even contained. The nurse brings him over to a computer and checks.

“They’ve brought her up to the ICU, room five, second floor.”

Frankie takes off at a run, the elevator is too slow, he barges through the doors to the stairs and takes them three at a time, his heartbeat skyrocketing, breathing hard, cold sweat trickling down his spine. Skidding around a corner he throws the door open to the ICU ward, frantically scanning the wall for the numbers of the rooms he jogs down the hallway, panting loudly.

Where is she? ICU isn’t good. I can’t…don’t think, don’t think, Frankie, just find her.

Room five, closed door, glass walls, people in hospital uniforms hovering around a bed, between their moving forms he catches glimpses of your face under an oxygen mask, eyes closed, a gash over your eyebrow, dark stains on your pale blue shirt, my shirt, she borrowed it this morning, your complexion...

Fuck, no, no, she’s lost so much blood, there’s so much blood, she’s not…she’s…

“Cariño! Nononono!!” Frankie’s anguished cry cuts through the sedated hospital hallway, he’s trying to rip the door open, “Let me in!! She’s my girlfriend! Fuck! I need to be with her, let me the fuck in!!” The door rattles under his assault but strong arms are pulling him back, away from her.

“Let me go! Let me in! I need to be with her! Fuck off!” He tries to shake off whoever has a hold of him but they are too strong. “Fucking let me go! I have to go to her! I have to, let me go!”

“Frankie! Frankie! Cálmate, hermano, cálmate!” Pope’s voice cuts through his panic, holding him back with one arm hooked around his chest, the other gripping his arm. “You’ve got to let them do their job, there’s nothing you can do.” His grip around Frankie doesn’t let up, his friend is trashing under his arms, staring at the face of his girlfriend, motionless on the bed behind the glass walls.

“She can’t…I can’t handle…Santi, please…fuck, Santi, she can’t, I…” Frankie’s panic turns to despair as he watches the doctors and nurses move around his girlfriend’s still body. His hand squeezes hard on Pope’s arm around his chest, digging his nails in without noticing his friend wince.

Somewhere in his brain he knows that as long as they are moving, there’s still hope. He looks at you, stares at you through the glass, willing you to keep breathing, to know that he’s here, that he’s by your side even if it’s behind a glass wall.

“Come on, Frankie, let's sit down, there’s a waiting area over there,” Pope tugs gently at Frankie’s arm but he doesn’t budge.

“No, I have to be here, I have to see her,” Frankie mumbles and pushes Pope’s arm off him. With his back to the wall he slides down it and sits on the hospital floor, never taking his eyes off you. Pope sits down next to him and puts his hand on his shoulder.

“She knows you’re here now, hermano, I know it.”

Together they sit and watch the organised calm and efficiency that permeates the ICU room. Blood bags are hooked up to you, an IV with a clear liquid replaced, your shirt is cut off and Frankie whimpers when they remove a temporary dressing and he sees the swelling on your abdomen and a harsh gash where something has cut along your ribs, tearing you open to the bone. A doctor blocks the view for a long time and when she moves a white compress and bandage covers the injury. Bit by bit your injuries are assessed and addressed, results from scans brought in and treatments agreed upon. Eventually the flow of people in the room slows down and a doctor steps out and spots the two men sitting on the floor.

“What are you doing here? The waiting room is down the hall, no outsiders are allowed here.”

“Please, doc, she’s my girlfriend,” Frankie pushes himself off the floor and stands up, his eyes dark and hooded with worry, “I have to be with her, how is she? I don’t even know what happened.”

The doctor’s eyes shift from annoyance to compassion when she sees Frankie’s anguished face. “She’s still in a critical state, but she’s stable, for now. She lost a lot of blood but we stopped the bleeding and she’s stabilising. She’s got a complicated break on her left arm that we’ll have to do surgery on but the priority now is the head trauma, a concussion, and some serious internal bleeding that we have to keep a close eye on, so until that’s under control, she’ll be in the ICU.”

“What happened to her?” Pope asks as he sees Frankie trying to process the information, his eyes flitting back to his girlfriend’s still form on the bed.

“The paramedics said it was a hit and run. She was hit by a car, seemingly running a red light, when she was on a crosswalk. The police will want to talk to her once she’s able to, they’re interviewing witnesses and...”

The doctor’s voice fades away as Frankie moves towards the glass wall, all he can focus on is the slow movement of your chest, rising with the smallest lift as you breathe, proving to him that you’re still alive.

“Hermosa,” he whispers against the glass, “I’m here. I’m here and I’m not leaving.”

Pope looks over at Frankie, his friend leaning his forehead against the glass, staring at you.

“Can he go in? He needs to let her know he’s here.”

The doctor looks over at Frankie who’s turned his head and is looking at her with pleading eyes, “Please, doc, I need to talk to her.”

“Ok, you can sit with her but when staff tells you to leave, you have to leave immediately. And your friend needs to wait in the waiting area,” she says, looking at Pope.

He nods, “Absolutely, no problem, I’ll go call her parents, let them know.”

Frankie’s already slid the door open, carefully stepping into the room, and towards the bed. Your uninjured hand is on the bedcovers, an oximeter on your finger, and he carefully wraps his hand around yours as he looks at you for any signs that you can hear him. Your hand is icy cold, the blood loss making your skin deprived of any warmth and he carefully cups your cheek with his other hand, stroking the soft skin with his thumb.

“Mi hermosa, mi vida, I’m here, please don’t leave me,” he whispers, his fingers never seizing their movement over your skin. He bends down over the bed, pressing his lips against your forehead, kissing your skin, the tip of your cold nose, your cheek, gently fitting his face against the crook of your neck and breathing warm air on your bleak skin, willing all of the heat in his body to pass into to you, to warm your chilled frame. His breath ghosts over your ear as he speaks to you, willing you to hear him, to know that he’s here.

“Te amo, te amo, cariño.”

He stays bent over your body, ignoring the protests from his lower back as he carefully rests his head on your shoulder.

Eventually a nurse comes along and takes pity on him. She checks the machines around you and then brings him a folding chair to set up next to the bed. He gratefully sits down on it, his hand still curled around yours, and leans his head against your arm.

“Please don’t leave me, mi vida,” he whispers, “you have to stay, what am I gonna do without you?” He looks up at your closed eyes, rests his hand gently on your chest to make sure you’re breathing. He knows there are machines measuring every possible thing your body does, but he needs to feel it for himself, the slow lift of your chest, the heart, weak, but still beating. “I love you, don’t go. I can’t…I can’t lose you,” he bites back the panic that threatens to rise up as he touches upon that thought, forcing himself to focus on your heartbeat, it’s still there. “I know I need you more than you need me, that’s how it’s always been. You always say I’m your rock, I’m the steady one that calms you down when you have a shitty day at work or fight with your dad, or you’re just stressed out. But I can only be steady because you’re there, I’m calm when I can hold you, you ground me, hermosa. Without you I’m a mess, a fucking mess that can’t keep his shit togther. I need you. Always.”

Frankie inhales deeply and presses his forehead against your arm, his fingers curled around your hand.

And he feels it. A small twitch, the slightest pressure from your hand on his. He jerks up his head, looking at your eyes as your eyelids begin to flutter, your mouth moving under the oxygen mask.

“Frankie…” you croak, your voice broken and cracked, no more than a faint whisper. But he hears it.

“I’m here, hermosa, I’m here!” he grips your hand tighter, standing up so that he can look down at you, so that he’s the first thing you see when you open your eyes.

Your eyelids flutter open, blinking against the harsh light of the ICU room, but slowly they find his warm, brown eyes, looking down at you with pained relief.

“Cariño, mi vida, I’m here, I’m here,” he whispers, stroking your cheek, bending down to place a featherlight kiss on your cheek, his warm lips hot against your cold skin. “I’ve got you, don’t worry, I’ve got you, hermosa, just don’t scare me like that again.” His mouth is still against your cheek, whispering into your ear, his hand cupping your other cheek, his warm body radiating heat as he leans closer. With difficulty you lift your arm and put your hand on his head, feeling his soft curls under your stiff fingers. Your grip is weak but nothing could make him move from where he is now, nothing can make him leave you.

“Mi hermosa” he whispers, “just rest now, I’m not going anywhere, I’ll always be here.”

#frankie morales #frankie morales fluff #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction #frankie morales angst #frankie friday

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bloodblanks · 2 years ago

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30 frames per second [ben drowned x reader] — prologue.

You had a difficult problem. Your computer was talking to you, telling you its name was BEN, and that its soul was trapped in some video game file. You had a simple solution, though. It also mentioned that it would stop haunting you if you set it free, and all you had to do was complete said game. But your simple solution wasn’t actually so simple, because as it turns out— You were really, really bad at video games.

co-written with @blxrrii and @heartsfromvenus! ♡

author’s note: this fanfiction will not contain much, if any, dark or explicit content, but nonetheless,

please read at your own discretion.

What does defeat look like?

The screen was, at first, a mesmerizing concoction of colours reminiscent of a bouquet of blossoming flowers. Red, greens and blues ripped at the screen, profusely tearing at the surface, shredding it into a confetti of pixels. Those seconds of colours flashing in front of your eyes both stretched out into the long threads of infinity and at the same time, passed by too fast, over in a flash, in the short time span of the blink of an eye. The screen before you gave one final, shuddering, dying glitch before it collapsed into an unrelenting darkness covering everything.

What does defeat feel like?

Invisible strings must’ve linked your heart to the now turned-off monitor, like a puppet dangled from the tips of its master’s fingers, because at the same time the screen shut off, you felt any last glimmers of hope—even the smallest scintillas—burn out like embers, what was left of their ashes dropping down deep into the pit that was your stomach. As the desecrated dust fluttered downwards into the depths of your gut, you could feel the panic rise up, a harrowing sense of anxiety and dread breathing, sending a chain of rippling bubbles to the surface.

What does defeat taste like?

You gathered the saliva in your mouth before swallowing, but the rancid taste of acid and bitterness still sat on your tongue, dwelling there as an unwelcome guest to the pity party you were the host of. Clenching your teeth so tightly they angrily ground up against one another, your jaw tensed and locked itself up, fists mimicking the same motion, your entire body sharing the identical sentiment of utter disbelief.

What does defeat smell like?

You inhale, air forcing itself in, sharp and shaky at the same time, the rest of your limbs also trembling in unison as you drop the controller, its plastic shell loudly clattering against the wooden floor of your bedroom, a seemingly deafening noise. The sound snapped you out of your shell-shocked state, sending a fresh pang of fear stabbing through your mind like an icepick. Your eyes darted towards the door instinctively; all your movements stopped at once as you remained alert, trying to detect any sound.

What does defeat sound like?

A relieved sigh escaped your lips as seconds passed, and there was no rustling, shuffling, or indication that anyone was awake except for you and the boy by your side, whose hands had clasped around yours, smaller and quivering in his hold. You finally turned your head towards him, tears forming in the corners of your eyes, splashing over your pupils and blurring your vision. You reflexively blinked to clear your sight, the newborn mixture of salt and water tumbling over the edge of your waterline, spilling down both sides of your cheeks. Removing one of his hands from yours, he raised it towards your face, his thumb brushing at the streaks of hot tears, brushing at the acknowledgement of defeat.

next chapter ->

#creepypasta #creepypasta nsft #creepypasta reader insert #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta x you #creepypasta smut #yandere creepypasta #ben drowned #ben drowned creepypasta #ben drowned x reader #ben drowned x you #ben drowned x y/n #ben drowned arg #yandere ben drowned #ben drowned reader insert #ben drowned smut #ben x reader #ben drowned headcanons #ben drowned hcs

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theimaginatrix27 · 3 years ago

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Calling all AO3 users who are visually impaired or blind and have experimented with site skins! And who use Firefox!

This morning, I tried something I had never tried before. I changed the site skin for AO3.

It was something I had been reluctant to do, as I didn't know the effect it would have, but I thought it wouldn't be that big a deal, I could just change it back if I didn't like it, right?

I switched to the Low Vision Default. I didn't like it—I was trying this to see if my screen-reader would detect bold with a non-default skin. In the Low Vision Default, italics disappeared too. So did most of my menu options unless I clicked on "Hi, TheImaginatrix!", at which point they'd open up again, but looked different.

I tried the other two public skins, with no discernible change.

Then I tried switching back to Default.

It didn't work.

I started to freak out, just a little.

I tried refreshing the page. No dice. I tried restarting the browser. Still the same. I logged out (when I had first changed skin, it said it would only apply for that session), but even logged out, I couldn't see italics with my screen-reader!

Now freaking out more than a little, I restarted the computer, then found the AO3 cookies and deleted them. Even with no cookies in my browser, the AO3 pages still looked the same as when I had first switched to the Low Vision Default skin.

I had already sent a frantic feedback/technical issue report to the AO3 team, but I sent an email to the BlindTech list I'm on, and asked for help on a couple Discord servers. By then, though, I'd tried all the advice they had except clearing all my cookies, and I'm not doing that yet because it makes no sense that cookies from another site would be impacting AO3 and AO3 alone. Also, the last time I cleared all my cookies in a moment of desperation, the problem I was trying to solve had nothing to do with me and I had to run around logging back into things, and occasionally having to wait for a verification code to come through so Google or Amazon Prime would let me back in. In short, I was freaking out enough as it was without having to go through all that again with the very real chance I would be disappointed.

So I kept trying things. I noticed the Reader View in the address bar for the first time, and tried it, thinking for a wild fifteen minutes that I'd hit on the solution, because the Low Vision Default skin could have activated a hidden accessibility setting to allow you to listen to a fic being read to you via TTS. Also, when viewed in this mode, the work text had all it's formatting, including bold, visible to NVDA! But alas, this is a default Firefox feature and perfectly normal and has always been there since it was added, whenever that was. I've literally never used it before today.

The most recent thing I tried was going to the Page Styles option in the View submenu in the Menu bar, and switch from "Basic Page Style" to "No Style". This reverted the AO3 page I was on to something resembling Pre-tampering AO3 (all my user options were back, the italics was back, it looked normal again). The problem being, that setting doesn't save across restarts, and in any case, it's set to "basic style" across the board, so that's not necessarily the problem. I can see italics, and bold, on most other sites (the NaNoWriMo site doesn't show them to my screen-reader either, but that's been the case since the 2019 site makeover).

So my current conclusion is, something's gone sideways with AO3's page style specifically, and I'm 85% sure it's on my end, because if it wasn't, it wouldn't happen when I was logged out, and clearing my cookies would have fixed it.

Unless there's a weird glitch going on with AO3 and even without my cookies it recognises my browser, but with the knowledge I currently have, I'm almost sure there's some option in Firefox I have to find and change.

If anyone else has had a similar experience while messing around with site skins using a screen-reader and/or Firefox, please please please help me I don't know what else to try.

#AO3 #AO3 Site Skins #AO3 Skins #Technical Difficulties #Accessibility #Please help me!#I'm at my wit's end!

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