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gloomwitchwrites · 15 days ago

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Okay this is so specific but I remember my mom telling me about this one time when we were getting our house renovated, and she found out that one of the workers was secretly sleeping in our home without consent. Obviously my mom freaked out and confronted him, and the guy started calling my mom every name in the book. She said my dad whipped around the corner so fast with me as an infant in his arms, talking about some “what the fuck did you just say to my wife?”

It’s SO 141-coded I think 😭 some asshole is rude to the missus or, God forbid, one of his children?! Papa Bear comes out. Has no problem bitch-slapping someone with his littlest baby cradled in his other arm.

All of this to say I think it’d be cool if you wrote something similar 🫶 Angry and protective 141 is so so so delicious to me

Oh hello mutual. Firstly, that's fucking crazy. But also, the transition into asking for protective dad!141 is perfection. They're defending their wife all while holding their infant child? Say less @frudoo! SAY LESS!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (mdni): swearing, dad!141, protective!141

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

Like a dark beacon, John appears from around the corner. In his arm is a snoozing infant. She sleeps soundly; face pressed into his chest as he cradles her close to him.

“You’re supposed to be putting her down for her nap,” you say quickly as he starts walking toward you.

“I was,” he replies. John’s gaze slowly slides to the handyman in front of you. “Then I heard a raised voice.” As John approaches, his gaze narrows, a deadly bite in his eye that you’ve only ever seen when he’s truly upset.

“Just a minor disagreement,” you reassure.

“A minor disagreement?” he questions. John isn’t looking at you. He’s staring down the man in front of him. He shifts forward, partially blocking your view of the guy. “Why did you raise your voice at my wife?”

There is coldness in each word. A silent threat.

The man coughs. “I—I want—"

“Here’s the deal, mate.” John places his fingertips on the man’s chest, staring him in the face. “You apologize to my wife. And then you leave, yeah?”

The man opens his mouth and then thinks better of it.

John doesn’t smile. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“What’s this?”

Johnny appears from around the corner, striding into the living room from the kitchen. In one arm, he cradles your infant daughter. She slumbers, mouth open, head turned into his chest. He has a smile plastered on his face, but you can tell it’s forced. There is no pleasantness in that grin. He’s out for blood.

It takes Johnny all but a few strides before he’s standing between you and the handyman. The plumbing is shot, and the worker that was sent is grumpy and rude. He’s been gruff and overbearing.

“We were—”

Johnny cuts him off. “I know what you were doing. Wanna repeat what you said to my wife?” He’s still smiling, skin stretching as it widens. You step up to him, grasping his upper arm.

“Johnny,” you hiss. He ignores you.

The handyman does, and Johnny shakes his head. “Tone, too.”

The handyman remains silent, all the color from his face draining as he realizes his mistake.

Johnny nods in understanding. “Think it’s time to leave. Walk you to the door.” He clasps the man’s shoulder, fingers digging in as he escorts him out. The front door shuts. “I’m calling for a new plumber.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

A large shadow descends, blanketing the red-faced man before you. His narrowed, angry eyes turn toward the interloper and promptly widen. Whatever he intends to say next melts away in the presence of your husband. Simon is a looming figure. Imposing, even with your newborn infant daughter cradled in his big arm, sleeping softly as if nothing is the matter, and this pathetic excuse of a man didn’t just call you a slur.

“What the fuck did you say to my wife?” murmurs Simon, his voice cold and low.

There are only a few instances when you’ve heard Simon use this tone. You can count them on one hand.

“I—” he stammers, face growing redder. “She—”

“Careful,” growls Simon. “One wrong word and I’ll shove my fist so far up your arse it’ll come out your bloody throat.”

“With your kid in your arms?” the man splutters, spittle flying.

Simon leans in like he’s about to divulge a secret. “Won’t even wake her.”

It’s all bluster, and he quickly departs, removing himself promptly from the situation before anything escalates.

“Would you really?” you ask Simon once the man disappears.

“No,” replies Simon slowly. “But he didn’t know that.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

It’s a familiar hand on your shoulder that stills your next retort. Warm and comforting and soothing in its pressure and reassurance. A signal to surrender, to allow your husband to take charge in this situation. You’ll happily allow it. With your blood pressure rising rapidly, you’re close to snapping and saying something you don’t mean. The man in front of you might be an asshole, but you’re not looking to make things worse.

Kyle gently guides you back, to stand behind him as he takes control. There are few instances where you’ve seen Kyle truly upset, but from the glint in his eye, you can tell he’s furious. For now, it’s suppressed, but one wrong move might send him swinging.

With your infant daughter cradled in one arm, Kyle addresses the man before him. “What did you say to my wife?”

The man visibly swallows. “Nothing.” He coughs. “Sir.”

Kyle inclines his head. “Thought so, mate.” His gaze narrows. “If you need anything you speak to me. Got it?”

The man nods. Kyle turns to you, softness returning to his features. Shifting the infant, Kyle presents her to you. “How bout you put her down? I’ll handle this prick.”

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pinkmirth · 5 months ago

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thinking about s/o who likes to dress up their vampire bf (yes i'm talking about adrian) and they always make sure that he likes the outfit too. he's just so pretty i can't 🥺

𝜗𝜚 ࣪ ˖ 𓈒 “DOTE” FT. ADRIÁN ‘ALUCARD’ ȚEPEȘ! ⸻ ( 2k+ ) words of ⨾ fluff + suggestive/nsfw, alucard x fem!reader ( black-coded ), canon-divergent, set in the set in the 15th century (1400s), established relationship, lowercase intended, explicit language, minors shoo!

my love letter! ౨ৎ ₊ ⊹ oh my goodness luna, i adore this!!! doting on adrian and clothing him sounds like a dream! it’s moving enough for me to want to put it into words . . . i ended up writing this out to be a teensy bit sentimental, if that’s okay! i feel like he’d be hesitant to receive affection but eventually ends up reveling in it because it’s just what he needed! adrian truly deserves some loveee, and i’m here to give it to him >.< please enjoy, and thank you so much for reading! ❤︎

there’s something you and your lover like to call the ‘ echoes, ’ simply put, for any noise that bounces off the walls resounds throughout the entire castle. it’s a reliable system, and adrian’s able to use it to call your attention from anywhere within it.

“darling,” there goes his soothingly silken voice, ringing out all the way from the east wing. at times, you’re amused at how it can reach you from this far. “would you come over and give this a look, please?”

at his plea, you’ll be there. so you settle down the leatherback-book you’d been reading, slinking the pad of your finger beneath a page to fold it by the crisp outer corner.

“coming!”

you’re sure he feels you nearing, courtesy of your shallow-heeled footsteps thudding upon the wine-red shag of his home’s romanian rugs. he acknowledges your presence by swinging open the door to the primary bedroom.

you didn’t think you’d have to tiptoe around mountain-sized heaps of clothing upon entering adrian’s chamber— his closet’s practically ravaged. although, living with a dhampir was never known to be an experience short of surprises.

in the midst of all the madness is where he stands, still adorned in his cream nightgown. he’s got a garment clutched in one hand and a pullover tunic in the other. the subtle veins running along his slender hands makes his grip look exasperated. alucard appears to be having one of those days— where nothing feels just right.

“what’s all this, dear? thought you’d have been dressed by now,” you call out, making your way around a stockpile of trousers to approach him. gently, your delicate hands come to settle upon the broad expanse of his clothed chest. just as he figured it would, your touch immediately soothes him.

the man sighs before he speaks. “i apologize,” adrian peers down at you from where he stands, dropping both items to rest his hands on either side of your hips, “i’ll make sure to clean up afterwards.”

“no worries,” you hum, offering him a warm, sweet smile. when he tends to grow reckless, you know what he needs most is a dash of affection. “you wanted me to take a look at something, yes?”

“i did,” he mumbles, sunny eyes flitting over to his plundered closet, “though now i’m seriously reconsidering every single piece that i own.”

you don’t make a point to say it, but you know it isn’t about the blouses or the pants or any of those things. it’s his mind that tends to run rampant on all that’s been and all he’s lost. at tines, it manifests into agitation, a period of overstimulation where one thing makes him shirk and another gets him withdrawn. despite it all, he’s consoled that you’re here to reel him back in and distract him from himself in that dreamy little way that you do.

“show me the one you were last contemplating on, adrian.” you do it with such ease, pulling him out of his own head and bringing him back into the moment. for a good second, he thinks of just how lucky one man could possibly be.

“go on,” you pat his chest, and his lips flit up into a subtle grin. now more content, adrian scours for it and eventually plucks it off an embroidered chair situated in the corner; only God knows how it got there.

pinched between his index and thumbs, alucard holds up the top, exaggerated sleeves and all, presenting it to you; a simple chestnut colored option that shares the same wood-like hue as the bedpost.

“my twelfth option of the day,” he snidely notes. his sarcasm pries giggle from you. “what do you think, love?”

“it’s quite pretty,” you tilt your head, inspecting the piece with sparkly, concentrated eyes. he admires the way a wispy strand of hair falls along to drape against your face. just precious, he believes.

“it’s a little puffy at the sleeves, though.”

“i knew it,” adrian attests, “this is too . . . flouncy.”

“oh, forget what i said! it’s the perfect amount of flouce.”

“no no, it’s far too much. it’s practically screaming at me.” to that, you chuckle a bit. he can be ever so keen to such minute details.

theatrically, adrian mounts the nearby bed and flops atop the tousled sheets, an exhale leaving the depths of his chest upon impact. “i suppose this is just an ‘only-underwear’ sort of day.” you nearly add that he might as well free himself as a whole and go naked, but the poor man would flush so badly that you choose to refrain.

“you know, adrian,” you scan over his collection, eyeing the finest of silks, puffed shirts and ruffles. his wardrobe practically looks fitting for that of wallachian royalty. “i could make it easy, choose an outfit for you.”

its sudden, how he sits upright and turns to you. his eyes blink just a bit wider, a little slower. alucard’s mouth strikingly quirks upwards in a way that makes you believe he hadn’t been comfortable with the idea— almost as though you’d been meaning to treat him like a child.

“you’d . . . dress me up?”

you retract in the slightest, “only if you’d like. it isn’t a must—”

“please,” he ultimately responds, tone soft and low, “by all means.” it had just been the thought of the sheer intimacy that dazed him. you selecting what would fit him best through your eyes, pulling himself free of his clothes, revealed unto you as you’re dolling him up . . . it all sounds so touching and right now, he wants nothing more.

he can feel palpable relief roll off of you in waves as you beam, “sounds perfect, then.” he calms himself and fixes his countenance, gracing you with a sincere smile. rosy pigment scatters itself upon his face. you catch onto that hopeful glimmer in his eye, one that shows he’s pleased though you can’t quite place it. he’s too softened to say that gratitude has overcome him.

your back is facing him as you rummage around and take your pick, “undress while i put something together, alright?”

“bold request,” adrian characteristically quips. you merely laugh, “you should be bare once i turn around, you hear?”

he hums in acknowledgment, although he opts for tidying up the room first. you can’t see him with your back turned, yet you know he made use of his vampirian speed to grab and fold all his clothes that’d been thrown-askew, including the night attire he’d already been wearing. it amazes you that it only took him a solid eight seconds to complete it all.

“i’m sure that’s convenient,” you muse, turning his way with your selections in hand. alucard’s bare now, adorned in nothing other than his undergarments. a plain and skimpy pair of beige-white breeches shouldn’t excite you so— but god, they hang so low on his hips it’s like they’re barely even there. and how could you possibly ignore the way the cloth clings to his thighs? his arms look strong and coiled like wire, and the chiseled lining of his lean torso is embellished by the fleshy-pink scar that runs past his abdomen all the way up the center of his firm chest.

adrian can only hold your gaze for so long before realizing that you’re drinking him in. consciously, he pivots his head the other way as though to escape it, allowing his lengthy hair to drape down and cover the flushing of his fair cheeks.

you inch up to him, setting the clothes on his bedside. you find his larger hand to interlace with your own, and he only grows redder. there’s an indescribable pride that comes with being capable of riling him up.

“oh, don’t tell me you’re shy,” your hum is sugary like marmalade, “i’ve seen you before . . . you’re beautiful.”

“oh my god,” he whispers, pressing a palm to his heated face. sometimes adrian finds you to be too sweet. he isn’t sure how you haven’t yet succeeded at killing him with all your flattery. he bashfully smiles, cheeks warm as you stand high on your toes to peck them. “you and that mouth of yours.”

“i’ll leave you alone before you overheat,” you tease, halting your affections to return to the task at hand. “you love to toy with me,” he breathes out, and your giggle confirms it. you then display your choices; fitted pants of black leather paired with a warm-tan blouse, one that brings out the shine of his sharp eyes and adds a flush of vitality to his fair skin. interestingly enough, it resembles the color of his golden hair. you’d gone with something similar to his typical style so that he’d feel comfortable wearing it; though you know he’s been rather picky today.

“is it okay?” the way you await his approval makes his heart throb right within his chest. if only you knew that you handpicking anything for him was enough to make him fall in absolute love with it. it had never really been the outfit— he’s sure he just needed you all along.

“more than okay.” he smiles up at you, lips soft and pale-pink. you wonder if you’d end up altering the mood if you leaned down to kiss him. “well chosen, dear.”

“i know just what you like, don’t i?” you sound quite delighted, and it warms him up inside. “but of course. it’s my closet, after all.” the both of you share a knowing laugh that makes you feel so wholesome, so bound. you’ll be sure to commit the feeling to memory.

he then rises to his feet, standing a solid foot above you as he works his way into the bottoms you chose. a pout overtakes you, pretty lips pursed as you whine, “i could’ve done that!”

“you’ll get to fix the blouse. sounds fair, yes?” adrian knows if you were to have worn his pants for him, the hard-on he’d sport would’ve been more than embarrassing. you’ve seen each other vulnerable a good amount of times, and made love even more than what could be counted, but during a moment like this would only sully the mood, he’s sure.

with a hum, you give in. “fine,” your fingers trace against the threading of his shirt, “sit back down for me. you’re too tall for me to dress you from here,” alucard’s always found the contrast in size between the both of you to be endearing, especially whenever you go on to mention it. you’re surprised he decides to choose obedience instead of poking fun. he takes his place upon the bed and makes room for you to settle atop his lap. it’s instinctive, how quickly his hands reach for your waist. he rubs them along the patterning of your corset.

“arms out,” you’re a little less content when his touch leaves you, though you adore how well he listens. you ease the top over his head, onto his arms and finally onto the rest of his frame, tucking away the mussed locks of wavy blonde hair that fall array.

“i’ll brush it out for you later, adri,” you murmur, smoothing down the frizz before bringing your hands to cradle his cheeks. his face looks simply ethereal this close; flawlessly structured, handsome yet elegant. once again, his hands find their rightful place upon your sides. you watch him melt in your very hold when you coo, “my pretty boy.”

he whimpers a lowly call of your name. “thank you . . for all of it.” you know these sort of pocketed moments mean so much to him. his gentle pitch wavers with the subtlest hint of desire; you’d know the sound of it anywhere. still soft-spoken, though the slightest bit deeper. raspier, even. he only reserves such a tone for you.

your response is hushed, just about breathless, “always, adrian.” the pair of you are so close that the straightened tip of his nose grazes against your own. when the tension grows too thick and you can no longer escape his lips reeling you in like magnets, you finally lean into him and let your mouths slot, warmth blooming between you. his lithe fingers roam and you suckle at his bottom lip, prying a soft groan out of him.

alucard kisses you with longing, the span of his fangs subtly clashing against the pearly white of your teeth as he works at prodding his tongue inside, nipping at your lips and tasting of you. he frees out soft, little ‘ i love you ’ amongst all the licking and sucking.

you both wind up toppling down onto the bed, with his back to the mattress and your squished breasts to his heart. making out with a man such as adrian always gets so heavy; you’re panting into each other's mouths, swallowing up the other one’s sounds, and you just can’t seem to help but slowly roll your hips into the stiffness of his crotch. a handful of minutes with him already has you entirely soiled.

“this is becoming something else,” alucard breaks away with a huff, fighting himself not to rip off the clothes you just adorned him in.

but fuck, you aren’t helping. “allow it, then . . .” is your solution, bringing the plush surface of your lips to suckle along his jaw, against the column of his throat, right down his neck . . . no point in refraining now. you eased him of his worries, and he only wants nothing more than to repay you.

“quite a shame, dear.” it truly is— especially considering that you put together such a stylish assortment for him. “now everything must be undone.”

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keferon · 4 months ago

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Two Peas in a Pod: part 2/?

*slips another piece into your mailbox*

_____________________

Jazz was still feeling a little woozy from his donation in the dark hours of the morning. Blaster had breakfast changed from the usual to something that felt more like a treat, probably a reward for his good behaviour, and to help his body recover. Fish heavy in proteins, fat, all that healthy stuff. Something that normally he would have tried to savour, but he wolfed it down from excitement. Too many questions ran through his head, and most he couldn't bring himself to voice.

The mer, the mer would pull through. Blaster told him about how he had saved their life with his blood. Praised him high and low. Because Blaster knew how Jazz felt about seeing blood, about how hard blood tests were for him, and that was only a tiny vial. Not three big bags of it. Jazz hadn't seen how much they had taken – because he had kept his eye closed until they left in a hurry –, and hearing about it made him dizzy for other reasons, but he honestly felt real proud of himself.

It was a new feeling, different from other moments of pride – like when he figured out the lock codes. Yeah, this gave him butterflies and the drive to help more.

Blaster laughed when Jazz offered that the vets could take more if the other mer needed it. His handler didn't think it would be, but he would pass it on to the vet team.

Jazz's morning checks were a little off, expected with having a little less fluids and feeling off-balance, but it was kept short and quick. Blaster told him that if he learned anything more, he'd tell him next time he came by and then hurried back down to the staff area. Blaster was needed elsewhere, understandably as there weren't many mer experts here, though he did leave Jazz his waterproof stereo if he wanted to play some of his favourites.

But, the orca mer was far too busy causing a whirlpool from the laps he was swimming. He was too excited to sit still, and embarrassment be damned he started practising old vocals. He didn't remember much of his mother tongue, and he was pretty sure that his pronunciation was off, that or had one hell of an accent. Echo-speech was even more rusty. And once he had gone over and over what he could recall, Jazz began to really worry. A few sentences and handful or so of words was all he had? Gods, I hope I can at least make a decent first impression. Blaster said they were just like me, so hopefully, that will give me some starting points.

More than he cared to count, Jazz would swim into the shallow waters of the medical bay and hope to see something through that window. But no one ever came close enough for him to hear any news of the mer. He couldn't even see anything on his radar, wherever they had done treatment, it wasn't in the hospital ward. It almost felt like he was being purposely kept in the dark.

And just when Jazz was starting to worry that things had taken a bad turn, a group of staff turned up around four pm. He wasn't able to ask any questions, or rather they refused to answer. Shooing him away as they got to work. Starting with closing the gate to the bay to 'keep him out'. Jazz could easily climb those walls, but that wasn't the point. Even if the gate window was closed, he could pick up that they were setting up the water hammock. But it wasn't until he heard the cautionary beeping of the hoist lift approaching that it dawned on him – the mer was coming. Now.

"Jazz," Blaster called, "… Jazz," he blew the training whistle and finally got his mer's attention. "Stop pacing and get over here."

"But–" Jazz looked back longingly up the wall.

"Jazz," his tone dropped to a firm one, and Jazz begrudgingly swam over to the pier. The human crouched and made sure that they held eye contact before he spoke. "I need you to promise me that you will stay in your enclosure."

He sunk a little, trying to play into his cuteness, but being far too anxious to really pull it off. "What do you mean?"

"Jazz," now warning him. Blaster knew full well that he was more than capable of getting into or out of places he shouldn't, bloody Houdini mermaid, "this is serious. Things are going well, we want to keep it that way. Which means keeping things calm and feeling safe. You're excited, I get it, we all are. But in about an hour, they'll be waking up and – from past experience seen with wild Mers – they will likely freak out. And the last thing we need is you hauling your tail over that wall and making things worse. Understand?"

The beeping was louder how and the hiss of hydraulics caused Jazz to look up. The arm of the lift was visible over the wall. They're here!

"Jazz," Blaster hopelessly called for his attention once more.

Within moments, a massive bundle was carefully raised, the staff calling out and coordinating. Jazz's gaze was fixed on the black and white fluke poking out, it was the only part of them he could see, and his heart began to race. Once they became hidden by the wall again, Jazz moved back to pacing by the gate without even thinking. Listening to people hopping into the water to unstrap the mer and call back n' forth. "Careful, careful! – Watch the head! – Someone give me a hand over here! – We're clear on this side! – Keep the head up!"

Really starting to sound like a broken record, Blaster chirped the whistle and called out to him again. The expression he wore must have been pretty pitiful because the look on Blaster's face dropped. "If I open the view port… will you promise me that you will wait, that you will stay in your enclosure?"

"I promise," he answered hastily, placing his hands on the gate, over the panel that would slide open.

"And that you will wait until everything is in the clear, till the staff come to oversee the integration. There will be no rushing things and no asking staff when we will open the gate."

"I promise," he repeated, trying not to beg.

Satisfied, Blaster pulled out his radio, "Blaster to Control; when the team is out of the Mer enclosure's medical bay, open the view port. Jazz's stress is mounting without a visual."

"Can do," came a quick reply.

Though, opening the panel was not. Several minutes went by, the hoist had cleared out, and much of the staff had returned to their other duties. Only two remained double-checking the mer's breathing and pulse. The moment that the last of them left, Jazz heard the lock disengage, and he retracted his hands as the panel shifted and began to slide open. The window was too small to get more than his hand – maybe up to his elbow if he wanted to push it – through, and sat just at water level– any movement sending water hopping to either side. But it gave him a clear view of the surface area inside.

Oh.

Oh. Jazz stopped breathing. While the mer's body was mostly supported by the fabric of the hammock, cradling them on their side, effectively hiding most of them from Jazz's angle. Propped up on a soft floating platform was the mer's head, face towards the gate. Sharp features and elegantly shaped finials, with flattering lines of their markings complimenting the peaceful expression as they slept. The butterflies from earlier came back stronger than ever, his heart thundering as words fumbled from Jazz's lips, "he's beautiful…"

_____________________

-GLC

Orca Prowl really is just-- too fucking pretty, omg, I'm living through Jazz in this moment like when I first saw your designs of him.

I'm more than happy to continue writing for you, you bring me so much joy. I screamed when I saw how much you liked it. If you have any requests you would like me to add to the story, leave it in the tags or comments ♡ I now plan to continue until the tsunami and a bit afterwards, maybe more, we'll see~

Upd: There is a next part!

Oh. MY GOD. OKAY ALRIGHT OKAY ALRIGHT OKA

I'M ABOUT TO START PACING IN CIRCLES JUST LIKE JAZZ OVER HERE KDLCNFJFLFB PL E A S E THIS IS SO GOOD. The tension?? You can fucking TASTE it IT'S SO GREAT GLC I LOVE YOU

The way it all starts at night and then you (as a reader) have all this additional time to boil in your anticipation?? So fucking great. Like you can really feel how little power Jazz has over the wholse situation. The plot is moving but he doesn't have any saying in it. Well. Yet heheh

Anyway haha. Im normal and I made some art>:D

#apocalyptic ponyo #jazzprowl #jazz #prowl #blaster #ponyo jp writing #GLC #merformers #maccadam #transformers #damn imagine living your whole life with stupid dolphins and pretty much equally stupid captive merfolks #and then meeting a guy with an Engineering degree #must be wild~~~~#Wait I just realized. Those workers never had any experience with sapient merfolks besides Jazz #they all are like “he will freak out” but their understanding is based mostly on animals and captive mers #and those tend to become VERY stressed if they suddenly wake up in some new strange environment and discover they have a company #while with Prowl it would be the exact opposite I imagine??? omg. After all the time he was kept in those tiny ass temporary pools???#having no company besides humans who are constantly poking him and staring at him and making him take their weird medication an-#-d sometimes drugs if he acts aggressively?#like after all this shit???#I have a feeling he would see/hear other orca nearby and his first initial reaction would be OH THANK FUCK there's a company #orcas are very VERY social after all~#I got carried away haha. I LOVE THE FIC SO MUCH #MUAH #this is freaking amazing #.....damn okAY one more thought I just had #there's only a small window for them to look at each other #Prowl wouldn't properly see Jazz ehehehjfkfnfmfj. He would sorta kinda see him right. But then he would ACTUALLY look at him. like.#for the first time see his entire body? and Jazz looks SO wrong #Okay I'm done spamming haha

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dcxdpdabbles · 2 months ago

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I don't know if you were planning on making any more but One Hell of a Good Bellhop is such a good fic and I would love to see more of it

(also I've been reading through your masterlist of posts so sorry for sending you so many notifs from liking them all) ❤️❤️

Charles smiles at the couple, eagerly looking through the clothes Danny had in the old employee lounge. Since they didn't have any more employees, the boy made the suggestion of setting up a gift shop, creating miniature nicknacks from the different eras he transformed the hotel into.

He sold costumes similar to whatever era he wanted the theme to be—this month, it was the Golden Age of Piracy, complete with a treasure hidden somewhere in the hotel for anyone to find—and the pirate costume could make a Hollywood costume designer weep with joy.

Charles didn't understand Danny's meta powers—not that he needed to. He figured he didn't need to. He just accepted that the boy could influence the hotel as if it were one of those video game home designs kids played.

He went to bed one night with the hotel Sally had adored so much falling apart, only to wake to it being in perfect condition, just like his memories. To find rooms set up with furniture and decoration that screamed wealthy—well, it just made his heart warm.

Especially when young people started wandering in, lured by Jazz and Danny walking the streets with flyers. It's been a long time since he saw the look of wonder in his guests' eyes as they took in his beloved hotel.

Danny seemed to really enjoy taking over the hotel. He somehow got the housing, the cooking, and the maintenance taken care of. He was always out of sight, but it let Charles sit at the front desk, resting his feet and watching life be breathed back into the hotel.

If Sally were alive, she would be sitting right next to him and cooing at the young couple holding up clothes against each other, faces flushed with love, as they try to select an outfit.

Despite being males, their excitement reminded him of his younger days when Sally and he would go on trips together whenever they stumbled across a bookshop.

His girl loved reading, while Charles had always fancied custom-made journals. Watching young people fall in love filled his heart with nostalgia; he was lonely.

Eventually, the couple finds what they like to wear for the pirate treasure hunt event and approaches the cash register, where Danny mysteriously appears. His young tenant was dressed in a black trench coat and skulled hat, looking like an authentic Black Beard pirate.

Charles has been watching the whole time, and despite it looking like he merely rounded the door behind the wall leading into the gift shop storage, Danny has literally blinked into existence.

Not that the two young men knew that. They merely paid for their outfits and what looked like a ship in a bottle. As soon as the payment was complete, Danny rounded the same wall and vanished. Charles turned his head to find Danny by the main entrance, holding the door open for a woman with a beaming smile.

He was now dressed to appear like a Cabin boy as he carefully led the new group to Charles for check-in. He didn't wait to hear the room number the group would be staying in before placing their luggage on a cart and vanishing down the hallway.

The woman and man with the three children looked alarmed, but Charles calmed them down by assuring them that their luggage would be waiting for them as soon as they were in their rooms. As he was finished adding them to the system, Danny reappeared to offer the startled couple a warm meal and hot chocolate for the kids.

Jazz, the sweetheart, taught Charles how to use the latest technology. She even modified the code to make the systems more user-friendly.

Charles was touched that she didn't fight his assistance to keep using a guest log book, even with their booking system, and went out of her way to find journals that fit Danny's chosen theme for the month. The kids seemed especially excited to write on parchment with quills afterward, as the adults were charmed by Danny's excellent cooking skills.

He was also in another outfit, this one looking more like a regular pirate member, though with a more green theme than the black of before.

"Are they triplets?" Mrs. Oblie asks as Danny fades from sight, only to appear at the gift shop, helping someone buy a signed treasure chest. He's back in a Black Beard outfit. "The three seem like hard workers."

Charles smiles. "It's the same person. Danny is a very hard worker."

"What?" Mr. Oblie gasps, twisting to stare at Danny and the direction in which Danny had taken their luggage. "How did he change clothes so quickly?"

"He was in the circus," Charles replies with a laugh. "He is used to quick changes. Plus, there are a lot of hidden passages way here."

He says the last bit like it's a big secret, winking at the children- one seems to be ten, the other seven- watching excitement bloom on their faces as they start looking around, attempting to spot the non-existent secret passages. The explanation isn't enough for Mrs. Oblie, but she doesn't argue further as she ushers her family into their room.

They will be down in a few hours so their kids can run around the hotel searching for a treasure. Mr. Oblie admitted over the phone that they hadn't had enough money for a vacation like he originally promised his eldest for her birthday, so this kid-friendly event was a lifesaver. Danny had claimed that it wasn't a lie- apparently, he can hear lies within the hotel, including the landline?- and had chosen to let the Oblie find some treasure even if they didn't win the main pot.

Charles wonders what face Mr.Oblie will make when his daughter finds the real diamond tiara that Danny set aside for her. Where on earth did the boy find something like that?

Charles didn't know and figured it was another part of Danny's meta abilities.

He turns towards the door, smiling as Jazz struts in. Her pantsuit is perfectly tailored, and her red hair falls gracefully behind her back. A few of the mingling guests are star-studded as she strides, her heels clicking on the ground like a bell.

If Danny was the ultimate bellhop who popped in and out of sight, Jazz was the hotel manager who commanded respect and awe. She was here for lunch, always arriving around one o'clock on the dot and the regulars who picked up on that fact always came down to get a glimpse of her.

Jazz and Danny were attractive siblings, but it wasn't mere looks that grabbed people's attention. They felt overwhelmingly alluring, like visiting Fae or a fallen star, as if somehow human but only just about.

Charles often wondered why someone like her was working as an assistant/secretary for an insurance company. She was far more capable than an entire management team.

She set up all their administration details. Charles had no idea how she could organize all their bills, supplies, advertisements, investments, and anything else he could think of for a business while booking appointments and filing claims for an entirely different company. To Charles, it was never about the money, but they were making a large amount now that the Fenotn children took over, and he offered her a position with better pay multiple times.

Jazz waved it away, saying she needed another job for her brother. He does suspect that she only stayed at Gotham Todd Insurance because of the young owner, whom her eyes tracked whenever Mr. Jason Todd walked through the building.

But Charles kept that theory to himself.

A soft clatter sounds from his elbow. Charles looks down to find a steaming plate of food, obviously done by Danny. He smiled at it, holding it up to Jazz as she neared. "Hi, sweetie; how's work going?"

"Hi, Grandpop," She beams, leaning over to hug him and gently kiss his cheek in greeting. "It's been a boring day. I finished this week's work in a few hours and just spent three hours preparing everything for Danny's next theme. Get this; he wants to do couples Cupid house for Valentine's Day."

She shakes her head fondly, in a way that reminds him so surreally of Sally that his heart squeezes. "Honestly, what goes through that guy's head?"

Charles beams back at her, hand curling around a glass of juice that zaps into existence in front of him like second nature. He hands it over to Jazz while she carefully cuts through her meatloaf.

"I think it's a wonderful idea," Charles tells her, leaning back in his chair. Jazz joins him as another plush chair appears at his side, and it takes him a moment to realize that Danny has restored the same club chairs from when the Gotham Fog Lodge originally opened.

These chairs were the ones that Charles and Sally used the first night they met by the fireplace of the hotel's main sitting room. They spoke for hours, and by the end of that night, he knew she was the one. Seeing the young lady he considered his granddaughter sitting in the same chair, Sally had adored so much, made her feel closer then ever before.

He wonders if he could die from how warm his heart glows.

"I think love is the greatest thing Gotham Fog Lodge can offer," Charles says, wiping some tears away. In return, jazz gives him a warmer smile, and Danny appears on his other side, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Gotham Fog Lodge is great because you're here, Grandpop," Danny says, seemingly unaware of how the hotel brightens when he speaks. "You were the only one who was kind to us when we got to Gotham."

Charles hugs the two rascals to hide the few tears that fall from happiness. He has no proof, but he's sure Sally sent these wonderful children his way. How else could a smuck like him be this lucky?

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #One Hell of a good Bellhop #Part 2 #Charles' pov #The Fenton kids are odd in normal peoples eyes #Danny is at home in his new Haunt #There are some rules #Danny can't keep any of the wealth he creates like the dimonds terira but others can since his Obession is protection #Jazz be the CEO of life #Pre-anger managment #The Hotel is magic #And Charles loves his grandbabbies

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seahorsepencils · 1 month ago

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I 100% believe that Nathan Fielder made a deliberate choice in focusing the episode around footage of him interacting with two autism "advocates" who are ultimately ableist and reductive in their understanding of autism. A congressman who doesn't even know what masking is, and an advocacy organization founder who uses outdated tests and won't acknowledge that not-autistic folks might benefit from rehearsing difficult social situations? That's not an accident.

If you look up Doreen Granpeesheh, you'll see that she is known for promoting the idea of autism "recovery," and that she has a history of publicly supporting the claim that there's a link between vaccines and autism. Her Wikipedia page makes very clear that she is a problematic figure whose work has been critiqued, and that she should not be taken seriously. Fielder, along with his writers and producers, would have known her reputation when booking her for the show.

A screenshot from Granpeesheh's website. Yes, it would appear she is actually proud of this headline.

And I think he's using the meeting with Cohen as a commentary on how autistic folks (and minoritized people in general, most likely) are treated by people in authority. Instead of masking and politely leaving the room, instead of picking up signals that Cohen is wrapping up the meeting without wanting to announce he's doing it on camera, Fielder purposely doesn't "take the hint" so that Cohen has to flounder and keep trying to wrap up the meeting in a way that is ultimately vague, dismissive, and rude. The longer the audience has to sit and watch that dynamic play out, the more likely we are to recognize Cohen as the bad guy in the situation rather than Fielder. It's brilliant.

And it's the exact same strategy he's using by spending the first half of the season ostensibly focusing on the first officer in those cockpit interactions, while deliberately giving screen time to guys like the "banned from every dating app" pilot to make it clear who is actually the source of the problem (and to hopefully trigger an FAA sexual harassment investigation in that one instance). In all three of these situations, he's showing us how a problematic person in power holds all the cards and is unwilling to budge.

I know there are differing opinions on what aspects of the show and his character are exaggerated or performed. As a very self-aware autistic comedy writer, this is my assessment: I think he's semi-deliberately not filling silences with masking behaviors, and asking questions he probably knows are uncomfortably direct, to create a space where others (often the neurotypical folks in these situations) have no choice to fill in the silence, which ultimately makes them say or do something relevant. I think he also acts like an unaware, unbiased observer in situations where he has a strong idea of what's going on. So whenever he says "I didn't know why" or "I didn't understand," he probably mostly does know and understand, but he knows that performing the role of an unbiased observer is a stronger strategic choice to get his message across.

He's basically playing the role of a journalist who knows that two of the most effective tools in his toolkit are a) silence when he wants a subject to reveal crucial information, and b) an "unbiased" narrative frame that makes the audience feel as if they're coming to a conclusion on their own, rather than being told what to think.

It's a nuanced approach but I think it's a smart one, especially considering that autistic-coded folks are very easily dismissed when speaking truth to power. And yeah, he's not gonna get his Congressional hearing. But pointing a camera at the problem and airing it for a massive audience, while saying "Me? I don't have an agenda; this data just presented itself in response to my neutral, unbiased question" is a pretty autistic—and often effective—approach to problem-solving.

#the rehearsal #nathan fielder #meta #the rehearsal spoilers #autism #journalism #my writing

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favefandomimagines · 7 months ago

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Daylight (r.c)

Summary: it takes Rafe some time to realize what he has

AN: this is very one tree hill code with JJ being very Lucas Scott esque lol and this was PURELY self indulgent, no one asked for this

Y/N Routledge sat on the edge of her bed, feeling like she could throw up at any second. The little plastic stick in her trembling hand bore the answer she had been dreading and hoping wasn’t true. The bold letters stared back at her like they were mocking her.

Pregnant.

Her mind raced. It felt as though the world had tilted off its axis. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think straight. What now? Who could she possibly confide in about this? How could she even begin to explain? The answer wasn’t simple, not when the father was Rafe Cameron.

For a year, their relationship—or whatever it was—had been a secret. Late-night meetings, whispered words in the dark, stolen moments when no one was looking. There had never been an official label on it. Rafe had made sure of that. “Labels complicate things,” he’d said, and Y/N, hopelessly drawn to him despite every red flag, had agreed.

But now? Things were complicated anyway.

The sound of approaching footsteps snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts. The door swung open, and there stood her brother, John B, looking confused and concerned.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked, leaning against the frame. “You’ve been in here for a while.”

Y/N’s heart stopped. She shoved the pregnancy test behind her back, but she wasn’t fast enough.

“What’s that?” His eyes narrowed, the easy-going brotherly demeanor replaced with something sharper.

“Nothing,” she blurted out, but John B wasn’t buying it.

He took a step closer. “Y/N, what’s going on?”

The lump in her throat grew too large to ignore, and before she knew it, the words came tumbling out. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered.

For a moment, John B just stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, with a long exhale, he sat down beside her.

“Okay,” he said carefully. “I’m not gonna ask who the father is. That’s your business. But whoever it is, he deserves to know.”

Y/N looked down at the floor, her chest tightening. “I don’t even know how to tell him,” she admitted. “What if he doesn’t want this?”

John B reached over, placing both hands on her shoulders. “Then you don’t need him. You’ve got me. And the rest of the Pogues. We’ll figure it out. This kid's gonna have a pretty cool life, Y/N. I promise.”

Y/N nodded her head. “I’m so scared, JB.” She whispered. John B nodded his own head before he pulled his sister in for a tight hug.

“I know you are. But you’re gonna be okay. I’m here.” He told her gently.

Later that evening, Y/N stood nervously outside Tannyhill. Her palms were clammy, her stomach a mess of nerves. She had rehearsed what she wanted to say a thousand times, but now that she was here, the words felt like they dried up in her throat.

When Rafe opened the door, his blue eyes scanned her face, immediately sensing something was wrong.

“What’s going on?” he asked, stepping aside to let her in.

Y/N fidgeted with the hem of her hoodie, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. “I need to tell you something.”

Rafe’s brow furrowed. “Okay…”

“I’m pregnant,” she blurted out, her voice shaking.

For a moment, he just stared at her, his face unreadable. Then, as the realization sank in, his expression darkened.

“Pregnant?” he repeated, his tone laced with disbelief. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, Rafe. I’m serious.” Y/N replied.

He ran a hand over his buzzed his hair, pacing the room. “I… I can’t do this right now,” he said, his voice rising. “I’m trying to get my dad’s business back on track, and now you’re telling me you’re pregnant?”

Y/N felt the sting of his words like a physical blow. “I didn’t plan for this, Rafe! But it’s happening.”

He turned to face her, his eyes cold. “Maybe you should just do it alone. I’m not raising a kid with a Pogue.”

That cut deeper than anything else he’d said. Tears burned in her eyes as she stared at him, her heart breaking. “Really? That’s how you feel?” She asked, her voice unsteady. “Yeah, that’s how I feel. Did you really expect we were going to play big happy family?” He snapped.

Y/N let out a teary scoff before her impulsive thoughts took over. She stepped closer to Rafe, the palm of her hand connecting with his cheek, the sound of the slap echoing throughout the foyer. Without another word, Y/N turned and walked out the door.

One year later, and Y/N had given birth to a beautiful and healthy baby girl. It wasn’t an easy feat, but Y/N had John B and Sarah. Taking their roles as aunt and uncle way too seriously.

Now, Y/N cradled her one-year-old daughter, Isla, as the Pogues gathered on the beach. The little girl was the spitting image of her father—Rafe’s blonde hair, his piercing blue eyes. It was a constant reminder of the man who had walked away.

But Y/N wasn’t alone. John B, Sarah, JJ, Kiara, Cleo, and Pope had rallied around her, becoming Isla’s extended family. JJ, in particular, had taken to the role of honorary uncle with enthusiasm, and Isla adored him.

As JJ held Isla over the waves, her tiny giggles filled the air, and Y/N couldn’t help but smile.

“Look at you, kiddo,” JJ said, spinning her gently. “You’re a natural beach bum.”

From the corner of her eye, Y/N noticed a familiar figure further down the shore. Rafe was there, flanked by Topper and Kelce, his gaze locked on her. Then, his eyes then shifted to JJ and Isla.

He’d have to be an idiot to deny that that one year old was his. Y/N had kept the baby and now he was feeling an influx of emotions. Anger, regret, jealousy. Jealous that another man was raising his child, jealous that another man was in his place.

Y/N froze, unsure of what to do. JJ walked back to Y/N, handing Isla to her with a smile. Y/N couldn’t help but smile down at her daughter. But then she remembered who was watching them. When she whispered something to JJ, he turned and saw Rafe, his expression immediately hardening.

JJ said something else to her and Y/N walked back towards the rest of the Pogues. Rafe and JJ were now walking towards each other, JJ not messing around when it comes to Isla and Y/N.

“You need to leave her alone,” JJ said, his voice low and dangerous. “That’s my daughter,” Rafe snapped. “I have a right to know her.”

JJ scoffed. “You don’t get to decide that. Y/N does and you left her. You told her you weren’t raising a kid with a Pogue. You don’t deserve a second of her time.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched. “Just because you’re playing house with my girl and my kid doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.” JJ laughed bitterly. “I’m not with Y/N. I’m just picking up the slack from the coward who abandoned them.”

Rafe stood there, seething with anger and regret, as JJ's words lingered in the air. But before he could say anything more, Topper yelled his name.

Later that night, Rafe pulled up to the old Maybank property that was now the Pogues sanctuary. He hadn’t prepared a single thing to say to Y/N. He knew there was a very high possibility that she would slam the door in his face.

What he said to her that night was harsh. He knew that and he knew he couldn’t take it back. He knocked on the door and waited for someone to answer the door. Rafe could hear the laughter and the music playing from the other side.

John B was the one to pull the door open, Isla in his arms. Rafe’s breath caught in his throat upon the sight of the little girl. “What are you doing here?” John B asked. “I’m uh, c-can I talk to Y/N?” He stammered.

Y/N’s brother looked at the man with furrowed brows, not used to seeing him in such an insecure, uncertain state. John B hated Rafe for what he did to Y/N, but Isla deserves a father. No matter how that happens.

“Y/N!” John B called. He turned away and walked back down the hall and soon Y/N appeared in the doorway.

“Can we talk?” Rafe asked. Y/N was hesitant; their last conversation did not go well obviously. “Um, sure. We can talk down at the store.” She answered.

The two walked silently down the dock to the bait shop where Y/N knew no one would be eavesdropping on them.

“Rafe, before you say anything, I didn’t want this to be how you found out. I didn’t want it to come to this,” she said quietly, her voice trembling but steady. “But you can’t just expect me to pretend like you didn’t hurt me. You didn’t want this baby. You walked away. You made your choice.”

Rafe flinched, her words cutting deep. He opened his mouth to argue, but something stopped him. The way she held Isla, the way Isla smiled at her mother, the warmth between them—it hit him all at once. What he had lost, what he could have had, and how foolish he’d been to let pride and fear dictate his actions.

“I—” He paused, swallowing hard. “I screwed up. I was scared, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t know how to be the kind of man you needed.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, but she didn’t look away. “You had a choice, Rafe. We both did. You made yours. I made mine.”

He took a step forward, his gaze falling to the water, as if he were gathering the courage to say what needed to be said. “I was wrong. And I know it. I’ve been trying to fix everything else, but I didn’t even try with you… with Isla. I was too damn proud. Too scared. But I don’t want to be that man anymore. I want to be a part of her life. I want to be a part of your life.”

Y/N blinked, the warmth in her chest slowly spreading, though the ache of everything that had happened still lingered. “It’s not going to be easy. We can’t just pick up where we left off.”

“I don’t want to,” he said softly. “I want to start fresh. As a father. As someone you can count on.”

A long silence passed between them, the weight of the past still hanging in the air. Then, slowly, Y/N nodded. “Okay. But you need to prove it. You need to show me you’re in this. All in. For her. For me.”

Rafe’s heart pounded, but he could see the flicker of hope in her eyes. Hope he thought he’d lost. “I will. I swear I will.”

The sun was shining brightly over the beach house, casting a golden glow over the yard where Isla’s second birthday party was in full swing.

The Pogues, along with Rafe, were scattered across the yard, setting up and getting ready to celebrate the little girl who had brought so much joy into their lives.

John B and Pope were hanging colorful decorations from the trees and the porch, adding the final touches to a vibrant banner that read, “Happy Birthday, Isla!”

Sarah and Kie were carefully bringing out a pile of birthday gifts, wrapping paper and bows sparkling in the sunlight.

Meanwhile, Isla was darting around the yard, laughing as JJ ran after her, pretending to be a superhero.

JJ scooped her up in his arms, making jet engine noises as he spun her around, keeping her distracted so she wouldn’t see the presents waiting inside.

Rafe stood off to the side, leaning against the window frame of the house, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before him. His heart swelled as he watched Isla giggle, her little feet kicking in the air as JJ swung her around like a plane.

Her laugh was like music to his ears, a reminder of how much he’d missed and how far he’d come since that day on the beach.

Y/N, who had just finished setting the cake down on the table, noticed Rafe standing there, his eyes soft and full of affection. She smiled to herself and walked over to him, sliding her arm around his bicep as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

“What’s got you all smiley?” she asked softly, her voice gentle but teasing.

Rafe looked down at her, a look of gratitude and tenderness crossing his features. “You,” he said simply. “Isla. You letting me back into your life and into hers.”

Y/N’s heart melted, and she lifted her chin to look up at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. Without a word, she leaned in and kissed him softly, the kind of kiss that spoke of everything they’d been through and everything they’d built together.

As they pulled apart, John B appeared at the doorway with a grin. “Alright, JJ, it’s time for cake and presents!”

JJ, who had been in the middle of a game of "airplane" with Isla, immediately scooped her up again, making exaggerated flying noises as he carried her inside. Isla squealed with laughter, her little arms flailing in the air as JJ pretended she was a plane about to take off.

As they entered the living room, JJ passed Isla off to Rafe with a grin. “Special delivery!”

Rafe smiled and crouched down to gently set Isla in her chair. He pressed a soft kiss on the top of her head, a tender moment of fatherly affection. Isla beamed up at him, her tiny hands reaching up to grab his face, a look of adoration in her eyes.

Y/N stood beside them, watching with a heart full of love as Rafe straightened up and looked at her with a smile. This moment was everything they’d fought for—a family, together, stronger than ever.

As Isla sat at the table, her little hands covered in frosting as she tried to grab a slice of cake, Rafe took a seat next to her, helping her scoop up a piece. Y/N joined them, wrapping an arm around Rafe’s shoulder as she placed a kiss on Isla’s cheek.

The room was filled with the sounds of laughter, chatter, and joy as everyone gathered around, ready to celebrate Isla’s special day. It was simple, but perfect. They were a family now, not just by blood, but by choice. And in this moment, surrounded by love and happiness, they all knew they’d found something rare and precious.

John B raised his glass, a grin on his face as he toasted, “To my niece Isla, the brightest light in all of our lives.”

Everyone joined in, lifting their glasses in unison, as Isla clapped her little hands, excited by the attention.

“Cheers!” Rafe said, glancing over at Y/N with a smile that said it all.

Y/N smiled back, squeezing his hand. “Cheers.”

As the cake was passed around, Isla sat contentedly on Rafe’s lap, covered in frosting and giggling with pure joy. And in that moment, as they all looked on at the little girl they had all come to love, Rafe and Y/N knew this was exactly where they were meant to be—together, as a family.

#imagine #imagines #outer banks #jj maybank #rafe cameron #outer banks imagine #kiara carrera #john b routledge #rudy pankow #sarah cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe outer banks #rafe obx #rafe x reader

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harmonyrae · 29 days ago

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Yes, Boss

AN: Just felt like writing, very little editing, based on a concept @comatosebunny09 (ily btw) has written (working for Sylus). Expect angst & devastation. 18+ MDNI just in case I write some dark shit.

"You bastard! You can't do this!"

Your pleas were useless, your partner - ex-partner now - had made up his mind. He'd taken this job on purpose, to get rid of you. How could you have missed the signs? His disinterest in your planning. His constant nagging about the job offer you'd "hastily" declined. This was how he'll get the job. By feeding you to the beast of the N109 Zone, he proves himself.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I tried to change your mind, but you've never listened to reason."

"All this for a quick buck? And the shallow promise of job security?"

He finally pries the flash drive out of your hand, the handcuffs tightening as you struggle. He holds it up, his haughty grin makes you sick.

"After I deliver Sylus's coding system? I'm pretty sure Ever will keep me around for a long while."

Alarms blare, your override has been detected. The handcuffs cut off circulation, but you don't stop fighting. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, your eyes watering.

"When I find you, I'll -"

"You and I both know you won't be walking out of this. Not once Sylus finds you."

He stands, leaving you writhing on the floor against your restraints. He kicks your gun away and stoops to pick up his own. He waves as he walks backward towards the exit. There's no point in begging.

As his figure fades, you try once more to free yourself. As the cuffs dig deeper, you cry out and collapse. The cool cement floor against your cheek is a welcomed reprieve. But your moment of peace is quickly interrupted.

Two sets of black boots sprint into view. You close your eyes, waiting for the gunshot that never comes. When you open your eyes again, a pair of dress shoes approaches. You instinctively struggle, which only makes you groan in pain. You crane your neck to look up at the shadowy figure. The gun in his hand twitches at his side.

"What do you want to do with her, boss?"

The voice was far too chipper, almost eager. You wince as the figure crouches. His calloused fingers grab your chin, forcing you to look up at him. Through the darkness, all you see is a faint red glow. Your mind races as you feel a presence probing at the walls of your memory. Just as the pressure becomes unbearable, it stops, and the man releases you.

"Search her and put her in a room."

His voice is dark and unyielding. His henchmen help you stand and usher you down the hall to an elevator. As it ascends, you finally reach your limit. Your body goes limp, and the men holding you up stumble as the try to catch you.

As everything fades to black, you swear you can hear his voice again.

"Careful, this one has claws."

It must have been hours since you passed out in that elevator. When you wake up you're alone in a room, a rather ornate one in fact. A plush comforter beneath you, pillows so soft your neck has finally learned to relax. Sitting up, you take a moment to find your center. You're in an unfamiliar room, in new clothes, with no weapons. Fuck.

Click

The door knob turns and sends a jolt of panic through you. Standing beside the bed, you search for anything that could be a weapon. Settling on the lamp, you yank the plug free from the outlet and wield it like a sword. As the door swings open, that faint red glow appears again. Your mind goes numb and the lamp shatters at your feet. Just as your about to fall, arms wrap around you.

"You really are stubborn aren't you?"

That deep, rich voice from before, he's here. Who is he? What is he doing to your mind? And more importantly, why are you still alive?

He directs you to the edge of the bed and sits you down. The mattress dips beside you as he sits. You hesitate before looking over at him, afraid you'll walk into some kind of trap. But instead of a trap, you're greeted by crimson eyes that are no longer glowing. The man before you is stoic, broad shoulders, firm jaw, devastatingly handsome by all accounts. If you weren't worried about dying, you'd be intrigued.

"Why am I here?"

He chuckles, low and almost forced.

"You're the one who broke in, remember?"

You tense, you bring your knees to your chest and shift back on the bed away from him. Your arms coil around your legs and you stare.

"Why am I alive then?" You mumble, bracing for the answer.

"Because you impressed me."

Your mouth falls open and he laughs, more genuine this time.

"And... I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake. You work for me now. Until you get my coding system back. And wipe all traces of it from Ever's database."

"I work... for you? So you're...?"

"Sylus."

"And you expect me to what? Walk into Ever's building and yoink your shit back? How do you expect me to do that?"

"That's for you to figure out, kitten."

The nickname takes you by surprise. Your eyes widen, partially to rebuke his audacity and partially because you're not sure you hate it.

"If you could bypass my security systems, I'm sure you can do it. Oh, and you'll be upgrading that. Seems it isn't so impenetrable after all."

Get his coding system back, destroy all traces in Ever's database, upgrade his whole security system... This could take weeks. This is why you freelanced, you hated being told what to do.

"You'll live here, at the Onychinus base, until further notice. I sent Luke and Kieran to your apartment to fetch your belongings. Until they get back, there's clothes in the closet. I'll provide you with a new phone and gun."

A live in job. Fantastic. You don't even question the fact he knows where you live. As you open your mouth to protest, Sylus swiftly stands and strides to the door.

"I leave for a business deal in 25 minutes. Since Luke and Kieran are busy, you're my plus one. Change if you want, just be ready when I come back."

"I really don't have a say in this, huh?"

Sylus turns and leans against the door frame, tucking his hands in his pockets. His smirk is mischievous, but there's a danger to it nonetheless.

"Your other option is I kill you. What would you prefer?"

You blood runs cold and you bite your lip until you taste blood. Guess this is your life now. Working for the leader of Onychinus until you can figure out how to infiltrate Ever's computer science department. But this new arrangement won't change the fact when you find your ex-partner, he'll suffer in every way imaginable.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human @kitsunetori @babyx91 @libriomancer @lilyadora @crowskitten22 @letharue @silverbrain @alastor-simp @drama-trauma @0tterteeth @mysticcollectionvoid @godzillaglitter @godoffuckedupcats @klmpun @ariallaisawesome @spidy-spider01 @m00nchildwrites @plsdonttakemyname @hauntedbysmutm0 @withering-dream @lostwingz2236 @simpfortheseven @bubbleteakittyy @freddy-2002-blog @plsdonttakemyname @sylus-hunter

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littlestpersimmon · 2 years ago

Text

Guy with cataracts and scarred from an explosion has a fail toymaking shop in front of a rundown temple and he has a crush on a disfigured lowly priestess whom he suspects is a stealth trans guy because she always picks the boy option when they play board games (he’s right btw)

He's from Kalantiaw, but his mom is diaspora, and I thought her to be half "Japanese" (coded) - still trying to figure out how japanese ethnicities come to play.

She was a sailor turned pirate. She didn't know the language spoken in Kalantiaw (more akin to Khmer), and she spoke a different language (more austronesian), and she named him Kahilingan, which means "wish". But in Kalantiaw, where she settled, his name means "curse" or "bad omen" 💀 it doesn't help that her life ended with the beginning of his. So.

Kahi spends much of his life chasing the image of his mom and trying to.... live up to her- because sailing is the most esteemed occupation in their world. Only very very very very very few people have managed to work on "dragonships".

Basically, their world is physically broken (like living on an asteroid belt) and they sail to and fro each sundering / country on specialized stone ships called "dragonships" / "bakunawa"- and the ships themselves are semi-alive? They're like.. Stone ships laminated with the spirits of devas and dragons and other great beings who have all died because of (redacted).

Anyway, his mom, Maaya, was a renowned sailor- she tamed a dragonship that was imbued with an infamously wild dragon called Duksa- Dragonships are Sponsored, but those who sponsor the ships are almost never in command, and they also easily lose ownership to their hired captains- because the ships themselves are sentient, and they never obey anyone who they deem are incapable of commanding them. Only Maaya could control Duksa hehe. So she became known throughout all their world as this wild woman who loved fast boats and only accepted voyage commissions "if they are very fun". Anyways blah blah blah she fell in love w Kahi's other parent (who is nonbinary) and she got pregnet with him. And they eventually settled in Kalantiaw, in it's countryside near the subterranean capital (Kamharik).

Kahi always annoyed his other parent abt his mom because he too wanted to meet Duksa, but his parent kept warning him not to go near the ship because after Maaya died, it went even more mad with grief. Kahi more of an engineer than a captain like his mom, but his goal was simply to acquaintance with Duksa rather than actually captain her. But Duksa did not accept anyone, not even anyone who was part of Maaya's original crew.. Kahi went to an apprenticeship on shipbuilding-

he became somewhat popular for being clever with his hands, and all around Kalantiaw, everyone thought of him as reliable and very creative when it came to problem solving. So he went from normal ships to fixing dragonships.. ..

The Greatest dragonships are ones that are imbued with the spirits of actual ancient dragons and qilin, bc some are imbued with "lesser" dragons or false dragons, and some are with non-dragon albeit great spirits- like minor gods, wind spirits, phoenix,naga, etc etc..

Duksa was a true and great dragon, and Kahi knew that she was suffering from severe neglect, so all he wanted was to patch her up-

Everyone, every single one of Kahi's peers discouraged him, bc it is known that anyone who even approaches her is immediately kilIed by her; but Kahi, he is different. When he approaches Duksa, she was a shadow of herself, a ghost ship- She senses Maaya, and she even thought that Kahi was her at first- so she lets Kahi patch her big crabclaw sails, fixed her boilers and really tried to replicate how she used to look when Maaya lived.. and Duksa didn't know it wasn't her, because her eyes were covered in barnacles.. The "eyes" of a dragonship is its lodestar, and Kahi was purposefully saving it for last because he is frightened of what Duksa could do to him;;

But before that, Duksa spoke to him, joked like "ah beauty, what happened to you?! Your voice sounds like you swallowed a frog.. are you ill? Why did you abandon me?" Fhjsjs

"Why are your hands so gentle now? I want you to be rough!! Stop this at once! I am not old!"

But when Kahi started scraping finally at the lodestar, and he opened Duksa's eyes to the world once more, she cried in great anger because who tf was this intruder! And why did he carry Maaya's spirit with him !!!

Her entire deck creaked so hard the floorboards broke again, and she swayed her whole body so Kahi nearly fell from the lodestar;; he tried to reason with her, and it sort of mirrors how his mom tamed Duksa. She barrelled in head on and confidently, but Kahi was meek and gentle.

Eitherway.. an angry dragonship is like highly radioactive, its like being in a storm in a contained environment, and she started puffing steam- it's like microdosing being in fukushima; And she called Kahi a fool, he'll never measure up to Maaya, he will never be her- aaaah, but she didn't kiIl him. Maybe because she knew he was Maaya's boy. She warned him never to return, and tossed him into the open shallows. So, he was absolutely brokenhearted. He was 19.

~intense lonely lovestory between him and a closeted trans guy raised by mean transphobic priestesses in a cult the antithesis of a loving and wise lesbian death goddess occurs.~

There she is.. her name is Viharana Magayarin

Names-

Maaya's name is spelled a certain way in kanji, I want it to mean "True"

Duksa's name is Tagalog, it means "grief"

Kahilingan's name is tagalog- and it means "wish". Inspired from.. in tagalog, "curse" is a contronym of sorts- "curse" and "promise" is the same word ("sumpa")

Kahi's trans boyfriend's name is Tala, and it means "star" 😌

#dalayangan

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ilariyalavorowrites · 24 days ago

Text

Bright Lights (Chapter 3)

Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, Hurt/Comfort, post-divorce healing, Pitt Fest is a warning of its own, medical inaccuracies.

Pairings: Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Word count: 5,410 words

Universe: The Pitt

Reader gender: Female

Tagged: @questionably-intelligent69 , @dizzybee03 , @virgomillie , @mrsjosephmazzello , @sus-styles , @moonshooter , @hagarsays @that-sarcastic-writer , @ddrawers96 , @pear-1206 , @nerdgirljen , @penbridgertonn & @emma8895eb

Part 3 of 4

Previous | Next

6:30pm

As time ticks on, second by second, minute by minute. Frankie can’t help but worry. The uncomfortable plastic of the cheap hospital cafeteria chair digging into her thighs served as a reminder. A reminder of what she had experienced. Pitt Fest had been an incalculable disaster. The whistle of flying bullets had been hard to shut out, as she continued to relive each decision and choice she made. With each passing moment, more found their way here. Family members, friends and the like always with the same burning questions; Are their loved one’s safe? Are they counted amongst the wounded or had they been the unlucky ones?

Frankie couldn’t leave, not yet. She couldn’t return to House 42 empty-handed and without the small sliver of information on the whereabouts of her missing friend and colleague. Guilt gnawed away at her. No-one gets left behind but in less than a second, someone did. The click of heels against the linoleum tiles caught her attention, dragging her out of her depressive thoughts; Frankie lifted her gaze to see two figures approaching where they all waited.

The sight of two staff members had been enough to silence the chatter; all eyes had fallen upon these two women ready to listen as a younger woman approached them. Frankie wasn’t close enough to hear her words but still watched on, noting the pile of papers in their hands. The interaction was brief, but the young woman’s body language spoke volumes, worry and panic overpowering all other emotions, as she was the same boat as all the rest that gathered all around.

Her eyes tracked them as they crossed into the centre of the cafeteria, where they could be heard easily by everyone.

“Hello? Can I have your attention, please? My name is Kiara Alfaro. I’m an emergency-department social worker.” Frankie was almost certain that she had seen her before; she had never found an opportunity to meet the resident day shift social worker. She only really knew her night shift colleague; he was a right scream but had spoken highly of Kiara praising her calm nature and how she could get almost anyone to open up to her.

“This is Lupe Perez, one of our ward clerks.” As she continued to speak, Kiara introduced her colleague, the ward clerks were all hardworking, taking the brunt of the frustration of the waiting patients. Each word was loudly and clearly projected to ensure that they were understood by all who listened on.

“I know you all want information about your friends and family. In order to help you, we have a QR Code you can scan for our patient-identification website.” This was the beginning of the next stage with handling the mass casualty.

“Cell phones are down, but you can log onto the hospital guest WI-FI. That information is on these papers we’ll distribute around the room.” It was understandable that phone lines would be jammed up, with the sheer number of people trying to reach out to their loved ones. Frankie’s phone had already logged into the Wi-Fi network as soon as she had entered the hospital grounds. This was a good sign; it would give people something to focus on.

“Once you log on, send us the name and birth date of whomever you’re concerned about.” She quickly tried to recall the necessary information; did she know her friend’s exact date of birth? The day and month were easy, but the year that might take a moment. As she thought back to her friend’s last birthday, how old had she been? With access to the Internet, she could shoot a message to Captain Valentino, who had direct access to the personnel files, but that would be a last resort.

“If you could tell us what they were wearing, upload photos, pictures of tattoos, piercings, anything to help identify would be useful.” Frankie had been the unofficial photographer of the tent; she had been the one to step up and take more than a few photographs and selfies through the day. Mostly for Instagram and her own personal collection, but a few for the Department to show their involvement as part of the PR and the monthly newsletter; not that many people actually opened that email when it dropped into their inbox. The next one might be an exception.

Frankie had been the one to take her to her first tattoo appointment, so she had photos of it. It had been a special moment since she knew the meaning behind the chosen design. Jake had been the one to help her shape into reality. He had drawn it for her, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to be there as he had class on the date that had been chosen. Frankie couldn’t help but wonder at the sweet relationship that her friend had with the young man. She had wished that she had something when she had grown up.

“If we get a match, we’ll let you know. We’re setting up phone chargers, water, snacks. And if anyone needs to change clothes, we’ve got paper scrubs coming.” Her hands had been covered in blood, that had long since dried, but it didn’t seem overly important to find a bathroom and wash it away as she made her way to the Cafeteria.

“Give us some time. We’re doing everything we can to help get you the information you need.” Frankie took a second before moving, as a crowd formed around the two tables where the papers had been placed. As she took a seat once more, with the newly acquired document, she began to follow the instructions. Her fingers danced across her phone keyboard as a WhatsApp message popped up on her screen. Another swiftly followed; House 42 was reaching out.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------7pm

“Fuck” The very word was stuck on repeat; Dana could not let Robby see this. Not now, when his attention needed to remain focused. The house of cards could not fall apart at this most crucial of junctions. As more patients flooded into the department, as much as worry was seeping through the cracks in her armour, Dana could not let Robby see the bloodied garment.

The split second decision had to be made, as she placed the jacket and thoughts of its owner aside. Using the moment of a patient being transferred up to surgery as a barrier to try to hide how shameful she felt. She watched where it landed, in the corner of an empty bay. Not that it won’t be unoccupied for long. Her tricky mind conjured countless scenarios, imagining the almost listless ways a mass casualty event could injure someone. Hope was a thin thread that she placed her bets on; Dana knew her. They punched, kicked and spit at her on the job, but still she had kept coming back for more.

She couldn’t say the same anymore; it was getting harder to reflect on the good times, without the awful moments overpowering the rest. Today was the latest in a long line of violence that had pushed over the edge into thoughts of if she was going to come back. If this was all really worth it. There wasn’t even enough time to take a breath between incoming patients. Once the panic subsided, Dana could ponder what came next only after they had attended to all critically unwell patients.

With the stream of gurneys and wheelchairs, the patients had blurred without the coloured wristbands to identify them. Dana wandered would she had missed Robby’s ex-wife in the crush? She had been a close friend in another life. She couldn’t recall the last time that she had met up for coffee and a catch up. Aside from a few brief moments at Central, before another call come in over the airwaves, summoning back to work.

Dana tried to think back to the last time that they had been in the same room. Silence had reigned for months. Robby might not have shouted from the rooftops, but Dana had seen the more subtle signs. Firstly, it had been the ring protector falling by the wayside, then his wedding band vanished from his golden chain, but finally it had been the growing closeness between himself and Heather. It might have a brief few months, but a bond had formed. It had its share of ups and downs, but the damage wasn’t as visible.

The tether had fizzled away; it had been what they both had needed in the moment. Passing affection and physical attraction hadn’t been enough to develop into a more permanent and lasting connection. Princess and Perlah had noted the changes. Quick gossip followed, its impact lessened only by awareness that one relationship ended to begin another.

Black lines that hadn’t been there before floated up to the surface of Dana’s thoughts. A tattoo? She had never questioned the fresh addition, wondering which design had you chosen? Robby had a few, but you had been a blank canvas.

With her thoughts misaligned, Dana needed to stay calm in the storm’s eye. This was what the department required her to be, even in the hours past the end of her shift. The one who led them through the push, over the edge, straight into no-man’s-land. As the mask slipped back into place, she couldn’t help but frown at the sight of the few heavily armed SWAT teams roaming around the halls. They hadn’t been there a few minutes ago?

This abrupt development put her further on guard. This was far from good news.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------The department was rushed off its feet as soon as one patient would be taken up to surgery or the ICU floor, two additional patients had taken their place. It was never ending; Frank Langdon and Cassie McKay were working in a familiar rhythm formed in the past two years that they had worked solidly side by side. In that time, they had gotten used to the speed that each other worked at, but they had also gotten to know one another on a more professional basis, but tidbits of their personal lives would slip through the gaps now and then. McKay’s centred more around her son Harrison, whereas Langdon tended to ebb and flow with the emotional state of his marriage.

Frank was more aware of the fallout of Robby’s marriage, but Cassie had only met the ex-wife in passing. The connection to Dr Robinavitch fell at the wayside; to McKay, she was just another paramedic who preferred to work nights. On the rare occasion that Cassie was rotated in to cover a night shift, this had been where they crossed paths for the first time. She had seemed nice enough, quiet, but there had been an underlying playfulness that came to the surface whenever Dr Abbot was around.

There was a story, a history between the pair of them, not that anyone dared to comment on the exact nature of their connection when she had brought it up. It wasn’t worth antagonising Abbot, so Cassie let it go. Never given it much thought, as it had been nearly eight months since her last night shift, Frank hadn’t been as lucky. His last night was less than a week prior; it had been far from an easy shift to boot.

Cassie watched as the next patient was wheeled in, an unconscious female, dressed in what looked like the standard issue trousers worn by paramedics, topped with a once white shirt coated in dirt and blood. Paramedics had been at the Festival in an official capacity, yet her patient seemed familiar, but many crew passed through those doors on a nearly hourly basis.

“Shit, you know who that is, right?” The sound of Langdon’s voice floated in as he made his way over whilst McKay was midway through her assessment. Cassie shook her head as she continued on, focused on carrying out the basic steps of a complete neurological exam considering her presentation. “Should I?”

“That’s Robby’s ex-wife” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

7:30pm

Frustration was bubbling up within Trinity swiftly returned to the yellow zone. With no attending trailing behind, they were on their own. This was not the outcome that she had been hoping for when she had gone searching for an attending.

“I tried. No attendings available,” she announced as she approached Dr Mel King, who remained at the patient’s bedside, still working on the unconscious man. Trinity moved through, trying to find her next interesting case, whilst keeping an eye out for any available attending.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, as she surveyed each patient that she passed by; nothing immediately stood out. One gurney caught her eye; as she made her approach, Trinity slipped on a fresh pair of sterile gloves ready to make her assessment.

“All right” As Trinity slipped effortlessly into doctor mode, as her gaze dropped to the open wounds upon the young man’s legs that Nurse Donnie was cleaning with large pieces of gauze.

“Okay, those look pretty superficial.” Santos commented as she took in what she could see; the wounds on his leg might be large but were shallow.

“Might’ve been fragments from a ricochet off the ground.” Donnie replied, as he had been the one tending to the wounds; she listened to his assessment as her mind turned over the information as she worked out the possible next steps.

“Lost a lot of blood, but you’re gonna be okay, bro.” As she carefully lifted up the heavily stained remains of what once had been a trouser leg to inspect the wound for herself. The ease of his interaction spoke of a familiarity with her patient that she had not noticed until this point. Did Donnie know this young man? Trinity was left wondering the possibilities as her mind raced.

“It’s not bad. Just put me back in the wheelchair.” The young man answered; this was not even an option as Santos knew what the outcome might be if they allowed their patient to get out of the bed before his legs were bandaged up. She could not risk his wounds opening further and him bleeding out.

“No, no, stay in bed with your leg up.” She said, before continuing on speaking as she cautioned him bluntly. “We don’t want you oozing to death.” As she left the bedside to see what the other doctors had landed as Javedi helped move another gurney through the department into the yellow zone.

“Samira, what you got?” Trinity loudly asked; waiting patiently for Dr Mohan to answer.

“Opiate OD needs observation after Narcan.” For Santos, that was far too pedestrian, too ordinary and, to put it plainly, boring. Not for her. This was what came with festivals; drugs and overdoses were a dime a dozen but there were more interesting patients than this. There was nothing to learn, no interesting procedures to practise or carry out solo. “Ugh, boring. No, thank you.” Trinity swiftly replied before moving on as she turned her back and walked back toward Mel.

“Mel, how’s Ganja Grayson?” She called out, inquiring about the status of the patient with a newly christened nickname. The man was a true hippie as she walked the few meters back over to the bay.

“Um, we can put him in pink whilst he waits for ICU.” She listened to the words of her senior doctor, as the man’s condition had continued to worsen since falling unconscious; without the typical methods of investigations available, there was little they could actually do in the here and now. He needed a CT scan, but it would be hours before he could be sent up for one.

“Okay. One second.” Santos curiously watched on as Whitaker moved closer to the patient with a probe that had been plugged into his phone. Yet Samira beat her to the punch, speaking first. “What are you doing?”

“I’m checking the retina.” Trinity patiently watched the back-and-forth exchange, as it seemed that Huckleberry was chasing a cause. He was thinking creatively to find a solution to help Mr Grayson.

“For detachment?” Samira continued on, adding a potential diagnosis to the pile, but Whitaker responded with his own reasoning. As he used the phone screen to measure the distance from one end of the optic nerve to the other. With the swipe of a finger on a touchscreen. “For Intracranial pressure by measuring the optic nerve sheath, which is—holy shit—10 millimeters” He quickly pulled away with the news of this recent development.

What Huckleberry had uncovered was wild. As Victoria Javedi spoke up, running through the encyclopaedic amount of medical knowledge that was rushing through her mind, much like they all did with each fresh case.

“What’s normal? 5?” She asked, knowing the answer from the countless neurology seminar and skills labs that they had all attended whilst studying. As they memorised a plethora of textbooks with case studies and long lists of symptoms and treatments outlined in great detail.

“Yeah, 5” Whitaker replied, as the answer unfolded, as Mel was the one to offer up what was the most likely conclusion. “It’s an Intracranial bleed. ”One had they all had swiftly come to with the discovery of the expansion of his optic nerve, it was practically doubled in size! This was becoming a wildly more interesting case than the OD.

“The pressure’s been building up.” Trinity had turned her to listen as Mel continued on with her explanation of Mr Grayson’s condition. “There’s no blown pupil.”

“Yeah, not yet. Trinity replied, knowing that as soon as the pressure reached a critical level, then his pupil would likely blow. But if he keeps bleeding in his skull, he’s going to die.” This was not the moment to sugar coat what was going to occur if they just stood around and did nothing. This man was inching closer and closer to the edge with every passing second.

“Yeah, he needs a one-inch, uh, burr hole in his—with a cranial drill.” Mel spoke through what was needed, stuttering over words as she started to move away from the patient. “I’m just gonna see if neurosurgery’s here.”

“We don’t have time to wait for Neuro.” Trinity watched as Dr Samira Mohan stepped up to the plate, taking over the case. Santos might have a rough around the edge approach to medicine, her bedside manner might need tweaking, but she did not wish to risk her internship on her very first day. For intern to attempt burr holes without the supervision of an attending that was a Grey’s Anatomy level of madness that would quickly hand a one-way ticket to the psych ward. No, thank you. However, she was more than happy to assist if Mohan was taking the lead.

Mohan had rushed off to collect the supplies that she needed, returning the bay once she had what was required to start the procedure. “I got Betadine and a 10cc syringe.” Announcing each step as she continued on. Whitaker had been the one to speak up, asking a basic but necessary question. His tone wavering as he worked through his jumbled up thoughts. “Should we intubate, hyperventilate?”

“Mannitol decreases ICP.” Victoria answered; Trinity was still mentally referring to her as Crash. The nickname was not going anywhere fast. Once she had handed one, she rarely would change it unless continually pushed too. She would count on one hand the number of times that she had altered one of her famous nicknames. Javedi’s reply was factually accurate, as Trinity recalled the effects of Mannitol on the intercranial pressure and the outcome of this situation if the drug was delivered.

However, before anyone could blink; Samira had picked up an IO drill and made her first burr hole, drilling into the side of Mr Grayson’s head to relieve the pressure.

“Holy shit! What the hell?” All at once, the three of them responded in tandem in equal parts shock and horror at what they had just witnessed. An unconventional use of an IO drill to carry out a neurological procedure to administer burr holes and reduce the built up intercranial pressure. This day couldn’t get any wilder. Samira had proven to be more resourceful and more impressive than Trinity’s earlier impression; she wasn’t as stiff as she had initially appeared to be.

“Relieving Intracranial pressure so he doesn’t die.” Samira replied as used the first 10cc syringe, drawing back as Whitaker cut in with his next question. “With an IO drill?” Samira shrugged back, this was the best option that was to hand. Trinity chose this moment to speak up; now that she wouldn’t the first one to attempt such a out of left field procedure, there was no way that she wouldn’t let the opportunity slid by. “That’s sick. I get the next one.”

“Long as it’s not on me.” Trinity wanted to burst out laughing at the patient in the next bay’s words, as normally there wouldn’t be the chance for this kind of interaction. His words might still be more slurred as he slowly recovered from the effects of the overdose, but the meaning was crystal clear.

“What the fuck?” Dr Emery Walsh exclaimed as she leaned over to see Dr Mohan seated at the patient’s side, already performing the procedure. Mohan had caught her gaze briefly before returning to continuing to drain blood. “Draining the ICH with an EZ-IO.” The atmosphere grew tense in the presence of Dr Walsh, the no nonsense trauma surgeon.

“40 cc’s out so far.” Confused by the sight of the unsupervised unconventional procedure being carried out, night shift charge nurse Bridget approached Mohan for an explanation. “Like she said, what the fuck?”

“There was a case report in the 2022 Journal of Emergency Medicine.” Trinity focused on her task of preparing for the intubation, still heard most of Mohan’s explanation. “Patient survive?” The back and forth was not important as she continued on as Samira confidentially spoke through her reasoning for her actions. “Went home neurologically intact.”

Whitaker squeezed his way, with the screen showing the most recent data from the scan. “The optic sheath is back to normal.”

This was all good news as Victoria noticed that Mr Grayson had began to move. “Starting purposely movements.” Santos slid up with the intubation tube, prepared, ready to step in.

“Ready to intubate.” She announced as Mel then added in her orders as they proceeded forward. “Propofol, Rock, and Mannitol.” There was a rush that came when completing a successful procedure for the first time; she might’ve had a minor role, but still it was still such a head rush.

“I’ll let neurosurgery know. We’ll get him up ASAP.” Emery Walsh was clearly unimpressed with their reckless abandon with the rules, with the standard of care, but she would inform neurosurgery of this latest development as this patient moved further up the list. As she began to walk away, Walsh reach her walkie talkie ready to reach out to Neurosurgery primary lead.

“Incredible save.” Those words, as soon as they were spoken, caused her to turn her head and mutter in response.. “If he lives.” Trinity had made quick of work of inserting the intubation tube and working it past the vocal cords in the moments that followed as they got Mr Grayson ready to head up for surgery.

“I’m in.” She declared, as Whitaker bagged the end and check to see if everything was in the right place. “Uh, end-tidal looks good.” Everything was coming up as a success, as a win. The nursing staff stepped in, ready to get the last jobs ticked off; this was where they stepped off the case.

“Okay, OR team can take it from here.” Bridget said as she effortlessly moved around the head of the bed, mentally running through the checklist that was required before any patient headed up to the OR.

“We need to check on the others.” Mel added as she moved away; Trinity added her two cents in the mix, never missing a beat, as she used a nickname before heading back towards her patient with the leg wound. Knowing the effect that it had on Victoria, knowing that it rubbed her up the wrong way. “I should get back to Pink. Stay Strong Crash.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------Trinity turned her head, noting Mel across the way, standing in front of where some supplies sat on top of a movable station. As she checked with Mel on her thoughts as her patient’s bandage was now sodden, heavy as he had bled through the layers that Donnie had wrapped tightly round. “He bled through his Kerlix.”

It was almost as if she could see the cog turning as Mel shuttered over the words as she considered, then rejected, the possibilities until she landed the right option. “Um…elastic—elastic pressure dressing-yep.”

“Okay, got it.” She nodded and got to work retrieving her correct type of bandage from the tray with the bandages that sat neatly on top of the station. Plucking exactly what was required to re-bandage the small holes on his lower leg.

“All right. Got a better bandage, and we’re gonna elevate your leg.” Trinity announced as she made her way back over to where her patient was still laying. She places the supplies on the bed, picking up the scissors and begins cutting off the blood soaked old one.

“Do you know what’s happening with my girlfriend? Her name is Leah. She was shot in the chest.” She can understand the worry in his voice, as it trembles when he mentions her name. However, all incoming patients had been assigned a number. Names were not a necessity during a mass casualty event and his girlfriend would have been rushed off to the Red zone if she sustained a gunshot wound to the chest.

“I’m sorry. We have a ton of patients, and they are only marked by numbers.” Santos tried her best to be as sympathetic as possible as she continued on with her explanation. Her eyes darting between his and the wound as she worked on.

“Robby and Dana were working on her—they were doing CPR.” Now this piece of information that he had freely offered caught her attention. Much like the bloody paramedic jacket had, her mind still would wander back to the name stitched into the fabric. She wanted to chase that hypothetic thread till it was completely unravelled.

“How do you know Robby and Dana?” Santos was curious to find out as she asked, to know more about the people that she would be working alongside for the duration of this rotation.

“Robby and my mom were together for a couple of years, and I would—I would come, and I’d hang out here.” This was the definition of a juicy gossip; Dr Robinavitch seemed like a closed book. With no way to breakthrough that thick protective shell, that doubled as his professional mask. There was more to the man than just the doctor. She noticed his face twist as pain washed over him, as she disinfected and cleaned the wound site.

“Well, I’m sure if they’re helping her, then she’s in great hands.” Her words only meant to reassure his deepening worry. Even with the knowledge gained from this single shift, their combined strength was evident, a force to be reckoned with. “Can you check for me, please?” It was hard not to feel sorry for him; considering all that he had in this one day. “Sure, Of course. Just after I finish this.” She nodded as she agreed to help him out with one small task.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

8pm

The florescent lights, albeit harsh under normal conditions, were a drop in the ocean on his list of concerns. Dr Jack Abbot, sharp-eyed, thrived in these conditions. A mass casualty was similar enough to working under the threat of a war zone.

This was where he did his best work, where his skills were truly put to the test. He could not ignore the call to action that came over the airwaves, as he listened to his police scanner that sat at his side as he had wound down for the day. All in the knowledge of what this day meant to Robby, an anniversary that no-one who worked through the heights of the pandemic would ever simply put aside. It was locked away, compartmentalised with all the other bad days. Each under lock and key, he was chipping away one at a time with his therapist.

Holding true to his promise to her, his wife and the memory of their life together. The ring on his finger was well-loved, but time had worn away the last restoration. A trip to the jeweller would be scheduled tomorrow, in between shifts. Each wave of new patients, of scared victims, drew him further into his element. With a cool and level head, Jack worked seamlessly with the tight team within the Red zone. Each was a cog in a machine fighting to save each patient from the jaws of death. Mourning each loss in the few seconds between that patient and the next being wheeled in.

Each would be remembered long after this voluntary shift had concluded. His gaze was trained upon his next patient; despite that, it would wander over to Robby now and then. His demeanour had shifted, there was anger that usually lingered far beneath the surface bubbling up. He was burst soon rather than later, but Jake and his fatally injured girlfriend had become the linchpin.

As soon as he had noticed that gurney being pushed through the doors, Jack had clocked the heartbreak upon the kid’s face, knowing that it would be mirrored on Robby’s. He had fought tooth and nail to keep her alive; it was a fruitless, uphill battle. One that he could never get in front of, as the wound to heart was just too severe. He had seen many in the heart of battle, presenting much the same way Jack knew what the outcome would be.

With all the time in the world, there still would be slim chances of coming back from a shot to the heart. Each new unit of blood was a cause of concern; two had been the agreed upon limit, but Robby had quickly reached for another and then the next. That limit had been reached and doubled. He could glean the depths of desperation as clear as day as Robby clutched at every available straw. Holding on the vaguest string of hope, fighting for Leah, for Jake.

There was no happy ending, not this go around. No last-minute miracle solution would be found, this was bare bones reality, not some half-baked medical dramas that his wife had loved, the ones which he sat through season after season for each smile, the laughter and tears that she had circled through. Whilst he pointed out the medical mistakes and inaccuracies. She had once joked that she could turn into a drinking game and be easily under the table by the halfway mark of a single episode. God, he missed her.

His mind would wander in the moments between the screams, but never for long enough for Jack to vanish into the what-ifs. He needed to be in the here and now as the darkness crept closer. It was where he felt most comfortable, out of the light of day. Away from his most painful memories, as they always returned.

The same could be said about Robby; had his own heartbreak manifested as he tirelessly worked on Leah? Had he envisioned his ex-wife beneath his blooded gloved finger tips as he fought to get the girl’s heart to beat once again. Had her image flickered, replacing the young woman for less than a second before switching back. He might hesitate for a split second if she had been wheeled into his care, but thankfully she hadn’t.

Heading up to Neuro ICU

The familiar vocal tones of Dr Frank Langdon could be heard as he moved his latest patient up to the Neuro section of the ICU floor up on the level six. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack caught a sight of the gurney as he made his way back into the heart of the red zone; No, it couldn’t be her lying there. Jack was in no position to chase after Langdon as he disappeared into the elevator shaft.

------------------------------------

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never-rxne · 16 days ago

Text

─── you believe me like a god, i'll betray you like a man

sevika x stray dog coded reader. character study. || 3.6k words

summary: sevika saves your life. in return, you become her dog. she owns you - and she knows this.

content warnings: heavy angst. canon-typical violence and gore. mild sexual content (read at your discretion). depiction of a codependent, abusive relationship (not romanticized). || song: "I'm Your Man" by Mitski

note: skimmed it for format, and it's interesting to see how my understanding of sevika's character has evolved over time. if i were to rewrite this there are definitely things i would do differently

you're an angel, i'm a dog or you're a dog and i'm your man

Sevika does not quite know why she saved you.

It was a night as dark and filthy as the river water. Like the toxins, the streets were crowded with brutes. Things recoiling from flashes of light in the alleyways. Hungry hands outstretched. Flickering neon lights from building signs reflected off the stone pavements slick with rain.

Sevika storms through the streets, a scowling force. Her height and build are enough to ward off attackers. They don’t approach her: very, very few come close enough to discover what is hidden under the dusty red cloak wrapped around her broad shoulders.

The rain pelting her face takes her back to a night she never wants to think of again. She can almost smell her own burned flesh. See the ruddy glow of the flames. A massive broken body.

She’s not broken anymore. She will show them.

Maybe it was this thought that drove her to follow the sounds coming from an alley across the street. This side of the city is nearly empty by midnight, and the noises of a fight pierce clearly through the relentless whisper of rain.

Flesh hitting flesh. Metal on concrete.

“Piss off, you fuckers! Shit eating street rats!”

Sevika never interfered in petty street scuffles. No one in Zaun did. It simply wasn’t worth it. A fight was an indicator of your right to survive, in a way. If you couldn’t fend for yourself in a hand-to-hand once in a while, you had no business eating off the tables of those who could.

But your voice…this wild, desperate, rage-filled voice…it intrigues her.

Sevika turns her steps toward the alley.

In the darkness, she sees three figures pinning down a struggling fourth. This angers her. She doesn’t care who the attackers are, she doesn’t care who you are—it’s the unfairness of the scuffle that infuriates her. You are clearly a woman, smaller in size than the three men cornering you.

Sevika reaches up and unclasps her cloak from her shoulder. Her mech arm gleams in the dim light of street signs spilling into the alley. She activates the Shimmer capsule. The world turns pink, then red with blood.

You were losing strength, but still kicking. The men had been tailing you through the streets for hours, no matter how many fucking false corners you turned to try to throw them off. They were after money you didn’t have, you couldn’t guess how the hell they had gotten the tip that you had assets, but here you are.

You can’t tell the difference between the blood and rainwater running down your face. Your arms are pinned to your sides as the third man brings the knife to your throat.

Then: a gravelly yell, a flash of rippling hot pink light. The blood sprays against your face, all over your clothes, and the man lies dead on the ground.

The other two thugs whirl around, dropping you. You fall to the ground and press your back to the wall, squinting through the darkness for a glimpse of your savior’s face, but all you see is a massive, statuesque figure.

And that arm of searing pink and metal.

The thugs run at the stranger. She grabs one by the throat with her human hand and flings him against the wall as if he weighed nothing more than a sack of flour. She drives her mechanical arm straight through the body of the other. You see her metal fist come out clutching the dripping mass of his organs. She jerks out the arm, kicks the body aside.

Silence settles. You hear nothing but the roar of your beating heart.

The stranger stands with her back to you, panting hard. She picks up her cloak from the ground and uses it to wipe the gore off her mechanical arm. The bright pink fades.

You part your cracked lips. “Thank…thank you.”

She turns quickly. Evidently, she had completely forgotten you were there.

You can make out a chiseled, harsh face. Dark brows drawn tight, a downturned mouth. And a faint blue glow from the web of scars in her skin, like some inner power glinting through cracks in marble.

She gives you the faintest of nods. Bunching up the cloak in her human hand, she begins to walk away.

You stumble to your feet. The world spins, but your bones are intact. “Wait—” you call.

She stops.

“What’s your name?”

The scarred woman turns her head slightly. “Better off not knowing that,” she says. Her voice is deep and rough. She strides out of the alley.

Without a second’s hesitation, you follow her.

you believe me like a god i'll destroy you like i am

It did not take long for you to become devoted.

At first, Sevika tried to shake you off. She tried threatening you. Cursing you out. The fuck makes you think I’d take in a stray? Does this look like a dog pound to you?

But there you were, every night at her door, whether the weather was clear or it was pouring, thunder rumbling. She found you asleep on the doorstep of her small apartment, she found you in the shadows around her frequent haunts: In the backstreet of The Last Drop. Leaning against the side of the building of Babette’s. You said nothing to her—it was enough that she saw you. You followed her through the streets, never too close, but just close enough to keep her in your sight.

She finally turns around one day, eyes narrowed. You stop in your tracks, just a few paces behind her.

“Get over here,” she says sharply.

You obey. You look up to meet her gaze. She has grey eyes like the blade of a sharpened knife. She pierces right through you. Your savior.

“The hell do you want from me?” she demands. “And will giving it to you finally make you fuck off?”

“I want nothing,” you say simply. “I want to give you something.”

Her scowl deepens. Suspicion darkens her gaze. “What?”

“My life.”

A long pause. She draws back and lets out a short, barking laugh. “It wasn’t anything personal, girl. Now go home.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Not my problem.”

“No,” you agree.

Sevika stares at you for several minutes. Sizing you up. For the first time since you’ve met her, she sees you in the full light of day. You don’t seem as pathetic and helpless as she thought you were that night, crumpled against the wall in the alleyway, beaten up and bleeding. You meet her gaze unflinchingly. There’s something genuine and passionate blazing in your eyes that cuts into her. Something that reminds her of the girl she once was, a girl now buried deep inside her like something dead in the pit of her soul. What is it? What was the look?

Loyalty.

Her dark lips curl into a sneer. “What can you do?” she asks.

“Anything. Everything.”

You’re nothing but a stray. You would be nothing but a mouth to feed, a body to shelter. But a part of Sevika likes the devotion burning in your eyes. The reverence you give her for the simple reason of her violence. She thinks, you have not seen who I’ve once been. You don’t know who I am now. You are so very mistaken, and you’ll pay for it eventually.

Besides, you could prove useful. You look sturdy enough. Quick on your feet, observant, sharp-witted—you had proven that in the weeks of following her around the city, learning her habits from afar.

“I can’t pay you anything. And you’ll have to work for what I can give you. You’ll have to work like a dog.”

“Yes.” After a second’s hesitation, you incline your head to her. “Master.”

i'm sorry i'm the one you love no one will ever love me like you again

You are true to your word.

Stick to it like a blood oath.

You become known to the undercity as “The Brute’s Shadow.” Where Sevika is, you are too: the smaller woman in the background, arms crossed, face impassive: fading into the walls until the second Sevika needs something. In the Last Drop, you have her drink and ashtray on the table before she sits down. She pulls out a cigarette, your lighter is hovering before her lips. She does not give you a single glance—not, at least, in public. When she is ready to leave, she gives a whistle. And you are on her heels in a heartbeat.

She has given you a corner in her apartment to sleep—but never lets you inside her bedroom. She rents two dark rooms, with an after-thought-like kitchenette and small bathroom, and you have never seen where she sleeps. You are up at dawn to wash her clothes and fix her small breakfast of coffee and brown bread. You mend her boots, clean her tools, and when she runs out of cigars you are out—no matter what time of night it is—to get her more.

Yet the more you try to please her, the more you seem to repulse her.

She sends you to fetch her whiskey. You return with the drink, and she snaps that she wanted beer. She tells you not to touch her tools, then demands why they are not sharpened. She mocks you for your devotion, the way you would spend your life groveling on your knees. She is gentle one day. She is brutal the next. She laughs in your face for the way you follow her around like a dog parched for water. She calls you her stray.

You are a mortal kneeling at the feet of a heartless god. Your life is in her hands. Whether she obliterates you, burns your body up into nothing but vapor, it does not matter. You do not care. If she burns you, you will lean into the warmth of her flames.

Because you find home in cruelty. If Sevika had been kind, generous from the beginning, you would have recoiled, frightened. The act alone of saving your life was enough for her to secure your loyalty forever. It doesn’t matter how she treated you.

And Sevika knows this.

Sometimes, she takes you into the brothel with her. Never offers to get you a worker, and you never ask. Usually she makes you stand outside the room to “keep watch” while she has her time with whatever girl she picks, back turned to the closed curtain, listening to the grunts and moans and heavy breaths. But today she tells you to come into the room with her.

The girl glances at you with misgiving. Looks up at Sevika, as if for an explanation.

“She’s not here for you,” Sevika tells her. She sits down on the couch, legs splayed, mechanical arm draped over the back of the chair. “I want the usual.”

Her eyes never leave your face. And you cannot look away.

The girl hesitates, but Sevika’s tone demands obedience. The girl turns her back to you, standing as still as stone by the curtain, and goes down on her knees. Sevika watches you closely as the girl unbuttons her pants. Lazily, her human hand wanders down and her fingers gather in the girl’s lush hair, pulling her closer. Sevika’s heavy-lidded eyes go dark as the girl slots her tongue between her thighs, but her expression betrays almost nothing, as if the pleasure of sex is stripped bare for her, as if this is just another procedure she goes through as methodically as her work for Silco.

As soon as she comes the girl pulls away, but Sevika does not let go of her hair. She has never taken her gaze off you.

With her mech hand she pulls up her pants. She stands, and the girl stands with her. She turns the girl around so that you are face to face with her, so that you can see Sevika’s arousal glistening around her mouth, her beautiful vacant eyes.

“Pretty, isn’t she?” Sevika says.

You say nothing.

Sevika scoffs to herself, as if some inner voice told her a private joke. She counts out the money for the girl and leaves it on the table.

You know she wanted you to see her superiority. You know she brought you in there to show you the pleasure she can afford, the status she holds, a position you will never reach, never rise to. You know she brought you in there so she could remind you of your place—beneath her, always at her feet.

But you saw the haze of her darkened eyes. The suppressed pleasure and agony and bitter loneliness. Sevika thinks she can hide from you. She thinks eventually you will be disgusted by her, pushed beyond the breaking point. You only want her more.

so when you leave me, i should die i deserve it, don't i?

Gradually she allows you to come closer. She lets you into her bed. She finds herself desiring you, to the point of blind passion. There is something about the worshipful way you gaze up at her as she hovers over you. Something about the helplessness of your body, limp and sweaty beneath hers. It lets her believe, even for a second, that she is not hideous.

But how is that possible?

She looks at you sometimes and wants to crush you like the fragile body of a bird. Her hand covers half your face, her thighs cradle you like boulders. She could break you between her thumb and index finger. She wants to destroy you the same way the explosion destroyed her. She wants to ravage you, she wants to ruin your beauty, the steady symmetry of your body.

She looks at your arms, the scars lining your skin from numerous past street scuffles. And she is filled with a rage and envy so potent it brings the tears to her eyes. Why do you—so inferior, so helpless, useless, a stray from the streets—why do you have the blessing of two arms, a complete figure? Why do you have the privilege of beauty and strength? Your unblemished skin, your unmutilated body. You have the inner strength and rage, the will to survive. You could go anywhere and do anything.

Why do you stay?

Why do you stay for her?

Pity, Sevika thinks. It is nothing but pity. All this time she thought she had the upper hand. All this time you must have been laughing at her in your mind.

It is a simmering summer night. You watch from the bed as Sevika pulls on her shirt. Her mechanical arm is off. Before she clothes herself, you can see the muscles rippling in her back, the jagged blue scars lining the left side of her torso. Her beauty makes you breathless, and the stagnant air feels tight around you. She looks into the cracked mirror and sees you watching her in the reflection.

“Enjoying the view?” she says roughly.

Your tongue fills your mouth.

“Come here.”

You climb out of bed and walk over to her side. She grabs you by the arm and pulls you next to her, forcing you to stand next to her and look into the mirror.

“Do you think you’re better than me?” She says in a low voice. “Little street brat? What kind of savior game are you trying to play?”

You have no idea what she is talking about, but you make no sound.

“I saved your life,” Sevika hisses. “I picked you up off the filthy streets. I fed you and gave you a place to sleep.”

When you still give no answer, she pushes you away from her. Then in a movement so sudden you don’t even have time to process it, she hits you hard across the face with her right hand. The force knocks you off your feet and throws you against the side of the bed, bruising your ribs.

She walks slowly over to you. Sweat streaks her dark hair over her forehead. She reaches down and grabs you by the face, forcing you to look up at her. Something dark and dangerous teems in her grey eyes, a rage you know is not even directed at you.

Sevika is sick with self-loathing. When she sees the blood running down your lips, the bruise forming on your face, she wants to destroy herself. She wants to fall to her knees and weep. She wants to tell you to run from her, quickly, before it’s too late.

“Who do you belong to?” Sevika asks, her voice low.

You cough, and see flecks of red in the air between you and her. “You.”

“You, what?”

“You, master.”

She drops your face. You slump to the floor. Sevika turns away. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

one day you'll figure me out i'll meet judgment by the hounds

Sevika wonders why you don’t leave.

You don’t leave because you see her weakness. No matter how she tries to conceal it from you, you have seen her worst sides, her uncertainties. The way she comes home exhausted and reeking of blood, the way she stumbles into the bathroom and vomits Shimmer after a grueling fight. The way she tells you things when she is drunk enough not to know who she is talking to—or care.

She’s leaning against the wall one night, too tired to even pull herself into bed. There’s whiskey on her breath. She watches you through half closed eyes as you stitch up a deep gash in her leg: some fucker had caught her calf with a blade in a fight in front of the Shimmer warehouse. Since you have come to live with her you’ve become skilled in tending to wounds.

“If you…” her voice trails off, then returns. “If you’re ready to go, I can pay you your due.”

You don’t look up from your hands on her leg. “I’m not leaving you.”

Sevika frowns as your words make their way through the thick fog of her mind. She looks at you more intently, ready to argue. Then her head falls back against the wall again.

“Right,” she mutters, more to herself than to you. “You can’t leave.”

She gives a low, joyless laugh. “Where would you go? Huh, stray?”

Finally, you look at her. She tilts her head at you. Pain fills her gaze.

“You’re stuck here. Just like me.”

people always gave me love others were never to blame after all

On an overcast morning, you follow Sevika on a trip to one of the Shimmer supply houses. Silco had heard of some trouble brewing around the area there and wanted Sevika to station more cyborgs on the premises. The streets are quiet and smoke drifts from chimneys, disappearing into the cloudy sky. Sevika had been in a lighter mood that morning. Even whistled as she fastened on her mech arm. As she strode down the street with you, she pointed out landmarks and storefronts, telling you all the scraps of history she knew to pass the time.

Turf wars were quieting down since Piltover closed the gates against Zaun and stationed enforcers at the border. The insult to the lower city resulted in a newfound solidarity among the Zaunites, uniting them against Topside. Because of the decrease in street fights, it has been weeks since Sevika used Shimmer, and the effects of it showed. Her appetite returned. Her moods were calmer, less volatile.

She has never treated you better than this time, and you have never loved her more.

At the warehouse, you stand close by Sevika as she directs the cyborgs’ stations around the building. You survey the rows and rows of Shimmer vaults, the massive glass containers bubbling with the raw substance. Until they are diluted, you know they are extremely reactive.

You don’t know who ignites the blast.

The screams of alarm, the sudden rush of heat, the echo of shattering glass—they fade into nothing as your vision registers the wave of the explosion hurtling towards you and Sevika. Your body reacts before your mind. You hurl yourself against her, pushing her out of the way.

A searing pain like you’ve never known before cuts through your senses, and then the world goes dark.

When Sevika comes to, she is aware of a loud ringing in her ears. Her mechanical arm is mangled beneath her, leaking oil, wires sticking out. With a grunt of effort she raises herself up on her human arm and tries to squint through the pink haze of dust. The world is shattered glass and splintered wood.

Her gaze falls on an arm outstretched nearby, but she can’t see the rest of you. Everything rushes back to her. She scrambles across the floor, half dragging herself, and throws aside the debris covering your body. Your face is streaked with soot and blood. Your body is twisted into itself. Your chest is barely moving.

Sevika cradles your broken body in her arm. She looks into your senseless face. She feels a deep chasm open up in her chest. Through cracked lips she whispers, “Hey. Hey, stray.”

I’ve lost her.

Your hand stirs. Briefly, you reach up and touch the bend of her elbow. Then your hand falls to your side. It was all the hope she needed.

She has owned you all this time, but only now she looks down at you and feels that you are someone that was hers to lose.

you believe me like a god i'll betray you like i am.

end note: 🥲

#rune's fics #you believe me like a god #sevika #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #sevika x you #sevika angst #arcane

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