#that is a good looking man but the way hes good looking is antiseptic also.

[i-just-want-to-destroy]

Jimmy stewart and henry fonda r both the same breed of bland, all-american old hollywood leading man but stewart has got this cynical cockiness to him and while fonda is just as bland as the former, fonda’s silently anxious, concerned mannerism is more charming 2 me

[shotmrmiller]

simon's many things. a retired fighter, for one. he hung his mma gloves a few of years ago with the excuse of getting older. he still sticks around, though— sitting in the front, so close to the hexagonal cage that his knees can touch the steel, occasionally gesturing price over to hand him a crinkled wad of cash.

gambling's illegal, you know.

thought you were a medic not a cop, pet.

a veterinarian.

good thing we're all dogs here, then.

he's also a bit unhinged, or so price says. you had pressed your tongue against the back of your teeth to keep from asking him if the hits simon's taken to the side of the head knocked a few things loose or if he was simply born that way. you'd be thoroughly unsurprised by the latter.

seen 'em take a man out with one ferocious hit— dislocated his jaw and retired him all in one second— all over cigarettes.

what, did they guy like steal them or something?

no. the prize for the winner of their fight was that pack of smokes.

incredible. (that's insane.)

he's also unrepentantly forward and a bit of a pervert, to boot. no explanation is needed.

lemme take ya out, love—

don't call me that.

and wear a pretty dress with heels. bet you'd look real good in—

stop talking, simon.

and now, you're about to find out that he's also, apparently, magnanimous.

a friday night's hustle and bustle has come and gone, as has the crowd that was in there earlier to watch a fight. the air smells of cheap alcohol and even cheaper cologne. the lighting inside is dim, casting a dull, almost sickly glow over wooden stands and the bloodied arena. the floor, once dry concrete, was now mud-slicked; drinks, urine, and spilled blood staining the surface. betting slips stick to your sneakers as you walk. (trudge, more like.)

with your worn medical supply bag around your shoulder, you tiredly head towards price's office whose metal door is being held open by an old barstool, and gently rap your knuckles on the frame. "i'm leaving, john."

he looks up at you, soft blue eyes crinkling over his glasses as he smiles. "sounds good, love. see ya later. want me to walk you out?"

always the gentleman. "no, i'm alright. i'm sure simon's out there waiting for me any—"

the metal entrance door slams open then, causing you to jump at the startling noise. you whip your head around and a resigned groan escapes your lips. it's simon and he's got bruised company. very bruised.

there's never any rest for the wicked.

"who's that?" john calls from behind you. "he lost?"

the guy whose arm is slung around simon's shoulders looks relatively young. thick, straight eyebrows, a swollen broken nose, and thin blood-crusted lips. the last time you saw a mohawk on someone, it'd been in the early 00s.

"somewhat but it's a good thing i found 'em," simon grunts. his eyes flash over to you. "can ya patch him up f'me, love? i'll go on tha' date you've been beggin' me for."

you ignore simon as you approach them both and tip the guy's head up with your fingers under his chin. searching in your front pocket, you tell him to look at you. "open your eyes as best you can, alright?"

his eyes are like sparkling blue gems— bright like the sky on a clear summer's day. he winces at the blinding white light emitting from the flashlight. "tha' necessary, lass? ah'm not seein' double, if tha's what ye lookin' fer."

he gives a pained grunt before simon tells him to stand still. "my girl here's the medic and what she says goes. clear?"

"crystal, sir." purple bruises are blooming like dark flowers around his left eye and right cheekbone, and the blood that oozed from his split lip long coagulated. his nose, however, continues to languidly drip crimson.

"not the worst break i've seen," you mutter.

the pair shuffle behind you quietly as you head toward the dedicated medical room. the sharp, clinical scent of antiseptic wafts through the air as the door swings open.

"sit, please," you gesture to the well-worn chair in the corner.

black latex gloves squeak in protest as you slide them on. "wanna tell me what's going on, simon? i'm not gonna fix the nose of a wanted murderer, am i?"

simon chuckles under his breath. "no. unlucky bloke chose to mug the wrong person. johnny here is real good at fightin', though, for someone with no real proper trainin'. figured i could give him a way to earn his money instead of stealin' it off of hard-workin' folk."

you hum and press your thumbs as gently as you can where the nasal fracture is. johnny hisses sharply and grips your wrist tightly. "easy. i barely touched it." you quickly tap the back of his hand with your knuckles. "let go, please. last thing i need is you tensing and breaking my arm."

he slackens his fingers and sits on both of his hands. "sorry, lass. ah'd never hurt a bonnie lass like ye. say, how'd ye even end up in the bowels of the city?"

his talking re-opened the cut on his upper lip, blood streaking his teeth pink. "i'm a charity case, just like you, i reckon."

johnny means to continue the conversation, but you take advantage of his distracted mind and push to the left, the sickening crunch of cartilage follows the adjustment. he curls in on himself and lets out a guttural noise that bounces off the white walls. "i'd be sorry but..." you trail off with a casual shrug.

pulling a clean rag from a basket nearby, you order johnny to sit up straight. "look up for me." he leans his head back, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. "hold this there," he squeezes his eyes shut when you firmly press the rag under his nose, "you'll stop bleeding soon enough."

you swivel on your stool, turning your attention to simon who's been silently watching you work by the door. "any injuries on you?"

he pulls his balaclava up, revealing a blonde stubble and scarred lips. "i got an injury right," he points at his mouth, "here tha' you can kiss—"

"stop talking, simon."

johnny's laughter emerges from behind the crimson-stained cloth.

--

this is the first time you've ever seen simon in the ring.

simon, even while 'retired', fights with a viciousness that borders on primal. his snarl— a ravenous wolf's— bare crooked teeth that hunger for victory, for dominance.

even when he's merely teaching johnny how to survive in this subterranean battleground.

"there's no room for mercy, soap!" he bellows. his eyes are sharp as blades, holding an edge of madness. he charges forward with fists like sledgehammers, delivering blow after punishing blow; johnny's body paying the price for his mistakes.

pain is the currency in that pit of despair, laswell had once said.

simon is a beast in human skin, ferocity incarnate...and you don't remember the last time you were this aroused by such a brute display. if this is what he looks like now, after years of being the spectator and not the spectacle, you can only imagine him in the zenith of his strength, his power.

heat licks up your cheeks at the mere thought.

he looks like he was born and bred to fight. his crib must've been the stained mat he's dancing on, his lullabies the sound of fists making contact, forcing flesh to yield. his broad back bears the weight of history— jagged flesh that stretches taut with each swing.

"fight smart! rules dissolve once tha' bell tolls, mate. many come here for glory, others come for an escape but some--" simon ducks the undisciplined punch johnny throws and gives him a ruthless jab to the ribs once then another to the side of his cut jaw.

johnny falls like a tree that's been cut at the trunk, the sound his body makes on impact with the canvas echoing in the empty basement. his breathing comes in ragged bursts, sweat and trickles of blood mingling on his face. simon kneels next to him, grunting as he goes down. "some are only here for their next meal and those are the most dangerous."

he is in his element, all bruised flesh and bloodied nose.

oh no. johnny's nose is bleeding too. "simon!" his head snaps to you when you scream, eyes wide and unfettered. "i just fixed his nose, you dolt!" his expression softens then— furrowed brows and taut lips relax.

"he'll be alrigh'. even my nose whistles when i breathe," he remarks.

simpleton. nothing but fighting and gambling in that big head of his. "that doesn't mean that it's okay to break bones i mended a few days ago." you keep your eyes fixed on johnny, ignoring the way the heat that's radiating from simon's sweat-slick body seeps into your chilled skin. "why he call you soap, anyway? good at cleaning dishes?"

he slurs a little, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. "'cuz ah'm a shlippery bashtard."

you bite on your tongue, hoping that his slurring is because he's still mildly dazed from the punch and not something worse.

"wha' about me, love? i've got a beaten face too, y'know." you look at him then, narrowing your eyes as you take his bare face in. the bridge of his nose is pretty swollen, and you can see the onset of bruising already happening. it's also freely dribbling blood.

"shit, let me go get my medbag."

he hooks his fingers around the loops of your jeans, keeping you in place. "'fraid of a little blood, are ya? i think you'd look real good with me on you."

a jolt of arousal shoots up your spine unbidden, blooming desire, focus wavering. your breath catches and pupils dilate as they lock with his rich, brown ones.

"oi, get a room, aye?" johnny's hoarse voice snaps you back to the present, your thunderous heartbeat ebbing away like a tide from shore.

"whenever you want, sweetheart," simon purred. the lump lodged in your throat makes it hard to respond. "get the bag 'fore i bleed out. price will have my head if i drop dead on his mat."

you blink and scramble away on shaky legs and weak knees.

[pucksandpower]

It Started With an Appendix

Carlos Sainz x nurse!Reader

Summary: in which an inflamed appendix turns out to be the ultimate matchmaker

Warnings: medical ethics are basically thrown out the window

“Y/N, the patient in room 312 is awake,” a voice calls from the hall outside the nurses’ station.

You make your way down the bright, sterile corridor toward the private room, the scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. Taking a breath, you rap your knuckles lightly on the door before entering.

Carlos Sainz Jr. is propped up in the hospital bed, blinking slowly as the anesthesia wears off. His tousled hair and grogginess make him look adorably vulnerable.

“Hola, señorita,” he slurs with a lopsided grin as you approach. “Are you an angel? You must have fallen from heaven.”

You can’t help but giggle at his cheesy line, shaking your head in amusement. “No, Mr. Sainz, I’m your nurse. You just had your appendix removed.”

“Call me Carlos,” he insists, his Spanish accent thick and velvety. “And you’re definitely an angel to me.”

Suppressing another laugh, you check his vitals and make a note on his chart. “How are you feeling, Carlos? Any pain or nausea?”

“I feel ... floaty,” he murmurs, blinking slowly as he looks you up and down. “But you’re making me feel much better already.”

You bite your lip to contain your smile. This man is incorrigible, even fresh out of surgery. “That’s the pain medication talking, I’m afraid.”

“No, no ...” Carlos protests weakly. “You’re just ... muy bonita. So beautiful.”

His boldness makes warmth bloom in your cheeks. You clear your throat. “Why don’t you try to get some rest? The anesthesia can make people loopy for a while.”

“Don’t go,” he pouts, trying and failing to grab your hand from the bed. “Stay and keep me company, hermosa.”

You gently lay his hand back at his side. “I’ll be just down the hall if you need anything, okay?”

Carlos levels you with a look that could melt glaciers. “At least tell me your name, ángel?”

Holding his smoldering gaze, you reply softly, “It’s Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he echoes, savoring each syllable. “What a beautiful name. Maybe I’ll dream of you, Y/N ...”

With a flustered smile, you turn and exit the room, his flirtatious words still ringing in your ears. This man is going to be the death of you.

Over the next few hours, you check on Carlos periodically, each time greeted by a fresh cheesy line or thinly-veiled compliment. He’s relentless, but also strangely endearing in his drug-addled state.

“Did the sun come out or did you just smile at me?”

“Are you a parking ticket? Because you’ve got fine written all over you.”

“I must be in a museum, because you truly are a work of art.”

You roll your eyes at each one, but can’t deny the little thrill it sends through you. Despite his grogginess, Carlos’ charisma still shines through effortlessly.

By the time your shift ends, you’re almost disappointed you won’t get to hear any more of his terrible pickup lines. You linger a moment in his doorway after bringing him his evening dose of medication.

“Feeling any better?” You ask kindly.

Carlos gives you a crooked smile. “I feel a lot better when you’re around, querida.”

You shake your head in playful exasperation. “Get some rest. I’m off for the night.”

His expression turns almost ... wistful? “Will I see you again?”

Something warm blooms in your chest at his hopeful tone. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” you assure him. “Same time.”

The bright grin that stretches across his face is worth a million cheesy lines. “Buenas noches, mi ángel.”

You don’t bother holding back your smile this time. “Good night, Carlos.”

As you make your way home, his handsome face and melted chocolate voice keep popping into your mind unbidden.

You try to push thoughts of Carlos from your mind as you cook yourself dinner and get ready for bed. He’s just a patient — a ridiculously charming one, yes, but a patient all the same.

Still, as you drift off to sleep, his teasing grin and warm brown eyes seem seared into the back of your mind ...

The next morning, you arrive at the hospital with a new spring in your step. You can’t help but look forward to seeing Carlos again, newly appendix-less or no.

When you enter his room with his breakfast tray, the sleepy Spaniard perks up instantly at the sight of you. “Y/N! Buenos dias, hermosa!”

You chuckle at his enthusiasm. “Good morning, Carlos. How are you feeling today?”

“Much better now that mi ángel has arrived,” he declares boldly.

As you check his vitals, he continues to bat those ridiculously long eyelashes at you. “You must be a hell of a thief, because you stole my heart from across the hospital room.”

You snort at the line, rolling your eyes in amusement. “You do realize those cheesy pick-up lines aren’t going to work on me, right?”

“Not cheesy ... poetic,” Carlos argues with an impish grin. “Poetry for a woman of your beauty.”

You raise an eyebrow in mock skepticism. “Is that so?”

“Of course,” he nods matter-of-factly. “Here, let me demonstrate ...”

Carlos clears his throat dramatically. “Your eyes shame the brilliance of the desert sun, while your lips put roses to shame with their beauty. A sculptor could study your face for a lifetime and never capture its perfection in marble.”

Despite yourself, you can feel heat rising to your cheeks at his earnest compliments. “I ... you can’t just-”

But he’s not done. “While bandits would slay and sack entire cities for even a glimpse of your splendor. Why, the gods themselves weep at being outdone by such a radiant vision of loveliness!”

By now, your face is burning scarlet as he gazes up at you, eyes sparkling impishly. “Th-that’s enough, Carlos,” you manage, turning away and busying yourself straightening his blankets to hide your flustered expression.

You can hear the grin in his voice. “Too much for you, hermosa? I haven’t even gotten to the part about your luscious ti-”

“Carlos!” You squeak, spinning back around with wide eyes.

His mischievous laughter fills the room, head thrown back in pure delight at your scandalized reaction. The melodic sound is utterly infectious — soon you find yourself giggling helplessly along despite your embarrassment.

“You’re terrible, you know that?” You admonish once you’ve caught your breath, trying and failing to look stern.

He winks unapologetically. “I’m just being honest, ángel.”

You shake your head in feigned exasperation, trying to ignore the little thrill his flirtations still send through you. “I should get going before you corrupt me further.”

As you turn to leave, Carlos calls after you. “Until later, mi amor! Don’t forget my poetry books for next time!”

His infectious laughter follows you into the hallway, that bright sound certain to play on a loop in your mind all day ...

Over the next few days, Carlos’ recovery progresses smoothly — maybe a little too smoothly, you think with a private smirk. His cheesy compliments and relentless flirting show no signs of letting up, much to your mingled embarrassment and secret delight.

“For you, hermosa, I would wrestle bulls and paint sunsets!”

“Mother Nature herself must be jealous of your radiant beauty.”

“Careful, or you’ll put the Arabian sun to shame with your smile!”

You somehow manage to roll your eyes and blush simultaneously each time he unleashes a new line. Part of you wishes he would just give it a rest already. But an even bigger part never wants this game you two have going to end.

On your third day caring for Carlos post-op, you arrive to find a small bouquet of red roses sitting on his bedside table. “These are for you, querida!” He announces happily when you enter.

You blink in surprise, taking in the brilliant flowers. “Carlos, you didn’t have to-”

“Of course I did,” he cuts you off dismissively. “An ángel as dazzling as you deserves all the flowers in the world.”

A pleased smile tugs at your lips despite yourself as you inhale their sweet fragrance. “They’re lovely, Carlos ... thank you.”

“Anything for you, mi amor,” he grins impishly. “Though it pains me to give a rose to one who outshines it so effortlessly.”

You shake your head, fighting a blush yet again. “Are you always this much of a shameless flirt?”

His eyes dance with impish delight. “Only to beautiful nurses who make my heart race faster than any lap around the fastest street circuit on the calendar.” Carlos pauses, expression turning serious. “Truthfully Y/N ... I know I’m a patient, but I feel a connection with you. Something deeper than just pretty words.”

You regard him carefully, caught off guard by his sudden earnestness. Part of you wants to laugh it off, dismiss his words like all the cheesy lines before. But something in his warm and open gaze gives you pause.

“I ... feel it too,” you admit quietly after a moment. “I don’t know why, it’s just ... a spark. Like we’ve known each other for years.”

Carlos’s face breaks into a brilliant smile that makes your heart skip a beat. “Exactly, ángel! A connection of the soul — that is what it feels like to me.”

He holds out a hand in invitation, eyes soft yet intense. “Come over here? Let me get a closer look at mi amor’s beautiful face.”

You move toward the bed instinctively, taking his hand as he guides you to sit at the edge. His touch sends little electric tingles coursing through you that raise goosebumps along your arms. Even when you’re seated, Carlos has to look up slightly from where he’s reclining on a pile of pillows to meet your eyes, his thumb caressing your knuckles tenderly.

“So lovely,” he murmurs huskily, eyes tracing your features reverently. “A woman more beautiful than Aphrodite herself. And just as captivating ...”

Slowly, carefully, he lifts your joined hands to brush his lips along your knuckles in a feather-light kiss. The simple, intimate gesture steals the breath from your lungs.

“Carlos ...” you start breathlessly, hardly daring to move lest you break the hypnotic spell between you two.

He gives you that crooked, heart-melting grin. “Let me take you to dinner when I’m out of here, mi ángel? So I can woo you properly like you deserve.”

Despite the warm tingles his attention still sends through you, you nibble your lip uncertainly. “I ... I don’t think that would be appropriate. You’re my patient-”

“Just dinner,” he interjects smoothly. “As a thank you for taking such wonderful care of me. I insist on repaying you somehow.”

You search his face, wanting so badly to throw caution to the wind and say yes. He could charm the feathers off a bird, this man.

“Just dinner,” he reiterates in a low, sincere tone. “And if nothing else ... maybe we both make a new friend, yes?”

A slow smile spreads across your face, anticipation blooming in your chest. “Alright then. Just dinner.”

The boyish grin he gives you makes your breath catch. “Excellent! I’ll wine and dine you like a true gentleman, you’ll see.”

You roll your eyes, even as a giggle escapes you. “I’ll hold you to that.”

With a gentle squeeze of your hand, Carlos lifts it once more to brush his lips across your knuckles, holding your gaze intently.

“I cannot wait, mi amor.”

***

The luxurious restaurant that Carlos chose for your dinner date is dimly lit by ornate lanterns and alive with the sounds of traditional music. You can’t help but let your eyes linger on him as you’re shown to your private table tucked away in a secluded corner.

Even in a simple shirt and slacks, Carlos looks effortlessly dashing. His warm eyes crinkle at the corners when he catches you staring, rewarding you with that heart-melting smile.

“See something you like, querida?” He teases once you’re seated across from him.

You feel heat rush to your cheeks at being so brazenly caught out. Recovering quickly, you arch an eyebrow cooly. “You just look different out of that hospital gown, that’s all.”

Carlos throws back his head with a rich laugh. “Ah, so you prefer me in my natural state then? Bueno, no complaints here!”

You shake your head in amusement, trying not to smile too widely. “Is that ego really as big as they say?”

“What ego?” He asks innocently, shrugging broad shoulders. “This is merely healthy self-confidence, mi ángel.”

The banter comes so effortlessly between you two, like going back-and-forth with an old friend rather than a man you just met days ago. Carlos reaches across the table to take your hand, calloused fingers stroking your knuckles gently.

“Truthfully? I’m just thrilled you agreed to have dinner with me tonight,” he admits in a low tone. “I wasn’t sure if all my flirting was too much.”

You chuckle softly, gazing at him through the glow of the lantern between you. “It was definitely ... persistent. But also strangely charming, if I’m being honest.”

A pleased grin stretches across Carlos’ face, lighting up his handsome features. His thumb caresses your knuckles tenderly as he holds your eyes.

“I meant what I said, Y/N ... I felt an unexplainable connection with you from the moment I woke up in that hospital bed.” His expression turns almost wondering. “Despite my joking and terrible pick-up lines, there was something deeper drawing me to you. Like my soul recognized yours, si?”

You nod slowly, inexplicably understanding exactly what he means. That spark, that feeling of having known him for years — it’s indescribable and yet so real at the same time.

“I felt it too,” you murmur. “A pull, like I was meant to meet you.” You give a soft, self-conscious laugh. “It sounds silly saying it out loud.”

But Carlos shakes his head adamantly. “Not silly at all, cariño. Spiritual, cosmic, whatever you want to call it — I felt it too, and I don’t question these things anymore.”

He leans in conspiratorially. “Do you know what the nomadic Bedouin peoples of Arabia call that? Finding your namiah.”

You can’t help the way your heart flutters at the unfamiliar word and the enchanted look on his face. “What does it mean?” You breathe.

“It translates roughly to your twin soul,’" Carlos explains in a hushed tone. “Two souls destined to connect in this life. Bound together across lifetimes, finally reunited.”

He gives your hand a meaningful squeeze, utterly transfixed. “The Bedouins believe when you encounter your namiah, it’s sacred — a reunion that must be honored and embraced, regardless of what life may throw your way. Because you’ve been given a second chance with your twin soul.”

His words seem to reverberate somewhere deep within you, ringing with an ancient truth you can’t fully grasp but feel with your entire being. Impulsively, you lift Carlos’s hand to your cheek, holding it there as you bathe in his wonder-filled gaze.

For a long, charged moment, the whole world narrows to just the two of you sharing this cosmic revelation. Then the spell breaks as you let out a breathless laugh, eyes shining with amazed delight.

“You believe in destined soulmates? I never would have guessed,” you tease gently.

He chuckles warmly in return, leaning back but keeping your hand pressed tenderly against his cheek. “The universe works in mysterious ways, querida. I’ve learned not to question things my heart recognizes as true.”

A comfortable silence stretches between you, filled with unspoken understanding and newfound intimacy. He grazes his thumb along your cheekbone reverently.

“That’s why I couldn’t stop myself from flirting with you, you know,” Carlos muses in that rumbly tone. “You captivated me from the first moment I laid eyes on you. I knew I had to at least try winning your heart, mi ángel.”

You shake your head in fond exasperation, fighting a smile. “Carlos Sainz, actually a hopeless romantic? Who would have thought ...”

His playful grin is back in full force. “Only for you, hermosa.” Then his eyes take on a hint of hesitant hopefulness. “Speaking of ... there’s actually another reason I wanted to take you to dinner.”

You regard him curiously as the waiter arrives to fill your glasses with water. “Oh? Do tell.”

Carlos takes a fortifying sip before fixing you with those warm, earnest eyes again. “I would be honored if you came to Australia with me in a few weeks. As my guest for the race in Melbourne.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, mouth falling open slightly. “The ... the Grand Prix? In Australia?”

He nods eagerly. “It’s at the end of the month. I will arrange for your travel, put you up in the plushest hotel, everything. My treat.”

Carlos leans in closer, an impish gleam dancing in his eyes. “It would give me the perfect chance to keep wooing you properly, mi amor.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, barely able to wrap your mind around the unexpected invitation. “Carlos, I ... I can’t just fly across the world like that! I have work, responsibilities-”

“Ah, but you’d only need to take a week or so off,” he counters smoothly. “I’ll handle all the details. You just need to relax and be my honored guest for the weekend.”

He gives you that smoldering look that makes your heart skip a beat. “Let me spoil you, mi ángel. Just say the word and it’s yours.”

Part of you is tempted — so, so tempted by the enthralling prospect. A luxurious vacation with this enchanting man who is already well on his way to sweeping you off your feet? It sounds utterly magical.

But the practical part of you holds you back, brow furrowing with uncertainty. “I don’t know ... even taking time off for a trip like that would be difficult.”

Carlos regards you intently for a moment, reading your hesitation. Then he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, voice turning softer yet insistent.

“Y/N, when was the last time you took a real vacation? Away from the hospital, away from responsibility for a little while ... to just breathe and enjoy life?”

You open your mouth automatically, then pause. Truthfully, you can’t even remember. Life has become an endless cycle of work and sleep with little room for anything else.

“Exactly,” Carlos nods knowingly at your silence. “Everyone needs to get away sometimes, querida. To recharge their soul before the daily grind drains them completely. Even an ángel like you.”

He fixes you with those molten brown eyes again. “Let me give that to you, mi amor. A week to relax, to be spoiled and carefree in one of the most beautiful corners of your world.” One side of his mouth quirks up teasingly. “And with a ruggedly handsome Formula 1 driver to keep you company, of course ...”

You chuckle in spite of yourself, warmth blooming in your chest. He has a point — when was the last time you allowed yourself to have fun and truly unwind? You certainly can’t remember. And if there’s anyone who seems like the ideal travel companion ...

Carlos notices your resolve softening and presses his advantage. “I promise you, it will be an experience you’ll never forget. Put yourself in my hands for just one week — let me take care of everything so you don’t have to lift a finger. What do you say, hermosa?”

His gaze is so open and full of restrained yearning that your breath hitches. You search those bewitching eyes for one more long moment, feeling yourself teetering on the edge of a decision.

Then, with a breathless laugh, you give in to impulse.

“Okay! You win. I’m yours for a week in Australia. Show me what you have in store.”

The smile that slowly spreads across his face is brighter and more radiant than the high desert sun. Carlos lifts your hand to his lips to brush a lingering kiss across your knuckles, sending delicious sparks dancing along your skin.

“Your wish is my command, mi ángel,” he murmurs fervently against your fingers, holding your breathless gaze. “I’ll make sure it’s a trip you’ll never forget.”

***

The bright Australian sun feels glorious on your skin as you relax on the private rooftop terrace of Ferrari’s plush motorhome. Leaning back on the cushioned lounger, you close your eyes and inhale the first deep breath you’ve taken in ... well, you can’t remember how long.

For just this fleeting moment, all the stresses of everyday life as a hardworking nurse seem to melt away into the balmy afternoon air. You’re worlds away from the frenetic hospital routine, from the bright fluorescent lights and permeating smell of antiseptic. Here, surrounded by towering palms swaying lazily in the breeze, you can almost imagine you’re at a lavish resort rather than the Albert Park paddock.

Almost.

A fond smile tugs at your lips as the roar of engines echoes across the circuit. That unmistakable sound is your reminder of just how enchantingly surreal this entire experience has been.

When Carlos first invited you to be his guest at the race, you expected some form of VIP experience to watch the Formula 1 action up close. But you never could have imagined the level of extravagance and pampering he had planned.

From the moment you landed, you’ve been put up at a five-star hotel in the lap of luxury — a stunning penthouse suite, complete with a butler at your beck and call plus a private concierge team to arrange anything you may need. Not that you’ve had time to need anything, with Carlos’s personal assistant, Elena, catering to your every whim.

You had tried to object at first, insisting this level of opulence wasn’t necessary. But Carlos merely placed a finger over your lips with a mischievous grin.

“Ah ah ah, mi ángel — you agreed to let me spoil you for a week, remember?” He chided playfully. “No objections!”

Before you could protest further, he pulled you into his arms, warm and solid and smelling faintly of bergamot. “Just relax and enjoy la buena vida for once. That’s my only condition.”

Looking into those warm brown eyes, you found yourself getting deliciously lost as his breath fanned across your lips. What choice did you have but to nod breathlessly and let yourself be whisked away into his lavish wonderland?

And it has been nothing short of wondrous so far. After being settled into your palatial suite with its giant marble bathroom and wall-to-wall windows, Elena escorted you into the exclusive world of Formula 1.

The Grand Prix itself is certainly glamorous — the electric atmosphere, roar of the cars driving at breath-taking speeds, and prestigious crowds dripping in finery and jewels. But it’s the behind-the-scenes action in the paddock that truly left you dazzled.

Elena led you through a dizzying labyrinth of state-of-the-art motorhomes and garage bays with cutting-edge equipment full of personnel bustling about in a flurry of coordinated movements. She introduced you to a mind-boggling array of mechanics, aerodynamicists, race strategists, hospitality workers, and more.

The entire operation felt like the world’s most organized theatrical production playing out before your very eyes. And at the center of it all? A beacon in red drawing all eyes to where he’s leaning against a metal wall towards the side of the garage? None other than Carlos himself.

Seeing him in this element, commanding the hushed and reverent attention of dozens of crew members with an intense yet unhurried confidence ... there was something almost unbearably sexy about it. His typical warmth and charm were overshadowed by a blazing intensity and poise more potent than any poem he could compose under the haze of painkillers.

Between briefings and warm ups, you managed to steal a few stolen moments with Carlos. Whether brushing a clandestine kiss to the back of your hand or pulling you aside for a heated embrace out of view, he always reaffirmed this sublime fantasy was for you … and you alone.

“Having fun so far, mi ángel?” He would murmur, lips brushing your ear as his hands skimmed teasingly down your sides.

You shivered at the gravelly timbre of his voice, rendered speechless by the fire flickering in his eyes. How could anyone put the depths of your experience into words?

So you simply answered by pulling him into a searing kiss, fingers tangling in those sinfully tousled locks. By the time you parted, Carlos’ pupils were blown wide, chest rising and falling heavily against yours.

“Save some of that fire for after the race, cariño,” he’d say thickly with a wolfish grin. “You may just be the greatest distraction I’ve ever had to overcome.”

With one last smoldering look, he rejoined his crew, leaving you flustered yet utterly euphoric. Yes, Carlos Sainz had managed to spirit you away into an all-encompassing dream — one you never wanted to wake up from.

The sound of a nearby door opening brings you back to the present with a contented sigh. You let your eyes drift open again, blinking against the brilliant sunlight as a familiar figure emerges onto the terrace.

“There’s my hermosa,” Carlos greets you warmly, slipping off his cap to run a hand through his ridiculously perfect hair. The simple gesture makes your breath catch as always.

You feel a smile stretch across your face as he approaches. “Hi there, stranger. Taking a break?”

“Something like that,” he chuckles, dropping into the lounger beside you with a groan. “Just a quick respite from the crowd.”

Carlos turns toward you with poorly concealed mischief dancing in his eyes. “Though ... I may have also needed an excuse to see this beautiful sight again.”

You roll your eyes in exaggerated exasperation to hide your giddiness at his flattery. He’s been adorably smooth this entire trip. “Save your lines, Casanova. You already got me here, remember?”

“Ah, but a man can never compliment his lady enough,” Carlos objects smoothly, grasping your hand in his calloused one to press a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Starting with how radiant you look basking in the Australian sun, mi ángel. A lesser man would get jealous.”

You shake your head, even as tingles race across your skin from his gesture. “Is flattery how you butter up any pretty girl who catches your eye?”

“Just the especially gorgeous ones,” he winks unapologetically. “But there’s only one who’s made me want to be a hopeless romantic.”

With dizzying ease, he leverages himself across the narrow space between you, caging you in on all sides with his toned arms. Your breath catches at his sudden proximity, pulse quickening from the heated look in his eyes.

“Perhaps I should stop with pretty words ...” Carlos rumbles in that velvety accent, closing the remaining distance until you can feel the heat radiating from his body. “And use actions instead.”

His mouth captures yours in a slow, smoldering kiss that has you melting bonelessly against the plush cushions. Large hands splay across the dip of your waist, firm yet intoxicatingly gentle. You melt into the unhurried caress of his lips, addicted to the way he sets your entire body deliciously alight.

When you finally part, you’re flushed and breathless, gazing up dazedly at his twinkling eyes. “You’re ... terribly persuasive, Mr. Sainz,” you manage.

He rewards you with a wolfish grin and another toe-curling kiss. “Only for you, mi amor,” he growls against your lips, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his chest. “Only for you ...”

A tiny gasp of surprise parts your lips as Carlos suddenly freezes, mouth going taut. You tilt your head back slightly to meet his gaze questioningly.

“What’s wrong?”

He drops his darkened eyes down toward his palm sheepishly. It’s then you notice the tiny trickle of red seeping from a paper cut across his skin.

“Oh no, it seems our ... passion got a bit too rough,” Carlos grins cheekily. “Gave myself a battle wound.”

Rolling your eyes, you gingerly take his hand to inspect the miniscule wound. Just a thin cut that was reopened, likely from reviewing telemetry packets between briefings.

“It’s nothing serious,” you chide. “Though I suppose I could play nurse for you one more time.”

He gives you a devilish look from under his inky lashes. “Please do, mi ángel. I’ll need your ... very special care.”

You level an unimpressed glare at him, slipping off the lounger toward the rooftop bathroom to grab the first aid kit inside. By the time you return, Carlos has the audacity to be sitting patiently with his lightly bleeding palm extended in offering. Like a king awaiting tribute from his loyal subjects.

“It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” you scoff, cracking open the kit and perching on the edge of his lounger. With the utmost care and tenderness, you gently apply antibacterial ointment and wrap the cut with an oversized adhesive bandage.

“There, all better, your Highness,” you announce with a solemn nod.

But rather than releasing your hand, Carlos envelops it fully in both of his. His warm eyes search yours impishly.

“Actually, hermosa ... there is one last thing that could help it heal even faster.”

You quirk a skeptical brow at him, already thoroughly endeared by whatever outrageous thing is about to come out of his mouth. “Oh? And what’s that?”

The corner of his lips twitches up in that rakish half-smirk you adore. “A magical, healing ... kiss.”

Of course. Of bloody course.

“You can’t be serious,” you laugh, trying in vain to tug your hand back. Carlos simply holds it fast, fervently earnest despite the devilish twinkle dancing in his eyes.

“Completely serious, mi amor! The power of a beautiful woman’s kiss has incredible healing properties.” He pulls your hand close. “Especially from an ángel like you ...”

Warmth blooms across your cheeks at his antics, head shaking in amusement. Even after weeks of witnessing Carlos’ particular brand of cheeky charisma up close, he can still catch you off-guard and leave you deliciously flustered.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” The reprimand lacks any bite as you can’t help but grin back at him, captivated as always.

His answering look is all playful innocence — one you know better than to trust for a single second. “Does that mean you won’t bless me with your magic?”

Brown eyes beg at you over your trapped knuckles, full lower lip jutting out in a pout far too enticing to resist. With a shaky laugh, you finally acquiesce and bend forward to press a slow, petal-soft kiss over the bandage.

A grin stretches across Carlos’ face once you pull back. “My hero!” He exclaims, catching your hand in both of his to nuzzle the inside of your wrist adoringly. “See, querida? Already I can feel the enchanted restorative properties working wonders.”

“You’re utterly shameless!” You let out another breathless laugh.

“Only because you make me crazy, mi ángel,” Carlos retorts with an exaggerated groan, tugging you closer until you half-cover his toned body.

You go easily, resting comfortably against the solid wall of his chest. Strong arms wrap around your waist, securing you in place as Carlos pillows his cheek atop your head with a contented sigh.

“You render me nonsensical and utterly bewitched. I’m powerless against your effortless magic.”

The words rumble through you in that low timbre you’ve become addicted to, spreading warmth from the crown of your head to the very tips of your toes. With a quiet hum of contentment, you tuck yourself tighter into his side and watch the swaying of the palms framed against the brilliant blue sky.

In this moment, the entire world seems to shrink away into insignificance — nothing but you and Carlos tangled in this serene haven apart from all space and time. Nothing but the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your cheek, the cocooning circle of arms that sets you ablaze and soothes you in equal measure.

Just as you feel yourself being lulled into a state of blissful relaxation, Carlos presses a lingering kiss to your hair. His chest vibrates with quiet yet fervent words.

“Thank you, amor ... for giving me a chance to make you mine.”

Pure affection blooms golden in your chest at the reverent sincerity of his tone. You tilt your head up to find his warm brown eyes already trained on you. Filled with adoration yet still flickering with that insuppressible spark of mischief and zest you adore so much.

With an impulsive hand curling around the nape of his neck, you pull his mouth down toward yours. As you part, twin smiles linger on your swollen lips.

“And thank you,” you smile wryly. “For having an appendix that decided to take matters into its own hands so we could meet.”

[asocialangel]

pervy boyfriends

bllk boys who would –in my humble opinion– be pretty pervy towards their s/o. 

Shidou, Isagi, Karasu headcanons (low-key nsfw), i tried to be gender neutral but maybe it’s a bit more catered towards afab/fem reader for the Isagi part. 

ꕥ

Shidou:

Let’s stats by the most obvious of em all 

He is OPENLY and PROUDLY an OFFICIAL PERV

Let’s call it as it is

We haven't seen him talk about lovers canonly yet but i feel like he’d be a monster

This man is ALWAYS making dirty jokes to you

About you mostly 

Oh and public or not, he doesn't care, he if thought of something, you best believe he gon say it, regardless of whether your dad is around. 

He takes a sick pleasure in exposing your kinks to the whole word, especially ones you’ve told him you’re embarrassed about 

He likes it specifically when he says something in a public setting just loud enough so you will never know for sure if people heard him or not

Likes does his team’s goalkeeper know that you like being choked or not ?? You will never be sure ! (And it's not like you're gonna ask him) 

You never really heard it for yourself but you’re quite sure he talks about your sex life to his friends 

Cause multiple times they came up to you and made a joke that was suspiciously real 

“haha Y/N did you have a cat attack your boyfriend’s back ??” “Y/N can you help me out for next week’s anime convention ? I heard you’re quite good at cosplaying”

You even received a leash from a secret santa (you don't have a dog ???)

You’ve tried to ask him about it once, he jokingly said yes, so you never sure he actually meant it 

But you’re scared that if you ask too much he gon make it worse. 

Mind you Shidou is not just an asshole that crosses your boundaries. You had actually told him you were actually kinda into people low key knowing you’re a freak. But you could never say it yourself. So he’s actually nice and thoughtful to his s/o here. 

So yah let's say Shidou is not ashamed to explain to people what his position he likes you in

Also it’s almost obvious atp but he likes dirty talking in uncomfy places cause he knows it takes you very little to get you started, so he’s there getting you horny in the middle of applebees like… 

He likes telling you all the things he’d do to you once you're back home. 

He also often shares the details of how hard he was in the shower this morning thinking about you and how he chose to wait until you guys could do it cause he felt it would be a shame to waste his “precious cum” (his words) anywhere but “your pretty body” (again his words). 

So as I said, certified unashamed pervy boyfriend.

ꕥ

Isagi:

Now I think this would be an unpopular opinion because everyone and their dad headcanons Isagi as “a sweet caring innocent boyfriend 🥺” and while I agree that is true, he is multifaceted to me. 

To me, he would also be extremely pervy to his s/o, but unbeknownst to them. 

Like the minute you’re turning your back to him, he’s staring fouly at your ass

If you bend down to grab sum, he will not bother to look under your skirt that lifts up or your exposed cleavage. 

But again, he will only do it when he knows you can’t see him. 

He likes watching you doing the most innocent things and adding a double meaning to it in his head

Like you eating a skewer will be something far more dirty in his mind and you whining at the antiseptic on your wound is, in another setting, something way sexier. 

So everytime you see him smile at casual things you do, like getting on your knees to tie your shoelaces, you think wow he loves me so much, but truth is yes he loves you that much, actually way more. 

Isagi will always make the most far fetched double entendres to you, knowing damn well you’re too innocent and maybe head in the clouds to ever get it

So he says it, sees you agree mindlessly, and smiles to himself.

I’m telling you he’s an undercover perv.

Some of his dirty minded friends that have, they too, experience in that field, will sometimes get these double meanings he tells you and chuckle at his reaction to your non reaction. 

Unlike you, THEY know he’s toying with you and tbf they also find it quite cute

Isagi is not the type to put out all your sex life to his friends tho. But sometimes, just sometimes, he will (again) make innuendos about things you’re good at, like doing or like receiving.

But again, when he says it it's with a straight face. 

So his friends are never sure that he actually did mean what he said or if that innuendo was a pure coincidence. 

He just smiles smugly to himself

Also final addition: he knows your weak spots and he plays witit. 

Like he knows you're quite sensitive so he purposefully places the coffee grounds on the top shelf to see you struggle, have you jump around to see it jiggle, watch your shirt lift up and inevitably come to your help by grabbing said item from behind, basically squeezing you between him and the counter, pressing his dick into your ass, knowing damn well that’s enough to have you blush and moan.

But as always, you just think to yourself that he's so nice to help you, and you're so sensitive for reacting to a simple thing. 

ꕥ

Karasu:

let’s not forget about this pretty boy cause i feel we ALL know he can be so pervy…

To me, this boy is always, ALWAYS touching you 

He alwaysss has a hand on you like at all times TT

Saying hello ? Good morning kiss

He tries to find you in public ? When he sees you he’s gonna make himself known by laying a hand on your hip

He won a match ? You know already he’ll grab your ass when he finds you. 

He does not care about decency or whatever that social construct is: 

If he wants to feel you up, he will. 

Don��t care if his teammates are taunting him, if your friends are here, if a camera is filming

He likes the feeling of your skin on his, knowing you’re real cause he can feel it, feel the friction and the heat 

And he also likes knowing you’ll always be available for him, lending him a kiss whenever he asks for one

He should know by now you're never gonna say no, cause you love him so much, but he’s always looking to be reassured that you are his. 

So with Karasu, it does not stop at hand holding when you're going out

More like, hand holding, stroking your ass, kissing you passionately then placing his hand on your chin, smiling and walking again like normal until five meters further he wants to feel your waist. 

Mind you you tried to tell him this was not socially okay, being so explicit on PDA. His answer ?

Says who ? It’s not like people don't know where to be together. I dont think I'm breaking news to them that we get physical if I kiss you in public. 

“Babe, this is not about the kiss on my cheeks in public. I’m talking about you stretching my shirt collar to look at my cleavage while you’re on half time and a whole literal stadium is looking at you”. 

“What, you want to keep it a secret that I smack you ass naked when I win ?” “Well yeah that's kinda exactly what i'm saying” “Useless to bother hiding, they must know already” 

BUT THEY KNOW CAUSE HE WON’T STOP BEING SO HIGH KEY IN PUBLIC. 

So yeah when I say he’s a perv I mean he won’t bother to wait till behind closed doors. He will whisper in your hearts while grabbing your waist from behind no matter if you are in the middle of ordering coffee. 

At least you’re sue he loves you and won’t mind letting others know

ꕥ

A/N: yayyy this came up to me as i was falling asleep, Isagi staring relentlessly as your ass the second you turn around and then thought yeah he'd defo not be the only pervy bf in bllk. Hope u like it~~ still have many more things to write.

[prettyoatmeal]

TF141 Taking Care of Sick Reader!

A/N: Guys I'm so sick right now. This cold has hit me like a truck at full speed. I literally slept 13 hrs today?!?!?!?!?!? So lets go guys, sick HC's because I need some comfort.

Masterlist here!

***************

Price just doesn't care because he rarely ever gets sick. Whenever you catch a cold, he's just unfazed because he knows his body well.

This man will PAMPER you. He'll cook you whatever you're craving, and if you're not hungry, you're getting force fed a few cups of broth just so there's something in you.

He'll run you a bath with the soap you love so much, making sure it's nice and steamy in the way you like it. And while your nose his clearing up from the steam, he's massaging your shoulders and the back of your neck and wherever you ask him to. Because he'll be damned if his love has to spend one more second with their body aching.

Taking medicine with him is a chore for both of you. Him because he has to deal with your stubbornness, and you because liquid medicine tastes awful and theres no getting around it. He's just there holding the spoon with the burgundy coloured syrup and you're turning away every time he gets it close to your mouth.

"Sweetheart, I know it tastes awful but it's only here to make you feel better."

Ends up bribing you with taking you out to your favourite restaurant when you're better, but lets face it, he would've taken you anyway.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

And once you've finally taken it, disregarded the disgusted look on your face, he's actively kissing you on your cheeks, your forehead, maybe your lips as well despite how much you try to pull away from them. But you give in of course. He's only looking out for you and you love him too much.

Gaz I think would be a bit of a germaphobe at first.

Illness on the battlefield? Sure, he can deal with that, who cares Sickness at home?? Nope, the antiseptic spray is coming out and getting sprayed onto every surface of your flat.

You're not getting out of bed until you're sure you're fine because he'll be damned if he catches it from you. He's making sure every second of the day that you're fed, you're hydrated, you're comfy.

If you ask him very nicely, he'll let you cuddle up to him if you promise to not sneeze on him. But when you're finally in his arms, he sees your flushed face, your bleary eyes, the way you cling onto him so tightly even though you're so weak, fading in and out of sleep and he feels himself falling in love all over again.

"Poor baby. I'll take care of you, don't worry."

It happens every single time, it's hilarious. His mind changes every single time. Even if you sneeze on him, you'll get nothing more than a slight scolding as he holds a tissue up to your nose.

Medicine is different with him. Mixes it with your hot tea knowing just how much you hate taking it. If you question why it tastes so weird, he blames it on the temperature distorting the flavour and your messed up taste buds.

And it works, you never question it again.

After that, he'll turn your favourite show on just as background noise and it isn't long until you're falling asleep on top of him.

Ghost is not letting you lift a finger. If you stand up to go get something to eat or drink before he deems you of proper health, he's sweeping you off your feet and laying you back into bed.

"I can do things by- achoo! -by myself."

"No you can't. Stay put, lovie. I'll get your plate for you."

Doesn't want to make it seem like he's babying you.. but he definitely just is.

Simon is normally really good with letting you have your independence, he never wants to make it feel like you don't have a choice. But in times like these where you need to rest, he is having absolutely none of it and there's nothing you can do other that yourself be dragged back to your room.

This man will also chase you around the flat to make sure you take the medicine because you better get through this, and on his watch, you will be.

"Open up, Princess." while you keep turning your head away. Much like John, he definitely needs to bribe you with the shoes you saw on the way home one day or that new restaurant that opened a week ago. And only then you finally take it, gagging at the chemically taste.

After that, you will constantly be swaddled in warmth no matter what. Whether it be him since he's pretty much a radiator himself, a hot bath, or a million blankets and plushies. He just wants you as comfortable as possible for your weakened state.

For baths, it's almost certain he will join you. He'll let you lean back on him as he massages your shoulders, your arms, your thighs and legs. And you're left so dizzy and hazy because he's soothing your aching body so well.

He probably catches it a week after you, once you're already better and then it's your turn to take care of him :3 and you know just how Simon feels about being pampered and looked after.

Soap would be sick with you but stubborn as ever to let you take care of him.

He's just way too touchy and kissy and feely when you're infected, it's awful. Makes fun of you for having a bad immune system even though his is just as bad, if not worse.

"Shut your gob, Bonnie. I won't catch it. it's just a wee cold."

He catches it and it was more than just a 'wee cold'. You're both so weak, bodies throbbing and aching all over but he's still determined to make you his priority.

Going to the bathroom is a hassle because when you go, he'll go. He can't leave his love alone, not in this state! He'll stand outside the door like a cat does, just waiting.. and waiting.. and oh! You've accidentally opened the door on him because he can barely pay attention to whatever's in front of him.

To make up for it, you help ice his forehead.

He'll cook for you, infecting the kitchen with his boy-germs. But it's great because he can just put a few cups of broth up to a simmer and drink it with you on the couch.

Once it's time to take medicine, you both chicken out because it just tastes so gross. But knowing you have to take it, you made a deal to take it at the same time. You're both disgusted but clink your mugs together and use your tea as chasers.

Cheers!

Will sneeze on you more than once by accident. He's gross but we love him.

He definitely tries (keyword is tries) to stay awake long enough for you to make sure you're peacefully sleeping through your sick, but he definitely gets knocked out the moment he cuddles up against you.

***************

GRAHHHHH I'm so sick I'm going to bed. Cheers guys, goodnight

[rileyslibrary]

i don't know if you've already gotten this but if you haven't can you please make a part 3 to the ghost and Lt fic? it was so, so good, you had me on the edge of my seat the entire time. jealous ghost is everything i never knew i needed and more. your writing is just too good that i have to know what happens next. thanks! 🫶

Hey reader! Glad you liked it! I wrote something quick for ya but I’m afraid there’s a more sensible Ghost in this one. It’s how I’d like to finish the “new Lt.” Saga. Oh well, hope you like this one as much as the last one! 🍫

Synopsis: Captain Price’s decision to put you with Ghost and Lt. Wilson in the same room serves more as a punishment to you than to them. You have Price’s number on speed dial, ready to pull the trigger.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Word Count: 1,033

Notes:

This is the final part of the story. Here’s Part 1, and Part 2.

Warning: The usual swearing.

Want more?

———————————————————————

Captain Price came into your office the day of the conflict and “made a few arrangements,” as he—very politely—said. These “arrangements” weren’t a big deal to an outsider, but enough for the three of you to be on edge.

And that tension didn’t come in the form of profanities or fist punches and yells. It was a lingering tension. Like the smell of fresh coffee in the morning as you walk down the stairs to the hotel’s breakfast area. Only it wasn’t coffee you smelled in this room; it was a combination of some leftover bitterness and unresolved conflict, mixed with the smell of iodine that both regularly applied on their—physical—wounds. Because the other type of wounding that Captain Price inflicted on them was pretty hard to be fixed with mere antiseptics and bandages. It seems like the Captain’s decision really hurt their ego.

See, Captain Price had this fantastic ability to make you feel small and insignificant just by smiling at you. He wasn’t direct like Ghost was. No. He was very subtle with his scolding if he ever did such a thing. He was the kind of person who would deliver criticism in the form of tropes, planting seeds in your mind so you would discover later on that they flourished and became trees filled with ripe fruit. A strong supporter of fixing something rather than scrapping and starting from the beginning, he decided not only to allocate Lt. Wilson in the same office as you and Ghost but to sit them next to each other, elbow-to-elbow.

Have you ever seen two kids whose parents have just scolded them? Sure you have; you’re looking at them right now as they sit before you.

One still wears his balaclava, with one black eye peaking out. He’s resting his head on the one hand, reading through some papers. He seems defensive but also embarrassed. Can you blame him? He not only jeopardised and almost risked his position in such an exuberant way, but having his arch nemesis as a “work buddy” was enough for him to build up his walls.

The other is bruised around the eyes due to him suffering a kick straight to the nose. He seems angry, but you’d be too if a giant beast jumped you from across the table. He moves frantically, pushing buttons on the laptop’s keyboard like a passionate pianist delivering his solo to an audience. His demeanour had changed dramatically as well. There was no more flirting, no unnecessary winking or pointing finger guns. He acted like a… soldier, for once.

And you? You were a wallflower. Trying to make as little noise as possible, closing drawers quietly, as if a newborn is sleeping next to you, not asking much, and peaking over your computer’s screen to monitor their behaviour, just like Captain Price ordered you.

“Are you trying to punch through the desk with your fingers, man?” Ghost asks Wilson, and you immediately tense up.

“‘This piece of shit doesn’t save my document,” Wilson replies while repeatedly pushing the same key.

You grab your phone. Captain Price gave you his number and advised you to call him immediately if things were about to take a wrong turn.

“I don’t care what you’re trying to achieve on that thing,” Ghost says, “but you’re pretty successful in pissing me off right now.”

Your heart jumps to your throat, and you unlock your phone.

“I’m not doing it on purpose, man!” Wilson exclaims, “though can’t say I’m not chuffed for doing that to you.” He continues smirking.

“What a fucking prick,” Ghost says and slides his chair to Wilson’s desk. “Let me show you.”

You shoot yourself up and show them your phone with Captain Price’s phone ready on speed dial.

“ONE MORE MOVE, AND I CALL PRICE.” You shout, and they both turn to look at you dumbfounded.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, doll?” Wilson yells back, “Lt. Is trying to help.”

“The hell, love?” Ghost agrees and raises his hands in the air in a stance of innocence, “here, look,” he says, putting one hand on the mouse and the other on Wilson’s keyboard.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Wilson mutters and turns to Ghost, “is this how we’re gonna have them every day?”

“Beats me, man.” Ghost replies, “can’t make a move anymore.”

You look at Wilson, then turn to Ghost, then back to Wilson. Neither is paying attention to you. Ghost is explaining to Wilson that he removed the “.docx” extension, and that’s why he couldn’t save the document. Wilson thanks him, and Ghost nods. He slides his chair back to his desk.

“You play football, by the way?” Wilson asks Ghost.

“I do,” Ghost nods, “how’d you know?”

“That kick,” Wilson explains, “was like you shot a penalty.”

Ghost briefly chuckles, “don’t make me laugh,” he says, “my tooth hurts.”

“From the punch?” Wilson asks, laughing, and Ghost nods. “I can give you my dentist’s contact details,” Wilson suggests, “he’s brilliant at fixing teeth.”

Ghost gives him a thumbs up and immediately lifts his index finger to form a gun, “appreciate it, mate,” he says.

He appreciates it? Wh- mate? F- finger guns? It just occurred to you that you’re still standing, holding that phone close to your chest.

“Right, I’ll go make us all some tea!” Wilson says as he stands up and claps his hands.

You both look at him exiting the room, then turn at each other.

I know what you’re about to say,” Ghost begins, “but let me explain first.”

You furrow your eyebrows and place your phone on your desk. “Please do, Simon.” You say and cross your arms over your chest.

“There’re two options here,” he says, tilting his head to the side. “I either attempt to put some sense to the guy for continuing to call you doll, which will result in Captain kicking me out for good”, he explains. “Or,” he continues, tilting his head to the other side, “I bite the bullet and bare his nonsense just so I can continue being here.”

You blush and smile at him. “Here?” You ask.

“Yes, here,” he replies and meets your gaze, “with you.”

———————————————————————

[incorrectbatfam]

Batfam’s Father’s Day plans

(also on Ao3)

"Morning, Bruce."

The way Stephanie says that instantly makes him look up. She traces her socked toe on the right angles of the tile, looking down. 

"Morning, Steph." Bruce puts his coffee down. "Something wrong?"

"Huh?" She perks up in realization. "No, not at all. I actually just have something for you. I stopped by Walgreens on patrol last night 'cause I ran out of antiseptic, and I saw something that reminded me of you." 

She hands him a dark blue greeting card with a cartoon fruit bat and Comic Sans text reading: You drive me batty, but I love you.

"Get it? 'Cause it's a bat, and you're the Batman." She scratches the back of her neck. "Not trying to make it weird or anything, you're just a cool mentor and whatnot. But also, it's nice to have someone who you can mess around with. My old man was always talking business even when he was at home—you kinda do that too, but in a good way 'cause anything's better than being a D-list villain, y'know. Plus, unlike him, you're working on striking a balance. Sometimes you even have a sense of humor." She chuckles awkwardly. "Anyway, I'm going on a jog. Text me if you need anything." 

Before he processes her rambling, she grabs a granola bar and races out the door. He opens the card and out falls out a handful of purple confetti plus an ever-rare two-dollar bill. Smiling, he brushes the confetti up and puts it in his shirt pocket. 

Bruce checks his watch. Everyone else is already out, except for Cass. She was out late last night on that Clayface mission, but even she should be up by this time. He fixes her a bowl of cereal with the package instructions and brings it upstairs. 

"Cass?" He knocks. "Are you up yet? It's past 9:30."

He hears the duvet crunch like a candy wrapper as she shuffles around. A moment later, the door swings open as a messy-haired Cass yawns. 

"I'll leave this up here for you," he says, putting the bowl on the dresser. "Any big plans today?"

She shakes her head. "Write reports. And relax."

"Well, you deserve a break. Great job on the stakeout, Princess." He plants a quick kiss on her forehead. 

"Love," she says.

"Huh?"

"Favorite thing you do. Love."

He laughs softly. "I try. Now go get dressed."

The rest of the day goes by like any other. Despite it being Sunday, he still has a meeting scheduled with some Singaporean investors on their timezone. By eleven, he and some other executives are gathered around the long conference table as the video call drones on, and it's not until over an hour later that they're finally let out. Bruce loosens his tie and Tim does the same, sighing in relief and exhaustion. 

Bruce asks, "Did you have lunch yet?"

"Oh, I forgot that's a thing," Tim says, stretching. "Hey, remember that ice cream place on 32nd?"

"You want ice cream for lunch?"

"I'd break your no killing rule for their M&M cookie sundae, okay?" he says. "Besides, remember when you took my friends and I there even though we massively bombed our first off-world fight? I might still be a massive perfectionist but that made me get a little more comfortable with failing. Anyway, I thought it'd be cool to stroll down memory lane—and have junk food as a meal without Alfred knowing. Unless you're busy, which I totally get."

"Not at all," Bruce replies, putting an arm around Tim's shoulders. "Duke and Damian will be at the arcade all day and I don't have any urgent side business." 

And so, instead of calling Alfred for a ride, they journey through the Gotham subways with Tim's camera capturing the Grammy-worthy saga of a billionaire CEO battling a common turnstyle. They get a few side-glances in the sparse train car, but besides a teenager asking for Tim's autograph, the civilians leave them alone. Pretty soon, they're at a 1950s-themed ice cream parlor, where the waitress slides their orders down the long chromium bar. 

"Why do they call it a banana split?" Bruce asks, grabbing the cocoa powder shaker. 

Tim pauses mid-bite of his cookie. "...Because they split the banana in half?"

"Really?"

He moves the whipped cream aside to reveal the cut banana in Bruce's dish. 

"How would it sound if I said I never noticed that?"

He smirks. "That's why I'm the brains of this operation."

"Indeed you are." Bruce ruffles his hair. "Though this head of yours could use some shampoo." 

"Will saying I love you get me a free pass out of it?"

"No." He laughs. "But I love you too, son."

Alfred catches on to their little dessert escapade and picks them up from the parlor, though not without commenting on the strawberry stain on Bruce's jacket. As Tim plugs his music into the car, Bruce takes the time to listen to the voicemails he got during their lunch break. 

"Hiya Bruce," Clark's voice plays. "I hope today's going swell for you. I just want you to know that I'm glad I can call you my pard'ner." Bruce snickers at the country twang.

Next is Diana. "Bruce, I apologize if I must keep this brief since I have a curator's convention today. However, I wish to tell you that you are an invaluable teammate and even more remarkable friend."

"Hey Batman, I gave you a shoutout to the Central City press for your help taking down Weather Wizard," Barry says. "Also, thanks for letting me borrow your communicator. I can always count on you to be overprepared. Have a good one!"

"Bats, tell your kid to quit taking my yogurt from the fridge." Ah, good old Hal. "Also, today's all about guys like you, so... yeah. I admit, you could be worse." 

Finally, there's one from Zatanna. "Afternoon, Bruce! I'd tell you in person if I wasn't caught up in Kahndaq, but I hope today is extra special for you. I know how much the birds mean to you, and I know they're gonna treat you well."

(There's also one from Ollie, but he's just asking if he can use the communicator after Barry. In the background, Dinah is is clearly ordering food.) 

After dropping Tim and Alfred home and switching to a more discreet vehicle, Bruce makes his way to pick two of his other kids up from the arcade. 

"Did you guys have fun?" Bruce asks as they climb in.

"We decimated every game," Damian says, "and won you the finest specimen as a trophy."

He plops a five-foot Snorlax into the front seat and buckles the seatbelt.

"This is for me?" Bruce asks. 

"Tt, who else would it be for?"

"I didn't win as many tickets," Duke says, "but I also got you a spider ring and a Chinese finger trap." He puts them in the cupholder.

"Why are you giving me all your prizes?"

"Again, who else would we give them to?" Damian asks.

Duke says, "I think what he means is that you do a lot for us, so this is a thanks from us."

As silly as it might seem, Bruce is genuinely touched. 

Pre-patrol dinner is a quiet affair, with Kate stopping by because she apparently forgot to go grocery shopping. She takes a fingerling potato off his plate. 

"Um, you're welcome?" he says. 

"Bruce, we're family. It's what we do." She takes a bite. 

He takes a piece of asparagus from her. "I wish all of us were here, though. Too bad Dick and Jason have that Penguin stakeout. Hopefully they're being safe."

"Even if things go wrong, they were taught by the best. You should trust them more." Selina gets up and places a peck on his cheek before going to get a drink. 

"I do," he mumbles into his meal. "It's the world I don't trust." 

As he puts on his cowl, he asks Barbara for an update on the evening. So far, Duke is handling a carjacking, the girls are preoccupied with a strip mall hostage situation, Damian is patrolling Metropolis with Jon, and Kate is kicking off her shift with a car chase against Two-Face. Tim and Selina are staying back to catch up on some overdue reports, but other than that, the cave is quiet. 

"Before you go," Barbara says, "my dad was cleaning out the attic and found something you might like."

From her bag, she pulls out a blue mug that says: World's Okayest Dad.

"My brother got it for him a long time ago, but... you know. It's all yours now, if you want it." 

He takes it, running his thumb along the words. 

"It suits you," she says before turning back to relay something to Stephanie. 

The route laid out for him tonight gives him the perfect opportunity to swing by and check on two of his boys. He lands on the rooftop silently, where Nightwing and Red Hood have already set up camp. Evidently, they don't notice him as they keep going with their conversation.

"Did you get dropped on your head as a baby?" Jason asks. "Sour cream and Greek yogurt are not the same thing."

"They totally are, change my mind." Dick glances through his binoculars. "No sign of Cobblepot yet."

A moment goes by as Jason not-so-covertly steals some of his brother's patrol snacks. 

"So how'd family therapy go yesterday?" Jason asks. "Did the old bat finally show an emotion?"

"It was pretty insightful, at least on my part." Dick lowers his binoculars. "I think I realized where Bruce's persistence comes from. It's annoying as hell, but I think that's how he maintains hope. And who knows, maybe it's his love language."

Jason scoffs. 

"I'm serious," he says. "I know none of us are stellar at this family thing, but we care about each other. You can't deny that. We just gotta... refine how we express it." 

"Count me out."

"Jaybird."

"Codenames, Dickhead."

Dick snickers. "You love us, admit it. All of us."

Jason mutters a string of curses under his breath before saying, "If you tell him, I'm filling your mattress with sour cream."

Bruce smiles and leaps to the next building. 

At the end of the night, Bruce finds Alfred brewing tea in the kitchen and takes the kettle from him. 

"I got this," he says. "Why don't you go relax in the living room? I think they added your favorite detective movie to Netflix." 

"This is a pleasant surprise." Alfred raises an eyebrow. "What brought it on?"

"It's Father's Day, of course," he replies, pouring the cups of tea. "You know you've always been a second dad to me."

"You made that clear with last year's breakfast surprise," Alfred says. "Care to join me?"

"Always," Bruce says. "By the way, do the kids seem different to you today?"

[suggs444]

Mark Hoffman X Reader: Stubborn.

You’re a Jigsaw accomplice. John and Amanda are dead but the games must go on. Mark is back from dealing with Strahm. He’s cut up from the glass coffin. You decide to put your differences aside and help him.

TW: injury and swearing. fluff ??????

Gif by dilfgifs

..

Your head was buried into your work. Mark had been gone for awhile now. To the point were your concern was growing. He had left to deal with Agent Strahm. He had been close on Mark’s trail, and not that you cared. But if he found Mark, he’d find you. That you couldn’t abide.

Strahm needed to die. This, you both agreed on for once.

Your head shoots up as soon as you hear the familiar creek of the warehouse door sliding open. Instinctively you jump up, pulling your gun. You had to accept the fact that this could be Strahm. That he had arrested Mark and you were next.

You point your gun at the hallway.

Mark comes into the view and a sigh rips from you in relief.

“Fuck,” You mutter, putting your gun down and closing your eyes for a second. You silently thanked god.

Mark shrugs his coat of with a grunt, discarding to the floor. Then one suspender hiking off his shoulder, then the other. You note he’s sweating. You also note that he seems in pain.

“Strahm’s dead.” Is all he says.

“Good,” You reply cautiously as you peer at him. “Are you alright?”

He doesn’t reply. Only walks past you and as he does you get a clear view of his back. His shirt ridden with blood, cut and torn by the glass coffin.

“Mark, your fucking back-”

“Yeah, I know.” He gruffs out, shoving his hand into the first aid and greedily grabbing whatever he could. Bandages spill out from his adamance.

You stare and consider helping him. Though you know he’d deny any help. You two are as stubborn as the other. Though you figured you’ll have to look past your differences eventually since you and him are the last ones standing.

You sigh, dropping your shoulders.

“Let me help, Mark. You won’t be able to see what you’re doing.”

“I’ve got a mirror.”

“A mirror isn’t gonna make sure that doesn’t get infected.” You reply.

He shoots a glare at you, “Since when are you a medical professional?”

You tighten your jaw. He’s hard work.

“It’ll get infected.”

He looks away from you and stares down at the desk. You can see he’s contemplating your offer.

You take that opportunity to walk over, and take hold of the antiseptic bottle in his hand. His eyes shoot to you and you look back, waiting for him to let go of it.

He looks tired.

“Please.” You say.

He continues to stare at you blankly. And eventually, he lets you take the bottle, nodding once.

“Alright.”

..

Mark hisses and jolts slightly.

“Take it easy,” he snaps.

You were removing the remaining glass from his back with some surgical tweezers. He’s shirtless, sitting backward in a chair while you work on him.

You couldn’t deny the flawlessness of his frame. How broad and stable he is. Soft skin for such a crude man.

Especially for a man you don’t like, you remind yourself.

You brush away your thoughts and blink.

“Sorry.” You reply, dropping the glass into a silver bowl next to you.

You hear him huff, no doubt hot and bothered from the pain of the wound. You couldn’t blame him. Though you had to admire the lengths he went to, to get rid of Peter Strahm. And not just for himself but for you both.

You found yourself feeling guilty, but also incredibly appreciative.

You swallow hard before seeking out another piece of glass from his back. You feel him wince.

“Thank you by the way.” You say.

“Huh?” He replies, head whipping to the side to try and see you over his shoulder.

“I said thank you.” You repeat, more clearer this time as you lift your head so he can see you.

He catches your gaze for a second before looking back forward.

“For what?” He asks, his voice hoarse.

You drop another piece of glass into the bowl. It clanks loud.

“For resolving the situation with Strahm. I know you did it to save your skin but, I benefit from it too.” You say softly, too focused on a stubborn piece of glass as you try to wriggle it out.

It eventually gives and you smile relief, adding it to the bowl.

“Yeah well, kill to birds with one stone right?” He says, turning his head over his shoulder again to look at you.

You sit back, meeting his gaze.

“You owe me.” He says, and you note the slight mockery on his face.

Is this him trying to be funny?

You smile, “I’m owing you now, jackass.”

You mock, referring to the fact you’re tending to his wounds. His smirk widens slightly, and he faces the front again.

“Then we’re even.” You hear him say.

You smile to yourself.

..

You finish your last stitch after what felt like a lifetime, finalising your treatment as you plaster up his back.

“All done,” You say, standing up from the chair and rolling your shoulders.

You hear him thank you as you walk over to a bowl of water to clean your bloody hands. You felt accomplished. Proud almost.

You couldn’t help but feel like you’d made progress with him generally. You both needed it now more than ever, especially now that it was only you two left standing.

As you turn, he’s stood too, but shirtless still and you feel your throat dry as he looks up at you from the shirt he’s holding in his hands.

“I mean it, thanks y/n.”

You offer him a small smile and nod once.

“It’s the least I can do, really.” You reassure, shrugging a shoulder. You can feel the heat on your cheeks.

He notices it too, and the slight upturn of his mouth is apparent.

“What?” You question.

“Nothing.”

He insists, gently slipping on his t shirt and begins buttoning it up. He’s still smirking.

“Okay well, try not to do too much otherwise you’ll ruin all my hard work.” You mock, referencing his stitches. He actually smiles in response, huffing a small laugh.

“No promises, alright? Not with a job as physical as ours.” He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows.

“No promises.”

..

part two ??????

[topguncortez]

One Half of A Whole Person || Whumptober Day 16 - J. Seresin

whumptober masterlist

synopsis: Jake's dream has always been to fly. But what happens when the only way to save his life, is taking away something that would ruin his career.

word count: 2.7k

@ailesswhumptober prompt: amputation

warnings: injuries, infections, plane crash, medical jargon, mentions of death, mentions of suicide, amputations, grief

“The infection in your husband’s leg is spreading.” 

Everything the doctor was telling her went in one ear and out the other. The last thing she could remember was being shoved out of her husband’s hospital room while loud alarms were buzzing and filling the air. His body was convulsing rapidly, only the whites of his eyes showing as more doctors and nurses filled the room. 

Three weeks ago, Y/N thought she would never see Jake Seresin alive. Two officers dressed in their dress blues had shown up at her front door and told her the words no military spouse or family member wanted to hear. Her husband had gone down somewhere in enemy territory and was missing in action, but presumed dead. She had fallen to her knees right there in the middle of the doorway, sobs overtaking her body as she screamed out Jake’s name. 

And then, after two weeks of mourning the loss of a man she planned on spending forever with, her dad, Maverick showed up at her front door and said that Jake was alive. 

But, after seeing his condition, Y/N wasn’t so sure it was a good thing Jake was alive. 

Y/N had fought with the doctors to see Jake when he first got there. She had hardly been listening as they were explaining Jake’s condition. All she wanted to do was see him with her own two eyes. See that he was alive. See that he was still breathing. 

“Mrs. Seresin, we don’t think that it’s a good-” 

“Unless your next words are his room number, I don’t want to hear it. Take me to him. Now.” 

Wordlessly she followed the doctor down the hallway. The stark white lighting burned her eyes and the smell of antiseptic cleaners made her nose tingle. It was the first time in two weeks that she had even stepped foot out of the house, and all the lights and smells were making her feel like a wild animal. Y/N had shut down when she heard the news about Jake. He was her everything, and she didn’t see a point in continuing on without him. 

The doctor came to a stop at the end of the long hallway. The ICU was pretty quiet, which made Y/N feel like she was going to meet her utter doom. Y/N suddenly realized that maybe, just maybe she should’ve let the doctor finish what he was going to say about her husband’s condition. But she couldn’t let her fear shine through, so, Y/N rolled her shoulders back and looked the doctor right in the eye. 

“Oh Jake,” Y/N whispered as she walked into the room. He looked small and frail as he lay motionless in the hospital bed. Y/N never thought she would use words like ‘small’ and ‘frail’ to describe Jake Seresin, but here she was. Y/N sat down in the chair bedside his bed, and grabbed his hand, holding it tightly in her own. 

If someone told her two weeks ago that she would get to hold her husband’s warm, rough hand in hers, she would’ve laughed at them. Y/N hated to admit it, but she had started to doubt that Jake would come home alive. When she heard that knock on her door the second time, she was expecting to be told that Jake had died in a fiery crash in the middle of enemy territory. Now, here she was sitting in a stiff chair, looking right at him. 

“You’re going to be okay, baby,” She said, lifting his hand to her lips and placing a kiss on his knuckles, “We’re gonna be okay. We’ll get through this.” 

It had taken a whole 24 hours for Jake to wake up. He was groggy and confused when he first came too, wondering where the hell he was and what the hell had happened. Y/N did her best to fill in the gaps of what had happened, but thankfully her dad could cover the rest. Doctor Merritt had also explained Jake’s injuries to him, going into more detail than he had with Y/N. 

“When they found you, you had an open exposure to your right leg, below the knee,” Doctor Merritt said. 

“Yeah, it hurt like a bitch,” Jake chuckled, “Imagine staring at your tibia for two weeks.” 

“That’s the problem, Lieutenant Commander,” Doctor Merritt said grimly, “You have an infection in the bone. We’re treating it now with antibiotics, but if it starts to spread-” 

“No,” Jake shook his head, “You are not cutting off my leg. I need that.” 

“Lieutenant Commander,” Doctor Merritt sighed, “We agreed to do the X-fix, even though there’s a possibility that you’ll never walk or run the same way again. But this infection. . . it could be fatal.” 

Y/N felt her heart sink to her stomach at the word. She sat up straighter in her chair and looked at her husband, “Jake. . .” 

“Then let it kill me,” Jake answered, not even sparing a glance to his wife. Doctor Merritt looked at Y/N, whose eyes were filling with tears, and locked on Jake, “If you take my leg, that’s basically like killing me. So let the infection do it.” 

Y/N lowered her head and stared at her hands that were intertwined with one of Jake’s. She didn’t even try to argue with him, knowing it was going to be a losing battle. Jake had always prided himself on having a healthy and sound body. He needed all functioning parts to be able to be the best of the best. To be able to live out his childhood dream. He had just reached the most important point in his career, and he be damned if something like an amputation was going to stop him. 

“Alright, Lieutenant Commander,” Doctor Merritt said and left them alone in the room. 

Jake waited a moment when the door shut before turning to his wife, “They’re gonna ask you.” 

“What?” Y/N asked. 

“If for whatever reason, I can’t make a decision for myself anymore, they’re gonna ask you. And you tell them no,” Jake said. Y/N licked her lips and looked back down at her hands, but Jake lifted her chin to look her in the eye, “You tell them no. Actually, you tell them to fuck off. Don’t let them take my leg, Y/N. . . please, Sunny.” 

She wanted to curse him for using that nickname. That nickname he had given her the first time they met. He had called her his own personal ray of sunshine. The one thing that always kept him warm and gave him hope while he was in the middle of a mission and things weren’t looking good. 

His green eyes were full of hope and pleading, and Y/N had to tear her eyes away from his green stare. She couldn’t say anything, scared that if she opened her mouth a sob would come out and plead to Jake to rethink this. She had just gotten him back, and now she was faced with the idea that he would be leaving her again. He would be leaving her again when he didn’t have to. He had a choice, but he was choosing to leave her. 

So all Y/N did was nod. 

But things had taken a turn for the worst. The infection in Jake’s leg had spread and the antibiotics weren’t working. His fever had spiked so high that it sent him into a seizure. 

“This is what we were worried about,” Doctor Merritt said, “His body is not responding well to the antibiotics and he’s going septic.”  

“No,” Y/N shook her head, “I won’t be the one to decide this. You need to ask him.”  

“We can’t Mrs. Seresin,” Doctor Merritt said, “He crashed almost as soon as we got in there. He’s dying. You need to make the decision.” 

It was as if the past five years of Y/N’s life flashed right before her. The first time she met Jake, the first time he asked her to dance, the first time they had said I Love You, the first time they made love. All the smiles and laughs and tears over the years. The promise to love each other forever and to always come home to one another. The ring on her hand suddenly felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as the image of Carole Bradshaw filled her mind. 

“If I had the chance to save him, I would’ve done it.” Her sweet whisper of a voice filled Y/N’s mind as she looked up at the doctor and spoke. 

“Cut it off.” 

— — — 

“I’m burning in!”

“Eject, Seresin! Eject, Eject, Eject!” 

“I’m gonna die! Y/N!” 

“Eject!” 

Jake had experienced a lot of pain in his life. 

Growing up being the youngest sibling, with two older brothers, and three older sisters, Jake was no stranger to the injuries caused by roughhousing. He was only 18 months old when he was trying to jump from the couch to the chair and fell, hitting his chin on the coffee table. Dylan had been near tears as he was trying to console toddler Jake and hope that they didn’t have to tell their mother what had happened. And now, Jake was thirty-three and living with a faint scar under his chin from his first-ever visit to the emergency room. 

But no childhood injury, football mishap, or training accident could amount to the type of pain Jake was feeling right now. 

His whole body hurt. An allover pain that he couldn’t shake. His head was pounding, his lungs felt like they were about to explode, and his leg, god his leg. He couldn’t even describe the pain he felt in his leg. It felt like a ton of hot metal was sitting right on it, crushing and burning at his flesh and bone. 

Bits and pieces of the last memory Jake had were playing in his head, like a DVD that had been scratched. He could remember sitting on the flight deck of the Carl Vinson, looking out and seeing the endless amount of blue. He could remember flying into the rough terrain, skirting right over the tree tops with Rooster on his six. He could remember the burn in his lungs as he tried to pull up and get altitude, hoping that maybe, if he could eject, he could come home to you in one piece. 

Except, Jake couldn’t remember ejecting. 

He couldn’t remember anything past yelling he was going to die and your name. 

Hell, he couldn’t even remember where he was right now, but the bright shining light over his head and the sound of muffled voices told him that he wasn’t in the middle of enemy territory, or in a pinewood box. Jake decided that must mean something good. 

Jake started to feel his eyelids lift up and the bright flood of light came streaming into his retinas. 

Fuck, even that hurt right now. 

“Lieutenant Commander Seresin, can you open your eyes for me? Lieutenant Commander, can you squeeze my hand? Lieutenant Commander?” 

Jake wanted to tell whoever was the owner of the grating, annoying voice to shut up and let him sleep. Everything hurt so much that Jake couldn’t even fathom opening his eyes, let alone squeezing some punk’s hand. Hell, Jake wasn’t even sure which hand the stranger held and which hand was being held by someone else. 

“Baby? Can you hear me?” A small voice called out. 

“I’m going to die! Y/N!” 

“It’s me, Y/N. Can you open your eyes, please?” 

Slowly, Jake fluttered his eyes open, squinting at the harsh bright light above him. He squeezed your hand tightly, as he fought through the pain in his head to open his eyes for you. You let out a gasp as you took in the sight of those green eyes you loved so much. The ones that would change color slightly when he looked at things he loved. The ones that looked at you like you were the most precious jewel in the world. 

“Jake?” You called out, running your thumb over the back of his hand, watching as his eyes opened and looked at you, “Oh my god.” You put your head down on his arm as you cried, letting out the emotion that you had bottled up for days. 

“Sunny,” Jake said, his voice hoarse. It felt like sandpaper to even swallow let alone talk. You picked your head up quickly and reached for the water jug sitting next to him and held it to his lips. 

Jake had never thought California water had tasted so good until this very moment. He always swore that they added some strange minerals or whatever to the water, making it taste weird. But right now, it tasted like nectar straight from God himself. His eyes fluttered shut to hopefully stop some of the pounding pain between his eyebrows. 

You gingerly took the cup away from his lips, placing it on the table next to him. You watched him intently, as his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes slowly opened again. He looked around the room, taking in the surroundings. It looked as though you had somewhat moved into the small hospital room. Jake looked down at himself, noticing the white blankets covering his body and the gown. 

As Jake looked down at the foot of the bed, confusion swiped over him. More memories of the mission and crash filled his head. 

“Is it still there?” Jake asked, looking up at his wife, “Please. . . is my leg still there?” 

Y/N stayed silent, unsure of what to say. Jake looked over at his doctor, “Is it still there!?” He yelled, causing Y/N to jump in her seat, “Tell me!” 

“Lieutenant Commander,” Doctor Merritt spoke evenly, “The infection in your leg had spread, and your body was shutting down. Your fever had spiked, which caused a seizure and then led to your heart stopping. We did what we could to try and save-“

Without a second thought, Jake pulled the blankets back from his body, revealing the missing limb. A sob escaped his lips as he laid back in bed, defeated. Y/N closed her eyes and bowed her head, as Jake cried. She had been planning on telling him a different way. Hoping to ease into the conversation. 

“I told them not to. . . I told you not to!” Jake yelled at the doctor. 

“Lieutenant Commander, if we didn’t amputate, you would’ve-” 

Jake growled as he grabbed a vase of flowers on his bedside and threw it at the wall behind the doctor. Y/N jumped at the sound of shattering glass. 

“Get the fuck out!” Jake yelled. Doctor Merritt left quickly, letting the door slam loudly behind him. Jake flopped back in his bed, staring up at the ceiling as tears ran down his face. What the hell was he going to do now? His life was over. Everything he ever dreamed of being was over. The Navy was probably already working on his discharge papers as he laid in the hospital. 

“Jake, you didn’t have to throw the vase at-“ 

“You,” Jake said, turning his head towards his wife, “You let them do this.” 

“Jake, I-“ 

“You let them do this to me!” Jake gestured to where his leg once was, “You let them hack me up! You let them do the one thing I didn’t want!” 

“I saved your life!” Y/N cried, “I had to do something! I… You couldn’t just die!” 

“Yes! I could’ve!” Jake yelled back. He flopped back down on his pillow, “Get out.” 

Y/N snapped her head towards him, “What?” 

“Get. Out.” He spoke slowly, venom dripping from his words. 

Y/N shook her head, refusing to leave his side. 

“Get Out!” Jake yelled at her, “Get the fuck out of my room! I never want to see you again! Get out! Get out!” 

The door to the room opened suddenly, as Maverick walked in. He had been coming to bring her a change of clothes when he heard the screaming. Y/N’s eyes were still locked on her husband who was seething in both pain and anger. She was frozen in her spot as Maverick wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her towards the door.

taglist: @els-marvelvsp @sarahsmi13s @topgun-imagines @cassiemitchell @xoxabs88xox @seitmai @a-reader-and-a-writer @bradleybeachbabe @kmc1989 @senawashere @beautifulandvoid @ohtobeleah @rogersbarnesxx @oatmealisweird @dempy @devil-angel-winchester @gillybear17

note: and before you ask. . . there's probably gonna be a part two

[valleyrunearchives]

MedBay Mayhem

Rating: Teen and Up Fandom: Call of Duty (MWII) Pairings: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley Warnings: None

Chapter 1/1

Being a sniper, Ghost is used to waking up in odd places. Usually it’s whenever he’s closed his eyes for a few minutes to catch a couple of winks while waiting for a target in some sniper nest he’s made. He’s also woken up on rooftops and trees just because he used them to escape the insanity of the base’s occupants.

His least favorite place to wake up is in the MedBay.

Or

After a tough mission, Ghost wakes up in the MedBay.

Check out my Ko-fi!

Being a sniper, Ghost is used to waking up in odd places. Usually it’s whenever he’s closed his eyes for a few minutes to catch a couple of winks while waiting for a target in some sniper nest he’s made. He’s also woken up on rooftops and trees just because he used them to escape the insanity of the base’s occupants. Once he even woke up in Johnny’s bed after the scot had found him outside in one of the trees and brought him in. How Johnny had managed to carry a man of his size in without waking him up, Ghost has no idea. Never mind that he somehow got Ghost out of the tree without waking him as well. It was actually quite impressive. 

His least favorite place to wake up is in the MedBay. 

Most of the times when it happens, he can recall what landed him there. This is one of the outliers where he has no idea how he got here or even remembers exactly what he did to land himself there. He only knows that he hurts all over and it smells like that awful antiseptic smell that he hates so damn much. When he finally manages to pry his eyes open from where they felt like they were stuck together with glue, his arms are the first thing that catches his attention. They’re covered in thick, slightly pinkish bandages. His sleeve of tattoos is barely visible even from the edge of it from how wrapped they are. He attempts to take a deep breath only to wince as his chest constricts from the motion. Broken ribs? Or just badly bruised? 

“Simon?” 

He turns his head to the side to see Johnny sitting in one of the MedBay’s chairs at his bedside. He blinks at him for a minute as it takes his brain a moment to fully register him, “Johnny?”

“Aye. It’s me, Ghost,” The Scotsman scoots the chair up closer so he can slightly lean into Ghost’s space, “Are ye feelin’ alright?”

“Like I was hit by a train, to be perfectly honest. Otherwise, I’m alive. What exactly happened? How did I end up in the MedBay?” He shifted a bit to try and sit up. Johnny stops him and instead uses a small remote laid beside Ghost to raise the head of the bed up. Fancy. Ghost doesn’t remember the MedBay beds having them the last time he was sent here. He groans quietly to himself as his spine shifts from the movement of laying to sitting. He’s going to be so stiff when he gets released. 

He turns his attention back to Johnny as the other man sets the remote back down. He takes note of the almost forlorn expression on his face. That doesn’t seem good. He narrows his eyes at him, “What? What’s that look for?”

“Ye really don’t remember?” Soap asks quietly. 

“No? Should I?” He responds, almost snappily. What was Soap implying? Did something happen? 

Soap’s hands clench where they were clutching onto one another, “Aye. Aye ye should.” 

“Well,” Ghost huffs impatiently, crossing his arms as best as he can with the IV and all the bandages, “I don’t. So enlighten me.” 

The scot’s face twists up into something akin to both anger and anguish. It causes something in Ghost’s chest to lurch. “So ye don’t remember the mission?” He starts, voice low and calm in a way that’s almost frightening, “Ye don’t remember the enemy forces near swarming ye? Ye don’t remember ye demanding me tae set the charges I planted off, knowing full well that you would be caught in the explosion zone? Ye don’t remember the ceiling damn near collapsin’ on ye?! And me havin’ tae drag ye out by the straps of yaer vest?!”

“Johnny-”  He winces as his attempt to stop the man is met with Soap slamming his fists down hard on the bed, “Dammit Ghost! Why the bloody hell would ye do that!? Why would ye make me do that?!” 

“Johnny…” He tries again. 

Soap ducks his head to rest his forehead on the bed between his fists. The breath he takes is shaky, seemingly just a second away from crying. “Why Ghost… Why…” He mumbles into the mattress. 

He knows Johnny isn’t expecting an answer but gives him one anyway, “Because it was the only way.”

“Bullshite!” Soap spits. 

“It was, Johnny. It had to be then or it would’ve been never. If they had gotten away just because I could’ve been caught in the crossfire, there was no way I wasn’t going to make the same decision I did today.” 

Johnny sniffles a bit, “Nae today.” 

“Pardon?” He asks, confused.

“Nae today,” he repeats, back to that forlorn expression as he sits up fully again, “Three days ago. You’ve been out ever since the blast. Thought I’d killed ye… or put ye in a coma…” 

He winces a bit at that. He’s been out for three days? Shite, that makes Johnny’s fury even more justified. He sighs and runs a hand down his face, feeling a few more bandages on his face. Probably a few scrapes from debris hitting him in the apparent blast he subjected himself to. Still, his mind hasn’t changed. “Yesterday, today, or tomorrow; Regardless of the day, I would’ve made the same choice I did three days ago. It was either them with me or me with them. And I’d rather go out on my own terms.”

“And what aboot me? And Price? Gaz? Ale and Rudy? Do none of us mean nothin’ tae ye?” He shakes his head, “How do ye think we would’ve handled your death? Aye it may have taken out our targets, but your loss would’ve been far greater than that victory…”

His heart aches now at the tone the other has, “Johnny…”

“Nae… I can’t do this. Not right now. I’ve been here for three days, waitin’ for ye to wake up so I could smack ye across the back of the haed. Now it turns out it was all for nothin apparently,” The scot chuckles bitterly to himself, “Figures… Nothin’ moves the big, bad Ghost after all.” 

Soap stands up and starts heading out of the room. Simon is immediately flushed with the feeling that he doesn’t want to be alone. He reaches out a hand, calling, “Johnny! Wait! Don’t go!”

The other man stops and turns his head back to look over his shoulder, “I’ll be back. I just need a wee bit of space. I’ll tell yer nurse that you’re awake. They’ll bring you something to eat, I’m sure.”

Simon calls out again in one last attempt to get Johnny to stay. The man doesn’t listen and leaves the room without another word or look at Simon. Simon sighs heavily and lets his whole body go limp on the bed, “Fuck I stuffed that up…” 

He stares up at the ceiling blankly; Feeling more alone than he has in such a long time. How can he possibly fix this? An apology doesn’t seem like enough at this point… Not even for someone as kind as Soap is.  

[softspeirs]

A/N: It's the consensus of the Discord girlies that we can fix all of John Egan's despair with our various OCs. So here's my attempt. Special thanks to @shoshiwrites for enabling me for this plot! Also, she officially has a name! Meet Eleanor Peters.

four. love letters.

The first thing that hits her is the antiseptic smell of the hospital. It's cloying and overwhelming, and the rapid pounding of her heart picks up even more when she realizes there's no turning back, not now.

Major Gale Cleven is a tall shadow on her left, his focus singularly on getting to his friend's bedside.

She had been nearly blown sideways when he had walked in the door the day before, rail thin with shadows under his eyes, but a gentle smile on his face as his eyes landed on her behind the bar in her father's pub.

His face had lit with recognition, and then he had said the words that played on a loop over and over since -- Bucky's alive. John, Major Egan, he's alive. He wanted me to tell you.

Bucky. A nickname she hadn't used often, only once to the man’s face, but one she felt was on the tip of her tongue nonetheless.

It's a long story, he said. She didn't ask about the heaviness behind his eyes, the way he walked with a slight limp, or about the fact that she had never seen this man without his friend. It was unfathomable to her that they were apart.

But then -- isn't that what made her take a deep breath, and press a kiss to John Egan's cheek in the first place?

Gale Cleven had left with a story about a forced march, an escape that left John to do the gallant thing and stay behind, and the promise to come by in a few days and bring her to see John, if she wanted.

Now that she's here, she can't bring her feet to move.

"Ellie?" Major Cleven asks, frowning. "Alright?"

"I-- this wasn't a good idea." She says. "He-- are you sure he asked about me?"

Gale Cleven has never rolled his eyes at a woman, but he had an identical conversation with his best friend not too long before, and he's never seen two people who project such confidence in a group, but are so unsure of themselves alone. "No offense, Eleanor, but if I had to hear about you one more time, I was going to make a break for it sooner than I did."

Mood shifted, Eleanor laughs, looking down at her feet. "Okay. Okay, let's go."

"Buck!" A charmingly familiar voice shouts before she can see him, "Did you bring me any booze? They won't let me--" He stops as soon as she comes into view.

"Didn't think to bring the pub with me, Major." She says, the smile on her face unstoppable, even if she tried.

He looks tired. Scars litter his right cheek, and his legs are propped up on a pillow. His arms are folded casually over his chest, but she doesn't miss the way his chest is rising and falling rapidly.

"You-- Jesus Christ, Buck." He mutters.

"I'll see about that drink," Cleven says, and leaves her standing there, looking at a man she's thought was dead for almost two years.

Now that she's standing in front of him, she has no idea what to say. Part of her is convinced she dreamed the whole thing up. That whatever connection she felt was overblown, simply her romantic heart getting the better of her.

But the way he's looking at her-- she's not imagining that.

"Ellie." His voice is hoarse. "You're a sight for sore eyes." And there's that smile she remembers so well. "Buck snuck you in here, huh?"

"He said you were asking after me."

She's so thrilled to see the blush that sneaks up his throat, and feels safe enough now to sit down in the small chair at his bedside, crossing her legs and grinning at him.

She is so, so pleased to see him.

She wants to know every detail of what happened to him over the last few years, though she knows it's likely a terrible story that would be hard for him to tell. She feels strongly that he shouldn't carry it alone, not with how burdened he had felt when he left for the last time, mourning his best friend and the other members of his crew who hadn't come back.

"I might've wondered how you were." He scratches the back of his neck. "Figured you'd be married and moved away by now."

"Still slinging ales at the pub, I'm afraid."

He arches an eyebrow. "Not to any hotshot pilots, I hope."

"Of course not." She says with mock seriousness.

They fall into a comfortable silence, and Eleanor bites her bottom lip before reaching for her handbag. He watches her in silence, that small smirk still on his lips, and there's something so soft in his eyes she can hardly stand to look at him.

"I have something for you. Well, a few things."

"If you want to give me another flower, I've still got the one." He says. His deep voice filled with something makes her hands fumble in her bag, but she doesn't dare talk herself out of her task.

"That's awful sentimental of you." She says.

"Don't go tellin' anyone that about me."

It's remarkable, she thinks, that he's able to be his genial self after everything he's been through. It's like he doesn't even realize he's in the hospital, though she thinks with a grimace that it might be the most comfortable bed he's slept in in years, hospital or no.

Finding her courage, she digs a handful of envelopes out of her handbag and sets them on the bed next to him. He stares at the bundle, face frozen. The smile slowly slips off his face, and she worries she's overstepped.

"I didn't know--" She stops, trying not to let tears seep into her voice. "Well, I didn't know if you were alive. I hoped. And even if you were, I didn't know where to send them--"

"You wrote me letters?"

The air feels thick, between them.

"I just... The way we left things, you were so upset, and I wanted to make sure you knew that you were missed."

He's still staring at the pile of letters in front of him. He hasn't moved, hasn't touched them, has barely breathed, and she's terrified that this is all wrong, that she misread everything.

"Come here." His voice is low, thick, filled with something that makes the hair on her arms stand up and a shiver run down her spine. "Ellie. Come here."

"Why--"

"I'm not supposed to be on my feet, but if I don't kiss you in the next five seconds, I'm going to lose my mind."

Her heart is a hummingbird taking flight in her chest, but her feet move without her say-so. She scoots the chair as close as she can get. He's already leaning up on an elbow, and no man has ever looked at her the way John Egan is looking at her now, like he can't believe she's real.

"Is this--" He asks, suddenly unsure.

"Yes." She says, finally finding her voice and her confidence.

His lips are on hers in the next breath. She stutters a shaky breath against his mouth, and his hand tightens in her hair. It's not an overly-passionate kiss, but her toes are curling in her shoes, and he's letting out a quiet groan against her mouth that has her pulling away, though his long fingers at the back of her neck don't let her get too far.

"Are you okay? Did I hurt--"

"That was not a noise of pain, sweetheart."

This time it's her blush that stretches out across her cheeks, her face flaming with heat. He lets go of her and reaches for the letters with one hand, his other finding hers, fingers lacing through hers with an ease that makes her smile.

"You wrote to me." He says, like he can't believe it still. "I didn't get a single letter while I was gone."

It makes her heart ache, picturing him watching his friends get mail from their sweethearts, wives, and parents, and she wishes more than anything that she had known he was alive and had known the address to send something to.

"Will you stay while I read them?"

She can think of nothing more embarrassing, but she also doesn't have the willpower to tell him no. Not about this.

"Okay." She says instead, settling back in, half-tucked into his side.

That's how Cleven finds them a half hour later. He takes in the sight of his friend with a girl - not the most unfamiliar sight - half-opened letters in his lap, wrinkled with age and ink stained.

He smiles.

[heavenlytouches]

pls doctor Cullen x female reader. make it like, she came to doc and she was afraid of doctors so he comforts her. I have such daddy issues with that man. also love your work

Hello dear! Thank you so much for a request and sweet words! And of course, Doctor Cullen is something else. I love that man. Let's dive in- El <3

Dr. Carlisle Cullen- beneath the fog

•.⋆｡✮⋆⟡

FEM reader

<3 (SFW)

TW-none

Gentle doc ;)

Reader has Iatrophobia (fear of doctors)

Carlisle Cullen

The rain drizzled softly over Forks, each droplet dancing down from the gray sky, blurring the edges of the world. The fog hung low, wrapping the town in a shroud of mystery and tranquility. You hated mornings like this.

Then happened your big fall—an embarrassing tumble on the icy sidewalk just outside Forks High, leaving you in an ambulance, heart racing with more than just the fear of injury. You had always been terrified of doctors, their sterile instruments and white coats invoking a sense of dread that was hard to shake.

As you were wheeled into the small, dimly lit examination room, the smell of antiseptic filled the air, sending shivers down your spine.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the memories of today's accident, the embarrassment of slipping in front of classmates, and the impending dread of a doctor’s visit.

But when the door opened, the atmosphere shifted. Carlisle Cullen entered, a vision of calm amidst the chaos of your thoughts.

His golden hair framed a face that seemed sculpted by the gods—a mix of gentleness and strength radiating from him. His smile was warm, a stark contrast to the chill of the clinic. You had seen him around Forks, although you had never spoken to him.

“Good morning.”

He said, his voice smooth like honey.

“I’m Dr. Cullen. How are you feeling? They said it was a pretty nasty fall.”

You glanced up, catching those beautiful eyes—amber and sparkling with kindness. You could feel the anxious flutter in your stomach, the same kind you felt whenever you saw someone particularly interesting.

“I… um, I’m okay, I think.”

You stammered, your voice barely reaching above a whisper.

He managed to make the medical environment feel a little less fearsome.

“You’re safe here. Let’s take a look at what happened, shall we?”

His demeanor was calm and relaxed, occupying the space with an aura of tranquility.

You took a deep breath and nodded, attempting to push your fears aside as he gestured for you to lie back on the examination table.

He moved closer, his presence both comforting and daunting, and you instinctively wanted to inch away. But he didn’t crowd you; instead, he patiently waited, letting you adjust to his nearness.

“How did you fall?”

He asked, gently inspecting your elbow, where the bruise was beginning to blossom in shades of purple and blue. His fingers were deft and careful, brushing against your skin with a tenderness that momentarily distracted you from your anxiety.

“I was just… distracted. I didn’t see the ice-”

You mumbled, then added, more hesitantly-

“I’m not very good with ice… or doctors, for that matter.”

He looked up from his examination, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

“What about doctors makes you uneasy?”

You couldn’t decide whether to be honest or to deflect. But there was something in the depths of his gaze that urged you to be open.

“I guess… I’ve just had a few bad experiences. It’s a bit frightening, you know? The needles, the equipment…”

Carlisle nodded, his expression softening further.

“I understand completely. It’s perfectly normal to feel this way. Many people do. But I promise, I only want to help you.”

His confidence was infectious. You found your breath coming easier, the tension in your shoulders loosening ever so slightly.

“Thank you..”

You whispered, feeling warmth bloom in your chest at the way he treated you—not just as a patient, but as a person.

He spent the next few minutes talking softly, weaving stories of how he got into medicine, his compassion for those in need pulling you into his world. You felt your heart flutter as you realized that behind the caring doctor was a man who struggled with his own burdens yet chose a path of gentleness.

“Okay...”

He said after a while, stepping back and examining your elbow one last time.

“It looks like a bruise, but I want to do a quick check to make sure you’re okay overall. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

With that simple statement, you felt lighter. Watching him work with a grace that was mesmerizing, you realized your fear was slowly being replaced by admiration. Carlisle was everything you wanted in a protector—a gentle spirit with an unshakeable strength.

“Thank you for being so kind.”

You said, an earnestness in your voice that surprised you.

“It really helps.”

His smile widened, genuine and radiant, and your heart soared.

“Anytime. You’re stronger than you think, you know. Just take it one step at a time.”

As he finished his examination, you left the clinic not only with a better sprain but with a fluttering heart that dared to hope.

There was something about him—the way he listened and understood—that made you want to see him again. It was as if, in the midst of a foggy Forks morning, he had cleared away the clouds of your fear, revealing a light you hadn’t known you desperately needed.

Maybe, just maybe, you could face the world beyond the fog if it meant you could have another moment with Dr. Cullen.

Like I said, I loooove Carlisle so much! Also, I hope y'all liked this drabble ^^

Don’t forget, requests are always open and I can write for any character you’d like!

I love you guys so much <33

El <3

(all images were made by: El via canva & paint)

[kaimeioneclipse]

Paybacks a Wednesday (Part I)

Pairing: Wednesday x Male Reader

Summary: You wake up in your room battered and bruised from being ambushed in town. Wednesday finds out who did it and its going to get revenge. You don't hurt what belongs to Wednesday

WordCount: 1.5k words

WARNINGS: Violence, Blood, Ambush,

It's late afternoon and classes have already ended. Y/N is laying in Their bed in their large single dorm room, currently wearing bandages on their cheek, forehead, torso and hands. Then he hears some loud footsteps down the hallway.

"Oh lord..." He thinks to himself. You know who is exactly coming through that door.

Then bang! The dorm room swings open and who do they see? Their lovely raven of a girlfriend Wednesday Addams with her roommate Enid Sinclair and Thing following right behind her.

"Hey Guys...how's it going...?" Y/N says in a pained voice as he does his best to sit up..

"O M G...Y/N! When we heard we didn't think it was this bad.." says Enid holding a black bag to her chest.

Wednesday stomps straight to Y/N's bedside and sits on the edge of the bed. She grabs his face checks and his head and feels for anything broken then checks his torso. She hasn't said a word yet but after her examination, she sighs of relief.

"Enid...bag" Wednesday instructs she moves over to the other side of the bed and buts the black bag down. Thing hops off of Enid's shoulder and starts tapping and climbing on the bag instructing Wednesday that he is ready to help.

"Who did this to you?" She says as begins to take the bandages off Y/N face. "Thing grab the antiseptic, a cotton ball, the ointment and fresh bandages"

Thing does a thumbs up and hops in the bag bringing out everything she asked for.

"Its not that bad....I....Just fell down some stairs" Y/N say to her trying to stay strong

"Y/N stairs dont do that to you Y/N" says Enid with a worried look on her face.

"Are you going to tell me the truth or are you going to keep lying to me?" said Wednesday as her cold half-dead face looked at Y/N but for some reason, it was even colder than normal. She was your girlfriend and you can't lie to her.

Y/N let out a sigh,"It was some of the normie kids while I was going out shopping. I went to the Weathervane to get us some coffee and some pastries then they caught me outside on my way back to Nevermore. " he says as Wednesday removes his bandages revealing wounds and scars on his skin. "Being called an outcast doesn't hurt as much cause that's what we are but being called a *****....that kinda hurt" Wednesday reaches for the antiseptic and a cotton ball and pours a bit of antiseptic on it. She takes the cotton ball and lightly puts it over the wound on his forehead. He wince a bit in pain but it goes away after a moment.

"To think people would stoop so low to attack you in broad daylight. I just....Raaah" says Enid as her claws come out. Enid has cared for Y/N and Wednesday and has always been a fantastic friend to help him with his girlfriend. Even before Y/N started dating Wednesday she knew the two of them would be perfect.

"Enid calm down....Also your claws are showing." Enid looked down "Oops..u-uh" she stuttered and her nails became shorter. "Kitty claws come out sometimes" Enid chuckled nervously

Wednesday continued to care for Y/N's wounds. Thing walked up to to Y/N and began to pat on the bed asking if he was ok.

"Dont worry Thing, it will take more than just a couple punches and kicks to take me down" Y/N says confidently. Thing does a few gestures meaning that you were a strong man and brave. "Appreciate it Thing" They fist bump with a few other moves. Thing has always been a good guide in helping Y/N understand Wednesday and her subtle quirks that can be translated as emotions. Like when she stomps harder than usual she is mad, When she stares in a direction and doesn't blink for more than 16 seconds she's mad, and so on and so on.

Wednesday grabs an ointment that Thing took out. The Ointment was in a steel tin and doesn't look to be store-bought. Wednesday opens the tin to see a cream-like substance but has a foul smell. Y/N takes a whiff "Ugh what is that?" he says with a disgusted tone.

"Its an ointment that my grandmother created. It has aloe and some other herbs" Wednesday explained as she dipped two fingers in the substance.

Enid was making a disgusted face due to the smell. "Ugh I cant do this anymore. Im going to go get Y/N some food. Come On Thing" she said. Thing didn't hesitate and hopped onto Enid's shoulder. "We be back soon" she said as he left the two in the room.

As Wednesday was about to apply the ointment to Y/N head wound. She had a flash and then found herself at the Weathervane.

She sees Y/N walk into the Coffee shop and orders a couple drinks and food. Seems like he was happy and having a fantastic day. Y/N took out his phone and smiled at his lock screen which was Wednesday with her signature scowl reading a book by a dead tree. Y/N's order was up he grabbed the items he purchased. But Wednesday felt a bit happy that Y/N loved her, but something wasn't right, she looked around the Weathervane from booth to booth to see if anyone was plotting. She looked by the window and saw some boys dressed up in football varsity jackets. Wednesday couldn't hear what they were saying but they were pointing at Y/N. When Y/N turned around they went around the corner and waited for him to come out.

Y/N opened the door and walked down the street heading back to Nevermore but the boys came out the said and tailed him from a distance. After a few minutes, they made it to a street where there was no one on. This street leads out of the town and is usually where the Nevermore kids would call an uber up to the school. But Y/N never had a chance.

Fast like a lightning bolt, Y/N was hit with a rock straight to his head. He dropped all the items he had and fell to the ground on his knees. He held his head and looked down at his hands to see blood. Wednesday gasped seeing the sight. Then the boys showed up "Well looked who it is, another Nevermore Freak. Why do you guys keep showing up here? We know what you are! And you are ******" He said as his spit on Y/N. Y/N was so disoriented "Guys, come on we don't have to resort to this," he says as he raises up his hands. One of the boys takes a bat and smacks his hand with it. Y/N yells in pain, their hand was smashed from the blow. "Dont act like you are normal! YOU ARE A MONSTER!.....I don't know why I'm even talking to this trash.......Get him" The boys began to kick and punch and beat on Y/N.

Wednesday watched in horror and anger she wanted to make them pay. She looked at Y/N looking to reach for his phone that wasn't too far from the dropped coffee and pastries. All Y/N could see is Wednesday's face on the screen. Then a voice yelled down the street Wednesday turned around and saw Xavier running down the street. "GET AWAY FROM HIM" he yelled.

"Dustin we gotta go" one of the boys said "Say away from our town freak or I'm gonna finish the job." the other said as they ran.

"Hey Y/N, stay with me....hey...." as Xavier's voice started to fade out and Wednesday found herself back in the room with a wounded Y/N

"Hey Wednesday.... you ok?" Y/N asked

Wednesday was looking at Y/N and let a tear fall down her face. She wiped her tear with a free hand and rubbed the rest of the ointment on her finger on Y/N's forehead wound where the rock hit.

"Put the rest of that on you and get some rest" Wednesday said as she began to pack her things up but left some bandages for him.

"Where are you going?" Y/N asked

"I left some things that i need to collect from class. " She replied

Y/N knew something was right but the ointment seemed to have some properties and they felt a but woozy as he took a deep breath and laid back into his pillow.

"Be safe" he said

Wednesday turned to Y/N and moved closer to his face and kissed him on the lip so softly as if she applied to much pressure it would break. "I will...Mon Cher" she whispers as she sees Y/N is drifted off to sleep.

She left his dorm room and took out her phone and texted Xavier and Enid "Meet me in the NIghtShade room in 10 mins and get everyone else" She closes the phone and begins to walk down the stone hallways.

"No one hurts what is mine" Wednesday said with a dark tone that could shake the long dead out of their coffin.

To be Continued

Kaimei's thoughts

(Trying my hand at a Wednesday Full Storyline. lets see how this goes, if you have any suggestions don't be afraid to comment them. Kinda want to see Wednesday's Darkness show in this one. )

Check out the rest of my Wednesday Stories Below!

Wednesday Master List

[listenheresweaty]

Food for Thought: Wilbur Soot Chef!Au

this is unedited. This was also originally an ask I planned to send someone but I ended up posting it here. ——-

Thinking about Wilbur, chef au. like— ratatouille, without the rats. An inexperienced new chef (reader) comes to the 5 star family run restaurant called the Syndicate and is for some reason hired. Wilbur, the sauce chef (third highest ranking, after techno the sous chef and Philza the big man chef— master chef. Idk), is assigned to show them the ropes. He is already cranky for ranking in *third* among his family of four, even though he loves his brother and father very much. And now they dump the newbie into his hands??? Don’t they know he has better to do?

he was going to make your life hell. if only you weren’t so damn intriguing.

the first week, he’s cocky and arrogant, sweeping through the kitchen without so much as a backwards glance to you, giving the most vague instructions to purposefully tick you off. —-

“so the pan over there goes here when the heat is on that level, then that goes there, and there over there.. yknow.. get the bottles from the fridge, put ‘em here, turn the heat on like so—“ he turned the oven nozzle on and then back off again, too quickly for you to see the heat level. He turns to you, hands behind his back. “Any questions?”

he took your gaping silence as a yes. “Good. Follow me. You’ll wash pans for the day, then we’ll see each other tomorrow morning.”

____

Oh you hate the smug bastard. But as you watch him effortlessly dice a variety of vegetables and scrape them into the pot in a matter of seconds, you realize that hatred and admiration is an awful combination.

one late night— when you had received the infuriating assignment of “master high-speed julienne cuts on these onions before you get to go home”—- you tried to replicate his movements, growing increasingly frustrated as the onions stung your eyes, the clock ticked past midnight, and Wilbur snickered faintly in the background. You were so intently focused on getting that stupid onion into strips that you didn’t notice your finger getting in the way. With a yelp, you drop the knife, hissing and staring at your cut thumb. Wilbur looks up sharply, uncrossing his arms and moving away from the counter he had leaned against. “What the hell did you do now?”

“it’s nothing,” you grit out, “don’t—“ but you are cut off by Wilbur taking a hold of your hand, lifting it to his face and inspecting the cut.

“proper safety is important in the kitchen.” He states, not taking his eyes off the cut. “Not only for our sakes, but for the safety and hygiene of those who will eventually eat the food we prepare.”

you know that, but your words die in your throat as he rifled through a medicine cabinet and took out some antiseptic and gauze. the room is silent, silent except for the ticking of the clock and the occasional ripping of gauze and tape as he patches up your thumb. His face remains impassive, neutral, showing no real friendliness but none of the hostility from earlier.

”Right.” He finishes taping down the gauze and steps back, turning to take some fresh onions out of the fridge, and a new knife and cutting board.

“do I have to do the exercise all over again?” You ask in dismay.

He pauses. “No. No, you don’t.”

you let Wilbur maneuver you to stand in front of the new cutting board— and freeze up when he stands close behind you, grabbing your hands from behind and guiding them to the knife. “put your thumb there— no— like that, yes. There. That’s the correct way to hold a chopping knife. Now, since you’ve mangled your hands, follow my lead.”

He gently guides your hands to the onion, positions them, and cuts it smoothly.

“there. You see?” He says, his voice quiet and close to your ear. It’s a lot more gentle too, or maybe that’s just the late hour getting to him as well.

“Y-yeah.” You manage, clearing your throat. “Seems simple enough.”

”hm.” He hums, amused, and lets go of your hands. “I think that’s all for the day. It’s quite late.”

you sigh in relief, dropping the knife on the counter. Instead of walking to the front door and getting your coat, however, you pick up the boards and cutlery and make your way across the room.

“what are you doing?” Wilbur asks.

“Washing the dishes. “ you blink. That was the first rule you learned in the kitchen. A chef always cleans up after cooking, and never procrastinates or postpones the work, no matter how many plates need to be cleaned.

“…I’ll wash up.” Wilbur sighed. “You go on home.”

Who the hell was this guy, and what did he do to Wilbur? “are— are you sure? What about you?”

Wilbur cracked a smile. “I’m sure. Don’t you worry about me. I can manage.”

“alright.” You acquiesced, getting your coat from the hanger and sweeping it over your shoulders. You pause before leaving through the door, and look back. “Good night, Wilbur.”

“good night, love.” Wilbur paused. “And remember to be here at 5:00 AM Tomorrow, at the latest.”

you groaned and shut the door, listening to his chuckles fade into the distance as you trudge your way home.

[thiccpersonality]

What Is A Father?

What is a father? 

This is a question Bruce has been pondering on for awhile now, especially now that Father's Day is coming so quickly. A part of him still feels the stinging pain of loss from all those years ago, yet also Bruce finds his heart warming at the memories he shared with Thomas Wayne...somewhere in his mind echoes the deep rumbling laugh of the doctor. It has been so long since Bruce has felt those strong arms wrap around him, his body trying desperately to recall the smell of medicine and antiseptics that always seemed to cover his father.

Bruce sighs loudly while turning to lie on his back, his nostrils flaring at the sudden scent of Thomas Wayne suddenly in the room. Icy blue eyes shut tightly at the tears that start to form in his eyes, it's been so long...yet that smell is undeniably his late father. There is the smell of the medicine Bruce hated so much mixed with antiseptics and yet something...warm, like a campfire, something very earthy and natural that was so undeniably Thomas.

Hm? With these thoughts, Bruce thinks he'll never get to sleep now.

The man grunts softly as he sits up against the headboard, his back cushioned by his pillows as he looks to the ceiling in thought. Because what is a father to Bruce? A father to him is many things, one of them being something to lose and mourn, but Bruce knows that is his negative side talking...everything in life is something you can lose, so he knows that people aren't too different.

As Bruce is thinking about the question, his eyes fall closed, his body still upright on the bed as an unconscious smile tugs at his lips from the memories playing in his mind...

-A Father Is: Structure-

Bruce was only three, small and innocent to the ways of the world and all the mess it can cause. Oblivious to the lies and gossip of the media and what they say about his family, more specifically, his father and mother. Though he is oblivious and naive, Bruce isn't a stupid kid, he knows that something is bothering his mother by the way her hands reach up to play with the pearls that adorn her neck, can see it in the slight furrow of her brows and the way she keeps tapping her armrest with her manicured nails.

And when his mama is distressed, Bruce is distressed as well. 

The toddler pouts at the hushed conversation that's going on across the room, his toys long forgotten as he watches his mother carefully as she whispers something aggressively to Thomas. Bruce's head tilts in confusion at the calm smile placed on his papa's face, is nothing actually wrong? Why is his mom so upset and his dad so relaxed?

Bruce scoots forward, being able to do so easily as his parents are distracted with their conversation, leaning in closer when he gets close enough to hear what they are whispering to each other about.

"How can you be so calm about this, Thomas!? They have been doing anything to try and ruin your name and reputation, and quite frankly, I don't know why you would invite the same people who talk about you behind your back into your home. I'm just-" Bruce's frown deepens at the anxiousness and exhaustion in Martha's tone-"I'm just so tired of people talking about you and I. I'm afraid that they will one day pull our baby into all this mess and Lord knows I don't want that for him, Tommy."

Bruce doesn't know exactly what his parents mean...but he feels himself getting upset at whoever is hurting his mom and dad. His daddy is good and kind and helps people, does no one else see it?

A gentle hum from Thomas catches Bruce's attention, the small tot freezing in place when he looks up and sees that warm gaze directed towards him. Thomas Wayne smiles gently at his son and holds his hands out for the child, "It seems we have a little guest, Martha. Looks like it's bothering Bruce as well." Martha gnaws at her lip in worry at seeing her little Bruce toddle his way to Thomas, the boy's face looking uncharacteristically worried for him and someone his age. "I'm sorry, my little Brucie. Mommy didn't mean to worry you-no? What do you mean no?"

Thomas and Martha watch as Bruce shakes his little head, "Not mommy. Bad people lie about daddy and mommy...that's not true. You're good, why can't they see it?"

Martha melts in her chair, her fingers stopping their constant tapping as she turns questioning gaze towards Thomas. "I don't know, Bruce. Why can't they see it?" Thomas sighs fondly at the slight aggravation that's still in his wife's tone, his arm tightening around Bruce while he leans over to hold Martha's hand in his own. "Sometimes people are complicated, this is something we know. I cannot say exactly why they can or cannot see what we see, Martha and Bruce, but one thing I do know is that I am happy where I am with you two and no lie or rumor can change that." Martha softens further at the gentle kiss placed on her hand and the kiss her husband plants on Bruce's cheek.

"I also know that I am in charge of how I choose to act. It can be hard to face lies...but I know the truth and that's all that matters to me, now, why don't we go smile and laugh and enjoy our night?"

Bruce relaxes in his father's hold, amazed at how calm Thomas can be despite everything feeling so scary, holding firmly onto the relaxed smile his dad is giving and doing his best to imitate one of his own.

XXX

Bruce sighs softly at the memory, his lips stretching into an imitation of his father's smile as he remembers how assuredly his father was in a moment where himself and his own mother weren't sure. Bruce always remembers Thomas being firm and unwavering in moments where anyone would shake and tremble, there was always a kindness and an understanding to him that Bruce always wondered about...

-A Father Is: Understanding-

Thomas and a four-year-old Bruce walk down the street hand-in-hand, the doctor has a rare day off and miraculously has not been called in for work at all, and because of such a rare thing, the older Wayne decided it would be a great time to go out into the city to bond with his son. Bruce does his best to keep up with his father as they turn the corner to head to their car, the child grunting as he bumps into Thomas's leg from the man abruptly stopping.

"Daddy?" Bruce questions while looking up to the older man for an answer, huffing and stomping his foot lightly at the lack of an answer from him, what could he be looking at?

Bruce looks to where Thomas is looking, the boy's eyes widening at the child standing in front of their car attempting to pull the tires off. Bruce hides behind his dad, his small hands gripping the man's pants leg tightly in fear as to what will happen next, his shoulders relaxing somewhat at the hand that rests gently on his head comfortingly. "Don't be afraid, son. What do you say we go talk to the young man?" 

Thomas chuckles at the look Bruce is giving him, the man choosing to smile kindly and walk forward quietly, trying not to laugh louder at his son attempting to pull him back from the other boy.

When they get close enough, Thomas places his hand on the kid's shoulder and clears his throat, effectively startling the young teen out of his concentration. "May I ask why you are trying to take my tires, young man?" Bruce hides behind Thomas's leg more when the older boy looks down at him for a moment and scoffs suddenly, "I don't hafta explain shit to you...old man. You wouldn't understand." Bruce feels his brows furrow in irritation at the boy's behavior, feeling indignant on his father's behalf at the tone the boy is taking with him.

Before Bruce can say anything in defense of his dad, Thomas just gently squeezes the teens shoulder again with a hum.

"Maybe I wouldn't or maybe I would. You never know unless you tell me everything over a meal, is that alright with you?" Bruce looks up at his dad in confusion, this person was just trying to steal their stuff and he wants to feed the boy? But he is always told that stealing is bad and you face the consequences of stealing, Bruce knows it to be true as when he attempts to steal snacks, he's scolded, put in timeout or popped on his backside depending on it.

Bruce isn't the only one baffled by the question, the teen looks around before staring back up at Thomas cautiously. "This your idea of a joke? I don't need pity or your sympathy, okay? I'm doing just fine on my own."

Thomas listens to the boy complain before nodding softly, "It isn't a joke. Nothing about this situation is funny...and I don't doubt that you are incapable of taking care of yourself, you seem to have some kind of experience on how to. But, you must be stealing my tires for a reason, yes? There is absolutely no shame in needing or asking for help, no one should be alone and struggling, especially a fine young man such as yourself. Now, how about that offer if you'd indulge this old man?" Bruce watches as something in the teen softens, no doubt there is some sort of caution still put up, but the boy looks more confused and in shock that Thomas is being genuine in his request.

"Uh...sure?"

------

"That's pretty much it. Guess your gonna call the police on me now?" The teenager, now known as Caleb, leans back in his seat while pushing his empty plate away. He looks content with the food, but something in his eyes is tired and lost as he asks the question, Bruce hears him asking: "you gonna toss me away too?" And that makes him sad for Caleb and how he thinks he's unwanted or unlikeable.

Thomas shakes his head, "No. I'm not calling the police on you, obviously you know stealing is wrong as you were trying to do it in secret-" he raises his hand to stop the boy from saying anything-"though I understand now where you were coming from. But, I would prefer if you could actually work and make money for yourself and your little sister instead of resorting to stealing." Caleb crosses his arms defensively and looks out the diner window, "Yeah...well, no one wants to hire a street rat like me. Your kind don't like people like us, guess we are too savage and dirty for the likes of them." Thomas looks troubled at hearing that, his tone kind yet firm as he speaks, "Don't say that. I like you very much, and it isn't any fault of yours that you are in the position you're in, so leave that train of thought behind you."

Caleb turns to look at Thomas and physically squirms at the look the older man is giving him...it has been so long since anyone looked at him with love and concern, usually people are too busy looking at him with contempt, as if he's nothing but trash. "You are old enough to work decent hours for your age. Caleb, would you do me the honor of working at one of my wife's orphanages or homeless shelters? I don't want you to be on these streets anymore...and you can work hard for me in payback for attempting to steal my tires."

Caleb feels as if he's in a dream, "I tried to steal from you...and you want me to work for your wife? Y-You are offering me a job, why? What's in it for you, huh?"

Thomas writes down the address and his number on a napkin and slides it over to the teen, "For one: you would be off of the streets and two: you would have a stable enough life, job and living conditions for yourself and your sister. That is exactly what is in it for me...I know this must seem like a lot, and I know you don't trust me right now, but just think about it. There is a door open to you anytime you want to come to one of those addresses and that number will always pick up when you call." Thomas slides out of the booth with Bruce in tow, smiling at Caleb one last time before leaving the restaurant.

Bruce looks back one more time when they are outside to look at the teen, his lips lifting up into a happy smile at how the boy is aggressively wiping his eyes and hugging onto the napkin like it's a lifeline.

A soft ruffle to his hair causes Bruce to look up at his dad, "You never have to be afraid, Bruce. Sometimes...people behave in scary ways or in a way that makes us mad, but you never know what got them to that point." The four-year-old nods and then tilts his head curiously. "He stole though, papa. You always say that is a no-no." Thomas chuckles and picks Bruce up, kissing the boy's nose: "Yes, and stealing is a bad thing. But, I would rather give Caleb an actual chance to get better when he's never gotten one before. I know he'll do well at his job and then he'll learn better things and grow so much. That is how he can pay me back for the attempt at stealing." 

Bruce gasps like he's gotten an epiphany as he's lowered and buckled into his car seat, "Is he serving out his time like in jail?"

Thomas stares for a second before laughing loudly and nodding his head. "Sure thing, kiddo. Sure thing."

XXX

Bruce feels the phantom touches of a strong hand ruffling his hair and lips gently pressing to his nose. He always was amazed at how his father seemed to be able to talk to anyone, all he had to do was speak kindly and offer one of his soft smiles and it seemed no one knew what to do with it. 

Bruce recalls moments when he was a-in his own eyes-a little monster, brat, or just annoying. Yet Thomas always remained patient with him despite any inconveniences...

-A Father Is: Patient and Fun-

Thomas Wayne sighs tiredly as his five-year-old son keeps squirming in his lap, the boy won't settle down no matter what he tries to do. If he lowers the boy to the floor, he screams, and if he holds onto the child, squirming is all that happens. "Bruce, why don't you sit on the floor or go play while I work? Daddy has some things he needs to review and sign." There is a bit of hope in Thomas's voice as he suggests this, maybe Bruce will magically feel like going to find Alfred or pester his mother instead.

Alas, that is not meant to be the case as Bruce whines loudly at the suggestion of being "separated" from his dear father.

"No, play with me." 

Thomas closes his eyes and inhales deeply before exhaling, he loves his son, he really does, but if only the boy could leave him be for just a couple minutes to let him get his work done. "I can't play a game right now, bud. I have work to do that is time-sensitive, and if I don't do it, it will be very bad." Thomas hopes Bruce will quit by mentioning things being bad for him if he doesn't finish work, his son is usually so kind and understanding about those things whenever him or Martha put things that way, but when Bruce decides to be a gremlin about things...he sticks to the roll well and doesn't care.

Bruce pouts and squirms more, " No. It's not more m'portant than me. Play with me?" 

Thomas sighs loudly once again before perking up, "Oh! How about we play hide and seek? I bet you that you can't find me if you're the seeker."

Thomas smiles triumphantly as Bruce's competitive side comes out (he gets it from Martha) and he narrows his eyes challengingly before climbing down his father's lap and turning away while counting. While Bruce is distracted with counting, Thomas quickly snatches his pen and papers into his arms and runs out of the office and into Alfred's bedroom, hiding in the man's closet and slumping in relief at the silence while reading and reviewing what the papers say.

Back with Bruce, the child shouts loudly how "ready or not, here he comes." The boy checking around the office first before exiting the room and standing in the hallway, he's a bright kid so he avoids any places that he can fit into, he can be oblivious and naive, but he knows some of the secret places are too big for Thomas. Let's see...if Bruce didn't want to be found, where would he go? There are a lot of places in his home where he could potentially not be found, but there is only one place no one ever goes: Alfred's room.

Bruce giggles and makes his way to his best friend's room, sniffing the air and feeling happy as the scent of his father gets stronger the closer he gets to Alfred's room.

Thomas holds his breath as the door creaks open, what is with children being able to find their parents no matter what? The older man listens quietly and grows confused as he hears Bruce sniffling, did he make his child mad? Does he think he doesn't care about him anymore because he is trying to work? Before Thomas can reveal his hiding spot, he is interrupted by Bruce knocking on the closet rapidly with a few giggles. "I know you're in here, daddy! I can smell you!"

Thomas opens the closet door to stare at Bruce, smiling softly at the proud look the other wears on his face.

"It looks like you've got me. How about we make a deal? You let me finish my work and then I play with you to your hearts content." Bruce frowns and crosses his arms with a pout, trying to remain stubborn as Thomas pulls him into his arms, "Why don't you wanna play with me? I just want to be with you, papa." Thomas chuckles at the slight dramatics in Bruce's tone, but his heart warms at the soft admittance of his son, hugging the boy close and pressing a kiss to the child's crown. "I want to be with you too, in fact, I love to be with you. But, I also have big people work to do to help provide for this family and that makes me not able to play all the time, but it doesn't mean I don't ever want to."

Thomas tugs Bruce closer to himself until the boy is curled up on his lap, "Do you know how you get tired after playing with Alfred, your mother and I?" Bruce slowly nods. "Well, that happens with my work and when playing with you too, it's very fun, but there is a point and time where you stop to just rest. However, my most important job is making sure you're taken care of, just how your most important things are making your mother and I beautiful paintings to make us happy."

"And Alfred."

Thomas chuckles and nods, "Yes. And Alfred, he adores every picture you make for him, as do we. And do you like being disturbed when making us your art?"

Bruce slumps at the explanation, "I'm sorry. I just wanna play." Thomas quickly peppers the pudgy face in kisses at hearing the sad tone in the boy's voice, "You don't need to apologize to me. I understand what you are going through, I was a kid once too, Bruce. And I'm pretty sure I was worse when I was your age...I went out of my way to sabotage my parents work so they'd pay attention to me."

Bruce makes a weird face at those words and shakes his head, "You are daddy. You can't be my age."

Thomas laughs loudly and stands up with Bruce in his arms, blowing raspberries into the child's neck as he tosses him on Alfred's bed.

XXX

If he focuses hard enough, Bruce can feel the bed shake as if he is bouncing up and down on it, can feel the tingle of raspberries being blown into his neck and can hear Alfred's exasperated sigh at seeing his Masters messing up his bed. He really wants to stop imagining things of the past...but whenever his mind slips and allows those memories to push to the front of his mind, Bruce finds himself desperately grabbing onto those once happy memories like a lifeline.

Bruce knows there are many other things his father was: gentle, forgiving, firm, silly, brave, peaceful and many more things. But the one thing Bruce seems to remember most is the version of him that is lifeless in an alleyway...

-A Father Is: Someone To Mourn-

Bruce is eight-years-old and cold. He doesn't care that the sun is shining down to share its heat, nor does he care for the beautiful blue of the sky...if anything, he hates the colors and the happy chirps of the birds in the trees, despises the fact that nature is so happy when he feels so blue.

Bruce hates looking out the window and seeing his mom's garden in full bloom, the red of her roses mocking him as each petal dances to the sound of the breeze. They're red like two things Bruce can think of firsthand: blood and his mother's favorite lipstick...lipstick she'll never be able to wear ever again. Why do Martha's flowers get to bloom and live another day when the woman herself is gone now? How is it fair to his mother that her garden continues to flourish when she is no longer here to tend to it?

Bruce feels anger and looks away from the too lively garden, his eyes turning to the trees and the birds living in them. His father loved listening to the birds every morning, Bruce recalls watching the sunrise on the balcony with his dad as the man cradled him in his arms and listened to the birds. Bruce remembers his father telling him once that the birds are singing every morning because they are happy. That they are trying to extend their own happiness out to the world with their joyful songs, and Bruce remembers feeling happy when hearing the birds sing...but now it makes him sad.

He desires to tell the birds to shut up, there is nothing to be happy about when his whole world was taken from him a couple days ago, he hates how alive everything is and wishes the sky was grey with clouds. He wishes that the sun would hide and rain would fall in mourning of the people lost to him, he wishes that thunder would rumble and lightning would strike in grief and he wishes that nature would still itself and be quiet, that the birds wouldn't sing a happy tune as there is nothing to be happy about. The once colorful memories of Martha's garden and Thomas's trees are now tinted blue with sadness at memories Bruce can never share with his parents ever again.

Bruce looks up into the bright blue of the sky as a tear falls down his cheek, his chest tightens at the overwhelming feeling of grief in his heart, his knees shakily lowering himself to the ground as the scent of his mother's flowers in the air are now tainted by the smell of gunpowder. 

A sob escapes the child as he wraps his arms around himself in imitation of how his father used to, he doesn't want to feel cold anymore. His body trembles as the sound of the birds chirping is tainted by his father's pained shouts as he collapses to the ground, why is he alone? All alone. Where is-

A firm hand rests on Bruce's shoulder, tugging him into a warm body that smells like lavender and something slightly smokey.

Bruce hadn't even realized he was panicking until hearing the sound of Alfred's sturdy heartbeat, now that he has something to focus on, he focuses on the life beating in the other's chest. His body slowly starts to warm up as Alfred also presses his shaky hand to his chest, the other just simply being a solid presence when Bruce is scared and unsure. "D-Don't leave me...please don't leave me." Bruce whispers into Alfred's suit jacket, something oddly warm spreading through his heart at the bleak looking clothes Alfred is wearing, usually the man has at least a splash of white to add some color...but the man is wearing all black. It's like he's letting Bruce know that he misses them too, that he isn't alone in how mundane he feels and that despite how bright things are, maybe there is still room to mourn and miss someone who is lost.

"I'm here, Bruce. I'm right here."

XXX

Bruce comes to at a firm hand on his shoulder, his hand automatically reaching up to feel the now aged hand of Alfred, breathing in deeply at the man's voice. "Bruce, are you alright?"

Bruce opens his eyes and is shocked to see the sun light coloring the room in its beautiful rays of red and orange. Blinking twice at the wetness he feels on his eyelashes, Bruce finds he doesn't mind the splashes of color as much this time around, he knows he has so many things to grieve and feel saddened over...but he also knows he has plenty to celebrate for. The man standing before him looking down worriedly, that grounding touch gently placed upon his shoulder-

"Father."

Bruce's breath hitches as he looks towards his open bedroom door, his eyes watering at the slightly sleepy look his youngest child still has on his face, he has never seen something or someone so beautiful. Is this how his own father felt long ago when Bruce came to him during mornings or for Father's Day? Bruce opens up his arms and smiles as Damian doesn't complain and climbs into the bed, holding in his laughter at the sound of the boy's other siblings making a ruckus as they flood into his room. Bruce takes a moment to look back at Alfred and finds his heart swelling with love at the man he now calls father...he knows that Alfred will never be Thomas, but the man never expected to be, all he knows is that they both are what is and was needed in his life.

Thomas Wayne taught him many valuable life lessons while he was alive, but Alfred showed him the other aspects of what a father does: step up.

Alfred didn't have to take Bruce on as his own...and yet he took care of him, fed him, clothed him, comforted him, was patient with him, was firm and a solid structure when Bruce himself felt he was about to crumble. But most importantly, he showed him to love unconditionally and without any expectations from the person you care for, the man truly has only wished the best for Bruce in times where he would scream, shout and cry at or to Alfred...and yet the man only ever opened up his arms or offered his hand for the grieving child to take whenever he was ready to.

A small hand on his cheek breaks Bruce out of his thoughts, looking down he sees Damian staring at him worriedly. And when looking up...Bruce sees so many beautiful colors from the people he loves. Finding himself thankful for the proof of life from every single one of them. "I'm...happy?" Someone in the sea of children snorts at how it sounds like a question, but Richard shushes them and tackles Bruce into a hug, the one body slowly turning into a dog pile of giggling children (plus one cousin) as they all shout. "Happy Father's Day, dad!"

Bruce feels more tears fall down his face as he closes his eyes and holds his family close to his heart, finding himself thankful for the memories of his parents as the smell of Martha's roses blows through the room and the sound of Thomas's favorite birds sing loudly for Bruce to hear. And when opening his eyes to see Alfred standing at the side of his bed simply content to watch over them, it is Bruce who offers his hand for the other to take if he wants.

A genuine smile graces Bruce's face at the warm hand wrapping around his own. The man only finding one thing to say to the man who stepped up as a man and a father-

"Happy Father's Day, Alfie."

(I just wanted a fic about Bruce actually thinking about how much he misses his parents, but because it's Father's Day I focused on Thomas a bit more. I hope I wasn't sleepy enough to not have this make some sort of sense? But again, I apologize for the writing this time around. 😭😭😭

I am sorry for the lack of Bruce's children being involved here, but as stated before, I wanted to focus on Bruce actually pondering on how much he does miss his biological father while also being happy at the father he also found in Alfred. I wanted to show a Bruce who is realizing that it's okay to still miss his late father and it's also perfectly fine for him to love Alfred like that as well.

Near the end there is a slight parallel (that probably wasn't noticeable as I didn't exactly write it that way lol) between Alfred and Bruce as father's near the end, because Bruce stepped up and in for all of his children when they were scared, alone and unstable. I also got that idea because I feel I recall one time in a Batman comic that Richard mentioned Bruce stepping in for all of them and all that cute family stuff!

DC can try to rip good dad Bruce and happy BatFam out of my hands, but I won't allow it. That version of the family is all that should exist UwU, they deserve it all! You darlings are much appreciated for stopping by to read if you did. Don't be afraid to leave a comment if you want, I promise I don't bite! 😂

You darlings please stay safe, happy, healthy and of course lovely as always. And if you can...let your father's (whether bio or not) know how much you appreciate them or love them and know that everything will be alright, you just gotta believe. 💛💛💛💛)

[vesuvianhermitcrabs]

HEART OF HOPE

A MODERN ARCANA MC X MURIEL FANFIC

CHAPTER 2

The drive to the ER was probably the most awkward half hour you've lived through. Between the man's refusal to look at you and the paramedics' snarky comments to eachother about careless driving, you just want to crawl into a hole and have the earth reclaim you.

Also, the man's animal friend wasn't let on the ambulance and he seems more worried about that than the fact he's been hit by a van.

When you finally arrive at the hospital, the man asks one of the paramedics if he can see a certain nurse, which you honestly didn't think was allowed (but who are you to judge anyways).

A moment later a wily ginger comes out of the hallway and briefly introduces himself to you as Dr Devorak (even though he's seemingly a nurse), before he walks over and starts wheeling the man's stretcher away.

Dr Devorak signals for you to walk with him as he's leaving. He then proceeds to trip over his laces.

You walk with the pair until you end up in a suspiciously spacious storage room. The nurse shuts the door behind you all, unmasks himself and takes a breath deep enough to swim in.

Not even a few seconds pass before he gets to work.

"I thought you quit," Dr Devorak murmurs as he walks over to the man's stretcher.

"I quit," the man replies curtly.

Dr Devorak pulls out a tray of antiseptic and bandages.

"Then what is this?" He raises an eyebrow, treating the man's wounds tenderly despite his strict tone.

"...Got hit by a van,"

You feel your face heat in shame.

"Oh! Good on you, then," Dr Devorak pauses for a second, deciding to finish with a nervous "...not that you were run over, I mean."

"I imagine that it would be difficult to return now anyways," the nurse added hastily.

He wraps a long strand of bandage around some of the scrapes on the man's arm. He's as flushed as you are, seemingly embarrassed from his own words.

You take a quick glance around the room.

So many things about this situation are strange, but right now it doesn't feel appropriate to ask why you're in a storage room or why theres a single nurse tending to the guy you hit with a van. You end up resorting to watching in uncomfortable silence.

The way the nurse examines and bandages up the man is so quick and precise you can't help but think this happens often.

"Ah, and Muriel, who is your absolutely scrumptious friend?" Dr Devorak says with a banterish smirk, shocking you out of your train of thought almost instantly.

So they know one another, you think.

He grumbles something unintelligible behind his black (haphazardly cut) sheet of hair.

"I hit him with my van,"

Yeah, you regret that as soon as it leaves your mouth.

"...On purpose?" Dr Devorak whips his head around to look at you, jaw slightly agape.

Muriel shrugs.

"No!" You clarify.

The silence that ensues is almost physically painful, and is only broken when you hear the rattling of a door.

"Be a lamb and get the back door, would you?" Dr Devorak asks, glancing up at you.

Why on earth does this huge storage room have a back door?

You walk over to the door to unlock it; it swings open to reveal the face of a very dishevelled individual with the massive hound from earlier trailing behind them.

Asra?

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(A/N: i love y'all :3)