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searidings · 3 years

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this is what happens when @ekingston and i get our hands on the prompt “that's my wife!” and agree that she'll draw my idea for it and i'll write hers (aka hearing kara call it out as she watches lena being wheeled down a hospital corridor)

“Excuse me, you can't go through there!”

Kara growls. The woman blocking her path is short and gently rounded, the kind lines of her face drooping in disapproval above her nurse's scrubs. “No visitor access beyond this point, dear. Immediate family only.”

“Immediate— you're joking, right?” Kara cranes her head, peering through the closing doors to catch a last glimpse of Lena's gurney as it rounds the corner at the end of the hall. “That's my wife!”

The nurse gapes at her. “Your—?”

Kara growls again, louder. It's a good thing she'd blown out her powers twenty minutes ago, or she would not be held responsible for the Kryptonian-shaped hole in NC Memorial Hospital's expensive surgery doors. “Yes, my wi—”

Her snarl is cut off by a hand clamping down firmly over her mouth from behind. Kara's first instinct is to bite it. She resists, narrowly, as the familiar scent of shea butter moisturiser registers in her adrenaline-fogged brain.

“You sure about that?” Alex squeaks around a nervous laugh, voice pitched a half-octave too high. She removes her hand from Kara's mouth, wiping her damp palm on her pants with a wrinkled nose. “Get hit on the head during that fight, did you?”

Kara whirls on her sister, eyes blazing. “Am I sure?” she parrots incredulously. Alex cowers a little beneath the force of her stare. “Unless you're trying to tell me I hallucinated my entire wedding—”

“Supergirl isn't married,” Alex stage-whispers loud enough to be heard in Florida, glancing pointedly down at Kara's ash-caked body and oh yeah, she's still wearing her supersuit.

Right, right.

The nurse – Rosemary, her badge reads – finally picks her jaw up off the floor long enough to speak. Her eyes are wide, sparkling with sudden glee. “So Lena Luthor and Su—”

Kara's hackles rise at the suggestion in her tone. “Lena Luthor and Kara Danvers are happily married,” she interrupts sternly. “You might have seen the wedding photos in last month's Vogue.”

The nurse smirks. At her elbow, Alex drops her head into her hands.

“Kara Danvers, hm? Amazing what a pair of glasses do for you, dear.” Rosemary's brow quirks with impish satisfaction and, oh. Whoops. It would appear that in her haste to quash any potential rumours of Lena's infidelity behind the back of her very recent, very publicly human wife, she'd forgotten about the other delicate matter at hand.

Alex sighs so long and so heavy Kara legitimately marvels that she doesn't pass out from the strain. “I knew keeping a spare NDA in my back pocket would pay off,” her sister groans, thrusting an official-looking, if crumpled, contract beneath the nurse's nose.

“Sorry,” Kara murmurs sheepishly as Rosemary signs away page after page of her right to ever disclose Supergirl's identity in any capacity. “I wasn't thinking, I can't— Alex, it's Lena.”

“I know, I know,” her sister soothes, frustration dissipating as she reaches out to pull Kara into her side, ignoring the soot and grit that smear across her jacket at the contact. “She's gonna be okay.”

“But what if she's not?” Kara asks and the sobs arrive then, the last remnants of the fight or flight response that had propelled her this far dissipating beneath the weight of her terror. “She stepped right in front of that bullet, Alex! Of all the stupid, reckless—”

“If I recall, she was pushing you back after you shoved her out of the way in the first place,” Alex hums thoughtfully. Kara's tear-filled eyes snap to her face, incredulous, and her sister grimaces. “Right, right. Not the time.”

“She has to be okay,” she gasps, clutching hard at her sister's jacket as her knees threaten to give out beneath her. “She has to, I can't— I feel like I can't breathe. Like my heart's been ripped out.”

Alex clicks her tongue in sympathy, wrapping a firm arm round Kara's waist and guiding her to a nearby row of chairs. Rosemary deposits the signed NDA wordlessly on the hard plastic beside them, reaching into her scrubs to produce a pack of tissues.

Alex accepts, extracting one to dab at Kara's snotty, tear-stained face with her free hand. “Welcome to married life, kid,” she chuckles, pressing a kiss to Kara's matted hair. “It can be a real bitch.”

It's a long night.

It's a long night, a night of anxious waiting and barely-restrained nausea and vending machine coffee so bad even Nia won't drink it. Her family, their family, crowd the waiting room, dozing across the rows of seats as the hours drag on and on.

Alex tries her best, at varying intervals, to force her back to the Tower for a stint under the sun lamps. Every time without fail, Kara sets her jaw, then sets her feet in the middle of the surgical wing waiting room and refuses to budge.

This leads to several arguments, and a lot of impassioned shoving.

“What if she needs me?” Kara laments tearily, pout activated and puppy dog eyes firmly in place. Alex, mid-football tackle with her arms and right shoulder braced against Kara's torso as she attempts to use her entire bodyweight to force her sister toward the exit, only grunts with exertion. Behind them, J’onn dozes in the corner. Brainy and Kelly and Nia continue their conversation without batting an eyelid.

“No, scratch that, she does need me,” Kara corrects, unaffected by her sister's NFL-worthy body slam. “She's been shot. I'm not going anywhere.”

Alex, perhaps finally sensing defeat after her fourth unsuccessful attempt, gives one final shove with all her strength. Kara doesn't so much as wobble, and her sister releases her with a huff. “Fine. But for the love of God, change your clothes before you start shouting about your wife again,” she pants, red-faced and sweating as she collapses into a nearby chair. “That was my last NDA.”

That's a compromise she can make. Kara accepts the bundle of clothes Nia presents her with, stripping out of her dirt-caked suit and re-donning her glasses. Thankfully, the only person around to witness Kara entering the bathroom as a superhero and re-emerging as a Catco reporter is Rosemary.

The updates on Lena's condition are sporadic at best. By the time the first surgeon emerges to say the bullet has been removed from Lena's chest cavity Kara's accidentally cracked three plastic chairs, advanced all the way to Lollipop Land on Alex's Candy Crush, and worn a groove into the waiting room linoleum with her nervous pacing.

When another doctor emerges three hours later to tell them Lena had developed a tension pneumothorax and needs additional treatment, Kara's made it to Rainbow Reef and chewed her bottom lip bloody.

When, at five in the morning, yet another doctor appears to inform them that Lena is being placed on anti-radiation medication to counter the Kryptonite that had coated the bullet, Kara's finished all nine thousand nine hundred and thirty-five levels of the damn game. The doctor leaves, promising to be back with more news soon, and Kara squeezes her sister's hand so hard poor Nurse Rosemary has to be called to administer an ice pack for the bruising, solar flare be damned.

Dawn breaks to find Kara scratchy-eyed and grumpy, worn ragged with worry. The waiting room begins to fill up around them, new patients and their relatives coming and going, and still there's nothing new on Lena. Every time another scrub-clad surgeon pushes through the doors Kara's heart skips a beat, all of them sitting up straighter in their seats, but every time the doctor passes them by.

Kara's just wolfed down six cold breakfast sandwiches procured by Brainy on his sojourn to the hospital cafeteria and is debating the relative merits of starting Candy Crush over from scratch when another young doctor appears. Her scrub cap has avocados on it. Kara likes her already.

“Family of Ms Luthor?” she calls, looking around, and Kara pushes up hard from her chair to the resounding snap of cracking plastic. Whoops.

“It's Luthor-Danvers,” she gabbles as she bounds over to the surgeon, palms sweating. No matter how many times she hears it, it never loses its thrill. “I'm, I'm her wife.”

The young doctor's features soften. “Of course. I've come to let you know that it looks like Ms Luthor-Danvers is out of the woods. She's sedated and still on an anti-radiation drip, but she's through the worst of it.” She appraises Kara, gaze lingering on her chewed-raw lips and clenching fingers, then leans closer conspiratorially. “It's not general visiting hours yet, but you can see her, if you'd like.”

“Yes!” Kara's shouting almost before the surgeon has finished speaking. “Yes, please, yes.”

She hugs them all, Alex and Brainy and Nia and Kelly and J’onn, and leaves them in the waiting room as she follows the doctor's sunshine-yellow crocs down the hall.

They round corner after corner, an interminable maze. Powerless as she is, she can't hear Lena’s heartbeat, and the absence of the steady beat that has become the soundtrack to her existence sets her even more on edge.

But at last they turn a corner, and there she is. She's pale and bandaged and her eyes are closed, creamy skin streaked with dirt and bruises, but she's there, she's alive, she's Lena.

The surgeon holds the door open for her with a smile and Kara's across the room in a heartbeat, smoothing a hand over Lena's warm cheek and pressing kiss after kiss to her forehead and hair.

“I love you, I love you,” she whisper-cries against Lena's temple, tucking her matted curls behind her ears. The smell of blood and dirt and antiseptic is almost overwhelming, but beneath the dust and debris caught up in her hair Lena's scalp smells the same as always. Kara presses her face to the crown of her head and inhales deeply, soaking it in.

“Why'd you have to be so damn brave?” she whispers, nuzzling her cheek against silky softness. “I love you so much. Please don't step in front of any more bullets. Please learn to be a coward, occasionally.”

The singular relief of having Lena living and breathing and in her arms again is so complete, so compounded by the fear and the adrenaline and the sleepless night and the solar flare, that she feels suddenly that she may crumple to the ground from the force of it all.

Unwilling to relinquish her hold for even a second she appraises the bandages covering Lena's right side, then crawls onto the hospital bed on her left, careful to avoid her many wires and monitors. She tucks herself in beside her on the wide mattress, chin hooked over Lena's shoulder and face pressed to the side of her neck, and lets the tears that haven't really stopped falling since that bullet had left its chamber fall for just a little longer.

Nothing matters outside of the two of them, outside of the warmth of Lena's body and the softness of her skin beneath Kara's lips and the steady thud of her heart beneath Kara's palm. Nothing else in the world exists, so when an unfamiliar male voice sounds from the doorway it takes her a moment to register the intrusion.

“Excuse me, ma’am, you really can't be on the bed with her,” the strange, disembodied voice calls from behind her and Kara frowns tiredly, unable and unwilling to acknowledge anything outside of the woman in her arms.

But before she's even managed to raise her head another voice sounds, the soft tones of a young surgeon in an avocado scrub cap.

“Oh, honestly, Peter,” the kindly doctor says with gentle reproach, a quiet calm washing over the room as the door is pulled closed and she and Lena are left alone. “Leave them be. That's her wife.”

#check out easter's incredible art! as usual she absolutely nailed it #in my humble opinion you can simply never have too many 'that's my wife!' concepts in the world #it just never gets old #ridings writes #supercorp #supercorp fanfic #kara danvers #lena luthor #supergirl

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unforth · 2 years

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…okay I don’t think I’m going to manage another prompt fill today, my brain just won’t boot, but I guess that means this is as a good a time as any to explain what the fuck is going on. I’ve already talked about it on like three of my Discord servers but I know I have a lot of mutuals on here who aren’t in any of those servers so.

I’ve been having issues with my back on and off since my mid 20s. I didn’t have insurance then so I didn’t do anything about it, and when I did get insurance at 31 it wasn’t a priority. However, after I had a really bad flare up while I was pregnant with our second kid, it became a higher priority. When I had another flare up and wasn’t pregnant, so I could actually get testing, I went to an ortho urgent care. They did an x ray, said nothing was wrong, and told me I should get painkillers. So I went to my PCP, said I thought I needed an MRI, and they said that would never get approved by insurance and they sent me to PT. That was about 3.5 years ago. I did the PT but since my flare ups never lasted more than 6 weeks, and the PT was a six week course, obviously I was “cured” by the PT, so every time I had a flare up any attempt at care was met with, “go to PT.” And considering that first round of PT 1. Didn’t help and 2. Cost me $750 out of pocket cause insurance didn’t cover it…yeah I didn’t do that. My flare ups got more and more frequent, from once every few years in my 20s, to once every year, to more than once a year. This year, one last winter never fully faded.

By summer I had steady low level pain and stiffness but I could manage through it so I just ignored it. That started intensifying in October, and I thought it was a full new flare by November, except the pain was different than past flares - more intense, more constant, much harder to ignore and work through. It also had a strong radiating sciatic component that was fucking ow. And it got steadily worse. I spoke to my PCP about a month in; she offered PT and I said no. She got me naproxon for pain and baclifen as a muscle relaxer. It didn’t help. She told me if it didn’t fade in six weeks I should call again. Which I did, a few days before Christmas, when it was clear that far from fading, it was getting steadily worse. I couldn’t stand long enough to do the dishes without incapacitating pain; Christmas night I drove my mom home and couldn’t make my foot depress enough to press the brake. That was. Well it’s a good thing moms house is only a few minutes away. I haven’t driven since then cause I have only gotten worse. She referred me to a specialist I chose because of their good reputations and my wife’s knowledge of them,

I talked to the specialist about everything last Thursday, and finally, after four years of me telling any doctor I could that I thought I needed an MRI, I had my first ever MRI on Monday. The specialist also gave me much better meds, which at least have meant I slept; by the night before my appointment I was in so much pain that sleep was literally impossible; I spent the night curled in a ball on the couch playing Minecraft and wishing any position would hurt less cause I was so tired. (I’d hardly slept three other nights that week for similar reasons).

Anyway, yesterday I had my follow up with the specialist to discuss the MRI results and, uh. I guess my first appointment I didn’t do a great job of explaining just how much pain I was in, because she was very much talking about PT and related treatment. After looking at the MRI she said, I’m going to see if the surgeon is available to speak to you literally right now (unfortunately, he wasn’t). She still hedged bets and said the surgeon might not recommend surgery, but after she said that she spent the entire rest of the appointment discussing surgery so. She clearly thinks I need surgery. I have a herniated bulging disc between my L4 and L5 vertebrae which has caused spinal stenosis, which is leading to the pain, tingling, growing weakness, etc. in laymens terms, the disc is all fucked up and it’s pressing on my spinal cord. It’s basically just a matter of time now before I start to risk permanent nerve damage (I’m not there yet but could easily get there). I wasn’t even able to get an appointment with the surgeon yet, because his regular calendar is full for weeks out, and they need to talk to his secretary to see if he can squeeze me in much sooner, but she won’t be back in the office until Monday. In the meantime, she gave me a list of conditions that, should I meet any of them, I should immediately go to the ER, tell them what’s going on, and the surgeon on call would do the surgery instead (the spine folks I saw are part of the hospital, and the four surgeons they have are the four on call surgeons at the ER, and they’re all good, so this isn’t going to get me worse care). She also made it sound like, given staff shortages caused by Covid and scheduling issues also caused by Covid, there was a pretty high chance I’d have to use the ER option.

All of which is to say, I need major surgery on my back and I’ve been in continual pain for about 2 months.

I’m currently on ludicrous amounts of medication, and yesterday she added prednisone to the mix, and that’s what’s just. Completely knocking me out. I was doing okay before that but today I really am just reverting to my natural boneless blob state on the couch…and I’m still in pain and can hardly stand.

I have no idea when my surgery will be, since I could theoretically meet one of the “go right now” criteria at any time. We’ve made what arrangements we can, and will be making more as we’re able, but…yeah. It’s a lot. I’m actually relieved about the surgery itself, since I’ve been dealing with this for so long, and I’ve been so sure I had a herniated disc and that I’d need surgery to fix it, and sure enough I was right, and if they’d listened to me sooner, I might not be in this mess now, but oh well. The surgery has a very high success rate and if I do PT and stuff after odds are I’ll be pain free and back to 100% once I’m through the recovery, so this isn’t a bad thing, I mostly just wish I could fucking get it over with again.

I am. So tired.

(I also can’t sit at my computer literally at all anymore; I’m doing everything from my iPad rn, which is why everything I write is full of typos and weird auto corrects, and I’m sorry.)

(This is also why I’m behind in literally everything I’ve said I’ll do. I’m sorry. I’m trying.)

#unforth rambles #I was going to hold off on this until I knew for 100% sure that I needed surgery #and had it scheduled #but I’m tired and miserable today #so I guess I’m just gonna post it now and throw it into the void

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weirdmageddon · 3 years

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my rheumatologist has done more for me towards getting a POTS diagnosis than my cardiologist thats kinda sad bro

i came in to the cardiologist the other day (finally after waiting MONTHS) hoping for a tilt table test to see how my heart rate and blood pressure react to orthostasis in a controlled setting. the doctor didnt actually do a thing to test me for it in-office, i was just told to schedule an echo (which is fine), holster (alright) and stress test (why). but i was also prescribed eastern medicine as a treatment....“superbrain yoga”? like i dont want to seem closeminded because she is an indian doctor and there are some things that western medicine hasn’t caught on to but i realy wish i was told why it is supposed to work. like i want to know physiologically how and why it supposedly works. get technical and mechanical with me bro i have le autism, thats my language if you wanna really convince me. if it’s about toning up the muscles in my legs to squeeze the blood into my core upon standing why dont i just do squats? why do i have to do all this really specific stuff like hold my tongue at the roof of my mouth and face east, crossing my arms (right arm must go over left) and maneuver my hands in a certain way to grab my earlobes while doing those squats? is that merely a concentration sort of thing to make your brain focus? if so, why not just let me know what the purpose to these specific movements are (and what does focusing my brain have to do with treating POTS symptoms anyway)?? i’m not a spiritual person so the spiritual aspects of it do nothing for me. but at least i wasn’t given intensive aerobic exercise because i cant do that lol. i was just prescribed core strength training with planks and crunches (fine with me) and “superbrain yoga” (the specifics still confuse me but i’m doing it anyway)

but i didnt even get a tilt table test while i was there, i asked about it and she said “we stopped doing tilt table tests a while ago” and i was like ????????? thats like the gold standard to test for POTS my guy. based on just my symptoms she said i had dysautonomia and i asked “what about POTS?” and she said “it could be” and i was like ? could be? bro you didnt even test for it?

the whole visit just felt really vague and dismissive to my issues (yet again). fucking even my rheumatologist said before this visit to the cardiologist that i “probably have POTS”

so when i left the cardiologist the other day i wrote this up because i was very upset, felt dismissed, and took matters into my own hands to show what kind of medical concepts i’m capable of comprehending and the kind of language i want doctors to talk to me about my conditions in. and today i read it to my rheumatologist during today’s appointment:

the cardiologist says i have dysautonomia, “caused by dysfunction of the small blood vessels”. in the clinic, the nurse measured my laying vs standing blood pressure (which increased rather than decreased) but they didn’t do my heart rate there for some reason. but on my own i’ve measured my heart rate to jump above 30 bpm within 10 minutes of standing, so with all the symptoms lining up exactly with what’s expected of POTS (heart rate increase greater than 30 bpm within 10 minutes of standing, no drop in blood pressure, lightheadedness, brain fog, palpitations, prolonged fatigue, heat intolerance, excessive sweating etc), i’m convinced that the type of dysautonomia i specifically have is POTS, not just the umbrella term “dysautonomia”, and the specific brand of POTS i have is the neuropathic POTS subtype which is thought to be caused by sympathetic denervation (partial autonomic neuropathy) in the lower extremities. this causes the blood vessels in my legs not to constrict as they should when standing, which in turn causes blood to pool in the legs and not return to the heart, causing the heart to have to source its blood supply from elsewhere in the meantime to compensate (with an overall lower venous return), driving up the heart rate and causing lightheadedness. my blood tests also showed i am also very slightly anemic by 0.1 point below the normal range (11.6 g/dL) the resulting denervation hypersensitivity from the sympathetic denervation what is thought to cause erythromelalgia—which i express all the hallmark symptoms of as well in my feet (redness, increased skin temperature, burning sensation (feels like walking on a hot pool deck), cold to touch and bluish purple when not actively flaring, flaring occurs at night, symptoms worsen with exposure to heat and exercise (including walking on feet while flaring) and are relieved with cooling and elevation). i have no response to the cold unlike with what is seen in raynauds. i actually consider cold exposure my savior; the heat is my worst enemy, it makes me feel faint and lightheaded dysautonomia-wise and it makes my feet flare up rheumatologically.

“Several previous investigations have provided clues that patients with the postural tachycardia syndrome have peripheral autonomic dysfunction. Streeten et al. found that patients with orthostatic tachycardia had excessive venous pooling in the legs while standing and suggested that denervation of the legs was a mechanism of the syndrome. This hypothesis was supported by the finding of hypersensitivity to infusion of norepinephrine into the veins of the foot, despite high plasma catecholamine concentrations. [...] These stimuli increased norepinephrine spillover in the arms of both the patients with the postural tachycardia syndrome and the normal subjects, with similar increases in the two groups, but failed to increase norepinephrine spillover in the legs of the patients. [...] The reduced clearance of norepinephrine in the legs, without a similar reduction in the arms, may result from impairment of norepinephrine-reuptake mechanisms due to isolated damage to nerve terminals in the legs. [...] CONCLUSIONS: The neuropathic postural tachycardia syndrome results from partial sympathetic denervation, especially in the legs.” — (https://www.nejm.org/doi/full/10.1056/NEJM200010053431404)

“The laser Doppler flowmetry signal after sympathetic stimulation of reflexes mediated through the central nervous system, was significantly diminished in patients with erythromelalgia as compared with healthy controls. [...] Vasoconstrictor responses involving central sympathetic reflexes were attenuated in erythromelalgia. Local neurogenic vasoconstrictor regulation, vasodilator response to local heating and hyperemic response to ischemia were maintained. [...] The finding of reduced skin perfusion before provocation is in accordance with the clinical observations that many erythromelalgia patients exhibit cold acral skin between attacks. [...] These results indicate that postganglionic sympathetic dysfunction and denervation hypersensitivity may play a pathogenetic role in primary erythromelalgia.” — (https://linkinghub.elsevier.com/retrieve/pii/S0022-202X(15)41629-X)

“Denervation hypersensitivity is a phenomenon peculiar to smooth muscle innervated by the general visceral efferent system. Following denervation there is increased sensitivity of the muscle to neurotransmitters. This is evident in smooth muscle innervated by sympathetic neurons when the postganglionic axon is affected. Such denervated muscle shows hypersensitivity to the application of epinephrine or to circulating epinephrine released during excitement.” — (https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/B9780721605616500198)

although my rheumatologist is in no position to give me a POTS diagnosis she very much agreed with the connections i made and said she thinks i am right on the mark with my conditions. she told me im a real academic patient and even that i’d be well suited for going into medicine lol. not only is it refreshing to have a doctor that doesn’t disregard their patient’s knowledge, but it’s good to see what i’ve learned about nerves from my biopsych classes (and in my own time for funsies) paying off in ways concerning my health. my mom who is a nurse also agrees that neuropathic POTS and erythromelalgia are what i have.

anyway the POTS symptoms have been a massive thing for me since puberty and the erythromelalgia developed a year or so after my POTS symptoms started. but i’ve always had freezing cold clammy hands and feet since i was a young child, they just hadn’t started changing colors and flaring until after i hit puberty. i’m not sure what destroyed the sympathetic nerve fibers in my legs (as most POTS happens in teenagers due to some viral illness but i’ve never had that?), i was also just tested for a bunch of autoimmune factors and disorders and my results came back negative. maybe it’s just a genetic factor, who knows, probably something caused by a hormone’s cascading effect gone awry at some point. it seems a lot of autistic afab people have POTS or some other type of dysautonomia for some reason and i’m curious as to why.

anyway i’m really stuck in a liminal space because i have no official diagnosis beyond “dysautonomia” but i’ve been sure of what it is for like over a year and it keeps getting clearer and clearer that i was right all along

#pots #dysautonomia #erythromelalgia #chronic illness

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not-me-simping-for-blasty · 3 years

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I Melt With You - Bakugou Katsuki

All Parts:

Part 2:

You never end up getting a text from Kirishima.

The following night, when you return from your shift at the hospital, what you find waiting for you instead is a gift basket. It’s filled to the brim with boxes of food, and packets of tea, a few dishtowels, and, surprisingly enough? A job offer.

Thank you for saving one of our own. The attached note reads. Due to your impressive quirk and quick thinking, we’d like to offer you a spot on our medical team. The Hero Public Safety Commission would love to utilize your talents. Call at the number listed for more information. We’ll be waiting.

You think the note sounds a little ominous, if you’re being completely honest. While it’s a nice offer, and one you’ll probably at least ask a few questions about, was the ‘We’ll be waiting’ really a necessary addition to the note? It makes the whole message read as an order, not a suggestion, and that makes your stomach uneasy.

The knowledge that they know about your quirk sits a little heavy too. You’d always tried to keep a tight lid on your power; only using it when absolutely necessary for as long as you could remember. You didn’t like digging into people’s brains, and you knew that it was an easy power to exploit if left in the wrong hands.

People felt pain for a reason. You knew that better than anybody.

Still, you did end up calling the number, and you did end up accepting the offer. As uncomfortable a reason as it was, the money was undeniable. The local hospital’s salaries just couldn’t compete.

You were quickly reassigned to a hospital in the center of Musutafu, and it was a bit of a culture shock. You’d always lived on the outskirts, and the villian presence there was laughable in comparison to the inner city. Suddenly, you were extremely busy, nearly constantly drowning in work and people who needed your help, but you didn’t mind. You’d always been passionate about being a nurse, and now you felt fulfilled in ways you hadn’t before.

All in all, you considered Bakugou a strange blessing. He might’ve been rude, and violent, and just generally pretty unpleasant when you first met him, but you didn’t hold it against him. If you really thought about it, you were nothing but grateful- well, as grateful as you could be to a guy who bled all over your apartment and then never talked to you again.

Still, you always wondered if he was alright. As much as you tried to forget about it entirely, you couldn’t wipe that night from your mind. When you took his pain, you were nearly winded by the anger and terror he felt. It was more than just shock, more than just fear over his injuries- it was something lasting, developed, something he’d been struggling with for a long time. A feeling that intense was hard to forget.

It was nearly three months before you saw him again.

Your day had been hectic, as it nearly always was. There had been a villian attack near a residential subdivision, and while the casualties were few, there were innumerous injured civilians. The entire day had been spent rushing between rooms, splinting broken limbs, applying casts, and evaluating for concussions. You were exhausted, nearly dead on your feet, when one of your superiors pulled you away.

“We need your quirk.” She says, tapping her foot impatiently.

“Excuse me?”

“We need your quirk. We’ve got a special guest, and we need it as painless an experience for him as possible. It’s the least we could do for him.”

“Oh? Um, okay? Who is it?”

She doesn’t answer, just spins on her heels and motions for you to follow. Your superior walks fast, leading you down winding hallways and past operating rooms, all the way down to the small luxury wing. You know what you’re in for now- a hero.

Your hospital had treated a lot of injured pro-heroes in the past, but you’d never been chosen to help before. You mostly stayed in the general part, assisting with the civilians heroes saved instead of the pro’s themselves. You briefly wondered why you were chosen- you figured whoever it was had to be pretty important if they wanted you to take away his pain entirely.

“Take your time with him, he’s your last patient. I know your shift’s not over, but, trust me, all you’ll want to do is go home after treating him. So be grateful for the time off.” Is all your superior says, pushing you through a door. “ Alright. Good luck.”

Then she shuts the door behind her, leaving you with whatever problem-child she was mentioning- and what a problem-child he is.

One look at blonde hair and red eyes and you realize your earlier assumption was wrong. You weren’t chosen to make his experience as painless as possible- you were chosen to make the hospital’s experience as painless as possible.

Still, you’ll push through it. You’re tired, but that doesn’t mean Bakugou’s injuries should be ignored. Upon first look, you notice gauze around his forearm and one of his knees. When he turns his head, he’s got a shallow cut spanning across his temple, and of his fingers looks oddly blue and swollen. All things considered, at least it’ll be a quick visit. You’re fairly confident it’s not gonna be anything more than stitches and maybe a finger splint for him.

“Alright, first things first, any other injuries I should know about? Besides the obvious ones, I mean.” You say, pulling over a cart and taking the blood pressure cuff from it. You start taking his vitals, smiling up at him from where he’s sat on top the hospital bed. “Secondly, it’s nice to see you again. I’m glad you’re not unconscious this time.”

“Excuse me? The hell are you on about?”

“Wait, do you not remember me?”

“Nah, ‘m fuckin’ supposed to?” He bristles, his shoulders tensing up. “You a fan of mine or some shit?”

You roll your eyes- you’d always sort of naively hoped he was more pleasant when not gravely injured, but you’re quickly realizing that not’s the case. Bakugou is prickly. Prickly, prickly, prickly.

“No. Not exactly a fan.” You answer him coyly, moving to rinse your hands clean at the sink. You slip on a pair of latex gloves, gather some antiseptic, some gauze, and your stitching kit, and then you turn back to him. “You might not remember it, especially considering your head wound that night, but three months ago you crash landed on my balcony.”

Bakugou blinks, once, twice, and then he’s red in the face and screaming.

“You! Fuckin’ you!” He roars, lips pulled back over his sharp canines. “You were in my goddamn head! Fuckin’ witch.”

“Okay. Well, yeah, you’re technically correct- but that’s not a very nice way to thank me for saving you. And it’s a quirk, not witchcraft.” You reiterate, nearing him with the antiseptic wipes. Bakugou recoils back, slapping your hand away lightly. You’re entirely unimpressed at his actions. “Calm down, I’m not going to use my quirk on you; at least, not without your explicit permission. I’m just here to stitch you up.”

He just huffs, nostrils flaring as he glares down at you.

“Have you ever gotten stitches before?” You ask.

A part of you is aware the question is kind of dumb, especially considering his career, but you figure you should ask anyway. In your experience, patients generally receive treatment a lot better if you talk them through it.

“Yeah.” He answers. “Not while fuckin’ lucid though.”

“Alright, that’s fine. We can work with that. But, that means you must not get hurt a lot then, huh?”

“Nah. Never.”

Bakugou’s voice is proud, and when you look up at him, he’s smirking. You think that expression is only mildly less irritating then his grimace- but, maybe he’ll finally let you take a look at his arm now. You decide to try, your hands nearing the bandages around his forearm, but he smacks you away again.

“Bakugou. Stop. I need to take a look, alright? That’s what you’re here for, so let me do my job. I won’t use my quirk on you, I promise.” You tell him earnestly, holding his gaze steadfastly. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to, alright? I’ve got gloves on and it doesn’t work without skin-to-skin contact. So, could you please calm down for me?”

Bakugou’s eye twitches.

“Fine. But I’m fuckin’ watching you.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“I am.”

“I know. I’m not arguing with you.” You retort calmly.

You point at the cart, sighing in relief when he finally complies to your wishes. He sets his forearm flat on top of it, and you watch him wince slightly. There’s cloth and gauze wrapped around it, blood soaking through the makeshift bandage. You peel the material away gently, revealing a fairly large cut. The wound’s not very deep, thankfully, but it slices almost to the inside of his elbow. It is going to need a fair amount of stitches, but luckily most of the active bleeding seems to have stopped.

“Alright,” You start, catching his gaze. “This doesn’t look too bad, but it might scar.”

“No fuckin’ shit. Dumbass.”

“Bakugou, take a breath for me. I didn’t mean any harm by the comment, okay? I’m just doing my job and being honest with you.”

“I don’t need your fuckin’ honesty.”

“No, maybe not, but you do need me to stitch you up.” You try to keep your voice level, treat him delicately even as he fights you with every breath. It’s challenging work, but no more strenuous than any other difficult patient you’ve ever dealt with. “Alright, so I’m gonna clean around the wound, apply some local anesthetic, and then stitch you up. Sound good?”

“I don’t need the goddamn step by step, I’m not a fuckin’ kid. So just get on with it already.”

“I’m just trying to be accomodating.” You reply with a sigh. You take his forearm gently, working around the wound with an antiseptic wipe. You hear him suck in a breath. “Sorry. I’m sure it probably stings.”

“Don’t pity me.”

“It’s- I’m not.” You can’t help but sigh in slight frustration. It’s normally a reaction you’d try to cut short, but Bakugou’s being needlessly rude- you think he deserves to hear it. “Look, I was trying to be professional, and normally I’d never say this, but I’m- I’m not being paid to argue with you, alright? I’m just here to fix you up. So, if you’d rather me just stay silent while I do that, that’s perfectly fine. Just say so. I won’t be offended.”

“Good. Shut the fuck up then.”

Irritation flares in your chest, but you do your best to breathe through it. He’s far from the most difficult patient you’ve ever had, but something about his clipped words and guarded expression has you just as annoyed. You think it might be his eyes- the way they seem to always be tracking you, zeroing in on any and all possible flaws.

Still, you try to ignore his attitude anyways, and it becomes a little easier as you focus back on dressing the wound, finishing up with the antiseptic wipes and moving on to the anesthetic. You almost consider lathering the numbing gel on while it’s still freezing cold, but you quickly decide against letting his bad attitude interfere with your job performance. You don’t want to sink to his idiotic level.

You’re warming the gel packet in your palm, rubbing to create friction and heat, when he speaks again.

“You can skip that.”

“Yeah. I could. But I won’t- it generally makes the whole process a lot smoother if you can’t feel every stitch.” You say simply, tearing the gel packet open. “Sorry in advance if it’s still cold, I tried to warm it up a bit.”

“I’ll be fuckin’ fine.”

“I’m sure you will. Still though, most people flinch, so I figured I’d warn you anyways.”

Bakugou doesn’t say anything in response, just flares his nostrils as you spread the anesthetic over his arm. True to your words, he does flinch at first, and that only seems to piss him off more. You can’t really see his face from where you’re hunched over his forearm, but you’re sure he’s probably scowling. You wait a few moments for the gel to activate, and then you’re opening your kit and lacing thread through your needle. Thankfully your arm feels steady today, and it’s easy work as you begin stitching up his wound.

Bakugou’s a pretty good patient. Surprisingly. He breathes quietly through his teeth, fist clenched as he tries so very hard not to admit his discomfort. He actually reminds you a lot of the children you so often treat.

You find an easy rhythm sewing him up, your fingers gently prodding his arm as you work. You do your best to be delicate, treating him just as gently as you would any other patient- even if he irritated you. When you look up at him, Bakugou just traps his bottom lip between his teeth and creases his eyebrows. Those same red eyes study you again, almost looking right through you. You hold eye contact for as long as you can stand, but under his intense gaze it’s less than a few seconds.

“Alright. Almost done.” You mutter softly, dropping your eyes back down to his arm. You resume your stitching, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. “Thanks for keeping still for me.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” He grumbles, but his voice is a little softer now. He seems almost calmer, none of the bite from earlier coating his words. “Nothin’ special.”

“No, really. I mean it. You wouldn’t believe how much harder it is to treat somebody who’s panicking.”

“It wouldn’t be difficult if you weren’t such a shitty nurse.”

“If you didn’t want to be treated by me, you could’ve asked for somebody else. But you didn’t.” You comment easily, taking the kit’s scissors and cutting the thread. “You really missed your chance- could’ve caused a whole scene, Bakugou.”

“No thanks.”

“Wow, and here I thought you actively enjoyed making as big a scene as possible. Guess not.” You can’t help but tease, smiling slightly. “Or did you just want an excuse to come and bleed all over me again?”

“That’s- no. Shut up. You’re annoying.” Bakugou barks, blushing slightly as he turns his head away. “Fuckin’ witch.”

“You really shouldn’t call me names when I’m the one treating your wounds.”

“I’ll do whatever the hell I want. And you started it, fuckin’ pryin’ around in my head.”

“I wasn’t prying.” You tell him, turning away as you grab new gauze and bandages. “I was bringing you out of shock. I’m sure you don’t remember, but you were threatening to blow my entire apartment up.”

“No! I wasn’t! You just wanted to fuckin’-”

“Wanted to what? Help you? Stabilize your condition? Make sure you didn’t die out on my balcony?” You press the gauze carefully over his stitches, making sure none of the sutures catch on the cloth. “Yeah. Guess I did want to do that.”

“Still shouldn’t a fuckin’ done it.”

“Okay, well I did, and I’m still sorry if it felt invasive. Believe me, I wouldn’t have done it unless it was absolutely necessary.” You tell him honestly, trying to catch his gaze even as he avoids looking at you. “And, it was months ago, you know? So no point holding a grudge. Especially since I’ll probably be seeing a lot more of you from now on.”

“What, you think I’m gonna get myself killed again? Fat fuckin’ chance. I’m not that fucking weak.”

“Are you always this defensive?” You ask him, wrapping the bandages gently around his arm. “I meant, this hospital’s the main center for relief efforts, alright; so even if you try to avoid me, we’re bound to see each other if you ever end up back here for whatever reason. I wasn’t insinuating that you’d definitely get hurt again.”

“Fuckin’ sounded like it.”

“I didn’t mean for it to.”

“Yeah whatever. Pick up the goddamn pace.” He rolls his eyes, dramatically swinging his hurt leg up onto the table. You’re sure it has to hurt, but Bakugou keeps his pride. He doesn’t even wince. “My leg’s not gonna fix itself. Get the fuck to it already.”

“Okay, alright. You got it.”

Luckily, you don’t have to cut the material of his hero costume away just yet. His pants are already torn, thin, scattered slices exposing his leg all the way to the tops of his thighs. When you take a look at his knee, you’re not pleased with what you find.

Removing the gauze unearths a strange web of metal shards sticking out of his skin. They don’t seem to be stuck worryingly deep, but there’s a lot of them and some of them are quite large. You’re gonna need to pluck them all out, and give stitches for the big ones. Your short visit with Bakugou just got a lot longer.

“Alright. So this is gonna take some time, but the good news is, nothing is actively bleeding on your knee.” You tell him. “So, I’m thinking I’m gonna sew up the cut on your forehead first, alright? Head wounds bleed a lot more. That should be taken care of first.”

“Fuck are you tellin’ me, for? Your job, you do it.”

“Oh- yeah. Sorry.” You apologize. “Guess I’m used to treating kids. Lots of mom’s hanging around and asking questions, you know?”

“No. ‘m not a fuckin’ nurse.”

“No, you are not.” You breathe out, hardly able to keep the sarcastic tone out of your voice. “Okay, I’m gonna need you to lie back for me.”

He grumbles, but falls back anyways. You sigh in relief, grateful for his acquiescence. You honestly thought you’d have to fight with him about that.

You begin the process all over again- cleaning, applying gel, and then stitching the wound close. Bakugou doesn’t say anything while you work, but he does let his eyes flutter shut. He kept them open at first, staring you down relentlessly, but eventually he doesn’t seem to like all the unintentional eye-contact as you lean over him. You think it’s strange- the way he seems to melt into the hospital bed even as you’re sewing up his forehead. You begin to realize that his day was probably just as long as yours, if not longer.

You fall into an easy rhythm again, and time passes peacefully before you know it.

“You almost done?” He peeks an eye open, voice gravelly when he speaks.

“Yep. Almost. Just one more up here and then we can move on to your knee.”

“You can move on to my knee. I’m not doin’ shit.”

“Oh my,” You mutter under your breath, cutting the thread with your scissors. You clear your throat before speaking again. “So are you always this difficult with the other nurses?”

“No. Only the dipshits who go diggin’ around in my fuckin’ head.”

“Well, I only have to dig when people threaten to blow up my apartment.”

Bakugou doesn’t seem to have a response to that. He just closes his eyes and huffs through his nose, ending the conversation entirely.

That’s fine with you- if he wants to stay quiet, you’re not complaining.

It’s quiet as you begin working on his knee, nothing but the soft metallic clink of your tools and Bakugou’s own breaths. You think it’s a strange sort of calm, but also a little nice too. You’d been worked to the bone all day, rushing and scrambling and giving instructions- it was nice to just sit back and focus on one thing at a time.

You think Bakugou must feel it too, because when you look up at him he’s still lying back. He’s got his head pressed back into the pillow, his uninjured arm thrown over his eyes while the injured one lies across his stomach. His index finger is still blue, but not any more blue than it was when he walked in. You’re not sure how he’s managing to look so relaxed, despite being in what you guessed was a fair amount of pain.

You wonder what kind of day he had that made his hospital visit out to be the most relaxing part. You try not to think about it too long- try not to fit that anger and terror you felt into a make-believe narrative.

“Alright. That around does it for that.” You say softly, wrapping a bandage around his knee. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened? With the metal- it doesn’t look like any shrapnel I’ve ever seen before.”

“It’s not.” He drops his hand from across his face, voice deeper and slower than before. Groggy almost. “Fucker had a metal quirk. Shattered a car right next to me.”

“Oh. That really doesn’t sound fun. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Don’t apologize for stupid shit.”

You find that oddly ironic- pretty much your entire job was apologizing and showing understanding for things that weren’t your fault. You decide there and then, without a single shadow of a doubt, Bakugou would make the worst nurse in the world. Far shittier than you, no matter what he said.

“All that’s left now is your finger.” You say, grabbing at his hand gently. “Sorry if this hurts, but I’ve gotta feel and see if it’s broken. I’m fairly sure it’s sprained, but just in case.”

“Whatever.”

“Wow, no fight? None at all?” You joke, applying as gentle pressure as you could to his finger. “You tired or something?”

Bakugou just nods, letting his eyes shut once more.

Up close again, you notice the circles under his eyes, the paleness of his skin. His face doesn’t even contort as you prod at his finger, and it almost breaks your heart when you realize how high his pain tolerance must be. The only way he’d be able to be even half as calm as he currently was, was if he was getting hurt like that on the regular. Which, you figure, probably comes with the job description in his case- but the thought still flooded you with sympathy anyway.

“All good, just a pretty severe sprain.” You tell him. “Now, metal splint or dressings? Your choice.”

“Dressings.”

You squint a little bit, at him. You’re pretty sure a metal splint would be easier, and more convenient, but he looks pretty sure in his choice. You shrug, figuring that you did give him the choice for a reason. Maybe he just finds dressings more comfortable.

You dig out an ace bandage from your medical cart, setting it on the hospital bed as Bakugou sits up. He still looks a little tired, breaths slow and even as he looks at you through half-lidded eyes. You figure he must suffering a pretty serious adrenaline crash- if he’s not, then you’re not sure what the attitude change is about. He just looks so calm, so quiet that you almost can’t place him as the same angry guy you’d been faced with earlier.

You unwind the bandage, taking his hand into yours. His palms are strange, calloused and tough, unnatural heat radiating off of them. It’s a little hard to ignore, but you figure it’s just his quirk, so you press on without comment. You’re pressing his index and middle fingers together, half-way through wrapping the bandage around them when he speaks.

“Too lose. Do it again.”

“It’s not loose, I promise. I know what I’m doing.”

“It’s loose.” He says again, more insistently this time. “Do it again.”

“Okay.” You sigh, figuring that starting over entirely would still somehow take less time than fighting with him. “But just this once, alright? As an apology for ‘digging around’ in your head.”

Bakugou just nods tightly.

When you start again, you try a different approach. You’d been trying to avoid touching him earlier, to soothe his worries about your quirk, but you start to think that maybe it caused your splinting to suffer. You decide to just go about it normally this time, grabbing his wrist and flipping it upwards just like you usually would. Bakugou seems to stiffen for a moment, but then he’s huffing a breath and lolling his head forward to his chest. You watch his eyes flutter shut.

You think that’s a strange reaction. You really expected him to put up more of a fuss about your touching him- he doesn’t though, and you take the little win. Chalk it up to just how tired he seems to be.

“There- you’re all done now.” You say quietly, pressing the adhesive side of the bandage into place. “Everything feel good? Need anything else?”

He shakes his head, blinking his eyes open blearily. If you didn’t know any better, you really would’ve thought he’d fallen asleep while you were caring for him. Well, you figure, guess that makes twice now that’s nearly passed out beneath your fingers.

You think that’s pretty funny, but you keep it to yourself. Bakugou seems to be feeling relatively pleasant, and you don’t want to jinx it.

“Alright, so concerning the splint, wear it for at least a few weeks, and then take it from there, alright? And all the stitches are dissolvable except for the ones in your arm. Those ones will need to come out in about a week or so, but that’s a super simple procedure. You could probably get them removed in the med-wing at your complex. No need for a follow-up her-”

“No. I’ll be here.”

“You don’t have to. I can just write up some instructions and send you back, no problem. Really, it’s-’

“I said I’d be here, so I’ll fuckin’ be here.” He grumbles, clearing his throat. Bakugou averts his gaze, turning towards the window to avoid your eyes. “You did the stitches so you take them out. You’re not gonna fuckin’ get away with cuttin’ corners on me.”

“Yeah. Okay. Whatever you want, I guess.” You say, a bit unsurely. “So I’ll see you in a week or so, alright? Somebody’ll give you a call.”

“Whatever.”

Bakugou then hops down from the bed, and you wince at the sound of his impact. You’d seen his knee first-hand, and you imagined that it probably hurt a lot to walk on it. He seemed unaffected though, shouldering his weight without fuss and hardly even limping as he walks out. The only sign he’s even slightly in pain, is the grunt that leaves him when he accidentally tries the door handle with his injured hand.

He’s so quick that you can’t even ask him if he wants crutches or not. The thought hardly even enters your head before he slams the door shut behind him.

--/--

taglist: @fluffyviciousbunny @definitelynottrin @imsuperawkward @i-need-air @ahbeautifulexistence @brennabooz @jazzylove @flattykawadoorusmilkbread @katsuki-bakubabe @sorrythatspussynal @bakugouswh0r3

#bakugou #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x self insert #bakugou katsuki x y/n #bakugou imagine #bakugou series #bakugou fic #mha fic #bnha fic

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thepinkwriterr · 2 years

Text

Capricorn Season Chapter 10

We’re joining the love birds on their first real date, this chapter from Jimmy’s perspective. It’s very sweet, so be prepared for some teething-rotting fluff. Enjoy :)

Word Count: 2.8k

I was awoken by the feeling of hair on my face. I pulled my head back and opened my eyes, seeing Gwen towering over me.

"It's hour one of our last full day together for three whole weeks. We've got a full day ahead!" Her gapped smile was wide as usual. When I rolled over my eyes caught the time. 6:30 a.m. The blasted sun hadn't even come out from behind the clouds.

"You've woken me today. Took you two months but you finally did it." She slapped my arm in retaliation.

"If you weren't so cute I wouldn't let you have breakfast."

"Oh, you've made breakfast? What time did you get up?"

"Four." Her eyes crinkled as she gave a shy smile.

"Four? Girl, you're going to be tired in two hours. You barely manage with a full six hours."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take for you. Now drink your tea." A small pink cup was foisted into my hands. "Thank you, darling. Let's see if it's up to standard." I took a sip. Not enough sugar and way too much cream. "Wow, that's great! You're gaining a real talent for tea making." Her smile was so cute. Lips curling around straight teeth. Cheeks pinched together in total glee. This is the way she should remain.

"Well let's head down to the table. I am starving! I haven't eaten since like half an hour ago." I tried to stand but she stopped me. "Before we go." Her hands were in my wild hair now. She picked through a few knots and then worked to tie it back. "There," she turned me to admire her work, "you look so cute! I've never seen your hair up. You should wear it this way more often."

"Oh, no, love. That will not be happening. But I will keep it up because you were sweet enough to do it for me." I leaned back to kiss her sweet lips again.

"Okay, we need to leave by 8. That means we have half an hour to eat breakfast so we can have time to shower and dress." She looked down at her watch.

"You're still not telling me where we're going or what you have planned?"

"You really want to know?"

I nodded. "You know I hate surprises."

"Well, that's too bad. You'll just have to learn to love them." Her smile was a sweet contrast to her words.

After breakfast, we headed upstairs. While she showered I dug through my closet looking for a suitable outfit. The weather was becoming harsh, so I would need to dress accordingly. I decided on a simple button-up and jeans. The bathroom knob turned and gave way to Gwen. She was draped in a white towel, steam surrounding her.

"Are those my jeans?"

I looked down at the flares. Floral patches adorned the pockets and the knees. "I think so. Is that an issue?"

"Yeah, I was planning to wear those. You stole my outfit!"

"Well then let me borrow yours." I grabbed the end of the fabric covering her and yanked it off. She was left with only the towel wrapped around her hair. "Jimmy!" She screeched, picking her towel up. "You're an animal!" She smacked my arm. I couldn't help but giggle.

I suppose I'd always had a penchant for trouble. As a young boy, I enjoyed poking at my mates and making a fuss. Seldom did I pull pranks, but when I did I enjoyed them quite a lot. It was that same mischievous grin I wore than that I do now. She looked marvelous, anyway, I didn't understand why she was so upset.

We made it out of the house at 7:45. She was a punctual lady, always checking the time and stressing about schedules. Usually, she stressed so much that we ended up 10 minutes early for everything. This quirk was endearing and rather attractive. She valued her time and never wasted mine. "After you, Mr. Page." She chattered as she opened my door. "Wow, you're really giving me the treatment. Breakfast and opening my door. You're very chivalrous." I gave her a short bow before getting into her car.

She started driving down the road, the car making an unsure rattling sound. She danced with the peddles, seemingly confused about where to put her feet. It was a wonder that she had a license. One would think it's her first time driving. I think I could drive better than her. At a red light, the car hurtled to a stop. "You've really got to get used to driving in London." I laughed as she grimaced. "It's not my fault y'all drive on the wrong side of the road. And who put the steering wheel over here? It looks ridiculous."

"Wrong side? Um, I believe we were first." Her eyes rolled and she sped off when the light flashed green. I looked at my watch once more and saw that it was nearing 8. Not only was she a bad driver, but she was also a speed demon! I feared for my life as we made our way to the museum. If the caffeine in my morning tea hadn't woken me, the primal tingling in my spine sure did.

We had finally arrived. I breathed a sigh of relief as she twisted the key, stopping the car. The nightmare was over. Then I was up and chasing after her. "Aren't we on a date? You should wait for me." I called after her. "You're right, where are my manners? After you, Ma'am." She stopped in her tracks and bowed, mocking my earlier actions. "Well, thank you. You better be taking me somewhere nice. I'm no cheap chap, I'll have you know. You'll have to pay good money to get me in the sack."

"Oh yes, I am well aware. But I'm sure you will find my choice satisfactory." She slipped her hand into mine, swinging it as we walked. This caused a laugh to glide from my mouth. And I did find her choice to my satisfaction. She chose a museum that I hadn't had the chance to see yet. The Victoria & Albert Museum of Art and Design.

"Oh, wow, this looks nice!" She said. The front entrance was lovely, decorated finely with a floral design. We continued to hold hands as we explored the exhibits. We looked at paintings and sculptures, dipping in and out of rooms as we surveyed the selection of art.

"Was this a good spot? I didn't know where you'd been so I picked a place low on the list of museums." She was whispering over the tinkling piano someone was playing.

"Yeah, this is great. I haven't been. But it's fantastic. Marvelous, one could say." I added a dramatic flair to my words. I felt like Robert now, putting on a show.

"I'm glad. I think it's nice too. We should go look at the embroidery!" Her voice was hushed but still excited. She dragged me along as she made her way to the door.

"Woah, look at this!" She pointed to an ornate box. It was decorated with animals and women. The stitch work did look nice. "Yes, it's lovely." I nodded along as she read. I didn't particularly care for the design. I turned my attention to a collection of panels crafted by Queen Mary of Scotts. "They're called "prison embroideries" because they were created during her imprisonment by her cousin. Very interesting. When I turned she was still looking at the box.

"Look, it's you!" She pointed to a section of the casket that had a woman playing a woman holding an instrument.

"I have never played the lute. So no, it is not." I cocked my head in a joking manner.

"My apologies. I thought it was the mandolin. How could I be so... what do you say? Daft?"

"Oh, yes, love. One could say you're quite daft." She gave the back of my head a small smack.

"You ask to take me out and then you rough me up in the museum before we even get into the sheets? You're a lousy lover." I clicked my tongue and shook my head at her. She sent a giggle. A wonderful sound.

"My apologies, Mr. Page. I hope I'm not ruining my chances with you already." Her eyes were stuck on mine. Transfixed. I could feel the familiar rushing in my head. My toes began to lose feeling as the world slipped away. I leaned forward and kissed her. This sent a feeling of warmth through my body. I could feel her all over me. Every inch of skin. Every hair follicle. She surrounded me like a blanket, enveloping me in her wonderful esse.

"Well, that was certainly something." She breathed out with a smile wide on her face. "But we're not the only ones here. So maybe we should save it for later." A blush prickled across my nose and cheeks. A family had entered the section while we were busy. Usually, I wouldn't be so bold. I find it awkward to display love and care so openly. That is private intimacy reserved for the home. I've never felt the need to show my lady off in that way. But she drives me absolutely wild. I didn't care who saw us. I didn't care if we were the only ones in the room, the whole museum, or the world, for that matter. She takes everything I've ever felt and flips it on its head. She makes me look at things from an entirely new perspective. She's the first breath of crisp air when Spring breaks. She's warm water when I come inside from a cold day. She's the comfort waiting for me at the end of the day. I gave her one last quick kiss and we carried on looking at the pieces on display.

We spent a few hours in the large museum, looking through rooms of paintings and artifacts. It wasn't the best museum in London, but definitely interesting. Spending the afternoon with such a lovely woman, and looking at such fine art was fine with me. In fact, it was one of the best days I'd had in a while. Apart from our meeting and first date, it would be my favorite day. It's hard to tell because every day with her was special. There were days when we would do nothing, just basking in our feelings and spending a day in quiet harmony. We moved like two pendulums, so perfectly in sync and painfully aware of the other. I enjoyed each moment with her, every second drawing out to a moment of complete bliss.

I couldn't even feel the chill of January air on my skin as we exited the museum. With my hand in hers, nothing could bother me. I fear the grounds could open and hellfire could rain upon us and I'd be none the wiser.

When we were in the car Gwen switched on the car radio. She drummed along with the beat, creating a harsh thud. Its sonorous quality was a match for the juvenile music. "You like this?" My voice was judgmental.

"Um, yeah? Doesn't everyone like The Doors?" I gave a slight laugh. "Perhaps Americans," I spoke it like it were a curse, to be from such a land.

"Well, I'm American, so deal with it." She took her eyes off the road

"I don't think I will."

She turned the radio to a blaring volume. I covered my ears and waited for her anger to thaw. When it did, which didn't take long, she clicked the radio off. We talked quietly about what exhibits we enjoyed. She told me she liked the sculptures the most and I said I liked the French art. It was rare of me to speak highly of something French, but the art was stunning. How could I turn a blind eye to such a wonderful sight?

Night had finally fallen, the sky breaking off from the bursts of orange and pink. The stars were bright and laid upon the sky like a spread of twinkling diamonds. Each one was special and beautiful, just like every blemish and freckle on her face. We lay on opposite sides of the coffee table while a record spun. Tonight it was Gwen's choice of album. Two nights ago, the last time we partook in this ritual, I chose Salty Dog by Procol Harum. Something I picked up recently. I enjoyed it thoroughly. Spinning on my turntable tonight is Days of Future Passed by The Moody Blues. A lovely mix of symphonic sounds, poetry, and modern prog rock. Wouldn't be my usual choice, but it was interesting nonetheless.

Her copper hair pooled above her head, lying in a puddle against the white carpet. I could see just her head lying past the table. Her eyes were illuminated beautifully in the sparse candlelight. Although I couldn't see her well, or hear her if she chose to speak, I was having fun with her. We didn't need to be engaged in an other-worldly discussion or be indulged in flesh-toned affairs to have a great night. Simply being in her presence seemed to be enough, listening to good music was just a plus.

Every night is a ritual with her. She is always lighting candles with intentions carved in. Always casting a spell. Usually one of love that enraptures my heart and steals my breath. Cannabis smoke is still thick in the air. Although we shared the herb almost half an hour ago the smell still sat around us.

"This album is genius. It reminds me of The Four Seasons by Vivaldi. The way they work their way through the day, I mean. It's similar to the feelings I get during the different seasons. It's fascinating." The way in which her brain works is incredible. I could listen to her for hours and hours and never grow tired. She's a marvel to behold. An entire package that I want to ravage.

"Oh my god, this song is great! I have to see what it's called." She was up, bouncing around before I got a chance to respond. She's so full of life. Another quality I admire so. She is candlelight; so bright and warm. I could live in her light for a thousand years. "It's called Evening. This album is almost finished," a deep frown occupied her face for only a moment, "but then I could play another one! Right, love?" Her first use of my favorite pet name caused a quake in my brain. Euphoria rained down through my body.

"Of course. Anything you'd like."

"Thank you." She pressed a soft kiss to my cheek. I could feel a fire trailing from the base of my spine up to my forehead. A deep heat overwhelmed my senses. Sparks erupted behind my eyes and washed down the back of my head. In an instant, she pulled me to my feet. Her body was pressed to mine. I could feel the heat radiating from every inch of her.

She began to sway in a small dance. I followed her lead, letting her guide me. As the mellow tone of Nights In White Satin flowed from the record player she conducted a simple ceremony. Our feet moved in small circles. I felt her magic through her effortless steps. I put my trust in her as we collaborated on a mindless dance. I felt free and light, just as I always did with her. It was now that I could feel her heart beating against my chest, matching the rhythm of mine.

It was this proximity, this intimacy that lead me to my next conclusion. I had fallen in love with this woman. Head over heels, completely in love. And I had never known a greater feeling. To be in her mere presence uplifted my spirits. She was my muse. Not just in art but in life. She was the reason for the rise and fall of my chest as I breathed. And I found peace in her. I discovered refuge in her love. For the first time, I wasn't scared to love her. I wasn't scared to be open. The box was open and she was beginning to poke her head inside. And I wanted her there. She looked into my soul and I into hers. She looked behind the curtain, then threw them asunder.

The record died out and we continued to undulate without sound. This lasted for minutes on end before she picked her head up off my shoulder. "This was the perfect way to spend our last night." Without another word, she leaned forward and kissed me with her silken lips.

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

Taglist:

@jonesyjonesyjonesy , @anothercanyonlady , @jimmys-zeppelin , @paginate54 , @jimmypages

#jimmy page #jimmy page fanfic #jimmy page fanfiction #Jimmy Page smut #led zeppelin #led zeppelin imagines #led zep #1970 #70s #60s #classic rock #classic rock fandom #classic rock fanfiction #classic rock imagine #classic rock imagines #capricorn season

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qqueenofhades · 3 years

Note

... Remember the Russian Revolution au? Which ended with Fedyor's sister very sick and Fedyor searching for Ivan in hopes of getting help for her from him? Fedyor finding Ivan and offering to do "anything" in exchange for his sister's medical treatment? Ivan secretly wanting Fedyor, but refusing to take what he wants like that? Soooo... I would also like the big the big 3 of your coming projects to happen, but... y'know... just.... wanted to bring this au up again... ;)

Behold, the oft-requested follow-up to the first two Russian Revolution au ficlets. Ahem.

Fedyor does not sleep that night. He does not even think about sleeping. He only leaves the army headquarters long enough to think hard about what he is proposing to do, wonder if it is worth it, and decide that it is. Katya needs the medicine, he has no other recourse, and he is categorically unwilling to return home to his family as a failure, when they have placed all their trust and hope in him. Ivan has hinted that he might be able to obtain it, and so that, no matter what it takes, is what Fedyor will have to get him to do. And for that…

He knows that he is not unattractive. He has dark eyes, dark hair, a dimpled smile, a personable and friendly manner that, in happier times, attracted the attention of many an eligible young lady who wished to ice skate or promenade around the park or take a carriage ride, as courting Russian couples are wont to do. However, while Fedyor was perfectly happy to chat with ladies, or escort them to a ball, or fulfill his essential chivalric duty, he was not otherwise interested in wooing them. It was partly for that reason that he signed up to the military, where an enterprising young man can have other opportunities in the darkness of the barracks. So long as his family was kept conveniently unaware.

For all that the Bolsheviks have overthrown the government without a clear plan as to what to do next, and accordingly plunged them all into this miserable civil war, Fedyor does secretly sympathize with certain of their beliefs on the remaking of family life. They say that marriage is outdated and bourgeoisie, that monogamy is unnatural, that women should not be subject to patriarchal systems, and that homosexuality is an equally valid state of nature. Such a possibility of sexual classification and divergence is much discussed in Europe these days, and there is even a small but growing scholarly literature, written by eminent scientists. Sexual Inversion by Havelock Ellis, published in 1896, argues that the man-loving man is indeed even a possibly improved form of human, associated with superior intellectual and artistic achievement, and that nothing about his attachment is wrong or abnormal. Two years before that, Edward Carpenter wrote Homogenic Love, and in 1900, the German Elisar von Kupffer published an anthology of homosexual poetry, Lieblingminne und Freundesliebe in der Weltliteratur. Such texts are relatively easy for an educated, French- and English- speaking young Russian intellectual, such as Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky, to lay his hands on. He is not sure what can come of it, but at least he knows that he is not alone.

The question remains as to Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov’s proclivities. Unless Fedyor is very much mistaken, Ivan was at least considering the possibility of accepting his offer, and turned it down for honorable, moral reasons, feeling it unjust to sexually extort a young gentleman in exchange for his sister’s care, rather than physical horror at the idea of such a coupling. If he’s a Bolshevik, he’s probably acceptably tolerant of their philosophy on an abstract level, but it’s less clear as to whether that extends to its personal practice. If Fedyor turns up in his bunkhouse – which, come to think of it, is probably shared, curse these Bolsheviks and their dratted communality, highly inconvenient for a midnight seduction attempt – scantily clad and willing, will Ivan’s objections hold out then? Or… or what?

Fedyor doesn’t know, but the uncertainty adds to the frisson of shameful excitement, rather than detracting from it. He searches through the streets of Chelyabinsk for some bread (it does not seem in much greater supply than in Nizhny Novgorod) and waits for the sun to go down. In March, the days, though getting steadily longer, are still short and chilly, and it’s bitingly cold when it gets dark. Then he pulls up his muffler, tells himself not to be unduly precious about it, and heads for the makeshift army quarters on Kirovka Street.

The buildings in downtown are beautiful, built in the Russian Revival style of neo-Byzantinian splendor, though the onion-domed Orthodox churches have all been converted into stables and armories, and anything that whiffs of an ideology contrary to the Red one has been economically discarded. Fedyor reaches the door, knocks, and when a disgruntled sergeant comes to answer it, expecting him to be a soldier out too late and in line for a ticking-off, Fedyor raises his hands apologetically. “I’ve come to join up,” he says. “The great socialist cause of the world’s workers is the only true one for a patriotic Russian man, and I vow it my full allegiance, if you will have me. I was speaking to my friend earlier, Ivan Ivanovich, and he suggested it. Is he still here?”

The sergeant eyes him squiggle-eyed, but they cannot afford to look gift horses too closely in the mouth, or turn aside willing recruits. It takes a while, but he shouts for someone who shouts for someone else, and this finally produces the startled personage of Ivan Sakharov, who clearly thought it was for the last time when they parted several hours ago. Upon sight of Fedyor, he stops short, looking alarmed, angry, and wary all at once. “What are you – ?”

“Can we talk?” Fedyor is resolved to do this, he truly is, but he feels it best to get it over with before that wavers in any degree. Whether he wants it too little does not seem like the problem; on the contrary, he fears that he wants it too much, and if he stops to reflect on it or delude himself with any nonsensical notions of it being more than once, that can only hurt the cause. “Somewhere… private?”

Ivan hesitates, as if asking to commune out of sight of the others is tantamount to heresy (though it’s not as if these damn hypocrites didn’t plot in secret, away from their own countrymen, for months and months, Fedyor thinks angrily). Then he jerks his head. “Fine. Five minutes. This way.”

He leads Fedyor up a few narrow, creaking staircases, past closed doors that echo with snorting and snoring and coughing, the cacophony of his comrades, none of whom seem to be enjoying their glorious victory quite as much as they thought. Ivan, however, appears to be sufficiently high-ranking in the Red Guards that the room they finally arrive at, though not much larger than a closet, is at least private. It reminds Fedyor forcibly of Ivan’s room back in St. Petersburg, the one they slept in together, that first night after the Winter Palace. It sounds more intimate in his recollections than it actually was. Nothing happened, of course. But Ivan was kind to offer it, kind when he did not need to be, when a young tsarist soldier alone in the ferment of riot and revolution, such as Fedyor was, would not be likely to see the new red dawn. It is that which Fedyor keeps in mind as he shuts the door with assumed casualness, then turns around, meets Ivan’s eye in a significant fashion, and shrugs off his coat, cap, and muffler. Then, unmistakably, starts to unbutton his shirt.

He has almost gotten to the bottom by the time Ivan, who is staring at him as if he’s lost his marbles (it is unclear if this is an encouraging fashion or not) finally recovers his sense. He strides forward and covers Fedyor’s hands with his own large, callused rifleman’s fingers, sending a shock of attraction burning through Fedyor from head to toe, along with the death of any more illusion that he could continue to be casual about this. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Fedyor’s throat is as dry as a bone, but he forces himself to speak. “I said that I would do anything for my sister’s care, if you would help.”

He lingers suggestively on the word anything, just as he did before, in case there was any doubt (as if the undressing wasn’t enough) what he means here. Ivan looks like a cornered bear, but as his eyes catch Fedyor’s and flick across the lean, muscled torso thus revealed beneath the shirt, he swallows hard and has to glance away. The attraction trembles silently in the air between them, tense as a piano string, tuned to snapping. In the old days, that is, when people played pianos, and did not burn them for firewood, as Fedyor’s parents were preparing to do with theirs when he left home. It chokes raw and painful in his throat. He is attracted to Ivan – desperately attracted, in fact – and yet he still hates what the Bolsheviks have done, even if the Romanovs and the Provisional Government were no better. The deposed Tsar Nicholas II is under house arrest with his wife and five children, the four tsarevnas and the tsarevich, in Yekaterinburg. Little sick Alexei Romanov, whose hemophilia opened the door for Grigori Rasputin to control the queen, the royal household, the government of Russia, and so bring about the end of their house. He was like something from a fairytale monster, that Grisha. The rumors of his death, not quite two years ago in December 1916, is that it almost did not happen, he was so hard to kill. A demon. A beast.

“You cannot do this,” Ivan says, his voice too rough, his eyes still struggling to remain decorously averted. “It is not – it is not right.”

“Not right?” Fedyor flares. “So a little spot of armed treason and overthrowing the man who, however deficient he might be, was the heir of one of the oldest and greatest empires in the world? That part was entirely aboveboard, but this, when you want this – don’t lie to me, I’m well aware you do – to help my sister? That would be a sin?!”

Ivan backs up a step, glancing around shiftily. These walls are thin, and he clearly does not want his beloved brothers-in-arms to hear this. “Fedyor Mikhailovich – ”

“Have me.” Fedyor is done playing games. “I’m here, I’m yours for the taking. You can do whatever you want to me, as long as you give me the medicine at the end.”

For a long, spellbound moment, he thinks Ivan is on the brink of agreeing. Then once again, he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I could not in good conscience consent to this. But I will fetch you the medicine. You do not have to give me anything in return.”

Fedyor gawks at him, shocked – and, it must be confessed, more than a little disappointed. “I thought it was fair trade,” he says. “Tit for tat.”

“It is…” Ivan shakes his head, eyes once more straying to Fedyor’s bare chest. “Button your shirt up,” he says, half-laughing, not angry, breathless and soft. “It is very distracting.”

“Good.” Fedyor takes another step. “I think you deserve it, you obnoxious bastard.”

“Be that as it may.” At least Ivan has the good sense not to dispute it. “I cannot do this,” he repeats, more gently. “You are a fine young man, Fedyor Mikhailovich. Perhaps in another life… but it would not be honorable to trade your virtue for this.”

“My virtue?” Fedyor has to laugh. “What makes you think I have that?”

Once again, Ivan wavers. But to give him (loathing) credit, he will not be swayed. “Button it,” he repeats. “I will arrange to have the money and medicine sent by your lodging by tomorrow, if you give me an address in the city.”

“I don’t have one.” Fedyor folds his arms. “Only here.”

Ivan looks even more startled. His lips part, he takes a step forward, and for a brief, wild, exquisite yearning of an instant, Fedyor thinks he is actually going to kiss him. They’re almost close enough – not quite, but almost – for it to happen. Then Ivan says, “Your family must be very proud of you.”

“I…” It catches in his throat. “I don’t know. I hope.”

“I would,” Ivan says. “I would be.”

And that, somehow, is all that seems to matter. Even as Fedyor spends a night in Ivan’s narrow camp cot of a bed, Ivan insisting on taking the hard floor out of an excess of gallantry, an echo of their first night in St. Petersburg. Ivan does as ordered, gives Fedyor some rubles and some medicine and a train ticket back home to Nizhny Novgorod. He personally escorts Fedyor to the train station to make sure he does not come to grief, then stands on the platform, staring after him like Vronsky watching Anna leave one more time. The train begins to huff and puff, spitting soot and embers, and Fedyor keeps his nose pressed to the glass, leaving a smudge, until long after, as it seems he is never destined to do anything but, Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov has vanished into the mist.

#heartrender husbands #fivan #fivan ff #ivan x fedyor #russian revolution au

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27dragons · 2 years

Text

Things That Shouldn’t Be Related, But Are

(warning: medical adventures)

Twenty-FIve Years Ago: Severe plantar fasciitis in both feet results in several years of various treatments, culminating in two different surgeries that mostly (but not entirely) fix the problem. Flare-ups occur occasionally after that but are mostly manageable.

Ten Years Ago: Recurrent heartburn that is no longer controllable via over-the-counter meds results in me being put on Protonix.

Two Years Ago: The heartburn continues to be a major issue. However, COVID has just hit and my doctor thinks we should wait for it to die down a little.

Fourteen Months Ago: Various factors combine to finally convince me that regular exercise is, actually, a thing that I need. Walking for more than a block at a time, even at a slow pace (never mind one that gets my heart going), makes both the faciitis and an old knee injury flare up badly, so I invest in a glider, which (barely) manages to get my heartrate up into the low-aerobic zone while letting me hang my heels off the end of the pedals.

Six Months Ago: My doctor finally gives me a referral to a gastroenterologist to dig into the heartburn question. It takes forever to actually get an appointment, but I eventually see an NP who orders an at-home breath test and an exploratory procedure (which is scheduled for January) to check out my esophagus, stomach, and upper intestine.

Two Months Ago: After results of the breath test come in, the GE doc prescribes two different antibiotics. By the time I’m done taking them, my heartburn (which had continued to worsen until I was eating almost nothing but oatmeal and still throwing up every couple of days) has disappeared entirely. I stop taking the Protonix and slowly learn how to eat without fear again.

One Month Ago: The fasciitis flares up in my left foot. I try to tough it out for a while but it just keeps getting worse. Finally, I take some Aleve. It reduces the pain by at least 80% within half an hour and I wonder why I waited so long. I keep taking it 1-2 times a day. I do, however, make it through Christmas and New Years -- with all of its treats and candy and cookies -- with only the barest, tiniest twinge of heartburn. It’s like magic (it’s been years since I’ve made it through the holidays without throwing up at least twice).

Five Days Ago: I can’t be taking Aleve or ibuprofen before the esophagus/stomach exploratory, so I stop taking it. The fasciitis, predictably, gets worse, though not as bad as it had been.

Today: I wake up following the exploratory look at my esophagus and stomach and the doctor comes in to tell me that she found some minor damage in my esophagus (not unexpected) and what appears to be an ulcer in my stomach that’s currently starting to heal. She asks about my use of ibuprofen and I explain about the fasciitis, and she nods knowingly and tells me to stop taking it immediately and see a doctor for some alternative because I should not take Aleve or ibuprofen except under a doctor’s orders anymore. And while I’m doing that, I should start taking the Protonix again, and they want to have another look at my esophagus/stomach in three months.

So I need exercise to stay healthy, but I can’t exercise when my foot hurts, and I can’t fix the foot pain without meds that will give me stomach ulcers. Awesome.

Take care of your bodies when you’re young, kids.

#my boring life #medical adventures #pique queue

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ultraintrovertedgryffindor · 3 years

Text

Sweet Pandemonium - Gally (The Maze Runner) Part 14 of 16

Bleh.

Tags because apparently persons like this story enough to wanna be tagged??? : @multifandom-fangirl4

~~~~~~~~~~

“You know what to do, right?”

“Yes, Thomas. I’ve known for the last ten times you’ve asked me.” You snapped quietly, not trying to draw attention to yourself as Thomas walked you back to where you were before he found you.

“I’m sensing a bit of hostility...”

You closed your eyes briefly as you sighed heavily, Thomas was really starting to get on your nerves, and it was definitely something you did not need right now. “Sorry, I’m just nervous.”

“You have every right to be. But it’ll be okay.”

You stared up at the building in the distance, the building that you had been trapped in for the past months. You dug your nails into your palms to feel something other than dread.

“You know where to meet us.” You hummed in agreement, not trusting your own voice not to waver as you forced yourself to be strong. “You’ll do great.” He said, bringing you in for a warm hug. “I’ll see you soon.”

You nodded weakly, watching as Thomas gave you a sympathetic smile as he walked away and soon disappearing into the crowd of busy citizens of the Last City.

Every step forward, you kept reminding yourself that you were doing this for Minho. For Minho. For Minho. For Minho.

As soon as you were right outside the double doors leading into the building, you heard a mechanical whirring from above you, looking up to see some sort of drone. You flinched when a couple of guards came out of the doors, prompting you to hold your hands up.

And just like that, you were thrown into a room by yourself, cuffed to a table with guards making sure you didn’t try to escape. You only started to feel relieved when Teresa pushed out from behind them.

“Where have you been?” She all but yelled. “You were supposed to come back an hour ago!”

Play it cool, Y/N...

“I know, I know, but I can explain.” You said smoothly.

“Well, I sure hope it’s a good one.” She scowled.

“I had to use the bathroom, and we were already a ways away from here, so the dude guarding me let me go in the shop. When I got out, he was gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yeah, he left me, fucked off somewhere. I actually tried looking for him, but that only got me lost.” Teresa had the best poker face you’d ever seen in your life, so you had no idea if she was believing your story. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” You said, pretending to sound as sincere as possible.

“The guard left...and you didn’t try to leave?”

Here goes nothing...

“I couldn’t leave you, Teresa...” You said bashfully, casting your gaze downward to make it more believable.

There was a silence pause for a moment, and you were anxious to find out if Teresa would take the bait.

You suddenly heard the rattling of metal, and felt your wrists feel lighter, and you realized that your cuffs were removed. You looked up in slight shock to Teresa, who was smiling softly.

Quickly being escorted into an elevator, you dreaded what consequences would bestowed upon you for deviating from the original plan of walking around the city for a few hours. You couldn’t help but worry if Teresa would be reprimanded for what you did too. Even if she believed your story, there was no telling if Dr. Paige would.

Entering a room on whatever floor of the building you were on, you were immediately faced with the disappointed face of Ava Paige. And the almost smug look of Jensen, making you want to scowl, but you willed yourself to save it for another time.

“Well, look at the young blood who so graciously decided to return.” Jensen’s absurdly condescending voice rang out, but one look from Dr. Paige shut him up quickly.

“Teresa, I expect an explanation for this.”

“Yes.” Teresa responded, a hint of irritation in her voice. “She told me everything.”

Ava sighed, taking a seat with a glass of brandy in her hand. “Let’s hear it then.”

After Teresa explained, way better than you did, Ava Paige almost had a somewhat content look on her face. Whereas, Jensen only scowled.

“You can’t actually believe that she came back when she had the chance to escape.” He ranted to his superior.

“Teresa’s the only family she has left.” Paige sighed, taking one last sip of her drink before approaching the two of you. “From now on, only you accompany Y/N wherever she goes. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Teresa complied.

Jensen looked at you with so much disdain, you felt it burn through the back of your skull as you turned to follow Teresa back to the elevator.

Coming up to her apartment floor, Teresa unlocked her front door with a huff. “That went well.”

You chuckled weakly. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”

Teresa gave you a knowing smile, making your heart swell against your will. You forced yourself to focus on the task at hand, you couldn’t truly be all sisterly with her, not until Minho was safe. But, you could pretend to. You were pretending...right?

“Where’d you get that?” Teresa’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts, causing you to look down where she was pointing.

A big, angry red mark was seeping through the fabric of your jeans. Huh, you must’ve gotten it when you fell out that window. You were so caught up with reuniting with everyone, must’ve slipped your mind.

“Uh, I have no idea. I must’ve gotten on the way back.” You lied.

Teresa tsked, shaking her head disapprovingly, just like her mother used to. “You’ve always been clumsy. Sit down.” She ordered, walking away and coming back with a med kit.

“Nah, I’m not clumsy. Just a little absent minded.”

“In any case, you need to be more careful.” She scolded, taking out some peroxide. “Roll up your pant leg, please.”

“Ow!” You hissed as she wasted no time cleaning the wound. “It’s just a scrape, there’s no need to do all this.” Your voice wavered as you felt the welt start to throb painfully.

“Oh, so you’d rather me leave it to get infected?” You rolled your eyes as a response. “That’s what I thought. It won’t take that long. So how was the city anyway?”

“...Even more beautiful than from your window, kinda scary too.” You said sincerely.

“A lot of people huh?”

“Yeah...a lot.”

Teresa stayed silent, watching your expressions change as you thought about what you were going to say next.

“When I was out there, seeing all those people just going about their lives. Seeing the innocent children...it made me sad.”

Teresa smiled weakly. “There’s a girl here, Shai. She reminds me of you. Strong, resilient, always trying to look on the bright side...she has the Flare.”

“...I’m sorry.”

Teresa shook her head slightly, quickly regaining her composure. “We’re doing everything we can to help her. You and Minho are part of that. You both can help her.”

“Cause of the enzyme, right?”

“Yes.” She smiled.

“We just have to be tortured for it to work...”

“If there was another way, we would’ve found it by now.”

You sighed. “How’s Shai doing now?”

Teresa frowned as she finished bandaging your wound. “She’s alive...for now. She’s still fighting. Just one more treatment and we’ll have enough enzyme to help her.”

“Treatment?” Teresa gave you a knowing look, and you understood. “Oh...you call it treatment.”

“Don’t you want to help that little girl? Give her another chance at life? You can do that for her, Y/N.”

Of course you did. You wanted everyone, all the children in the world to be able to live.

“Just one more treatment?” You asked reluctantly.

“Just one more.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Yikes and bites I hate this one, but the next one will be better. Promise. It might give you feels and depression but oh well

#sweet pandemonium series #the maze runner #tmr gally #gally x reader #gally

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justthehiddleswrites · 3 years

Text

Liquid Courage | Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Summary: When the hotel loses you reservation, you are forced to turn to the last person you would ask for help, Tom. But you are not facing him without a liquid courage, in the form of whiskey.

Warnings: smut, oral sex, vaginal sex

“What do you mean you can’t find my reservation?” you hissed at the hotel employee.

“I apologize, ma’am but there is nothing in the system. Perhaps another name?” The employee tried to be helpful, but it only caused your anger to grow.

“There is no other name!” you pounded your fists against the counter. A deep chuckle filtered from beside you. You whipped around to see Tom Hiddleston standing next to you, shoulders shaking as the hotel clerk handing him a room key.

“Having a spot of trouble?”

“No.” you responded emphatically. You refused to give Tom the satisfaction of getting to you.

“Well, if you need a place to crash…” Tom smiled. “… I am sure there is a comfortable couch in the lobby.

“Room 205, Mr. Hiddleston. Elevators are to left.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tom gave you a brief salute. “Good luck.”

You returned your attention to the poor clerk standing in front of you. “Can I just pay for a hotel room?”

“We are completely booked for the weekend, ma’am.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration. “Another hotel perhaps?”

“On convention weekend, you must be joking! Everything has been overbooked and oversold for months.”

You dropped your head to press against the cool marble counter. “What do you suggest I do?” Your voice cracked as you held back tears.

“Either bunk up with someone or as your friend suggested, there is a couch in the lounge.” He gestured at an uncomfortable chaise in the corner. You swore you could see stains from where you stood.

“Thanks. Where’s the bar?”

He pointed off to the side. You thanked him and lugged your bags with you. Perhaps a stiff drink will help calm you down.

Several Hours Later

A nice dinner and several whiskeys only made you tipsy. You still didn’t have a room. No one could explain where your reservation went, and the clerk was right; not a room to be found anywhere. You decided to take drastic measures.

“One moment.” Tom called to his hotel door. He didn’t expect anyone this late in the evening. Room service already been delivered and devoured.

“Hello, can I…” he smiled as he opened the door to find you standing there, bags in hand. “… help you?”

“They lost my reservation. There are no rooms anywhere in town.”

“Is there a question somewhere in there?”

You took a deep breath. “Can I crash here tonight?”

“Wow that painful.” Tom raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure that you wish to bring yourself down to the level of sharing a room with me?” Tom clutched his chest. “Will you survive?”

“I don’t like the idea any more than you do. But I have run out of options.”

“Nice to realize I am so high on your list. Of course, you can stay.” Tom opened the door wide to allow you entry.

“Thank you.”

You dropped your bags in the front hallway and headed straight to the mini bar.

“What on earth are you doing?” Tom questioned as he noticed the sound of glass clinking.

“If you think I am getting through this night sober, you have another thing coming. I am good for the bill.”

“The money is not my concern. Have you eaten anything today? I would rather not have to drag you to hospital to have your stomach pumped at three in the morning.” You shot Tom daggers. “It cuts into my beauty rest.”

“Yes I ate. And since when have you ever been concerned about my wellbeing?”

“Are you still mad about that? The whole thing happened what, almost a year ago?” Tom settled himself onto a large couch in the corner.

“Twenty minutes, Tom! And all you did was laugh!”

“To be fair, you weren’t in any actual danger.”

“It humiliated me. The crew never let me live the whole incident down! They taunted me until the wrap party.” You flopped down next to him, glasses in your hand. Tom accepted one.

Tom winced, he didn’t realize the extent of teasing. He hated to admit that his own reaction might have spurred on continued teasing.

“I am sorry. I didn’t realized.”

“Of course, you didn’t. Because you are Mister Tom I’m a Big Shot Actor Hiddleston.” your words slurring as the whiskey took effect.

Tom sat there sipping his drink, taking you in. Tom found himself a mix of emotions. He always respected you as an actor and enjoyed your company, when you weren’t mad at him for some unknown reason. But your spark, passion, and fire that haunted him. Sometimes at the most inopportune times.

“Where is your bathroom?” you asked, standing.

Tom rose as well and pointed towards the bedroom area of the hotel room. You made your way in that direction, hips swaying as you wobbled.

“Damn.” Tom muttered once you moved out of sight. This night was quickly becoming a problem for him.

You wandered back into the room, brows furrowed. “When were you going to mention that there is only a king sized bed?” Your nostrils flared.

“The whole sleeping arrangements didn’t cross my mine until you just mentioned it. I am sure we can work something out.”

Your anger bubbled over the top. Between the liquid courage coursing through your veins in the form of liquor and your series of rotten luck that day, you weren’t holding back.

“If you think for one minute, I am sharing a bed with you—” you yelled, stabbing your finger in his direction

“I was thinking…” Tom raised his voice to match yours. He strode towards you, hands balled into fists at your side. “… I would sleep on the couch. But hey, now that you suggested it, let’s bunk up together!”

Tom towered over you and his nostrils flared. You realized you hit a nerve.

“You chauvinistic—”

“Why do you hate me so?! I have been nothing but kind and all I get in return is contempt! What have I done to offend you?!” Tom bellowed.

“Because it is easier than the alternative!” you snapped back, not realizing what you were saying. “That if I let myself let go, I will regret it!!”

“What’s the alternative?” Tom’s tone softened. He stepped toe to toe with you.

“Use your imagination, Tom! You’re a smart guy. Use that Cambridge degree!” You didn’t realize Tom slid his arm around your waist. You were too fired up to notice anything other than his fiery blue eyes.

Tom leaned down and grazed his lips against yours. He pulled you square against his hips and deepened his kiss. You sighed and Tom slipped his tongue in.

You grabbed Tom’s neck and pulled him closer to you, matching his passion. The two of you parted and pressed your foreheads together.

“That is some imagination.” you panted.

“You should see what I can do naked.” Tom flirted.

“Is that an invitation?”

“Only if you want it to be.”

“I would hate for you to get a crick in your neck sleeping on that couch.” You teased the curls at the nape of Tom’s neck.

Tom smiled and took your hand, leading you to the bedroom. You landed on the mattress with a soft bounce as Tom stood at the end of the bed, feet wide. You licked your lips in anticipation.

“If I recall, you promised me nudity.”

“Yes, I did.” Tom pulled off his shirt and shimmied his pants and underwear off. You followed suit, pulling your dress off, leaving yourself in just a bra and panties. “Well, isn’t someone eager?” Tom quirked an eyebrow as he climbed onto the bed.

“Can you blame me?”

“Well not to toot my horn. But no.” Tom grinned.

He hooked his thumbs under your bra straps and slid them down off your arms before unhooking the clasp, allowing it to fall by the wayside. He took one of your breasts into his mouth. You arched your back to his mouth. Tom hummed against you before removing his mouth with a pop. Your other breast received the same treatment.

Tom trailed kisses down your torso and then nudged your knees open with his shoulders. His nose nuzzled against your clit through the lace fabric of your underwear and you hissed.

“Oh do we like that?” Tom teased as he ran his fingers along the waist of your underwear.

You squirmed under this touch in response. He hooked his thumbs and pulled your underwear down your legs, lifting them to assist. Tom smiled and kissed your ankle. His hand trailed up your leg and teased along your folds. He held them up, and you saw them glistening.

“Someone is excited.” Tom commented before he lowered himself between your legs.

You jumped as he licked a wide stripe along your slit. Tom wrapped one arm around your waist to press you against the mattress. His other arm pressed your leg open. Tom continued to attack your pussy and clit with his tongue, lips, and nose. Your release teased closer and closer with each stroke of Tom’s tongue. You came undone as he sucked gently upon your clit, gushing.

“You are a delight.” Tom groaned as he popped his head up, his face shining with your arousal.

He situated himself between your legs. Tom lined himself with your pussy and pushed himself in.

“Fuck, darling!” Tom moaned as he continued to push until he was fully seated.

Tom grabbed your ankles and lifted them to his shoulders, lifting your pelvis. This allowed for even deeper penetration.

“Fuck me, Tom!” you hissed.

Tom snapped his hips against you and chuckled. “That is the whole point of this, darling.”

Tom thrusted into you with vigor. His brow furrowed at the exertion. You moaned and groaned as each movement sent you closer to the edge. You locked eyes with Tom, passion flaring in both of your eyes. Tom tilted his head to kiss your ankle. It was such a soft and intimate act that your head fell back onto the pillows in ecstasy.

“That’s it, love. Cum for me. I want to feel you cum.” Tom pleaded, and he snapped his hips hard against you.

Tom’s words sent you over the edge. You let loose an obscene moan, screaming Tom’s name as you clenched around him.

“God, you are amazing. Your pussy is clenching so tight to me.” Tom growled as he spilled into you. His head fell back as he continued to thrust through both of your orgasms.

Tom stilled and dropped your feet back to the mattress before lying down beside you.

“That was better than the couch.”

You smiled up at him, dragging your fingers across his chest. “Oh I don’t know, small spaces. Very sexy. Needs a lot of creativity.” you teased, a glint of mischief in your eye.

“Why don’t you follow me to the shower and I can show you.” He gave your ass a playful swat.

“Lead the way.” you giggled. Tom grabbed your wrist and snapped you to standing, pulling you to the bathroom, the two of you laughing the entire time.

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston smut

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americasass81 · 3 years

Text

Make Her Mine - Chapter Three

{Warning: 18+, Dark theme, Smut, Fingering, Drugging, Mild Somnophilia, Non-con, Swearing, Choking, Mention of oral, Violence, Male Masturbation, Real Persons Mentioned}

Seriously do not read if any of this upsets you.

A/N: Okay though this started out as something to keep me occupied while I was without Wi-Fi for a week and never really planned on posting it, here at chapter three I would like to thank everyone who seems to like it and hope they get the same kick out of reading it as I’ve had writing it. Having started out with an original female character, I have decided for those reading to remove the reader's name. As such it’s now dark!Tony Stark x Reader and I figured it was about time I posted this chapter which was written months ago. Hope you all enjoy it.

Word count:- 2,490

Waking the next morning well rested, you started the day by emailing Sabrina the vague outline of your plan to escape Tony as well as how Sebastian might get involved should his infatuation prove stronger than you hoped. Titled Operation Goldfish, you figured it was a handy enough codename to quickly slip into a compromised conversation. Once satisfied, you then ordered breakfast before heading downstairs to rebook your room for five more days. Getting off the elevator and walking towards the reception desk, you took a sharp turn back to the seating area when you saw Tony walking through the front doors.

'Fuck.' you thought, 'what was his problem. Was his ego really so bruised, that he was determined to track you down?' Looking around, you quickly picked up a paper off the table and hid behind it, while you waited to see what happened next. Noting the time it was taking him to be dealt with, you instead seized the opportunity of his distraction to make it back to the elevators unseen, and quickly returned to your room.

Running through the suite, collecting all your belongings, you were just about to text Sabrina regarding the situation when you heard a beep and the sound of the door opening. Heart pounding and cursing that you didn't feel comfortable having Sabrina retrieve your weapons as well, you slowly walked towards the bedroom door to be greeted by the sight of Tony Stark standing in your suite.

"Well Darling, have you any idea all the bother you've caused me. Now I hope you're not planning on going anywhere after I gave clear instructions as to what was expected of you."

"How the fuck did you get in here and why are you doing this? Is your ego really that fragile?" you asked, while quickly trying to assess how you were going to get out of this.

No sooner were the words out of your mouth however, when you found his hand around your throat as your body hit the jam of the door. "You'll find being Tony Stark I can pretty much buy my way in anywhere. Now listen to me very carefully, the money you're using to hide from me was earned in my employ. That means Darling, that I own your pretty little ass."

Trying to hit him with one hand while using the other to pry his off your throat, he released you and you slumped to the floor, gasping for air as tears leaked from your eyes. Glaring at him, your temper flared and you couldn't hold your tongue. "So what, you think you're entitled to do whatever you want with anyone who works for you? That is seriously fucked up and illegal on so many levels."

"Oh no, Y/N, not anyone." he purred, helping you up while forcing you to look at him as his fingers caressed your chin. "Just you. There's something about the way you think you're too good for me, that makes me want to see you kneeling naked before me while choking on my cock."

Disgusted at his words and brimming with fear and anger, your knee came up to connect with his family jewels as you reached your hand around the wall and pulling a floor lamp towards you, brought it down on him. Though all this only stunned him, it gave you enough of an opening to hit him again, before reaching for your getaway bag and running from the room.

Not looking back to see if he was following you, you forgot the lift and started down the stairs as fast as you could. Reaching the street, you made it two blocks before you felt a sharp prick in your neck. Slowly slumping forward, you weren't conscious as iron arms wrapped around your chest and a booming voice told passersby that everything was under control. Taking you to an Avengers controlled facility because of the publicity surrounding your episode, the next phase of his plan was to extricate you from those determined to keep you from him.

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

Having received the unexpected call from Tony Stark, it didn't take long for Sabrina to show up at the facility with Sebastian and two of his goons in tow. Being greeted by a kindly nurse, they were allowed to see you for a few minutes before being ushered into one of the unused offices where Tony sat waiting.

Closing the door behind him, Sebastian had to hold his wife back as she lunged at Tony. "What did you do to her, you sick fuck? I swear, if anything happens to her the full might of the New York Mob will tear you and your costumed freaks to ribbons."

"Firecracker, calm down. At least let the man explain." Sebastian coaxed, quickly glancing at Tony.

"Fine." she said, sitting in the nearest vacant chair while keeping her eyes fixed on Tony, as Sebastian took the seat next to her.

"Well it's good to see you have some control over your woman, but I wonder Mr. Stan, does she actually speak for you."

"Mr. Stark, please don't interpret my love for my wife as a sign of weakness. While she may not speak for me on Mob business, where Y/N is concerned we act as one."

"Fair enough. I was on my way back from a routine rescue when F.R.I.D.A.Y. alerted me to a pedestrian in distress. I reached her before she could hit the ground and only discovered it was Miss Y/L/N when I saw her face. I then brought her here and immediately called you, of course." he said, turning his gaze on Sabrina.

"And what exactly is wrong with her? The nurse Charlie wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information." Sebastian stated, reaching out to take his wife's hand.

"That I'm afraid is a question I don't yet have the answer to. F.R.I.D.A.Y. is running every conceivable test, but if nothing comes up, we may just have to accept it's something else and simply let it run its course."

"Something else? As in stress related?" Sabrina snapped, glaring daggers at him. "I wonder what could possibly have stressed her out that much?"

"Yes Mrs. Stan, I'll admit it, I didn't handle her rejection of me very well. But I've since gotten over it. Which is why I now intend to make sure she gets the best medical care my resources can provide."

"Mr. Stark," Sebastian interrupted.

"Tony, please." he stated, turning to face the mob boss once again.

"Tony. Given the issues these past couple of days have thrown up between you and Y/N, surely you can understand our concern. I don't think my wife and I are very comfortable with this arrangement."

"I totally understand your reservations, but as a Stark Industries employee she is also covered under the company's medical insurance, which means I can insist on the best possible treatment available anywhere. I will of course be more than happy to keep you updated on her condition. Now perhaps we can leave it there for today? I have your number."

"Sebastian, we can't just leave her here with this arrogant douchebag. This is exactly the opportunity he's been waiting for." Sabrina explained, locking eyes with her husband.

"Sabrina, sweetheart, his concern seems genuine and he should be made pay for her care. She'll be okay." Turning back to Tony, he looked him over once, before he spoke again, "Remember what my wife told you, Stark. In the meantime, I'll expect regular updates." he stressed, rising from the chair and taking his wife's hand to lead her from the room. Left alone with you incapitated down the hall, Tony couldn't hide the satisfaction he felt, knowing he finally had you in his grasp.

Suspecting that your friends didn't believe a word he said, Tony walked down the hall to your room where he couldn't help but gaze on your sleeping form. Though the sedative he'd hit you with should give him until tomorrow to get you moved to his secret location, part of him was disappointed that it had come to this. He had hoped when you left his office you would do as he asked, but it seemed you weren't as meek as you pretended to be. Still, he did love a challenge and he would enjoy breaking you.

Leaving you temporarily to deal with the paper trail and the nurse, he returned quickly and went about removing what medical equipment had been hooked up to lend some reality to the scene. Next, pulling back the sheets, he frowned at the hideous workout gear you still wore but couldn't help himself as his hand made its way up the inside of your thigh. Though he knew he wanted you awake for all he had planned, he told himself he simply wanted to see how effective the drug was at keeping you sedated.

Reaching your waist, he gently eased down your leggings before running his hand along your panty covered folds. Moving his hand up and down a few times, he brought his fingers to his mouth and coated them in his saliva before shoving your panties aside to feel your flesh against his hand. Slowly gliding up and down your folds, he moved up every now and then to circle your clit before he poked your entrance with a finger. Moving it gently in and out, he was surprised by the small amount of moisture this single digit was producing. Deciding to experiment further, he slipped in a second finger and was rewarded with a tightness that wasn't there the first time. Pumping his digits harder and faster into your pussy, he marveled at how well the drug was working, while still allowing your body to slick up his fingers.

Hearing movement out in the hall, he quickly removed his fingers, replaced your clothes and licked your juices off his digits before pulling the sheets back up. Bending down to softly kiss your lips, he pulled back before whispering "soon darling, you'll feel more than my fingers and you'll never be empty ever again." Then when a dead quiet once again fell over the place, he released his armor, eased you out the window and gently flew you to the secluded spot where his car was waiting. Placing you on the seat and securing your belt, he swept the hair back from your face before shedding his armor, getting behind the wheel and driving off to your new home.

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

Pulling into the secluded, underground hideout, he thanked all the gods above that no one knew of its existence or its connection to him. Housing a garage, living quarters and state of the art lab, he knew it would be the perfect place to hide you until you finally accepted him. Taking you gently from the car and depositing you in your room, he still had things he needed to do before you woke up.

Removing your leggings and panties, he hurried to your bathroom to clean you up after his earlier exploration, before slipping into his room to retrieve a pair of boxers. Left to him, you wouldn't need clothes any time soon, but he figured after the hotel you might not take too kindly to waking up naked. As a compromise, the drug should afford him time to wash your lower garments and return them before you knew anything was amiss.

Heading to his room to shower, his mind wondered how you would react when you regained consciousness. Oh he could easily have tied you to the bed already and after the hotel maybe he should, but where was the fun in that? The contrast between the meek 'Mr. Stark' spouting you in his office and the fiery you that had evaded him and attacked him in the hotel suite excited him more than any woman had in years. He couldn't wait to see which you would open your eyes or what it would take to tip you in either direction.

So consumed was he by you that it took him awhile to realize his hand had strayed to his throbbing erection. Continuing to pump his hand up and down while thinking of your tight, warm and wet walls squeezing him like a vice, his mind wandered back to his fingers buried in your pussy and working himself harder he came with a groan, his cum coating his hand. Looking down at his release, he quickly washed up, exited the shower and changed his clothes before making a bite to eat.

Once fed, he headed back to check on you, to find you just as he left you. Though fairly certain about the timeframe of the sedative, he thought it best not to dally and headed off to his lab to set up a cover that would hopefully keep your mob friends off his back.

His first act was to wire money to associates in Europe to make it look like his private jet had landed with himself, you and the nurse Charlie aboard. Next was the setting up of a false trail that currently had you under the care of the best doctors in Denmark, no way he figured would your meddlesome friends travel there. Then he fished your phone out of your getaway bag, while marveling at the amount of cash you had stashed away. He knew he paid his employees well, but the ingenuity of someone your age to even think of something like this both amazed him and made him wonder why you did it in the first place. But that was a mystery which could wait.

Unlocking your phone, a pathetically simple task he noted, he quickly cloned the whole thing and then, placing it back with your cash and passport, hid the bag in the lab's secret safe. Once done with that, his next task involved combing through every voicemail you had in order to synthesize your speech pattern should he have a need for it at some point. He also contemplated freezing your accounts, but figured that might raise some red flags. When all that was done, he then redirected his business calls, thus making the whole thing look legitimate before instructing his A.I. V.I.R.G.I.L. to shut down most of the building.

Satisfied that his efforts were enough, he returned to your room with your freshly washed clothes and redressed you before settling on the couch to spend some time watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest. Knowing it would be a while before he got to see you this peaceful again, he savored every minute until his eyes started to close and so rising, he kissed your forehead before reluctantly returning to his own room. Laying down, he drifted off to sleep, wondering what the days ahead held in store.

Tagging:- @nsfwsebbie , @hoseokchild , @malloryharris , @ironlady1993 , @floatingdaisy7 , @taintedgenre , sorry if I missed anyone.

#dark!tony stark x reader

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castlevania-afterdark-imagines · 4 years

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Gotta go a tiny bit dark for a moment, how would trevor, godbrand, sypha, drac, and the forgemasters handle an s/o who's libido fluctuates wildly and struggles a lot with her body image? I'm sorry if that's too many characters, I just really really love them..

Gonna lean more into the body image part of this ask. Bonus Alucard cause I mean, we got the rest of the crew, might as well.

Trevor

General attitude about it is - Why though? (Trevor, please)

Is very much the sort of person who stands by if your body works then there's nothing wrong with it, so it's a bit hard for him to understand.

Okay, maybe he's a little self conscious about the sheer number of scars he has, but that's just because they bring up a lot of questions.

But he likes your body, and what you do to him with said body. So when you have moments where you pull away and look at yourself with disappointment he just can't quite wrap his head around it.

He'll try to be more careful with his comments towards the parts you don't like, cause god knows he'll fuck up trying to compliment them in a way that doesn't sound overbaked.

But when he's making love to you he makes sure to touch everywhere.

Words are hard, but he knows how to work with his hands.

He tries to utter soft praises, but most of it comes out as single word grunts like “perfect” and “ god-yes”

Oh, he'll also remove the eyes of anyone who makes a jab at what you're sensitive about.

Alucard

A bit of genuine confusion about it.

He just genuinely thinks you're the most sublime creature on the Earth so how could you not see that in yourself?

He certainly won't stop you from working on things you want to change, he will train with you if you want to change your body composition or he'll offer to research skin treatments if you have complexion concerns.

But only if you ask, he's never the one to suggest it. As far as he sees it he's just helping you achieve something you want to accomplish, not "improving" you.

However he does know that change doesn't happen overnight, so he gets sad when you express frustration over not being there yet because he can't really fix time.

So he stays close, lets you vent while he gently traces your face with his fingers.

He gets a bit drapey with his affection when you're down. Never pressing sexually, he just sort of stimulates a cocoon of limbs wanting to hold all of you close.

You might also notice more little gifts showing up where you can find them. Flowers by your bedside, pastries by your favorite chair, tokens of affection to assure you he is just as enamored with you when you aren't feeling your best.

Sypha

Is visibly upset when she sees you mentally tearing into yourself, but that's just because she couldn't hide an expression if she tried.

Wants to talk with you about it, to find out if it was something somebody said or a result of something someone did.

If it's something that is changeable, she'll offer to help you with your goals, keep you motivated while also insisting you do NOT have to do any of this for her.

If it's not something that can be changed she'll try her best to listen, let you vent when you feel frustrated.

She gets conflicted between either wanting to give the parts of yourself that you don’t like *more* attention or trying to make sure to compliment the other parts of your body she loves (aka, the rest)

She might admit to you some of the spots she doesn’t like much either, like the scars on her shoulder, or the stretch marks around her knees.

Regardless she’ll always match your mood, throwing herself at you with gusto when the lust strikes, or being very gentle and soothing when you aren’t feeling up for it.

Gets up in the face of anybody who might make a rude remark, even if it might risk escalating the argument to melting the offender’s face off.

Dracula

Has seen many many many bodies in his lifetime (won't tell you how many of those were no longer living), he sees the variety as a staple of humanity.

So yeah, it distresses him to see you dislike anything about yourself.

But he also knows that’s not something he can just tell you you’re incorrect over and be done with. It’s not something he can actually control.

So he simply makes himself available, however you need him.

You in the mood to get dicked down? Yup, he can do that and mend the bedframe afterwards.

You need a few slow days with minimal touching? Okay, he’s got all the time in the world. He’ll stay within earshot until you call him, then he’ll cater to whatever you need.

He’s not super keen on trying to use any sort of magic to alter your body, even if you ask. Unless it’s life threatening of course.

He also makes it a mental note to be exceedingly clear that each time he has you bare before him he regards you like a devout cardinal would his holy texts.

Divine.

Godbrand

(Why, why ya’ll gotta pick the hard one for sensitive topics)

He thinks you’re hot, all the time, any time of day. So when he notices you going from a sexual high to a sexual dry, he honestly thinks it’s his fault.

Starts apologizing about whatever the fuck pops into his head (though this is a Godbrand apology so it’s stuff like “I’m sorry I dropped your favorite mug three months ago but I told you not to leave it on the edge of the counter like that”)

When you first explained to him what was actually up he’s...confused.

To behonest probably first went to his favored huntsmen and asked them what the fuck to do

Which was met with equally confused shrugs and panicked “Why the fuck would we know better?”

In the end he sort of resorts to brute forcing through it.

He sees you take a little too long in the mirror looking at yourself. Nope, no, nu uh, he hauls you up and finds something to distract you with.

He’ll try to offer ideas of how to help if it’s something you can change, if not he’ll just be six times as loud when he’s boasting about how perfect his partner is to the village.

Hector

Oh nooooooooo this gentle man, he’s so concern

He can pick up on your mood shifts as if he could hear them announce their presence.

He’s just as good at silently reading into what you want him to do next.

Sometimes it’s just to lie with you, touching your hair and face, murmuring sweet nothings into the space between you two. How lovely he finds you, how happy you make him.

He knows how cruel the world can be, especially over something as fickle as appearance. He hates that anyone could ever have instilled in you a disliking of your own body.

He’s never pushy about his more carnal wants, and never makes it about your attraction towards him. He trusts that you’re still interested, you just need time here and there.

Sometimes he will get a little flare of adoration when he sees you, when he remembers the areas you told him you aren’t fond of, and will absent mindedly want to touch them. Gentle brushes of fingertips, a soft smile resting on his lips until you bring him back to reality.

He might not be verbose in his support, but you’ll never shake him from it.

Isaac

Is honestly the one mostly likely to get frustrated over what in his mind is a baseless insecurity. Never shows it, but internally has trouble understanding it.

He gets the social troubles, humans being vain and cruel creatures, but to him a body is like a well-worn tool. What you don’t like you work to either change or adapt to.

But he also knows that mindset does not arrive overnight, and though internally he might feel a tug of irritation when he can feel you pull away he is very careful to not show it.

He’s never going to convince you of his adoration for the temple that is your body if he gives in to his temper and tries to force the change for you.

So he will be patient, offer you guidance when you ask for it, remain silent when you don’t and you simply need to speak your insecurities.

Though you might see a flash of bewilderment in his eyes when you mention something new that upsets you about your body he is quick to bury it and return to attending you.

He’s always delighted when your mood lifts again and he can resume touching you as he likes, fingertips digging into your skin and humming softly with satisfaction.

Carnal pleasure might be a more primal vice, but he doesn’t mind giving in to it when he can use it to show you exactly how much he likes the “tools” you were given.

-Mod Soviet

#trevor belmont #godbrand #sypha belnades #vlad dracula tepes #hector #isaac #adrian tepes #gender neutral reader #mod soviet #imagines #Castlevania

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