aristotle mendoza and dante quintana, aristotle and dante discover the secrets of the universe
“Remember that time you kissed me?” “Yeah.” “Remember I said it didn’t work for me?” “Why are you bringing this up? I remember. I remember. Dammit to hell, Ari, did you think I’d forgotten?” “I’ve never seen you this mad.” “I don’t want to talk about that, Ari. It just makes me feel bad.” “What did I say when you kissed me?” “You said it didn’t work for you.” “I lied.”
Yoongi can’t believe that Namjoon talked him into doing this. Granted, it’s not a completely ridiculous unreasonable request but it’s just barely enough to let the weight of responsibility sink Yoongi back to the ground where he just wants to spend the rest of the evening. But of course, Namjoon did not allow it, practically forcing Yoongi to drive to this bakery and pick up some god awful pie that Yoongi is sure to hate himself so what is even the fucking point?
He glares at the bakery, the shop wedged in the middle of this relatively busy shopping, entertainment, downtown intersection, the cars whirling in the background as handfuls of people walk around him either with a purpose or serving as a pastime in order to communicate with friends. The shop is innocent enough—small with more than enough windows to see through into the interior of the store. He sees fall decorations hung up along the walls, in the glass displays showing off the collection of pies they sell, hanging from the ceiling. He doesn’t see anyone behind the cash rep counter, but the sign hanging against the window reads back OPEN.
He takes in a breath, reassures himself that this will just be a quick pick up, an easy in easy out sort of situation, hoping the worker wouldn’t gush about the upcoming holiday and autumn season just to try and lure some sort of conversation out of him given he’s always hated people like that, and nudges open the shop door. The bell overhead rings, immediately making an announcement to his presence as Yoongi remains rooted near the door frame.
For a moment, nothing happens and he has half a mind to walk out and make Namjoon deal with the issue, when there is a noise from the back kitchen. “I’ll be with you in a second!” A voice chimes through the air, light and soft that Yoongi almost feels his heart drop at the sound. There is another second that passes, before you emerge from the kitchen, apron with the company logo wrapped around your waist, your hair tied up into a bun, and a bright smile across your lips. “Hi there,” You greet, approaching the counter and staring at Yoongi. “What can I help you with today?”
Stay With Me - Dick Grayson x Reader (Heartlines Soulmate AU)
(A/N: Sorry if the medical stuff is incorrect, I don’t really know anything about medicine.)
Heartlines had always fascinated you. As a child, you had wanted to become a matchmaker from the minute you started seeing them, to be a person who helped others find the soulmate at the end of their string. Alas, life had led you down a different path; one that had landed you in the Bludhaven ER you currently work in. Being a trauma surgeon was, among other things, time-consuming, leaving you with much more important things to do than trying to follow your heartline. Work was a major part of your busy life, and you had no intentions of finding your soulmate anytime soon- but fate had other plans.
“Y/N, I know you just got your break, but we need you. Motorcycle collision, the victim is coming in now. He has lacerations and severe bruising on his arms, legs, and face, as well as suspected trauma to the head. Potential internal bleeding and organ damage. Overall, it could be worse, but it’s not pretty,” a nurse informed you, handing you a file. You glanced over it, setting down your unfinished coffee before standing. Richard Grayson, the adopted son of Gotham’s Bruce Wayne.
“No helmet, naturally. Alright, it’s go time, then.” You started towards the ambulance bay, trying to ignore that fact that your heartline was heading in the same direction. A stretcher rushed in to meet you.
“Dr. L/N?” one of the paramedics asked you. You nodded your reply, focusing on the patient. Your heart stopped when you realized the string in his chest connected to your own.
“You have got to be kidding me,” you said. The paramedics pushing the stretcher turned to you, alarmed.
“What is it?” a younger woman asked.
“My soulmate,” you answered, voice more strained than you desired, “is lying on this stretcher. Now let’s move. We need to assess the damage done to his head and spine and check for internal bleeding. There’s a good chance that he’s concussed, as well. He’ll need a CT scan… can somebody go get that prepped?” You threw yourself into your work, trying to not be phased when the man let out a pained moan as he was moved onto a new stretcher.
“Check for any neurosurgeons on call. We’ll need them after the CT,” you directed a nurse. You checked the patient over.
“Heart rate is slightly elevated, which is to be expected. Normal heartbeat and breathing. Bruising on the chest is indicative of broken ribs, and…” you announced.
“Dr. L/N, the CT is prepped. Is the patient ready to be taken in?” a nurse asked, cutting you off.
“Yes, now let’s get this done.” You wheeled his stretcher up to the door, unable to shake the feeling of helplessness that overcame you when the radiologist took over. He’s my soulmate, for God’s sake, is there anything else I can do now? Christ, Richard, you’ve really gotten yourself in deep… You noticed a bit of a commotion at a nurse’s station.
“Is he alive? Oh, god, I hope he’s alive,” a blonde girl said, clutching furiously onto the hand of a dark-haired boy. The nurse looked stressed, to say the least.
“Can you at least tell us where he is at the moment?” a man asked. You realized that he was Bruce Wayne.
“If you are referring to a Mr. Richard Grayson, he is currently undergoing a CT scan, which unfortunately does not allow him to be visited at the moment. As for your previous question, he is alive, and we are doing our best to keep him that way,” you told them.
“Do you know the extent of his injuries yet?” The question came from the boy, who you assumed to be Tim Drake.
“Not fully, no. We won’t until the radiologist provides us with the results of the CT scan. We suspect though, that he is suffering from a concussion and potential brain damage as well as potential internal bleeding,” you answered. The blonde girl spoke again.
“Do you think he’ll be alright?” You bit your lip.
“Until we know exactly how much damage there is, I won’t be able to make a good judgment. But I sincerely hope so.”
“Dr. L/N!” a nurse interjected. “The scan is finished and the results are in with the radiologist. What now?” You started walking briskly back towards the trauma center.
“Let’s clean and bind the external wounds. With accidents like this, lacerations tend to have pavement and gravel inside, so be sure to be thorough. Set him up on a heart monitor if we haven’t already; we won’t take any drastic actions until the results get back unless we encounter a threatening problem with his vitals,” you directed. This is going to be a painfully long wait.
You studied the CT results, pleased to see only minor injuries to the head and spine. What worried you, though, was the bleeding in his abdomen.
“Get four pints of O- blood and an anesthetist, and prep an operating room. We need to drain the excess blood and stop the source of the bleeding, but we need to be prepared for a blood transfusion.” As you prepared for the operation, you felt a new kind of anxiety than usual.
“Hey, Y/N, are you sure you don’t want to sit this one out? I mean, he’s your soulmate after all, are you certain you can handle this?” your fellow surgeon asked you. You nodded.
“The exact reason I wouldn’t complete this surgery is the exact reason I have to. No matter what, I have to know that I did something, that I tried,” you replied. When the operation began, you lost yourself into the procedures. The first part went seamlessly, you were able to remove the excess blood and stop the blood flow from his liver, which had been damaged in the accident. But a fast-paced beeping started sounding, an ominous alarm that something had gone wrong.
“He’s going into hypovolemic shock,” another surgeon announced. You immediately hooked up another pint of blood to his arm. He’d lost too much blood.
“Come on, stay with me, stay with me,” you begged, desperately hoping that the blood transfusion could save him.
“Y/N, go get some fresh air. We’ll take it from here,” someone told you. You weren’t really listening, but stepped out of the room. Your plea repeated over and over in your head: stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me. You looked down at your heartline, unsure of what you would do if it faded to black. Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me.