Thomas Sangster Imagines/Oneshots

Cartoons and Doodles~(Donald Clarke x Reader)

*Death Of A Superhero*

(A/N): Bro even with no hair he's still adorable. ^^watch the trailer for the movie you can find the whole thing on YouTube.

dude when i watched this movie it almost made me cry and i don't cry often in movies😭😭 btw haven't updated this book in a while, so i'm sorry!

Warnings: Cancer patient? Anger issues? And a small mention of the subject of suicide? Don't read if you're sensitive to these kinds of things, please! And my sympathies to any struggling cancer patients and people struggling with these issues!🙏

*Fluff/Angst*

~

Your shoes clicked against the hospital tile floor.

You were excited to visit Donald, as you knew he sadly didn't have much time left. You had a sketchbook in hand, and a comic book in the other, precisely a Batman comic. 'Batman: The Killing Joke' by Alan Moore tucked in between your fingers. It was a 1988 edition. You had managed to find it at a reasonable price online as a gift.

You, of course, instantly thought of Donald at the sight of it in your recommended.

Don always loved the thought of being a superhero.

   He always told you he was going to be a superhero when he grew up. That was what he told all of the nurses and other cancer children at previous hospitals. You always noticed how he towered over the other small children, being the oldest.

   The sad thought filled you with dread as you knew why, but you shook it off as you approached a white door.

Room 250, you said in your head, cautious, holding the thin comic book in between your (S/C) fingers.

   The cardboard from the sketchbook rubbed against your other arm, the spirals no doubt leaving weird indents in your skin. You paid no mind as you diverted your focus to what laid behind the door, in a hospital bed, desperately missing you, thinking where he'll be in a week.

You placed a (S/C) hand on the metal handle and opened the door gently, the hinges squeaking, signifying your presence to anything in the room. The shiny handle clicked back into place as you let go, but nobody in the room seemed to notice the noise.

You saw Donald.

Don had a beanie safely tucked on his head, black and yellow stripes of polyester covering his head as he had his thin, black sketchbook placed out in front of him. The fresh pages were almost out, most covered by numerous lines and messy streaks of graphite.

He moved his hand quickly across the new page, a pencil tucked in between his pale fingers, stubby nails pressing into the wood (he usually acted very restless when he had to stay still, or when you weren't there with him). You could see the little indents and cuts from here.

   A look of concentration was etched into his features. He flipped a page hastily, placing the pencil down again, not noticing you, as he was too immersed in the makeshift world of his sketches.

You saw his old, torn up, worn out sketchbook that he had complained only once that was too small whilst it was splayed in his lap, places in his grasp. You remembered him getting the small book at a little vintage art store with you by his side.

He was so excited.

The happy memory played out in your head like a movie as you watched him.

" (Y/N)! Look at this!" Don had grabbed a random sketchbook from the organized shelf in a rush.

The plastic seal still covered the white pages and the black, leather cover, light fingerprints dusting it in the light. Don almost knocked over another book in his haste, but you were quick to steady it and then place your attention to the hyper boy in front of you.