#I'M NOT WEIRD ABOUT ANKLES OR HEELS OR WHATEVER I PROMISE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luveline · 1 year

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I have a potential request for the eddie zombie!AU! could I request eddie taking shy!reader under his wing as he is traveling? maybe she is injured and is like 100% sure she’s going to die but then eddie comes along like a knight and helps her to safety, and then they just stick together?

thank you for your request angel! —eddie finds you wounded in the midst of the apocalypse and wants to help, 2.5k, fem!reader. tw for zombie apocalypse typical circumstance, blood and injury

Eddie is absolutely sick of being alone. He imagined the apocalypse cooler than it turned out to be —there aren't that many people around anymore and he's constantly a bit hungry, and having long hair is now the norm. He hasn't seen a real living human being in three weeks and he's starting to wonder (worry) if he's the last man on Earth.

That is, until he sees blood on the sidewalk outside of a pizza place. He'd been planning on going inside just to smell the floury scent of pizza dough, and maybe pretend to answer the phone (he never worked as a delivery guy, but he thinks it might've been his calling). Blood is everywhere in the apocalypse. Genuinely everywhere, and it smells bad when it's old, vinegary and acrid. There's blood on car doors, bloody handprints on windows, pools of it where people died and then their bodies, reanimated and without control, stood and walked off again.

So Eddie's gotten good at blood. He knows old blood from new blood when he sees it, dead blood from alive blood, and the blood trail leading behind the smashed glass door of the pizza place is both new and alive. Or, probably alive. Was alive. He nudges it with his shoe, and it's still wet, not even slightly clotted.

Definitely alive.

Eddie doesn't really think about how whoever it is that's inside could murder him in cold blood for his gear. Eddie's sort of stacked —he has a bike, a proper one like a professional doing the Tour De French, or whatever, he doesn't remember what it's called, would need. The point is that he has a really sturdy bike and a wagon strapped behind it full of camping shit, and the world is so desolate that nobody's tried to shank him for it yet. He leaves his bike by the door and tries to open the door slowly, not wanting to startle whoever it is that's bleeding that badly into hiding from him and his extensive first aid kit.

Eddie pulls it to his chest and steps carefully over a path of broken glass.

"Hey," he calls out. He clears his throat. "Is someone here? I– listen, I'm not here to hurt you, I saw the blood, and I have bandages and antiseptic and everything you need. Maybe. Unless you got shot, I can't do stitches for shit, trust me." Trust the weird huge scar on his ankle.

"Listen," he continues, approaching the counter, peering behind it at a skyscraper of pizza boxes and a dust covered floor, "I know you have no reason to trust me, so I'm gonna go sit outside, and if you want to come out where I can't corner you, I'll help. I swear."

He follows the trail of blood to the cabinet under the ingredients counter. The door moves near imperceptibly.

He gives it a second, and then Eddie turns to leave.

"Wait," says a girl's voice, muffled and weak, "wait, please."

Eddie waits, spinning on his heel to watch as you push open the cabinet door.

He's surprised at the cleanliness of your top half until he realises the bottom of you might as well have been dipped in an exploded blood bank.

"Oh, shit," he says, rushing forward.

You flinch back and he follows on unperturbed, even when you throw your hands up to cover your face.

"I'm not gonna do anything," he promises, panicked, "where are you bleeding? You'll have to show me." He makes sure you can see his lack of weapons and his huge green first aid kit.

"It's my side," you say, and as soon as you speak you start to cry, little shuddering huffs of pain escaping you as Eddie kneels at your side. "I– I– I tried to climb over a fence, and I got caught on the barbed wire, I didn't– I don't–"

He shushes you with as much gentleness as he possesses and pulls up your shirt. It's your hip, not your side, and the cut is a frankly gruesome laceration into the fat. Eddie's going to have to sew you up after all.

He knows what he should do even if he's only done it once before, finding your blood covered hand on instinct and squeezing it. "It's okay," he says, not knowing if it will be, "I can fix it. I have everything, okay? Can I fix it?"

"Please," you whimper.

He doesn't need any pleading. He clicks open the first aid kit and looks first for gauze, pressing it to your side even as blood pools wet and shiny on the floor beneath you. You're in agony, clearly, twisting away from his touch.

"Please stay still," he says, firm but kind. "It'll hurt more the more you move. I have painkillers, and I'll give you some right now. Right now, okay? Stay still."

You shriek as he presses down on your hip but you don't move. He hates having hooked a sound like that from you —Eddie's not a violent person, even if he's rough around the edges— and he rushes to correct it. He swaps the soaked gauze for a second, pressing down hard again, and remembers with a white hot panic that he didn't disinfect his hands.

It's rough going. He finds the painkillers, you take them dry. He has the urge to touch your cheek because you're in so much pain, and the blood has somehow ended up on your face like a crimson tear. Eddie disinfects his hand and your hip, which still hurts wildly untouched by the painkillers, and opens a sterile packaging of needle and medical thread. His hands shake as he ties the thread with tweezers. It's imperative he doesn't touch the needle, even if he did disinfect his hands, because it will end up deep in your skin.

By the time he's ready to start the stitches you're crying and not speaking, a hand pressed to your mouth. "I don't know how much the painkillers have worked, and I don't think they'll stop this from hurting, but I think I have to stitch it before you lose too much blood. Is that okay? Can I start?" he asks.

You nod hurriedly. "Just– Don't– Just ignore me if I ask you to stop," you say weakly.

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek until he can taste blood as strongly as he smells it.

He stitches your wound closed. It's a jagged wound shaped like an italicised 'y', and he does it as carefully as he can manage, even if the amount of blood pouring from it scares him. He doesn't want to do it wrong and have the stitches rip, or cause more pain than they need too.

He never wants to hear someone make the sounds you make ever again. When he tells you it's alright, that you don't have to bite them back, you start to sob with each string he tugs. He can't imagine how fiery the pain is.

When it's done, he disinfects your hip again generously. He must not do a bad job at stitching you up, because while the wound weeps blood into the disinfectant like dye seeping into fabric, it's ten times slower. You look down at your hip, hiccup, and look away. There's blood everywhere, so Eddie pulls you by the underarms across the floor and sits you up. You're still crying, sobbing, but you don't say anything. Eddie wipes away as much blood as he can. Then he covers your newly stitched wound with a fresh, thick square of gauze and tapes it. Finally, he wraps bandages around your waist to keep everything in place, and to apply pressure to the wound.

He looks at your clammy face with a mixture of pity and newfound pride. He doesn't know who you are, but you did a damn good job.

"Well done," he says, rubbing the lengths of your arms quickly, like a hug without closing in on you. "You did awesome. I'm gonna run outside to get my stuff, I have a shirt that should fit you, and some pants. Water, food. I have whatever you need."

"A tranquilliser?" you ask.

"Maybe not one of those."

Eddie retrieves his bike and his wagon, carting them into the kitchen, through your blood trail, and into the staff room behind you. It's snug but there's a couch, and that's all that matters. He shoves the bike aside and runs back to your side, crouching. You look like you're gonna pass out.

"Hey," he says, "can I lift you up?"

"It's gonna hurt," you say.

"Yeah, but there's a couch in there, and a door that locks, I don't want us to get attacked while we can't move."

"Are you going to attack me?" you ask, looking like you want to curl up in a ball and disappear.

He shakes his head quickly. "No. I promise."

A promise from someone you don't know isn't worth much, but you take it, and Eddie helps you up and into the staff room. Your crying wanes. Maybe the painkillers are working, or maybe you've run out of steam. Acclimatised to the pain.

Eddie stops before he gets to the couch. "No funny business, I'm gonna take off your pants."

"It's okay, whatever," you gasp out. "Sit me down."

Eddie unbuttons your jeans and you kick them off the best that you can. Your legs are streaked with blood too, but at least you can sit down without absolutely ruining the couch you'll be sleeping on for the next few days. Eddie locks the door, grabs the clothes shears, and cuts off your top. You really do look at him then, your eyes wide with fear, and he backs away from you with his hands up.

"Sorry," he says, "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to scare you. You've been holding your elbow, I thought maybe you hurt that too, didn't want you to lift your arm."

Your fear ebbs with his explanation. He grabs clothes from his wagon, ears piqued when you speak up. "I think I've broken it."

"Your arm?" he asks. That's an entirely different problem. It could be painful for the rest of your life.

"My elbow. It's swollen."

"I'll give you more painkillers," he says assuringly.

He grabs the shirt that looks like it'll fit you and a pair of pants that will be too big. He doesn't know why he has all this stuff that doesn't fit him, he kinda thought they were cool. And who could abandon a Dio t-shirt when no one will ever make one ever again?

"Do you need help?" he asks.

You sigh regretfully. "I don't think I really have a choice."

"You do. We could throw a blanket over you? Two blankets, even."

"Please help me put on the t-shirt," you say.

He doesn't resent you at all for sounding untrusting, even if he did potentially save your life a few minutes ago. People are cruel and will do the worst thing they can do to another person if they want to. He helps you into the t-shirt. You flinch when you straighten out your arm, but it goes on well. Next he helps you into the cargo pants that are luckily a starchy but flexible cotton. You wince as they reach your hip. He lets them lie low.

He makes sure there's a pillow behind your head, laying his favourite blanket over you and tucking you in amicably.

Pulling his hair out of his face, Eddie laments how sweaty he is and eyes the wagon for what best to feed you with. You're probably nauseous from pain, so while he'd love to feed you hearty oxtail soup or a can of meatballs that promise protein, he grabs a box of crackers, a tin of vegetable soup that he knows from experience is watery and sad, and his big flask of water.

He sits down a half a foot from you on the couch.

"Here," Eddie says, opening the crackers. "You should eat something, please. And drink some water, too."

You accept everything silently, though after a few morose chews of saltine you murmur, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Really welcome."

"You didn't have to help me," you say, shivering with pain still but looking less like you’re going to pass out now you’ve stopped bleeding profusely.

He looks down at his hands, blood in the grooves of his palms, and shrugs. "Yeah, I did."

"Most people wouldn't, though."

"I don't think there's a precedent for what people do anymore. You're the first person I've seen in weeks."

"You're lucky."

"Yeah?" He tucks his hair behind his shoulder. "I guess I am."

You eat another cracker, and then you stick out your hand very tentatively. "I'm Y/N. Thank you for saving me."

He shakes your hand with the same tentativeness.

"I'm Eddie," he says with a smile. "You're welcome."

"I thought I was gonna die in the cabinet," you say, rubbing your eyes, "like a sick dog. I just wanted to be alone while it happened."

It's a very solemn thing to admit to, and in the quiet of the room, your face and hands dull with blood, it's macabre.

"Sorry I didn't let you die," he says, trying not to laugh in shock.

You visibly fluster, your embarrassment held tightly in the set of your shoulders and your frenetic hand as you rub your collar. "I didn't want to die. I don't want to."

"Then you won't," Eddie says, knowing it's not that simple, but needing to persuade the agony from your face.

You look down at your lap. Eddie searches for something to offer, something he can give now that you're lucid enough to know you were in the shit. It's terrifying business, knowing you could've died.

"I have a bottle of Black Coconut rum if you're interested. I thought it might come in handy lighting fires, but I think you could use it," Eddie offers.

"Yes," you say, your voice small. "I think so too."

"If we had some pineapple juice, I would love to make you a Piña Colada. Now that would cheer you up."

"Rum is fine, please."

Eddie doesn't let you suffer. He gets up to grab the rum and passes it to you. You drink it in surprisingly eager glugs, rum running down your neck in shiny rivulets like shooting stars plummeting through a vermillion sky. He needs to help you clean the blood from your throat and face before it dries.

You shudder and pass the rum bottle back to him, looking sicker than sick. "That wasn't bad," you say, eyes squeezed closed. You sound like you've been punched.

Eddie hoots a laugh. He really missed having good company.

—

thank you for reading! reblogs are appreciated, and if you have a request for this au let me know, I’d love to write more of their story!! <3

#eddie zombie!au with shy reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things 4

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whitesilverandmercury · 7 years

Note

helloooo! c: i'm here with a fic prompt: otayuri, tattoo parlour AU where one of them (you can choose!) is getting a tattoo for the first time. you can do whatever you want with that. PS: DON'T CALL YOUR WRITING SHIT OK YOU ARE SO SO WONDERFUL AND I LOVE IT?? AND YOU?? so much. too much. you're rad, okay. take care of yourself and take your time. ♥♥♥ have a wonderful day!

fic prompts ☆ fuck me up here

disclaimers: don’towna/n: ahhh omgthis is such a cute idea and as soon as i read it i was like yessss ok let’s do this.also, you’re too sweet, and thank you for yelling at me bc sometimes it justneeds to happen, thank friend

59°N, 30° E.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“You changed your mind at the last minute. I thought you wanted a Rosa … uh.”

“Rosecrucian.”

“Rosecrucian sun and moon on the top of your foot.”

“Yes, and I’m getting that one next time.”

“Remember this is permanent — ”

“Beka,” Yurii snaps, and Otabek does not rear back but he pauses, cutting Yurii a glance without lifting his head as he finds his favorite grip on his tattoo gun.

He sits comfortably on his artist’s stool to the right of the leather-cushioned table,feet planted wide apart, holes in the knees of his jeans and holes in hisshirt, the openings of his sleeves slit down past his ribs. A few of his owntattoos peek through, dance across firm, flickering muscle and tan skin.Deadpan, almost sarcastically, he gives his station’s footswitch a little pressof the toe, the gun buzzes as if to reply, Yes?

“I know it’s permanent,” Yurii says, lying on his back withlegs drawn up and heels planted on the edge of the table. He wiggles hisfingers, right arm outstretched on the adjustable rest, cool air ticklish onthe spot where the stencil’s been peeled off — the inner forearm, just belowthe bend of his elbow, sweet soft skin, shaved and sterilized.

Otabek frowns at the arrangement of inks on his tray. “Yourcousin is going to hate me for this.”

“He already hates you.”

Otabek’s eyes flicker up, dark and penetrative in a hoveringsort of way. “Ah, chto-chto?” hemumbles, brows dimpling gently as if he forces them not to knit together forappearances’ sake. “Nu, pochemu?” Comeagain? Why?

Yurii hides a tiny smile behind his free hand, where he runshis thumbnail along the ridge of his teeth anxiously. He loves it when Otabekslips into Russian, usually when surprised, when frustrated, when excited, whenhe is being particularly romantic. It’s kneejerk; he hasn’t been in the U.S. aslong as Yurii. It keeps Yurii on his toes, keeps him sharp. Makes him blush.Feels pleasantly sneaky, no one knows what they say and no one gets to know what they say — exceptprobably Georgi, one of the other artists in the shop — and of course Victor,at home, but he only sometimes forgets not to rattle off in Russian when his fiancéis around — or, well, if he’s scolding Yurii —

“Potomu chto,” Yuriimumbles against his knuckles. Because.Otabek snaps his tongue against the back of his teeth; he recognizes the impishglow on Yurii’s face.

“Because we’re involved?” he mutters below a sigh, dippingink and scooting closer with a rattle of the wheels on his rolling stool.

“‘Dating’ is a cuter word than ‘involved.’”

“Do I look like I enjoy cute words?” Otabek leans in, onehand stretched in a firm L to holdsoft skin flat and even as he takes the needle to stencil. Yurii chokes back agasp not from the pain — not really — but from surprise. He clenches his otherfist so as not to move suddenly, instinct begging he give Otabek a pointed look.

“No warning?” he grunts.

“Oye, I’m sorry, babe.”

“It’s fine,” Yurii says through a tight sigh. He needs torelax; his arm is already tingling from holding it so stiff with anticipation.But it’s probably for the better, like getting a shot at the doctor’s. Nowarning, get it done with. And the skin is sensitive, defenseless unlike driver’stans or hard-working palms, feels like a million little flu shots stabbing overand over, and over again. Not too bad, but the needle’s got a definite nip —

“Breathe,” Otabek murmurs without even looking up, his headlow and that one dark tuft of hair falling almost across one brow. Broadshoulders hunched, mouth in the thin line of concentration. Breathe, he says, and Yurii blushesbecause this has happened before. Not the tattoo — no, it’s his first — butOtabek, hovering over him, beside him, whispering Breathe because he knows Yurii is denying a discomfort just un-mildenough to be distracting, a needle pulsing at his skin or the first time theyhad real sex —

Yurii clears his throat. “I’m okay,” he promises.

There are a few minutes as silence as he lets himself getaccustomed to the feel. “Stop tapping your foot,” Otabek mumbles. Yurii stops. “Stopmaking a fist, relax your arm,” Otabek grunts next. Yurii obeys. He lets out aslow breath and goes back to the conversation from earlier that is not yetover:

“You look like the type of guy who pretends he doesn’t enjoycute words but secretly enjoys cute words.”

Otabek casts him a quick look of submission at odds with thefirm frown on his face. It is his version of pouting.

Yurii smiles a little, a gentle laugh with no sound. “I’mkidding,” he reassures. His fingers are starting to tingle, out there at theend of the armrest. “Victor doesn’t hate you. He just likes to play mama bearsometimes.”

Otabek issues a friendly little scoff as he dips his needlein black ink; the sound comes out something more like a dissatisfied grunt.

“Also,” Yurii says, “I hate being up late at night andoverhearing him and Yuuri have sex, so I think he owes me.”

“Oh my God … ” Otabek sighs again, exasperated, but theghost of a smile haunts his mouth.

The shop is noisy but not loud; up front, the door opens andcloses with a gentle ringing of chimes now and again. Laughter echoes from apartitioned work station off to the left. To the right, one of the artists — JJ— is on the phone with his girlfriend. Georgi preps for a girl in a yellowsundress getting something on her ankle. Under the cool, dim lights of theshop, the walls dance with in-house sketches and paintings, little posters forlocal new age stores, book exchanges, music venues. Weird wall hangings likecherubs or gargoyles that look like they belong more in a French boudoir or aVenetian palazzo sit right next to things like a vintage drive-in sci-fi movie.The cute little receptionist with the snaggle tooth and two-toned hair singsalong to the music —

“So you hear them doing it, hmm?”

Yurii’s arm is going numb for the pressure of Otabek’s handsand the restriction of blood flow, stretched out to the side as it is. Thepinpricks in his hand almost match the pinpricks of the tattoo itself. He sendsOtabek a little glance. It’s been a good twenty minutes or more, and back onthat topic? Otabek does not usually talk while he works. Yurii knows; he’s hungaround during enough of his shifts to know that. “Not all the time. Once ortwice.”

“So next time I come over, we should be very loud, then,huh?”

Yurii chokes on a breath that was meant to be a laugh or ascoff or something in between. Below his free arm, thrown across his forehead,he shoots Otabek a look; Otabek peers back at him from his seat to the left ofthe table, unbothered. He’s not even playing off Yurii’s mischievous side. Heis absolutely serious.

With a stutter of the heart that Yurii knows means he’sgoing to be blushing in a breath or two, he gives a roll of the eyes andgrumbles, “They couldn’t handle it.”

“Says the tiger who becomes a mewling kitten when he hitsthe sheets.”

“Holy shi — Beka, tikho,oh my God — ”

Otabek chuckles, leaning back with a creak of his rollingchair. Gently, he swipes away the last bit of blood and ink. “Done,” hedeclares. “I’m going to put a clear wrap on it, and in a few hours … ”

“I know, Otabek. I’ve seen you do it a million times. I stillhave your Bacitracin in the bathroom.”

Squeak of clear bandaging, rip of tape. Yurii sits up on oneelbow to look, nervous but excited, and so very ready to move his arm and getblood flowing again.

Simple and clean at the top of his inner forearm, neat, unassumingand crisp: 59° 57’ N, 30°18’ E.

“Not so bad?” Otabek asks, meaning the pain. “Eh, it’s asmall one. Just black lines, really.” He pauses, frowning at the fresh tattoo.Fine, minimalistic line of numbers. 59°57’ N, 30° 18’ E. He raises his browsslowly. “Chto znachat nomery?”

What do the numbers mean?

“Gde my poznakomilic’s drug drugom.”

It’s where we first met each other.

Otabek gives him a funny look, scrunch of the nose andflicker of dark eyes. “Ne ponimayu,”he grunts. Don’t understand.

Yurii frowns, face heating faintly. Maybe he said it wrong.“V Peterburge,” he says, and now hereally does blush as Otabek takes him by the wrist to turn his arm gently toand fro, examining the numbers. “They’re coordinates. Longitude and latitudefor St. Petersburg. Where we met.”

Otabek’s dark eyes swerve up to find his again, wide andintent, and somehow slightly vulnerable as if he does not know what to think orsay.

“You’re kidding,” he mutters, low, below his breath. He isbristled, his blue latex gloves still on, fingertips dusted in black like thecrumpled up paper towel on his tray. He just sits there, slouched forward onhis leather-seated stool, elbows on his knees — is he blushing, too? Yurii can’ttell. It’s always so hard to tell. He thinks he can figure it out, though, whenOtabek gets flustered enough to get that sweet, lovely pinch to his face, thatdefenseless light in his eyes. Finally, he clears his throat, leans backand begins peeling off his gloves. “I cannot believe you just suckered me intodoing a sappy tattoo like that.”

Yurii lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.He swings up and around to sit, carefully, letting his sore arm rest along onethigh. The place where the needle had been burns in a weird, buzzing way, ghostof the sensation and tender skin. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry I ruined your edgystyle with something so cheesy — ”

Otabek reaches out and grabs the edge of the tattoo table,dragging himself forward on the rolling stool until he is between Yurii’s knees,looking up at him from below.

“I didn’t say cheesy,” he husks, and God, Yurii is so weakfor that look he’s giving him — the look that as rule of thumb always precedes … well, at the least a good make-out. He blushes, furiously, and struggles tohide it, but the meaning cuts deeper into him, burrows its way into his heartfor good. There is already something to Otabek giving him his first tattoo —maybe not kosher by artist superstitions, but —

Otabek cranes up for a kiss; Yurii is startled back intofocus but hurries to meet him halfway, bounce of the ponytail at the top of hislittle blond halfback, creak of the rolling stool as Otabek leans in. Quick,harmless, brush of tongue, subtle graze of teeth. Yup. Rule of thumb.

“You like it?” Otabek whispers in Russian, once his mouth isno longer busy, though he still leans forth against the table, head cocked backto look up at Yurii as Yurii leans down to bump his forehead with his nose likea lazy cat looking for attention.

“Da,” Yuriiwhispers back, “I really love it.”

Otabek smiles, because he is the type of guy who pretends hedoesn’t like cute things when in reality he loves cute things. And it’s not just the tattoo he means, it’s a jobwell done with the ink and it’s the meaning of the numbers and it’s the wayYurii does that little grin with his tongue between his teeth, running hisfingers through Otabek’s hair — it’s all of that, he means all of that as hesays, “Good. I like it, too.”

end.

#yoi fic #otayuri #fic prompts #ily friend #au prompt

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