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dearbraus · 4 months

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Doctor's Orders ೀ

— Wriothesley

⊹ Details. 18+ minors dni, gn!afab!reader, werewolf!wrio, doctor!reader, reader is from liyue, wrio has boxing injuries, bratty and slightly tsundere reader, banter, teasing, power imbalance, boss!wrio and subordinate!reader, semi public sex, oral sex (reader giving), top!wrio, bottom!reader, vaginal fingering, hair pulling, pussy spanks, knotting, creampies, wrio speaks in french, french petname, french dialogue. ⊹ Run time. 5.0k ⊹ Note. This was originally a part of an event ask game held back in October ,,, Oopsies! But!!! It's finally finished and much longer than it was meant to be but this idea has been rotting my brain since September!! Enjoy lovelies <3

❝After a particularly grueling boxing match, Wriothesley finds himself on the receiving end of a scolding from his subordinate and doctor. Though he supposes he can't be too bothered when your next treatment has you on your knees for him.❞

The Duke’s office smells strongly of antiseptic and sweat. It smothers the usual scent of weathered parchment and fragrant tea that fills the room. The lack of windows and airflow makes the room grow stagnant, and your clothing clings uncomfortably to your skin as it’s dampened by the muggy humidity that claims the Fortress of Meropide. Rolling your neck out, you quickly glance upwards at the man who sits like a kicked puppy before you. His shoulders are slumped forward and he withers under your steely gaze.

It was unusual. Despite his newly elevated status and gruff demeanour, Wriothesley liked to talk, often far more than he should. Now, he remained silent in your care, save for the few pained grunts and whines as you dabbled disinfectant across his split knuckles. His brows are furrowed as he watches your deft fingers wrap gauze around his splintered skin. Your mouth opens and closes as you search for something comforting to say to him but you come up empty.

Not that you had said much to the man since being called from the infirmary to his office.

“All done,” you murmur, setting his nearly limp hand back into his lap, “Do you mind tilting your head for me?”

You nod to gesture at his split lip before turning away to rummage through your medical bag. There wasn’t much left but you had enough to finish patching him up. Soon, you’d need to visit the surface and replenish the infirmary supplies. Your lips dipped into a frown at the thought. Your scarce trips to the surface always seemed to be troublesome in one way or another. Taking Wriothesely’s stubbled chin between your thumb and forefinger, you sigh softly before dabbing at the gnarled gash that cut through his bottom lip.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile,” the Duke quips with a lopsided smile.

He peers up at you for a moment, his pale blue eyes flickering up and down your face as your frown deepens into a scowl.

“You’re an idiot,” the words fly faster out of your mouth than you mean for them to.

Your shoulders tense up as you prepare for a tongue-lashing from your boss. If he’d been a lesser man, you likely would have been sent packing long ago but Wriothesely stares at you long and hard, his long black lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks as he blinks at you. Maybe you’d think he looks rather pretty beneath the scars and bruises with such expressive eyes and doll-like lashes had you not run your mouth. Still, your mind lingers near the shores of murky waters as it begins to consider that he is attractive. Attractive in a way that should he ever wish to leave his life beneath waves behind, he’d find no shortage of suitors knocking down his door, all vying for a crumb of his attention and affections.

Objectively speaking, he was rather good-looking. This you knew, though it was something you refused to allow yourself to acknowledge in all of the years you resided in the fortress. He was your superior, one whose rugged outward appearance projected a far more intimidating and unapproachable mirage than you assume he would have liked. It stunned you into a skittish silence that lasted six months and only ended once you caught him deep in thought over which tea he was going to pick. By the time he had chosen a packet of soothing chamomile, the kettle of boiled water that sat adjacent to his tea cup had cooled and needed to be warmed once more.

“Your Grace, you have my sincerest apologies. I did not-”

“Come now, you don’t have to lie to me,” Wriothesely laughed, his ears twitching with delight, “Though, I must admit I think you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone here who agrees with you.”

You stiffened, your mouth agape with shock, “That is not what I meant, your Grace,” you sputter, drawing your hands away from him. Your mind teeters and you’re nearly thrown off kilter when he laughs again. Had you not been so wrought with surprise, you might have felt insulted, “It’s just … I advised against any formal or informal boxing matches with your shoulder still recovering and you didn’t listen!”

Your shoulders tremble with emotion, it may have been annoyance but you were far too aggravated by how prettily he looked as he stared at you with an amused smirk as you scolded him. Blood dribbles down his chin as his grin widens, aggravating his wound further. Shaking your head at him, you resist the urge to roll your eyes in an act of defiance. It would do little to aid in your plight and your words would deaf upon his fuzzy ears.

“And if I may be frank, because you pushed yourself past your limit, you got your ass handed to you!”

The smug smirk that sits on his stupidly pretty mug makes your skin erupt with goosebumps. He seems far too amused at being scolded and it sets a fire in your belly ablaze, frustration bubbling over the lip of the pot where your emotions are typically stuffed into. Crossing your arms over your chest, you scowl at Wriothesley.

“Oh? You think I lost because I was injured?” He laughs, bemused by how your face is twisted up in annoyance, “I let ‘im win, he needed it far more than I did.”

Your silence only spurs his grin to grow even wider.

“Come now, you think that was my limit?”

Wriothesley asks as if it should be obvious to you as if you should know his body as well as you know his own. Did the other medics around the fortress know him so intimately? Were you supposed to?

Shaking your head to push away those pesky thoughts you sighed, “Yes,” a lump settled in your throat as he stared unabashedly at you, “Do you really expect me to believe you allowed yourself to be beaten to a pulp so your underling could have an ego boost?”

He shrugs his shoulders, slowly lifting one of his hands to curl a single finger around one of your belt loops. His slate blue eyes slide up the length of your torso before settling on your face, “I must admit I’m a bit disappointed in your lack of faith,” he remarks, sending you a playful pout, “But I suppose I could show you where my limits lay, so next time we can skip the scolding and go straight the good part.”

“The good part?” You echo.

“Yeah, you know when you kiss me better.”

Your jaw fell open in shock, eyes widening as you struggled to form words. All that slipped past your lips was a strangled sort of laugh, “What?�� You managed to pant between breaths. Your cheeks warmed at the thought, your skin prickling uncomfortably as salacious images filled your mind.

“I’m just playin’ with you,” Wriothesley says, though the expression he wears as he peers up at you is devoid of the same playful lilt it previously had.

Something akin to adoration pools within the depths of his eyes. Your stomach curls in on itself and the urge to look away fills you but you can’t force your eyes away from him. The sight of him is burned beneath your eyelids, almost against your will. Maybe you’ll allow yourself to revisit it late at night once you’ve escaped his clutches and laid your head to rest. Wriothesley’s long, sharp canines bite into the plush flesh of his bottom lip as he bares his teeth to you. The finger that is hooked around your belt loop tugs against the fabric to bring you closer to him. Your feet, heavy like lead weights, trip over themselves as he puppeteers you closer to him.

“Are you?” You question with a tilt of your head, your throat running dry and your belly fluttering with nerves “I’ve worked beneath you for years, I’ve heard just about every joke you’ve ever told, you didn’t sound like you were joking.”

His long, fuzzy tail tickles your thigh as it thumps up and down. Though Wriothesley is able to school his expression down he’s betrayed by his body and its need to act on baser instincts.

“Don’t tell me you’d prefer if I was beneath you, literally?”

Your lip curls upwards as his cheeks fill with blush. It felt good to tease him despite your racing heart and the fear that it may soon stop. Heat blankets your clammy skin, leaving pin prickling goosebumps in their wake. His thick, sturdy thighs trap yours between them. The tip of his finger unfurls and trails up your navel, lightly brushing the sliver of skin above your waistband that reveals itself when you bristle in surprise.

“I like it when you scold me,” he confesses, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip, “It’s hot.”

Pressing his calloused thumb to your tummy, he rubs a circle into the flesh just beneath your belly button. Your pussy clenches in anticipation but your brows furrow in something akin to shame. It is shameful, how the slight brush of his bare skin against yours has set your being on fire and plunged you deep within a pit of desire. Your skin prickles as you pathetically lean into his touch.

Cocking your head to the side you try to steady your wobbling voice, “Oh yeah?” You ask, hoping the slight lilt is infused with more confidence than you were capable of possessing, “Does it turn you on?”

You try not to cringe over how your voice crackles with nerves like an old, worn speaker system.

“Maybe it does, but can you blame me?”

You couldn’t not when the sight of him glistening with sweat and dabbled with splattered blood after a boxing match filled your head with thoughts that were far better suited for those Inazuman light novels that your coworker Marguerite often indulged in when Sigewinne didn’t have her tending to patients. The sound of your blood rushing past your ears distracts you from his question as you become acutely aware of how your heart throbs painfully beneath your rib cage. If you didn’t know any better you might’ve thought you were dying from the rushing sense of urgency that quickly filled you. Your fingers twitched by your sides, they ached to press against your pulse point for confirmation that this was real and the Fortress hadn’t yet imploded, sending you straight into some dreamlike afterlife.

The soft call of your voice breaks you away from the murky, spiralling depths of your mind, “Sorry,” you murmur, chewing on your bottom lip, “What did you say?”

“Distracted?” He asks, his voice irritatingly smug, “Come now, I haven’t even touched you and you’re already so dumb for me?”

“Shut up.”

The words fly past your gritted teeth with ease despite his seniority. You peer down at him with furrowed brows and annoyance laced between the buttons of your dress shirt. You blink in shock, still half estranged with yourself and your behaviour. Wriothesley smiles at you, cupping your face with an achingly tender touch. Try as you might, you can’t will yourself to hate his touch. Your tummy dips into a summersault as your nerves crawl up your throat to clog up your vocal chords.

“Archons … You're so cute when you try to be mean,” he muses, biting his lip despite the splintered skin. You’re about to chastise him, but he smooths his thumb across your bottom lip. Dragging the flesh downward, he exposes your bottom row of teeth to him.

Shaking your head you hiss,“I’m not trying … You’re just so annoying!” smack his hand away, you try to keep your stony resolve from crumbling beneath the weight of his heated gaze.

“So I’ve been told.”

You don’t when you dipped your chin down, but you’ve begun to crouch lower so your face is level with his. His warm breath fans across your nose and cheeks. The minty scent of the gum he chewed on all the way to his office lingers on his breath.

“Liar,” you whisper.

The tip of Wriothesley’s nose brushes against yours. Your breathing slows for a moment, the air collecting in your chest as you hold it. You don’t have to see his expression to know there’s a rather pleased smirk on his lips. You sigh, it’s a bit too heavy to be seen as simply a sign of your resigned fate. In the end, it’s you who closes the small gap between your mouths, ending this silly game of chicken and kissing him. It’s better than you could have ever imagined.

Wriothesley tugs you into his lap with an eager fervour, his lips never once leaving yours. His hands slip down to grope your thighs in spite of the thick, unmoving material of your dress pants. He’s warm, surprisingly so. Heat melts off the bare skin of his torso, your face feels hot. You’d rather blame it on him than accept the flush that’s dripping down your neck and leaving you dabbled with clammy perspiration.

“Everyone here loves you,” you grit, your chest heaving as you breathe, “They adore you, I hear the praises they sing for you every day.”

His canines poke against your bottom lip as he nips the flesh, “Are they? Hm, I hadn’t noticed,” he smugly muses, “Do join in? Or, are you strictly an observer?”

Pressing your thumb into the battered, bruised flesh of his shoulder, you give him a pointed look.

Wriothesley winces, “Mon petit agneau,” he growls in warning, “I don’t think you want to do that.”

“Why? You know I’ll just stitch you back up.”

Tangling your fingers into his hair, you pull him in for another kiss. His tail thumps wildly about, slapping against the side of your body as he crushes you into his chest. The sharp edge of his teeth prick your lips as he works to pry your mouth open and lick his tongue inward. He groans into your mouth when your fingers find the base of his ears. They twitch in your hold. You can feel his cock harden against your crotch as you experimentally smooth your fingers around the sensitive flesh.

“That’s what doctors do, isn’t it?” You ask, swiping your tongue across your lip. It tastes metallic but you’re unsure if he’s split your skin or reopened his wound, “They put you back together and make you feel good?”

Wriothesley’s lashes flutter as his eyes roll back slightly, “Kinda hard to do that when you’re purposely trying to get me all riled up.”

He pushed you onto your back before you were able to spin together a response. The sofa he keeps in his office is as uncomfortable as it looks. A rouge spring digs into your spine but it does not yet pierce the fabric, keeping you safe … for now.

“Archons above, have you always been such a brat?”

When he looms over you like this, Wriothesley appears oddly predatory. What’s strange is not how quickly perspective can switch but rather how little fear fills you up. It’s thrill that pours into your lungs and leaves you sputtering in anticipation. Your legs spread a little wider to invite his body to slot between your thighs.

You don’t think when your hands fly to unbutton your shirt, “I’m not,” you smoothly reply, “Don’t pout like a petulant child when I’ve bested you at your own game.”

His teeth glint in the low light.

“You think you’ve bested me?” He questions, grumbling something beneath his breath. You’re unsure what he’s saying, it’s something in his native Fontainian tongue. It sounds rather pretty, you almost want to ask him to repeat himself for the chance to hear it again but he cuts you off in the gruff common tongue you share.

“How foolish you are.”

The metal of his belt clinks as he yanks it open. You’re about to scold him to be mindful of his knuckles but blood soaks through the gauze before you’re able to. His handcuffs jingle loudly as he tosses them to the floor, his belt going with it. Goosebumps prickle your heated skin as the fabric of your shirt falls away from your body. You shiver, nearly flinching as your pants and underwear are tugged down your legs. His palms are calloused, weathered with the signs of time and age, they’re rough against your supple thighs. They drag over your skin in quiet contemplation as Wriothesley sizes you up.

“Am I, though?”

You sharply inhale when you catch sight of his hard, dribbling cock. He slowly strokes his length, his crystalline eyes boring into yours. There’s a small twinkle of mischief that pangs against the surface of his eyes, begging to be let out as you gawk at him. Precum spills over his knuckles and spatters across your pelvis with each shallow thrust of his hand.

Licking your lips, you cast your gaze upwards, “J'ai besoin de toi,” he mutters with a haggard breath of his own, “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

You shake your head, feeling a bit shy under his gaze.

“Well, you do.”

“Maybe … Maybe, I should do something about that then?” You suggest, reaching out to encase his hand within yours.

Wriothesley snorts a bit as he chuckles in agreement, “You should.”

Paying no mind to the small wince that he attempts to disguise with a throaty grunt, you wrap your fist around his cock. It throbs in your hold, a few more beads of precum flicking onto your belly.

“I’m sorry,” you apologise as you dip your head down to press your pursed lips to the weeping, red tip, “So, very, sorry.”

“Are you? I think you could do a bit better.”

Humming in contemplation, you squeeze the base of his dick, slowly allowing your tongue to loll out from between your lips to lick at his sweat salted skin. Wriothesley’s nails dig into the worn fabric of the sofa behind your head. The tendons and muscles in his arms flex and throb in the corner of your eye. You nearly moan at the sight alone, his raw strength further stirring up the embers that crackled deep within your tummy. The musk of his sweat fills your nostrils, adding to the intoxicating, heady mixture of precum that dabbles your tongue.

He curses under his breath, tossing his head back as he groans. A bead of sweat dribbles down the column of his neck and gathers within the deep crevice of his collarbone. It was truly criminal that skipped out on so many of his boxing skirmishes. If you hadn’t, you might have realised how gorgeous Wriothesley truly was, ages ago.

Swirling your head around the sensitive tip of his cock, you slowly guide his length into your mouth. Tears gather in the corner of your eyes as your mouth stretches to accommodate his girth.

“That’s it, fucking take it.”

Wriothesley’s eyes roll back into his head for a moment before they’re settled back onto the sight of you swallowing his cock down into your mouth. The intensity that glimmers amongst them makes you squirm, a whimper gathering in the back of your throat. The vibration around his length stirs forth another set of moans that tumble past his lips to form a twinkling melody of music for your ears.

Your hand strokes his shaft, accommodating whatever you struggle to fit into your mouth. The tips of your fingers stroke at the bulbous knot that sits at the base of his cock and occasionally his full, tender balls. You can feel him twitch in your mouth when you focus your efforts on his head, your lashes fluttering to blink away the tears that have continued to pool along your lash line.

“So fucking good,” he grumbles, his chest rumbling with each syllable, “Archons above … I need to be inside of you.”

Wriothesley decides at the drop of a hat. You whine at the loss of weight and warmth filling your mouth when he swiftly pulls away to settle between your spread thighs. His tail tickles your bare skin as he shoves his muscular, scarred arms beneath your torso to press your chest against his. You can’t help but giggle when his thick, scraggly chest hair grazes against your nipples. His stubbly cheek rubs your jaw and neck raw as he settles his face in the crevice.

“Please,” you croak with wanton need, “Please, fuck me.”

His free hand snakes between your bodies. Wriothesley cups your quivering cunt, the heel of his palm grinding into your clit as he sinks a finger into your weeping hole.

Your jaw falls slack as pleasure courses through your veins, “Be patient,” he laughs, his fanged teeth nipping at your shoulder, “I’ve gotta stretch you open first, fuck, you’re so wet for me.”

“Mhm, all for you.”

The rough material of the sofa rubs uncomfortably against your skin as you shift to bring Wriothesley closer to you, but you don’t care. Any of the day's worries slip between your fingers like the sand on the beaches of Yaoguang Shoal where you spent your youth splashing around without a care. Desire pools beneath your bodies and bathes your tangled limbs in liquid gold. It washes away your gathered worries and fears, leaving your body prickled in warmth.

You think there’s irony in the magnetic heat that flickers in and out between where your flesh meets his, being so deep beneath the ocean’s surface that the walls were often cold to the touch. He was cold to the touch, constantly shrouded in elemental residue from his frigid cryo vision.

Sweat dribbles down your brow, the apples of your cheeks burn.

“Oh yeah?”

Your vision blurs for a moment as you nod your head. Wriothelsey’s hair hands limply around his face, it brushes against your forehead when he dips his head to take in the sight of your puffy, wet pussy.

“Yeah.”

It’s cloyingly sweet, the lilt of your voice. You nearly choke on it. Goosebumps follow in the wake of the blanket of embarrassment that flew over you. He pays the way you nervously chuckle no mind, instead cradling the side of your face as he stretches you open with another finger.

“I want more,” you moan between pursed lips, your eyelids fluttering shut, “I can take it.”

The rough pads of his fingers and the stretch just barely satiated your appetite but, your palate had been wet by bulbous knot that teasingly sat pressed against your thigh.

Wriothesley presses a kiss to your sweat dabbled hair line, “I know ya can,” he murmurs, licking his lips as your body trembles beneath him, “But just let me be a gentleman, huh?”

“The gentlemanly thing to do would fuck me instead of making me beg for it.”

“Begging?” That sparks his interest, there's a devilish twinkle in his eye, “I didn’t know begging was on the table.”

Pleasure ripples through you as the heel of his palm grinds against your clit at just the right angle, causing your head to spin with wanton need.

“It’s not, I have enough self respect not to beg for cock.”

“Do you though?”

His smirk makes your need triple in size which in turns makes this game all the more maddening. You question it yourself– your resolve, you already asked politely but were you above begging. If you ruminate on the thought any longer you might’ve just found the answer to be no.

Wriothesley complies nonetheless, giving your pussy a few firm, wet slaps before slipping his hand upward toward your pubic bone. His fingers leave a trail of your arousal on your skin, it dries quickly and leaves you shivering from the cold. Spitting into the palm of his hand, he strokes his cock. Precum oozes out, flicking onto the sofa cushions. Your throat bobs as you swallow, a bundle of nerves gathers at the centre of your chest as he presses the tip of his cock against your pussy. Your cunt squelches lewdly as he slides his length between your sticky folds, light grazing your clit before he settles against your hole.

“Hurry up!” You find yourself saying though your stomach remains clenched in anticipation.

Rolling his eyes, Wriothesley shakes his head, “You have to savour it.”

Still, you feel your cunt stretch open to accommodate the girth of his dick. Your jaw falls slack as the wind is knocked out of your lungs, his visage is a mirror image. Not in mockery, but in relief. A satisfied sigh passed Wriothesley’s split lips as he slowly pushed his cock in deeper.

Wriothesley winces as you dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders, you sigh at the sight of his tensed expression, “Come now push yourself too hard,” you gasp between two wanton moans, “If you do that means I’ll have to patch you up again, would you really want to punish me with more work?”

Your taunts are cut short but a shudder that wracks through your body as he bottoms out. His thick knot teases your whole, just barely stretching you out before Wriothesley begins to thrust. Your nose brushes against his as he leans down, lips ghosting over yours.

“Either way you’ll do it with a smile,” he muses, pecking you on the mouth, “And say “Yes sir””.

You would.

You liked your job and were all too happy to work when needed even at the cost of your own sanity.

“Whatever,” you snip, burying your face into his shoulder blade to hide your smile.

Heat laps at your core, trickling into your chest. It leaves you hot all over. Your cunt throbs with need as you inch closer to orgasm. His cock feels like it’s in your stomach, the fat head uncomfortably kisses your cervix with each shallow thrust.

Pressing your teeth into the firm muscle of his shoulder, you allow a squeal to roll through your throat. You can feel yourself gushing around his length as he mercilessly bullies that spongy spot deep inside you. Warmth coats the apples of your cheeks as the cushion beneath your ass soaks up your juices.

“Je suis à toi,” Wriothesley hisses into your hairline.

The sofa's wooden arm crackles within the palm of his hand as he roughly grips it for purchase. Your heart leaps, there’s something oddly thrilling about the display of raw strength, you’re hardly pressed to consider the fact that the Fortress couldn’t afford to replace it.

Your hands drift upward to tangle into his sweat soaked strands of hair. Your fingers twist the locks between them.

“Tire-moi les cheveux!”

Wriothesely’s chest rumbles as he moans, his rhythm faltering slightly when you unabashedly yank at his tresses, “Harder,” you whimper, your shoulders shaking as pleasure thrums through your veins, “Please Wrio, I need it.”

You can feel yourself teetering on the precipice of orgasm, his sweat is dappled upon your tongue.

“Et t'as l'air bien, tu te sens bien.”

“Wha-”

Your confusion is cut off by a moan which is then followed by a flurry of curses that you didn’t know you had in you. The obscene sound of wet skin slapping together smothers any other questions that may dare to dribble down your lips.

You choke on a gasp as your orgasm washes over you, much like the first time you dove into the frigid waters in search for your place of employment. You’re dunked in a disorienting sea of cold that electrifies every nerve ending in your body. Tremors wrack through your spine and your eyes roll back into your head before you force them shut.

“Wrio,” you moan, your nails clawing at his scalp.

His tail curls possessively around your thigh, snaking its way around your hip to the small of your back. The sofa creaks, scraping loudly across the roughed hardwood floors as Wriothesley’s thrust takes on a new vigour. The hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention as his claws tear through the fabric behind your head.

“I want you to knot me!”

Wriothesley’s head bobs in what you assume to be agreement, “Je suis à toi,” he repeats, more to himself than to you.

Your lungs burn from how you hold the air in the centre of your chest, your lips rounded and jaw locked as Wriothesley slowly pushes his knot into you. He growls when your nails break skin as you claw at the nape of his neck. The tinges of pain slowly dissipate with each passing, excruciatingly long second. Your walls flutter, struggling to accommodate for the instruction.

“Fuck,” you curse, your chest heaving as you such in a ragged breath.

Wriothesley all but collapses on top of you with one last week thrust before he cums. His stubbly jaw scratches at your skin as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. Though his knot is supposed to plug your hole up, you can feel some of his thick, sticky cum oozing out of your cunt and lathing across his pelvis.

“What did it mean?” You ask once you’ve regained your breath, your words slightly minced from how your cheek laid flat against his broad shoulder.

“Hm?”

Pausing to lick your chapped lips you wildly gesture around his back though he can’t see you, “The Fontainian, what did it mean?” you clarify, “You said quite a lot.”

“Oh, nothing, don’t worry about it.”

His blaisé tone has those familiar embers of annoyance flickering to life though you were too exhausted to argue. The fur of his tail drags uncomfortably against your sweat damp skin as he possessively holds you close.

“You know me, I always worry.”

“You don’t need to,” he reassures, planting a kiss to your neck, “Everyone adores you.”

It’s almost second nature the way you roll your eyes and huff.

“At least I do.”

#wriothesley smut #wriothesley x reader #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #wriothesley x you #gi x reader #gi smut #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #x reader

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topguncortez · 4 months

Text

Are You With Me? - Ch. 5

previous part | masterlist | next part

synopsis: Jake and Y/N take their kids to say goodbye to a friend, but it goes as well as one can expect. The Seresins also learn what the next course of action is for Ella's treatment.

word count: 4.1k

warnings: medical inaccuracies, childhood cancer, death, funerals, cursing, traumatic events, fighting, slut shaming, mentions of cheating.

Jake could remember the first funeral he ever went to. He was six, not much older than Ella is now, and it was for his grandfather. His mother had dressed him up in a small black suit with a burnt orange tie, a nod towards his grandfather’s beloved Texas longhorns. His mother was dressed in a black dress and had a simple strand of pearls around her neck, the same as two of his sisters. His father was dressed similarly to Jake; black suit, orange tie.

Jake could remember walking into the church, a place he had been to a thousand times over, but now it was covered in memorial flowers and people all dressed in black. Some of the ladies wore elegant hats with lace veils over their faces. The men all seemed to have cleaned their watches and dug out their alumni rings for the occasion. Jake’s father was stopped several times in the foyer by people giving him their condolences. Jake wasn’t sure why everyone was stopping in front of a long wooden box, the women walking away with tears in their eyes.

“Come on,” Jolene said to her children, “Let’s go say goodbye to grandpa.”

All Jake could do was nod as Jolene led them over to the wooden box at the front of the sanctuary. Jake froze about three feet from the box, his heart beating fast in his chest at the sight in front of him. He felt his hands grow clammy as Jolene turned around to look at her son, who looked like he had seen a ghost.

“Jake?” Jolene asked, “What’s wrong?”

“That’s not grandpa.” Jake shook his head, pointing towards the box, “That’s not him!”

Jolene gave Jake a said smile, crouching down in front of him, “It is grandpa, Jake. It’s grandpa’s earth body. His spirit is up in heaven with Jesus.”

“They messed him up,” Jake whispered, “That’s not him!”

“How about we take a look?” Jolene pleaded with her son. Jake reluctantly nodded as Jolene stood to her full height and took his hand. Slowly they walked together to stand in front of the casket.

Jake took one look in and turned his head. The body laying in the casket looked nothing like the man he remembered. His skin was pale, almost blue and waxy. His hair looked fake and as if they used way too much hairspray to get the combover to lay flat. It all just looked wrong to Jake. It was all just wrong.

“That’s not him,” Jake shook his head as he sat down in the front row with his mother and waited for the service to begin. The whole time Jake kept repeating in his head that the man in the box was not his grandfather.

Ever since that moment at six years old, Jake dreaded funerals. It was horrible, but Jake did all he could to avoid going to them. Y/N practically had to drag him to Tom Kazansky’s funeral, and even then, Jake took Alex to the nursery about half way through the service. It wasn’t that Jake was scared to bare his emotions and mourn the loss of a life. It was that he hated seeing the body lying all alone in the pinewood box. He hated knowing that their body was going to stay there for the rest of eternity until they rotted away into nothing. He hated knowing that the last glimpse of your loved one was going to be when the funeral director closed the lid.

“Dad,” Alex’s soft voice filled the room. Jake was sitting on the bed, trying to come up with an excuse to not go to this funeral, “Can you help me with my tie?”

“Sure,” Jake nodded, sliding off the bed and kneeling in front of Alex. Y/N had gotten them both matching forest green ties, “You look good.”

“Thank you,” Alex nodded, scrunching his nose up to push his glasses up farther. Jake couldn’t help but smile at the small movement. No one was quite sure when Alex started doing that, but it was cute, “I asked Mommy to help me but Ella is sick.”

Jake’s smile turned into a small frown, “I know. . . how are you feeling about this?”

It wasn’t very often that Jake got to stop and have a conversation with Alex about everything that has gone on. Sure the boy was only seven, but he still had some idea of what was going on with his sister. Y/N and Jake’s worst fear was Alex and Eli feeling ignored during all of this. They made sure at least once a week they were taking the boys out to do something fun whether that was the arcade or the park. Eli was still too little to understand anything but Alex wasn’t.

“I’m sad that Ella is sick,” Alex shrugged, “When will she be better?”

“I don’t know, bud,” Jake sighed, “But what about not having mommy and daddy both here?”

“Oh,” Alex looked down at the ground, “Well, I guess I’m kind of sad about it. I wish you could both be here, but someone has to stay with Ella.”

Jake smiled at his son. He was as selfless as his mother, always thinking of others instead of himself, “You’re a good kid, you know that,” Alex nodded his head. Jake placed a kiss on his forehead, before standing to his full height. The two of them walked down the stairs together, finding Y/N and Ella waiting for them. They both wore black dresses and pearl necklaces, only Ella had a black hat on her head to keep her warm.

“We gotta get going,” Y/N said, standing up from the couch. The two of them loaded the kids up in the car, but Jake hesitated once he shut the car door, “What is it?”

“Do we both need to go?” Jake looked over at Y/N, “I can stay and watch-”

“Eli is with Rooster, and yes,” Y/N nodded, “We both need to go. Miranda and Dominick became our friends and we need to support them. . . this could’ve been us.”

Jake clenched his jaw and nodded. Y/N climbed into the truck without another word, and Jake followed. When they arrived at the church, Jake helped Y/N out of the truck, trying to put on a show of solidarity in front of the other couples from the hospital. Rumors had flown since their spat in the hallway, and most of the parents were ‘Team Y/N’. Y/N didn’t bother saying anything to Jake as she opened the door for the kids and took each of their hands in hers, forcing Jake to walk behind them.

The vestibule of the church was exactly like Jake could remember the one his grandfather’s funeral was in. People dressed in black, flowers all over, pictures and videos of the deceased being played but no one paid any attention to. Y/N signed the guest book for all four of them, taking a bulletin before making her way into the sanctuary.

“Remember what we talked about?” Y/N turned towards her kids, “We’re going to walk past Sammy’s body and-“

“No!” Ella cried, “I don’t wanna see him!”

“Ella,” Y/N said quietly, “You don’t have to see Sammy, but we have to walk-”

“No!” Ella shook her head, Jake placed a hand on her shoulder, hoping to soothe her, “I don’t wanna!”

Y/N could feel all eyes being turned towards them and it made her skin heat up, “Baby, we have to walk by-“

“No!” Ella’s lip quivered as tears began to spill down her cheeks. Sobs racked her body as she hid her face in her hands, “I don’t wanna see him!”

Jake picked her up, setting her on his hip, “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

“That’s not him!” Ella turned and hid her face into her father’s neck. Y/N felt out of options as Jake gave her a pleading look. She glanced around, noticing the stares and the looks they were gaining.

“Okay,” She sighed in defeat, “We’ll go.” Jake nodded his head, and turned on his heel, taking his sobbing child out of the church. Y/N looked over to where Miranda and Dominick stood, giving them an apologetic look before following her family. She sighed as she climbed into the truck, leaning back into her seat. She glanced at her children through the rearview mirror; Alex staring at the raindrops sliding down the window and Ella with tears running down her cheeks.

— — —

Six weeks.

It had been six weeks to the day since Y/N made the dumb mistake of falling into bed with her ex-husband. She had never been the one for casual hookups. Jake was her first everything and the most she ever let Miles do to her was go down on her. She had promised herself that she wasn’t going to be a woman who hooks up with her ex-husband out of convenience, but here she was, hooking up with her ex-husband out of convenience and currently watching him as he blatantly flirted with Becky, one of the mom’s in the therapy group.

The styrofoam cup in Y/N’s hand was hot as she stared daggers at the blonde man, who was turning on his charm as he talked to Becky. The smile. The chuckle. The head tilt. The gentle hand on her arm when he walked away. It all angered Y/N.

Hell, what didn’t anger Y/N these days.

“Hey,” Jake said as he sauntered up to you, grabbing one of the glazed donuts on the table.

‘Fuck you for eating that donut’ Y/N thought. She had always been amazed at Jake’s body and how he was able to eat nearly anything and everything he wanted. But now, it annoyed her. The stress from taking care of her sick child, her poorly timed eating schedule and not being able to go to the gym had their effects on Y/N and she had gained some weight. She hated looking at herself in the mirror and hated even more when Jake would sit and make sure she ate something substantial.

“Hello?” Jake swiped his hand in front of his wife, earning him a glare.

“Don’t wave your hand in my face,” She snapped.

“I’m sorry,” Jake apologized, “What’s going on? You seem out of it.”

Y/N pursed her lips, debating on saying something or biting her tongue, “Becky got a boob job last summer with her divorce settlement.” Jake’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked at her, “You like natural so I thought I’d give you a heads up.” She simply shrugged and walked away to find a chair in the center circle.

Another thing Y/N didn’t want to say out loud was how much therapy had actually been helping her. She hadn’t said anything more than the bare minimum; who she was, what her child was diagnosed with, what the prognosis is, and a weekly update on how her child is doing. It was nothing more and nothing less than that every meeting. But Y/N did enjoy the adult interaction for an hour twice a week. She didn’t realize how much she missed being around people her own age, even if she couldn’t remember half the names of the people in the group. Jake had attended every meeting with her, sitting next to her and silently supporting her when she gave her opening statement.

Jake sat down in his usual chair, in the middle of Y/N and Marjorie, the elderly lady who ran the therapy group. She reminded him of his grandmother, permed gray hair, bright pink lipstick on her lips, and she smelled like cherries and vanilla. She also had the slightest southern twang which Jake appreciated from time to time. Marjorie always had a large, leatherbound journal with her at every meeting which confused Jake. He never saw her take any notes, never saw her turn any pages. But the book was in her lap, open to some page at every meeting.

“Good morning my beautiful caretakers,” Marjorie said, gathering the attention of the group. Y/N fought hard to not roll her eyes at the usual greeting, “Let us start with our daily openings. Jacob, how about you start?”

“Oh, I’d love to, Marjorie,” Jake smiled at her and Y/N did, in fact, roll her eyes this time.

Therapy droned on for another hour, as Y/N pretty much blocked out everything that anyone was saying. It was all the same, week after week. But what wasn’t the same, was the two open chairs next to her. It pained her as she glanced over to where Miranda and Dominick had sat just a few weeks ago. No one knew that Sammy had gotten so sick and was circling the drain. Miranda had sat there and told the group that Sammy was still fighting hard, that he was still continuing his treatment with a smile on his face. No one knew that in a few short days, Sammy would pass away in front of his parents.

Y/N picked up her head and looked at the group of parents and guardians in front of her. She wondered how many of them were saying that their children were still strong and fighting when in reality, the grim reaper was knocking on their door. A sick feeling rose in her belly. The same sick feeling she had been feeling for the past week.

“I know he’s going to keep-“

Y/N stood up quickly, cutting off Becky, who glared at her, “I’m sorry.” She muttered, turning for the door of the meeting room. She tried her best not to break out into a run, but she moved as quick as she possibly could.

Jake’s eyebrows furrowed as he watched her retreating form scamper out of the room like a fire was lit under her ass. He turned his head back towards Becky, watching as the crocodile tears streamed down her face. Sure, Jake felt bad her son had cancer, but he’s also been in remission for six weeks now and yet, Becky still comes in to hit on the dads.

Yes, Jake is well aware that Becky flirts with him at any given chance. And yes, he knows that Y/N is jealous of that. Y/N has always been the type to wear her emotions on her face, and Jake can feel the daggers that she glares into his spine whenever he talks to Becky. He should tell her that there’s nothing to be jealous of, that she’s the only one he wants. But Jake is a guy. And sometimes those male like tendencies take over, especially when it comes to one Y/N Seresin. He never knew she could be so possessive and kinky until about six weeks ago. He swore that they’ve been having the best sex they’ve ever had.

Y/N had returned by the time the meeting had concluded. Her eyes and nose were red, as if she had been crying. Jake’s green eyes tracked her as she moved around the room, going straight for the coffee pot. All the alarm bells were going off in his head, and his body moved without second thought. She had barely set the coffee pot down when Jake grabbed her elbow, dragging her away.

“Hey! Let me go!” Y/N protested, pulling her arm free, “You heathen. I can walk on my own-“

“Are you pregnant?”

It took Y/N a moment, as the words that left Jake’s mouth registered in her mind, “No. I’m not pregnant, you twat,” Jake felt the tension in his body relax for a moment, “I know I have gained weight, but I don’t need you pointing that out.”

“Wait, no,” Jake shook his head, “I wasn’t pointing out that you gained weight, which, you look fantastic,” She scoffed, “It’s just that you’re drinking coffee and you never do unless you’re-” He gestured towards her stomach.

“I’m not pregnant,” Y/N stated again, shoving the cup in his hand, “I’m going to check on Ella.”

Y/N tried her best to keep her face neutral until she got into the elevator, her body nearly collapsing against the metal wall. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she reached into her pocket, pulling her phone out and looking at her calendar. The bright red circle around the date was almost mocking her as she breath caught in her throat.

“No way,” She shook her head, “No fucking way.”

— — —

“Take a deep breath. You’re okay,” The nurse spoke calmly as she ran her hand over Ella’s back, holding the oxygen mask to her face. It was the third time in the past week that Ella has had these attacks where she can’t breathe.

“I can’t- I can’t,” Ella gasped, her big green eyes frantically looking around the room.

Y/N quickly moved towards her, sitting on the edge of the bed, “You can. Take a deep breath, Ella.” Ella sucked in as deep of a breath as her little lungs could, which resulted in her coughing. Y/N closed her eyes, trying to hold back tears as her daughter coughed and gasped for air.

“Y/N,” the nurse said to her, “Why don’t you go get some air. I got this.”

Every fiber of her being was telling her to stay by Ella’s side, but she couldn’t watch for any longer. Ella looked up at her mom, giving her hand a light squeeze as if to tell her it was alright. The familiar burn of tears clogged her throat as she stood up from the bed.

“Thank you,” Her voice was barely a whisper as she quickly made her exit out of the room.

Y/N let out a sigh as she walked down the hallway, clenching and unclenching her shaky fists. The familiar grip of anxiety held her heart as stopped at the nurses’ station, placing her elbows on the counter and running her hands through her hair. Y/N couldn’t decide what was worse, watching her child get so violently ill that the blood vessels in her face broke or watching her gasp for precious air. She determined that both of them sucked.

“Y/N,” Miles' voice sounded out. She looked up at him, expecting to see that warm, comforting smile, but instead was met with a grim look, “Doctor Thomas and I need to talk to you. . . both of you.”

Jake had started to hate this office. He hated the bright posters on the wall and the stuffed animals on the couch behind him. As much as this office was trying to be a bright, cheerful place, it brought nothing but heartache and pain. The tension was thick as the two of them were trying to wrap their heads around what Doctor Thomas had just said. Jake’s eyes flitted over to Y/N who was staring at something on the desk in front of her. He so badly wanted to reach out and grab her hand.

“The transplant list?” Her voice sounded out, sounding weak and farther away than the seat next to him, “She. . . you’re putting her on the transplant list?”

Miles licked his lips before answering, “We think it’s the best course of action.”

“What about the lobectomy?”

“The cancer will just come back,” Doctor Thomas said, “The only guaranteed way that the cancer will go away and stay away is if we do this transplant.”

Y/N shook her head, trying to grasp what was really going on. She had called Jake almost as soon as Miles said he needed to talk to them both. Jake had left base like a bat out of hell, getting to the hospital in an amount of time that could only be done by speeding. They knew that one of the treatment options would have to be removing a portion of Ella’s lung. Y/N hated the idea of her child going under the knife to remove a portion of herself.

“How long?” Y/N looked up at Miles, “How long do you think she’ll have to wait?”

Both Miles and Doctor Thomas shifted in their seats.

“Pediatric lungs are hard to come by,” Doctor Thomas spoke softly, “Finding a match can be even harder. It could be six weeks, could be six months. We don’t-”

“Oh god,” Y/N closed her eyes, a sick feeling sinking her stomach, “We have to wait for another child to-”

“Donor,” Doctor Thomas said, “We have to wait for a donor.”

“A child,” Y/N snapped her eyes open and glared at the blonde woman in front of her, “We have to wait for another child to die to save our child.”

“Well, if you think about it that-”

“There is no other way to think about it!” Y/N’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the arms of the chair, “The only way our child can live is if another child dies!”

Doctor Thomas looked over towards Jake, “I think it’s best if we-”

“Don’t look at him,” Y/N sneered, “You are talking to me. There has to be another way. There has to be. . . Miles,” Y/N gave him a pleading look.

“I’m sorry,” Miles said sincerely, “We have discussed this at length, getting second opinions from our pulmonary specialists and transplant specialists, we think this is the best course of action.”

The office was quiet, as the words seemed to settle over Jake and Y/N. His heart was still pounding in his ears and he wasn’t one hundred percent certain he understood what Miles and Doctor Thomas were saying. He got that Ella was sicker than they thought, and the original plan was no longer going to work. But still, Jake couldn’t really wrap his head around what was going on.

“I know that this is hard to understand,” Doctor Thomas said, “And you’re having an emotional-”

“Fuck you,” Y/N spat. Jake snapped his head towards his wife, “Fuck you,” She leaned forward, her eyes burning into Doctor Thomas, “You have no idea what kind of response I am having to hearing my child is dying and the only way to save her is to let another child die. You have no idea ‘cause you aren’t a mother. No,” She chuckled, “You’re just a slut who goes after married men.”

“Y/N,” Jake finally spoke up.

Doctor Thomas stood up from her chair. If she was insulted by Y/N’s words, she did a great job at hiding them as she rolled her shoulders back, “I think that is all for today. Miles will keep you updated on Ella’s status on the transplant list. Jake, Y/N,” Doctor Thomas nodded to them both, before she left the room.

“I’ll let you guys have the room,” Miles said, following after Doctor Thomas.

Silence reigned over the two of them, as Jake shifted in his chair to face his wife, “I know you’re upset, but that was uncalled for. Calling her a slut?”

“She is,” Y/N huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

Jake groaned, running a hand down his face, “We were split up.”

“We weren’t divorced yet,” She glared at him, “I atleast had the respect to wait until the ink had dried on the papers to go out and find someone. You. . . you were already chasing tail the moment I kicked you out. Hell, before I kicked you out.”

“Okay,” Jake shook his head, “What is your fucking deal? Hm? This isn’t like you. I thought the group therapy was helping.”

Y/N sighed, “It is.” And that was true. The group therapy was helping her mood for the most part.

“Then what is going on?” Jake grabbed her hand, “I want to help you, but I can’t if you don’t tell me.”

His eyes were full of sincerity and longing as he searched hers for a sign of what could be going on. Y/N used to be such an open book, but now it was getting harder and harder to read her, unless the emotion was anger. He missed the days where she would talk to him about anything and everything. It could be about something that pissed her off or something that made her smile.

Tears welled up in her eyes, as Y/N looked away from her ex. She felt stupid. She felt so incredibly stupid that this happened to her. Of all the times they had tried and tried and failed, this happened when they didn’t even want it to.

Y/N sucked in a deep breath, “I’m late.”

“Late?” Jake asked, confused. All she did was look at him and he realized what she was talking about, “You’re late.” He sat back in his chair, still holding her hand, “You’re late.”

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skyahri · 2 months

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Retire |Kakashi X Reader| HC

Summary: You need some convincing to leave ANBU.

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol and depression. Mentions of suicide. A bit angsty and self-destructive, but fluffy overall.

- - - - -

Even though he'd retired a few years back, you were still an active ANBU captain.

The job was grueling, and he was well aware that the longer you stayed, the worse the missions became.

That isn't just because of the overall baggage people acquire, but because seasoned black ops were often sent on the more... unethical missions.

You'd been acting off recently. He had let it go at first, knowing how taxing the line of work could be, but something in his mind was bugging him to investigate.

He assumed everything had started to actually get to you, so he decided to check in on you between missions with team 7.

He knocked on your door. It took a minute, but you answered.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but this wasn't it.

Your appearance was appalling.

You'd lost a lot of weight, you had bags under your eyes, and you reeked of alcohol.

"Just checking in on you. It's been a while."

"Yeah, Tsunade has me on back to back missions. This is my first break in months."

He had assumed his intensive schedule with his team was the thing keeping you two apart, but apparently not.

"How about you get cleaned up while I go get us something to eat? My treat."

"I'm pretty tired, Kashi. I think I'd like to continue rotting for the time being. Thanks for the offer, though."

You gently shut the door in his face.

A sour look plastered itself on his face.

Unfortunately, your use of rotting didn't seem too far off, so he decided to talk to a third party about it.

His first stop was to see Tenzo. Maybe he knew what was up since you two worked so closely.

"I've noticed as well. I tried to ask, but they told me it wasn't appropriate for subordinates to question their captain."

Add that to the list of odd behavior.

You loved Tenzo like family, just like Kakashi did, so the sudden change was worrisome.

He went to ask Asuma as well, knowing he had been in the village more often than he had recently.

Asuma pulled him inside his home and away from prying eyes. Last thing he wanted was the wrong person hearing such a sensitive information.

"We already talked to Tsunade about it months ago when we noticed a decline in her health. Word got back to them, they said something about breach of trust, and they haven't spoken to any of us since."

Kakashi just nodded.

He remembered a time where he also reacted poorly when he'd been questioned in a similar manner.

The only difference is lord Third actually listened instead of allowing him to dig himself deeper into an early grave.

He dwelled on it for a few days.

He cared about you deeply. It was different than any of his other friendships- more personal and open.

The last thing he wanted was to go behind your back and end up with the same treatment the rest of the group was getting.

So he put on his big boy pants and showed up at your door again with vengeance.

He had been practicing what he'd say the whole way over. He needed to be prepared for anything you threw at him so he didn't falter.

But when you opened the door, his fire simmered out.

You just looked so tired.

His words got stuck in his throat.

So he did the only thing he could think of - he just walked forward, straight into you, and wrapped you up in a hug.

You resisted at first, but the second his warmth hit your bones, you relaxed.

It only lasted for a moment before the feelings started to set in, causing your body to shake with sobs.

You fell to the ground, dragging him with you, but his hold didn't loosen one bit.

"It's okay. I'm here for you."

That only made things worse. Something about his comfort was making all the feelings you've worked so hard to repress bubble up to the surface.

After you'd visibly calmed down, he'd picked you up and carried you to the couch. He positioned you so you'd be touching as much as possible without him being too forward.

"I hate ANBU."

Straight to the point. He wasn't sure if that was good or not.

"Why don't you retire? It's been almost fifteen years. That's way longer than most make it."

You hesitated. You had a reason, but the thought of saying it out loud made it sound so silly.

One look at Kakashi’s face told you he wasn't messing around.

You sighed and leaned your head on his shoulder. It made it easier to answer without him looking at you.

"If it's not me going out there, its someone else. I'm already too far gone, may as well save someone else from this fate."

Oh.

Kakashi had fully been expecting some sort of 'I can handle it' response, but this one was so... awful. Just absolutely heart-wrenching.

He collected his thoughts, trying to find a way to reason with you.

"There are people in ANBU who can handle that kind of mental load. You were that person many years ago,"

You just looked at him with that sad, defeated face, and it broke his heart all over again.

"But that's not the case anymore. It's time to pass on the torch."

You shook your head, ready to get up and kick him out. He just pulled you back down and held your hands in his.

"I was so angry when I was forced to retire. I felt like I could do more, like it wasn't that bad, and everyone was underestimating me. Do you know what happens when shinobi like us aren't told to quit?"

You shook your head.

"They end up like my father."

You stayed silent after that. How could you argue when he had just pulled the dead dad card?

So you promised to think about it.

He knew that would be as good as it would get, so he dropped it and opted to switch to a lighter subject.

After an hour or so of talking, you fell asleep. He carried you to your bed and tucked you in. He thought about staying over, but decided against it.

He didn't see you the next day. He'd knocked on your door, but no one answered, and he couldn't sense you inside.

He hoped you were just busy and not on another mission.

He did see you the next day, however.

He was heading to the Hokage's tower to chat with Tsunade about team 7's next mission when he bumped into you.

You smiled at him.

It felt like he was looking at a different person. You were almost glowing. Your eyes seemed a bit brighter, face looked a little fuller, and overall vibe was less damming.

"I retired this morning."

He damn near hugged you in front of the whole village.

"That's great to hear."

#naruto #naruto shippuden #naruto headcanons #kakashi hatake x reader #kakashi headcanons #kakashi fluff #kakashi x reader #kakashi sensei #kakashi hatake #hatake kakashi

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myfanfic-urfantrash · 3 months

Note

OKAY I'M NOW HAVING MORE BRAIN ROT BC OF YOU /pos

BLADE 100% BITES AS BOTH A LOVE LANGUAGE AND JUST TO CALM HIMSELF DOWN *keyboard smash* i can see this man waking his partners up by gently biting on their shoulder in the morning or taking a little nibble at their side to tickle them. also absolutely likes to gently bite at fingers just because he thinks it's fun (this man is tabby/black cat coded ffr) he also has a really bad problem with biting his own fingers/nails when his oral fixation gets to be too much

jing yuan + oral fixation too???? this is both a blessing and a curse for his partner bc of how long he could just go at it for so long that it’d be overstim central for whoever’s getting that treatment (can it be me please?) *ahem* anyway

- messy nest (we all carry the hsr a/b/o tag here 😤)

Oral fixation kings! And yes we carry the hsr a/b/o tag :V

cw: omegaverse, nsfw

-------

Blade

Man bites all the time. Want attention? Bite. Hungry? Bite. Want to tell your mate you love them? BITE.

He's always gentle with his bites except when he gets a bit too excited during his ruts/heats. Biting for him is like holding hands for others to keep grounded.

Likes to tease his mate by nipping and sucking at their fingers if he's in the mood for a bit of fun. Might even nip at their neck if he's really in the mood.

His mate will probably take his hands into theirs before he can bite at his nails and either give him their own hand to suck and nip at or simply kiss him to keep his mouth occupied. His mate probably also carries and gives him chewy candies like gum or ginger candy to chew on so he has something to chew on.

Jing Yuan

His oral fixation is just amplified by the fact he just can't get enough of his mates taste. Will definitely overstimulate them on purpose though he will take a break should they say the safe word. If they don't say the word though he's gonna keep going until he's sore.

He doesn't care if they're sitting on his face or if he's lifting them up for him to taste he's enjoying himself to the fullest.

Always gives his mate the best aftercare afterwards and rests his jaw by applying a nice warm compress to it. As soon as they're both rested up and he's no longer feeling sore, if they're willing he's ready to go at it again.

#honkai star rail a/b/o #honkai star rail x reader #jing yuan x reader #blade x reader

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jamespottersdaisy · 6 months

Text

No pain will last evermore

Peter Parker x fem!reader

in which he is there for you

1.3k

a/n: based on a request. this is just a comfort fic for anyone going through a heartbreak

“Are you home or dead?” Peter's voice echoes around your home as he enters.

You close your eyes at the sound, wishing he’d go back. You are not sure if it is the right moment to have a friend over.

Soon, the lock of the door is followed by his steps to the kitchen. The splash of pouring water tingles in your ear from there; he sure knows how to make himself comfortable.

“You didn't have water at home?” you murmur to yourself, albeit you know he won't hear it.

After he gulps down his water, you hear him pad around the house to find you. You bury yourself deeper under the blanket, closing your eyes to welcome the pitch black.

“Ah, not dead,” barging into the bedroom, he nods when he sees you rotting in bed.

“I could've been naked, you know,” your voice is weak, but even that can't prevent you from bantering with him.

“You would be if you’d ever get out of that thing,” he advances to the edge of the bed. Instead of sitting on it, he crouches down before you.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and you flutter your eyes open to the sight of his beautiful face.

You hate that question. You hate how it has enough power to bring a tear into your eyes and a lump to your throat. You hate how the memories, thoughts, and hurts seem to revive after it echoes.

Or maybe it’s Peter. Maybe it’s the tone his words wear as he speaks to you. Maybe it’s the tender light in his eyes that shines in your darkness when he looks at you.

You feel Peter’s hand reach your face, the soft skin caressing your cheek and hair. His touch is gentle, as if he is afraid to break you, and his eyes are filled with yearning and desperation.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers this time.

“Nothing,” your voice breaks, and you shut your eyes.

“C’mon now,” he sighs before standing up.

His presence shifts from in front of you to behind you, and the bed creaks as he sits on it. You can guess that he leans on your bed frame while his fingers start scratching your back, drawing lines and figures to encourage you to face him.

You don’t. Not yet.

“I’m tired, Peter,” you mumble, and he hums.

“I’m not leaving if that’s what you mean,” his hand reaches your hair. It caresses strands of hair, twirling them around its fingers.

That wasn’t what you meant.

You don’t want him to leave. Not when the cold, forlorn room of yours finally becomes a place worth breathing in. It holds too much heartbreak. Too much sadness and misery for a person alone.

You are simply tired.

“Is this about that guy?” he asks.

You don’t notice the slight change in his tone.

You grimace when his memory comes up in your mind. Ill-founded blames and groundless complaints fill your mind once more. You can not get over it and can not comprehend the sudden difference in behaviour and treatment.

It is not fair. It is not fair that you have to exhaust yourself to understand someone’s frantic decisions, and it certainly is not fair that your heart breaks into a million pieces after trusting a love you thought you had only for it to be clutched out of your palm.

“I thought everything was going well?”

You decide to face him at last. Who are you going to talk to if not your best friend?

“It was,” you say hoarsely, turning around in bed. “But then suddenly, a day later, he must’ve realised that he doesn’t love me anymore, and I’m a big burden for him.”

“You are a burden?” Peter raises his eyebrows. “Utter bullshit.”

“Apparently, I was responsible for all his problems, I was keeping him behind.” Your eyes look up at his face, a bit watery now that you voice the words thrown at you for no reason. “At least that’s what he said before cutting me off.”

“Makes no sense,” Peter frowns. “You didn’t have a fight, did you?”

“No,” you shake your head and let a tear run down your cheek. “Everything was normal, and suddenly it was not.”

Its pain is fresh. Still bleeding.

Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt this much if you just knew why. Why would he suddenly want you out of his life?

However, even that was not offered. No logical reason was presented, thus, it was up to your mind to come up with one. And letting things into the imagination is a dangerous game.

The more you think, the more the ache sinks in your core, burning your heart with ignored questions. Your mind plays a game on you, crumbling down your confidence.

Perhaps you also miss the nice feeling of being loved. You don’t know if it was true or not anymore, but you surely enjoyed it like nothing else. To feel as if you were the prettiest girl for him, the most loved one in the world, and the most cherished one in his world.

Perhaps what you don’t understand is how that feeling could be a ruse.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Peter wipes the tear. “He was a jerk.”

You wince and attempt not to cry. “Not always.”

Peter’s heart sinks.

He thinks he’ll never get used to the sharp sting in his chest at the sight of you like this. Tears around the eyes he merits home, the sad melody your words seem to sing for the sake of someone who, in his opinion, never even deserves your love.

It breaks him, deems him helpless, desperate, and miserable to not be able to take the pain, wipe the tear, and pull the sadness away.

“Come here,” he moves his arm to beckon you to come closer. You don’t waste a second, propping yourself up to crawl next to him.

“There we go,” he smiles as you nestle against his chest. His arms wrap around you tight, pulling you close for you to feel at ease.

“I just don’t understand what went wrong,” your words are muffled. “Did I do–”

“Hey, hey, no, don’t do that,” Peter cuts you, “Don’t start looking for a fault in yourself. You know it’s not true.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know, but he is a moron for letting you go,” he shakes his head before kissing your hair. “Anyone would kill to be with a girl like you.”

You chuckle weakly, thinking how he is saying all those words to make you feel better.

“I mean it, don’t laugh.”

“You’re so corny.”

Peter laughs with you.

The silence dawns around the room, but contrary to before it is a safe and peaceful one. The kind that lets you know everything will be alright in the end. No pain will last evermore.

“I love you, you know that, right?” he whispers in your ear. What he means is totally different from what you understand.

“I love you, too, Pete,” you sniff and snuggle a bit closer. “Thank you.”

A sigh leaves his chest.

Maybe, just maybe, one day, you’ll see the love right in front of your eyes instead of crying for the bygone ones. Maybe you’ll learn to ignore the loud and shiny ones to notice the silent and patient one that blossoms with your laughs and withers with your tears.

Maybe, one day, you’ll see that what you deserve is not the love that curls you in bed in tearing agony but the love that holds you in a tender caress.

Until that, he is willing to let your tears drown him if that’s what it means to have you in his arms.

“You wanna cry and wail or go and make popcorn with me while I choose the movie?”

“Who said you would choose the movie?”

this was a bit specific request, but i know there are a lot of people out there going through something similar. just letting you know, you deserve a lot better than the treatment you are getting.

thank you for reading and let me know what you think!

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steviewashere · 2 months

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In it For the Long Haul (And Then Some)

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Minor Internalized Ableism Tags: Post Canon, Post Season Four, Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hospitals, Hospitalization, Medical Conditions, Steve Harrington Has Head Trauma (Brief Mention), Amputee Steve Harrington, Amputee Eddie Munson, Disabled Steve Harrington, Disabled Eddie Munson, Whump, Implied/Referenced Depression, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve's Injuries Actually Have an Effect On Him, Eddie Munson Calls Steve Harrington Pet Names, Medical Accuracies (Surprising, I Know), Tattoos, Implied/Referenced Sex, Getting Together

Guys, oh my god, my Apple keyboard has prosthetic emojis?! That's so cool.

🦾🦿—————🦾🦿 He thought it’d be another concussion that would put him out this time. It’s practically the stamp of approval left on his body by the Upside Down. Should be bright green and sticky on his forehead and in big bold letters for everybody to read. But it isn’t a concussion. And he’s not sure what to do with himself.

Maybe they should’ve taken him to the hospital to get medical treatment after the bat bites. It wasn’t just on his back and arms and stomach. The marks were on his legs, too. Even though he had tried to kick the demobats off, they still sunk their teeth in when they had the chance, albeit briefly. Considering, too, he also walked through that hellhole without shoes on. He should’ve seen a doctor. First thing, he should’ve seen a doctor. But he didn’t. And he had the infection to show for it. Except, his body hadn’t healed the way it was supposed to. His immune system didn’t cooperate. It didn’t keep up.

The infection spread through the muscle of his left foot. And when it didn’t go away fast enough, it worked its way through his toes, shot up his ankle, and into his calf. Right below the knee.

His pinkie and ring toes went first. They—and he wishes he could spare the gruesome details—turned purple and swollen and numb. That’s when he knew things would be different. As soon as those parts were gone, he had begun to turn his face away from the window of hope. Instead, he looked out at the deep ocean waves of regret and grief, and imagined himself as a sinking ship. Filling with water. Plummeting to the bottom. Rotting.

Robin and the kids would all come around. Flood into his room. Talk to him while he was delirious from anesthesia first, then morphine next. Spoke to him when he hissed through phantom pains. Looked away when he had to be wheeled into the all too spacious hospital bathroom. “Tug the red chord if you get stuck,” he recalls a nurse saying. “Don’t put pressure on this foot, it’s still draining,” another had said. And by the time he could stay out of the wheelchair, he forgot what it was like to pee without the reminders, what it was like to go to the bathroom and be able to stand on his own.

Because of his luck, though, he lost the whole foot next. The infection had worked its way into his tibia. Didn’t fall asleep willingly after he was taken off of medication. Just sat in his cramped hospital bed, staring down at the stump of where part of him once was, and wept. Hands curled over his thighs, nails digging into his flesh, lips tight against his teeth, unblinking and weeping softly into the silence of his room. The first night without morphine and without the foot, he sat in the dark. In the black ink of his room. Choking on himself. Uncaring towards his limp and greasy hair dangling in front of his eyes. And he didn’t sleep. Didn’t want to. Couldn’t take the glare off his absent foot.

He stopped flexing the other foot, stopped running it against his left leg when he did try to sleep, stopped wanting to use it all together.

It wasn’t until the calf was removed completely, leaving him with half a leg and just his knee, did he stop talking. He just sat in the bustling white noise silence of his room. Wide eyes that were dry and red and bloodshot staring down at the thin cloth blanket draped over himself. An even thinner hospital gown stuck to his sallow skin. Stomach rumbling with hunger, but he couldn’t eat in the presence of himself. He just sat and thought of blankness, of absence, and of loss.

He’s been in the hospital nearly a month—endless surgeries and endless bouts of infections—when Eddie finally visits. Steve barely glances at him. Notices his silhouette and odd gait and the hiding of his right arm, but nothing more. Goes back to his lap with a raw emptiness, gaping and pulsing the more and more he sits in this room. Still recovering. Not even at the point of physical therapy yet. Still trying to heal his, how he views it, now useless body.

Eddie sits down in the chair to his left. Grunting with the exertion. He releases a measured, deep breath. “I heard from Robin that you were up here,” he states conversationally. “Thought I’d come up and see you now that I’m not stuck in my own room.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Just traces his thumbs over the hem of his blanket. He thought he’d be angrier at the mention of Eddie being discharged. Filled to the brim with bitter jealousy. But all that tinges in his chest is a beastly want. An ache. The sizzle of something dwindling out.

“Haven’t had the chance to thank you, Steve,” Eddie murmurs. “I thought I’d die down there. Figured it was the best option, y’know, considering my circumstances? But then you and Dustin did the whole tourniquet thing and risked your lives and welcomed me in like a friend. So, my mind’s been changed. Hate this town and how it hates me, but I’m glad to still be here with some of the best people I’ve met,” he says sincerely. “But—I, uh—I wanted to come keep you company, as a friend. Show you something, too.”

At that, Steve raises his eyes slightly. Enough to catch on where Eddie’s knees are pressed firmly against the side of his bed. Angled oddly to stretch out and wiggle his right arm in sight of Steve’s vision. That’s when his eyes catch on the limp sleeve of the flannel he’s wearing. How it just flattens to the bed, red and black, lifeless.

The sleeve rolls up to reveal the stump of Eddie’s arm. His hand, wrist, and half of his forearm completely gone.

“We match,” Eddie says. And it should be grim. It should be a devastating statement to make. But something in Steve starts to warm. A desperation sort of growth, one that comes from the want and need to be seen. Eddie continues, “And—Look, I know it’s not ideal. It really isn’t. If anything, this is like majorly fucked up for the both of us. But…We’ll figure it out, you know? Get prosthetics. Cut up our clothes to accommodate our limbs, or well, lack of. But you aren’t alone; that’s my point.”

Hesitantly, Steve raises his head. Finally looking at Eddie in his entirety. The palm sized scar on his cheek, pink and shiny and stark against his face. The ring around his neck and the other red raw scars that creep into the collar of his t-shirt. And his hair. It’s gone. Shaved down. Replaced by a bit of fuzz and one long scar that goes from the widow’s peak of his hairline, to where it tapers at his neck. Steve doesn't remember Eddie getting injured there, but it must've been from when he fell through the portal—limp and loose.

He realizes, looking down at himself, that there are swirls of scars from the back of his own arms, deep white lines on his knuckles, the ring around his neck surely present, and that doesn’t even include the ones that ache on his back. He looks back to Eddie.

Eddie reaches out a slow hand, cupping his cheek, wiping at something. That’s when Steve realizes that he’s crying. “Hey, oh, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry, Stevie. I didn’t think that—“

“You get it?” Steve squeak-rasps. His throat throbs. It's dry and brittle and painful all the way through him; down to his stomach, into his sweaty palms, at the base of his stump. Phantom stings that make him twitch. But his voice...It's nothing like him. It's haunting to hear himself. And for a moment, he wishes he didn't speak. Eddie, however, startles and softens all at once. Eyes glistening at Steve, worried and concerned and cautious, but also enamored and welcoming and empathetic.

Nodding, Eddie says, “Yeah, sweetheart, I do. I’m still getting used to it, too.” He pushes up into Steve’s messy hair, swiping it away from his forehead. Doesn’t even grimace at how gross it surely feels on his fingers. “You don’t have to sit alone about this. ‘Cause I’m right here with you. And…” His eyes grow immeasurably softer. “…I may not have both hands, but I’ve got both arms to hold you," he breathes.

It’s easy to lean into Eddie’s hand. To close his eyes and let himself feel this. Sobbing quietly, muffled behind his lips. Shoulders shaking with it. He blubbers, “I hate this, Eddie. I hate this, I hate this, I—“ And cuts himself off with a loud, unashamed, explosive sob.

“I know, sweetheart,” Eddie is saying as he wraps himself around Steve. Tucks himself in close, to where Steve is able to set his head on his shoulder. He sits on the edge of the bed so that he doesn’t overcrowd. And just holds on tight. “You feel how you need to feel, Steve. Get it out, it’s okay.”

Steve groans harshly in the back of his throat. Gasping in short breaths, chest rattling with the effort. He slams his forehead into Eddie’s chest, over and over. Muffling into the fabric of his shirt, “Nobody else gets it. They don’t understand. They don’t…All of them.” Eddie doesn’t speak. Afraid that Steve will stop if he does. “They think I’ll just bounce back, but everything is different now, Eds,” he cries, “Everything.”

And he finds that he does mean that. He knows he's too quiet. Knows he's behaving too serious for his bones. Too mature for his lungs. He's hollow to his core, and bleeding between his teeth. There's something deeply fractured in him now, even if he were to ever show a sliver of who he was before.

He allows himself to cry for a few minutes more before slumping with exhaustion, but he doesn’t close his eyes. Doesn’t let sleep pull him under. Just shakes and shivers and twitches in Eddie’s warm hold. Until, Eddie pulls back. Arms set firmly on Steve’s shoulders. Eyes wandering his face, his hair. “You look so tired, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “When’s the last time you’ve slept?” Steve shrugs in lieu of a response. Eddie's eyebrows twitch down, a frown wanting to form, but he worms it away. Offering with a well-crafted small smile, “How about you sleep and I keep watch for you?”

He shakes his head. “They’ll take more of me if I close my eyes. They keep doing it,” Steve mutters. His voice is weak and slightly petulant.

“What do you mean, Stevie?” And Eddie's face drops again. Frowning through the floor.

“They come in here and tell me the infection spread. Tell me about how it goes bone deep. Or how my limbs are turning purple. Or how something doesn’t look good,” Steve rambles on, “Then, they have to take me back for surgery. And I have to let them because I get it, I do, because my body isn’t healing right. And it's not something I'll just make up for at home, so I let them. I let them and then...I wake back up and more of my leg is gone. I can’t let them take more from me. I can’t lose more of myself. I can’t, Eddie, I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—“

Softly, Eddie shushes him. Rubbing his remaining hand up and down Steve’s arm in long stripes, carefully avoiding his still agitated scars. “Shhh, baby, you’re okay. It’s scary, I know. But they said that you’re doing better. Treatment is working, Steve. You won’t lose anything else, okay?” His eyes are wide and imploring. Deep brown, enriching, swallowing Steve whole. “You won’t. This is it. They just need you to rest. I’ll be right here while you do so; I won’t let them do anything to you that you wouldn’t want. But you need sleep. You’re wasting away on me.” His hands push firmer on Steve's shoulders. Imploring again, searching and hoping for Steve to understand. He reiterates, “You’re wasting away.”

“I’m not,” Steve weakly argues.

“You are,” Eddie whispers, “You look like you haven’t slept in days, Stevie. And the doctors already told me how you’ve been refusing to eat. That’s not good. You gotta rest and get healthy, to a place they need you to be, so that you can go home.” Steve doesn't like that idea. Back to his big, almost always empty house. Eddie must read that, somewhere, on his face. He gently splays his hand over Steve’s chest, shoving at it with light force. Promising low, "Home can be with Robin or Nancy or me, Stevie. But you have to get better first. You have to. Just lay down and talk to me, sweetheart."

Hesitantly, Steve lays down with Eddie’s push. Head lolled on the pillow so that his face is pointed towards where Eddie sits. He stretches out his hand and weakly grips to Eddie’s fingers. “I’m scared,” he finally confesses. The words falling heavy from the tip of his tongue.

And though Eddie knows, Steve can see it in his eyes, he asks anyway, “What’s got you spooked?”

Steve blinks groggily. Wrung out from the tears. From the sobbing. The speaking. From existing the way he has been. “Of not being myself,” he answers, muttering. “I can’t drive now. I can’t work out the way I used to. Can’t even stand to use the bathroom. I’m not losing more of my limbs, but it’s like I’m gone.”

Eddie’s thumb pushes firmly into the back of Steve’s hand. And he looks straight on at Steve’s tired, tired, tired eyes. “I ain’t letting you go,” he swears. “We’ll find what works. We’ll find you again, I promise. Especially now that we have all the time in the world.”

“It’s going to take so long, though. You don’t want to be stuck with me during that.”

Simply, Eddie shrugs. “So, what? I’ll be figuring out myself again, too. And from what I’ve heard, you’re the kind of guy to take no shit. If anything, you’re going to be the one stuck with me.” His voice grows lower and lower as Steve’s eyes dip to a near close. “Go ahead and sleep, Steve. It’s okay.”

With a long, grieving sigh, Steve closes his eyes completely. Mumbles, “You’re a good guy, Eddie.” Voice slow and sticky. “I’m glad you’re my friend.”

As Steve’s grumbling snores fill the room, Eddie stands to lightly open the curtains. Soft sunlight pooling through the room. It makes Steve glow in yellows, his hair shiny and his skin glistening. He’s worse for wear, that much is evident to Eddie. But he can work with that. He’ll accommodate all that Steve is willing to give. And he’ll keep an eye and an ear out, too. Even if that’s all he’s allowed to offer.

He sits back in his original chair. Stretching himself so that he can lean over Steve's bed. And swipes the stray hair away from his eyes. “I’m glad you’re my friend, too, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs into the white noise of the room. He stays until visiting hours are over.

And comes back every day until Steve gets to go home.

——— Their prosthetics don’t match perfectly to their skin (the prosthetic’s skin being a shade darker than what they’d usually have), but they make do with them. And they find a way to joke about it. To mingle with the still raw ache of what they’ve lost.

Steve ends up painting the nails of Eddie’s prosthetic hand to match his real fingernails, black and shiny. Eddie aids with changing out Steve’s sneakers so that they match his polos and sweaters. And they find it especially funny, when they get together and hook up for the first time, to be laying in a pile of limbs quite literally on Eddie’s bed—but to look off at his side table, their arm and leg are cradling each other. Just as they do. Holding one another on the worst days, through the phantom pains and the afternoons where they sob. It comes easily, being with one another.

It takes time, like all things do. Like watching paint dry on some days. Or waiting for water to boil on others. Prone to lash out, sure. Prone to stay stock still in bed with far away eyes. But they’re in it. They live it. And as time pushes, days grow to be normal. To be expected.

“We should draw tattoos on our limbs,” Eddie suggests one day.

“I can’t draw, Eds. But what do you have in mind?”

In it for the long haul, with a drawing of a hand, is put on Steve’s prosthetic calf.

And then some, with a leg wearing a Nike sneaker, goes on Eddie’s wrist.

“Can’t believe my first tattoo literally cost an arm and a leg,” Steve mutters later, admiring the work Eddie’s done. And all they can do afterwards is laugh until their stomachs hurt, air is impossible to catch, and their cheeks are wet with tears.

🦾🦿—————🦾🦿 When my mom was alive and, obviously, still used her prosthetic leg, she'd threaten to beat up my bullies by taking her leg off and whacking them with it. Also, her leg had a piece of see-through plastic on it where she could have something customized in it, it said "Kicking ass and taking names."

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #disabled steve harrington #disabled eddie munson #amputee steve harrington #amputee eddie munson

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cemeterything · 1 year

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If you designed a curse, what would it be? And what are its treatment or cure, if any?

i did design a curse once actually! or more specifically, i designed a cursed item for a dnd game. it was a blade called dead man's cutlass, and the curse placed on it was threefold: first, the blade could only be wielded by someone who obtained it from the previous owner by slaying them in combat. second, the blade caused anyone who either attempted to wield it but was not the rightful owner or was cut by it to develop a necrotic infection that would spread through their body and kill them if left untreated. third, the person who inherited the blade could not abandon it, as doing so would cause them to sicken and die by rotting from the inside out. the blade also started out clear like glass, and gradually turned a deeper shade of red-black as it drank the blood of those it was used against, so you could tell how long someone had had it for and how well they knew how to use it by the color of the blade. the only way to break the curse was for the person who currently held the blade to die a natural death and for nobody else to seek it out and take it up again, but since it was highly coveted for its dangerous power and the status it gave the owner, this was highly unlikely.

#i love rotting what can i say

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avvail · 4 months

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OOOOO OOO OOOOO angry mob, but it's civilians mobbing the hero they once admired/trusted? Chef's choice on the context, "you failed us" type of thing comes to mind...if the villain needs to be directly involved (rather than just implied background/setting) maybe even they find it too brutal/unfair...

The hero doesn’t put up much of a fight as they were dragged along the streets, flanked by two giant henchmen. Even if they made a run for it, they wouldn’t get very far.

Civilians upon civilians were gathered along the streets, the supervillain’s henchmen doing their best to keep them back, their ruthless shouting and livid screaming like tidal waves in the hero’s mind.

It was a perfect ploy on the supervillain’s part. Blackmail the hero, keep them in the dark long enough so when the turn over of the precious city they cared about so much occured, the hero was immediately implicated.

The city hated them.

There were hundreds of civilians crowding the streets, and they barely avoided rocks, glass, and anything they got their hands on being tossed at them. They might not have any restraints, but the hero’s hands were tied.

“You promised to protect the city!”

“You’re the worst of them all!”

“Get out of here!”

“You’ve left us all to rot!”

“We trusted you!”

The hero clenches their jaw, trying not to let the tears sting their eyes. With the supervillain’s influence, they couldn’t even fight back. Couldn’t rally the civilians to their cause, not if they wanted to incite a complete massacre.

The sudden clanging of metal suddenly caught the hero off guard, and they barely even turned around to catch a glimpse of the civilians that had shoved one of the henchmen to the ground, making a furious beeline towards them.

The hero’s eyes widened as the two beside them attempted to protect them from the oncoming mob, but the sheer size was no match for them. They descend on them immediately, and had the hero taking blow after blow, smacking into the ground.

The ravenous screaming filled their mind, feeling their shoes smack into their stomach, their back, desperately trying to cover their head with their arms to stop the crowd from stamping on their skull. Some people were trying to, even if the hero curled themselves in so tight.

They briefly sobbed, wondering if this was how they were going to die, until there was a sudden uproar, and the crowd dispersed away from their trembling body. A flurry of the supervillain’s henchmen had come in, violently breaking up the crowd, as gentle hands peeled the hero’s arms from their head.

“Hero.”

Their scrunched eyes barely cracked open. They knew that voice.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay,” the villain murmured softly, tucking an arm around their shoulders to lift them into a sitting position. The hero barely bit back a pained cry, agony tearing through their muscles.

They could taste blood on their tongue.

“Oh, jesus. You’re okay,” they whispered quickly, tenderly stroking one of the black bruises on their jaw. “You may have broken a rib, but you’re fine now. They’re gone.”

The hero’s breathing rattled, each scream and each furious shout from a civilian making them wince. The villain cradled them close, a quiet sigh escaping their lips.

“Why’d you do it, Hero?”

The words made them almost heave.

“I didn’t want to,” they sobbed, their rattling breath hitching when their hands gently carded through their hair. “I didn’t want to. I’m sorry.”

The villain’s expression softened. It didn’t matter if the hero had aligned with the supervillain or not - they didn’t deserve this kind of brutal treatment. They swallowed uneasily, gently helping them onto their feet.

“Okay, sweetheart,” they whispered softly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

@badthingshappenbingo

#bad things happen bingo #original writing #angry mob #hero x villain #villain x hero #hero and villain #villain and hero #heroes and villains #villains and heroes #hero villain #villain hero #supervillain and hero #hero and supervillain #writing snippet #story snippet #snippet #writing #my writing #avvail

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blackknotbegone · 1 year

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#bacterial cankers #bacterial diseases #black knot fungus #fruit tree fungus treatment #black rot treatment #black knot be gone

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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 4 months

Text

Siamese dream.

Quick summary: Rust observes you.

Word count: 936 words

Warnings: N/A

A/N: Quick drabble! Written as an exercise to get me ready for a longer story, maybe a second part to that first smut fic.

***

Considering the magnitude of existence, he didn’t technically have time for you.

Rust was good at his job, and it was worthwhile – these were the two things that he told himself when the spiralling tide of loneliness threatened his way of life, the two things that he would tell another if ever prompted. Man’s propensity to violence was so prominent and intimidating that he had long reasoned that the most efficient way to live, to continue (at least outwardly) as a functional member of society, was to accept that evil existed. With this, of course, came its partner: punishment was required, deserved. If Rust had to live, he would be worthwhile, be productive, deliver this. He would not look away.

He was an extraordinary machine, quick of tongue and sharp of wit. If he viewed himself as such, his day-to-day would not have to bear the burden of attachment, the thing with teeth and claws, the root of all great wars, sustenance to the crimes of passion for which he was condemnation.

You were not welcome in his thoughts.

Sure, he had a wiring for people-watching, for assessing and contemplating their movements and likeness for some kind of mental filing system – he knew this. Within the first moments of becoming acquainted with Marty, his robust, heavy handshake, swaggering stride and gap-toothed grin had told Rust all he needed to know about his new partner. He enjoyed it, he thought – not in the instant action, but rather the satisfaction of watching an individual act exactly how he’d expected them to. It brought some aspect of calm into Rust’s life, made it easier to talk, to blink, to breathe. Not peace, exactly. Predictability. Science.

He had seen you before and therefore was not disarmed by the practiced smile that had greeted him for the first time, nor the way its gladness seemed to seep right into your tone. He figured that you were easy to laughter, to friends. For a moment, with both your two hands still tenderly enveloping his one, which was rigid and itching to recoil to his own self, he briefly considered adopting these qualities. Rust had accepted his nature and did not particularly care to re-evaluate what was so hopeless and stubborn—but your warmth had elicited a guilt he rarely felt. This guilt usually only resurfaced when he was around small children, untouched by the horrors of humanity. He felt like a corruption, like the rot in his bones might be contagious as well as parasitic.

You were no use to his work. Consequently, you were no use to him. He did not need nor want you in his life. Before long, the agitation in response to what he could only assume were attempts at friendship—a miraculous mug of black coffee ritualistically at the edge of his desk every Monday and Friday—had to have subsided into rationality, revealing him to the conclusion that you were lonely.

An awful thing the brain can be, really. The miraculous organ, conscious of consciousness: the self’s most potent deception, its most invisible betrayal.

Rust knew he was not good for other people. He barely considered himself to be a person. He accepted carefully measured amounts of exposure to satisfy the human’s reptilian desire for connection: this was safest when by proxy. He could spare himself and those around him the difficulty of introspection, which seemed inevitable in all relations, by simply observing.

You were so desperate to connect. He could feel it radiating from you, almost tangible, in gentle, glowing waves. Then again, you would never speak unless spoken to. To begin with, he attributed this phenomenon to introversion. Then, perhaps it was due to femininity: there was a heightened perception, he found, in Louisiana for a wife, a mother, a daughter, a whore, to accept any and all treatment from men, as it was well-meant or well-deserved. He overheard Geraci say something about how well you had accustomed to the transfer from Brooklyn. “Nothin’ like Cohle.”

It'd bother him some: to feel you looking at him; when Marty would mention you in passing; when his body would tense in unfamiliar hesitation when he would glimpse your colours through the slits in the files room units. Apparently, you were funny. He agreed – there were times when he would overhear a sly remark or smartass retort and huff to himself in amusement, protected by his and your turned backs. He knew you could work someone well: you near always exited the box victorious. If you weren’t—victorious, that is—you were solemn, quiet, cagey. You always went back for what you needed, sometimes more. In his own way, he knew you. He was grateful that he had never looked at you or spoken to you long enough for you to know him.

People who considered themselves perceptive usually thought they could crack Rust, turn him inside out, read him. They tried to hold his eyes, tried to make him uncomfortable to prove their lazy, shallow, unoriginal theory that he was shy, that he was misunderstood. What a surprise for them, then, when he would push back with a flat stare, unblinking, inexorable.

He thought it entirely viable for you to do the same. He almost hoped you would, bitter, hoping for the opportunity to win against you, to destabilise the perception you had of yourself – that was the parasite talking. He almost hoped that you might be arrogant underneath, so that he could dislike you as he disliked most at the precinct. He waited for you to approach him.

But you didn’t. You just left coffee on his desk, which he always drank.

#rust cohle x reader #true detective season 1 #rust cohle #i’m going insane #i love the smashing pumpkins

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sparklecryptid · 16 days

Text

Bees (Or The Beginning of the Journey)

or the first short story in the 'gay faerie enviromental horror fantasy' novel

ko-fi

patreon

“I need bees.”

Hans blinked. The man in front of him wasn’t the strangest customer Hans had ever encountered but once you’ve been a florist long enough you come to realize that the strangest customers look like everyone else.

This man was nothing special. There was no strange aura about him, no scars marring his face or glowing sigils etched into what skin Hans could see. This man with his short black hair, his gold eyes, and light brown skin looked like half the population of Rog. There was nothing notable about his sharp features.

The most notable thing about him were his clothes. They lack all the distinct embrodiery that nobility loved. There were no house crests or family emblems on his tunic or cloak but all of his garments were made expertly. They fit him like a glove and showed hardly any sign of wear and tear despite having been at the height of fashion three years ago. If his clothing didn't give away his status, his bearing did.

It was in the way this customer held himself. His back perfectly straight and hands held loosely at his sides. What the customer lacked in height, he came up only to Hans’ shoulders, he made up for in presence.

This is a man, Hans thought, that is used to the world bowing at his feet.

Shame, Hans didn’t give special treatment.

“What for exactly?”

The man sighed as if the world was putting him through a trial that demanded the utmost patience from him. He turned his gold eyes on Hans quizzically.

“Do you normally ask people why they want bees?” he asked. Hans couldn’t place where his accent was from, but he thought that it sounded distinctly foreign.

“’Course I do,” Hans said as he wiped down a vase, he was going to assemble the most glorious bouquet in later, “Can’t have them mistreating my bees.”

The man blinked slowly as if it had never occurred to him that people would mistreat bees. Shame not all noblemen thought the same.

“People mistreat bees?” The man says it like it’s astonishing to him. Hans wonders what it’s like to sit so far above everybody you’ve never seen someone throw a jar of bees at you.

“All the time,” Hans says, “That’s why I gotta make sure you don’t mistreat them.”

The man blinked again.

“Fair enough,” he said at last, then as if remembering people introduce themselves to others he took a step back from the counter and added, “I’m Sage.”

Hans nearly dropped the vase he was polishing. Sage’s mouth opened in a perfect ‘o’ as Hans fumbled with the vase. Sage didn’t attempt to help, although when Hans finally set the vase on the counter and looked back at Sage the man looked as if he had sorely wanted to.

“You’re a Healer?” Hans said. Sage hesitated and nodded slowly. It made sense then, why Sage had a presence and the name Sage. Only Healers were permitted to take the names of plants. Only a healer would come to a hellhole like this.

Bitterly, Hans thought that if a Healer had showed up sooner his town might not have been in this mess. That rot would not be eating through the people in Bardly and that his flowers would still be thriving.

He didn't look at the barely surviving flowerbeds outside his window. If he didn't see it, he could ignore it.

“Yes,” Sage confirmed, “I’m, uh, new in the area.”

“You’re here to clean up the mess by the windmill then?” Hans guessed. The Corruption by the windmill had been slowly leeching itself into the towns drinking water. People have been getting sick for ages now.

Hans cast an eye on his flowers. None were as healthy as they were a few months go. The ones in the ground weren't even worth harvesting.

“Yes.” Sage shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes darting from the window behind Hans to the door at the side of Hans’ store. The man was looking for a way to escape Hans guessed, though he couldn’t fathom why.

“And you need bees for that?” Hans kept his hands visible, some tension seemed to ease from Sage’s shoulders.

“Everything exists in harmony,” Sage replied, finally meeting Hans’ eyes again, “Haven’t you noticed the lack of pollinators recently? Even the wasps are fleeing. I need bees to find how far the corruption extends.”

“Don’t you have magic for that?” Hans had been told that Healers had magic for everything. Why they would need bees was beyond him.

“Sometimes,” Sage said, his golden eyes turning wistful, “It’s better to listen to nature rather than force it.”

Hans opened his mouth to say something.

He closed it with a click.

“I’ll get you your bees,” Hans said at last, “Try to make sure not to blow up the town.”

Sage laughed and Hans swore the air seemed just a bit clearer.

#moose’s fae novel idea

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justagalwhowrites · 1 year

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Lavender - Ch. 14

Tommy comes into the clinic and you offer your medical skills to both him and Joel. Continuation of Lavender Ch. 1-13 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries and treatment of injuries from canon-typical violence. No use of Y/N. Minors DNI!

Length: 5.4k

Sunday, October 4, 2009 - 3 months later

You came out from the exam rooms and frowned. It took you a second to place the song just starting on the speakers in the waiting room.

“Marta!” You said. “Is that Back in the U.S.S.R.?”

“It is indeed,” she leaned across the front desk.

“I haven’t heard that song in years!” You resisted the urge to dance in a waiting room with half a dozen patients as witnesses. The CD case was sitting on the desk and you gaped at it. “Is that the whole White Album? Where did you find that!”

“I didn’t,” she smiled. You smiled too, shaking your head. “Andrew told me to keep my mouth shut about it until Sunday afternoon. Said you’d need it.”

“He’s a sneak,” you said.

“He also said you work too much, that you need to stop changing his schedule and that you need to stop conspiring with Jess,” her smile shifted to a smirk. “But I don’t think I was supposed to tell you that today.”

“Oh I’m sure he’ll tell me himself later this week,” you rolled your eyes, still smiling.

“You’ve got one in exam four,” she handed you a chart. “And Kristen is in with one in exam seven when you’re done there.”

“Well, as long as we have The Beatles,” you said, tapping the file on the countertop in time to the music before heading back to the exam rooms.

It was a small miracle that Jess had actually kept Andrew away from the clinic that day. He’d been almost unreasonably protective since Joel had left three months earlier and with your birthday the next day… You didn’t want to disrupt his life any more than you already had. He needed to do things like have a day off. His life was on track.

The day after Joel left, you didn’t move. Andrew came by to make sure you were still alive. His knuckles were banged up. You stared at the wall. You slept. You stared at the wall some more. Andrew came back Monday morning, letting himself in your apartment and all but dragging you out of bed.

“You can come to our place or you can go to work,” he said, standing at the edge of your bed, your face pressed against his stomach as he ran his hands over your tangled mass of hair. “Those are your choices. You need to get cleaned up, you need to get out of bed, you need to eat something. You’re not going to just rot here.”

“I’ll go to work,” you said softly.

“Then let’s get ready for work.”

He walked you to the school, stood outside until he saw you go in the doors to make sure you didn’t just turn around and go back home. You didn’t go get your cup of bad coffee or stop and say hi to other teachers. You just went to your classroom and stared at the wall. Unlike in the schools before the outbreak, they’d let you paint your room. Andrew had helped. There was a solar system in one corner and a forest in another and flowering vines that framed the cracks in the cinderblock.

Your room was the only one in the building like this. The FEDRA teachers were different than the teachers you were used to before. Everyone decorated their rooms before, doing everything they could to keep students engaged. From what you gathered for the regular schools in the QZ, that was still the case - or as much as it could be in the end of the world. But at what amounted to a military school for orphans of the war on humanity, the bare necessities were all there was. It was part of why you decided to teach at this school. Someone, you thought, needed to be invested in these kids. Why couldn’t it be you?

So you’d decorated your room. Made a bookshelf and stocked it with things you picked up on the black market that had been brought in by smugglers and let the kids borrow what they wanted - everything from old copies of Scientific American to the Harry Potter books (you were still disappointed you’d never find out how those were going to end.)

As you stared at the vines you’d painted four years ago, you decided that you couldn’t shut down on these kids. They had no one. You couldn’t just be one more person to leave them. You could be the one person they knew loved them.

You made yourself smile as your students came in. Just because you didn’t matter to anyone else doesn’t mean that they didn’t matter to you. They were worth it.

You threw yourself into your work. You picked up extra shifts at the clinic. Before, you had Sundays and Wednesdays off but now, you were there every day. Elias had talked to you twice already about burnout but you’d just shrugged him off. All you cared about was finding something that forced you to keep going, something that made you feel something besides hollow. The clinic and the school could be those things. You’d make them be those things.

You quickly knocked on the door of exam room four before letting yourself in.

“Hi there,” you smiled, without looking at the patient for a moment, just opening the chart. You froze.

“Hey Kid.”

The door closed and latched behind you. Dear Prudence was playing.

“Hey Tommy.”

You stood there looking at each other.

“I didn’t think you’d be in today,” he said eventually. “Thought you didn’t work on Sundays.”

“I do now,” you shrugged. “I like keeping busy. There are no other doctors here right now but I can do a quick eval and see if a nurse can handle what you need or…”

“No,” he waved you off. “I don’t have a problem with seeing you if you don’t have a problem seeing me. Wouldn’t blame you if you did but…”

“I don’t,” you said quickly. He smiled. It reminded you of Joel in a way that made your heart ache while making everything seem lighter. You went to the sink and washed your hands, looking over your shoulder at him as you did. “How’ve you been?”

“Tryin’ to stay out of trouble,” he said. “Don’t know how good a job I’ve been doing at that though.”

“Not one of your considerable talents, I will say,” you teased. “What brings you by today?”

“My inability to stay outta trouble,” he smirked.

You laughed

“Alright, let’s see it.”

He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of one side of it. There was a makeshift bandage around his bicep and you frowned. The blood was dried and the bandage looked like it had been on for far longer than it should have been.

“Well that’s coming off,” you frowned. “And it’s probably going to hurt. The hell have you been doing, Miller?”

He just looked sheepishly at you while you unwound the dressing, trying to do so as gingerly as possible. He still winced as the dried blood and discharge pulled on the open wound.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Tommy?” You shook your head, looking over the injury. “The hell didn’t you come see me sooner?”

“It didn’t seem that bad at first,” he said. “But it hasn’t been getting better and…”

“Yeah, it’s infected you idiot,” you rolled your eyes, dropping the bandage in the trash. “When did you get this?”

“Last week?” He winced. You sighed.

“And why was someone shooting at you last week?” You asked. He went to respond and then glared at you.

“Never said I got shot,” he said.

“Yeah, I’ve had a partial shoulder shot, Tommy,” you glared at him. “I know what they look like. Who was shooting at you and why. Please tell me I’m not conspiring against FEDRA by treating you right now…”

“It wasn’t FEDRA,” he rolled his eyes. “Just… had a run in with some bad people is all.”

You looked at him for a moment.

“It wasn’t in the QZ was it?”

He paused.

“No.”

You groaned.

“What the fuck, Miller?”

“Can you spare the lecture, Kid?” He asked. “Can you fix my arm or not?”

“Nope, I’ll have to cut the whole thing off.”

He rolled his eyes. You sighed.

“Yes, I can fix your arm,” you said. “But it’s going to be a process because you didn’t come see me sooner. It needs debridement, I’m going to do some fairly intensive antibiotics because right now your shoulder is a goddamn Petri dish for a super bug and I want to nip that in the bud and then you’re getting stitches. And I swear to God Tommy if you don’t follow my directions for wound care…”

“You’re not as scary as you think you are, Kid,” he smirked. “But I’ll listen to ya.”

You glared at him but went and got what you needed from the supply room and scrubbed in before gloving up.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you said, sitting next to him on the exam table as you injected his arm with local anesthetic. He winced. “Otherwise I’d just do this without numbing you up just to teach you a lesson.”

You got out a scalpel and forceps, testing his arm after a minute before starting in on the infected tissue.

“That’s disgusting,” he sounded a little sick.

“Yeah, well, this is the price you pay for being a dumbass,” you said, focused on his arm.

“Your bedside manner is shit, Kid, anyone ever tell you that?”

“You’d be the first,” you replied, depositing some of the tissue on a sterile cloth and going back in. He laughed. “Hold still or I will take off your arm.”

He looked straight ahead for a moment while you worked, eyes narrowed, trying to make sure you were getting all the infected tissue while not taking any of the healthy with it. But after a few minutes he looked at you.

“So how’ve you been?” He asked.

“Busy,” you said noncommittally.

“C’mon,” he said. “You know what I’m askin’.”

You were quiet for a minute.

“He told you then,” you said eventually.

“Yeah.” He was still looking at you. You resisted the urge to cry. You couldn’t fuck up your sterile field.

“Well, I’m still here,” you shrugged as you deposited more tissue on the cloth, giving the wound a final look. You grabbed the saline and went back to it. “May not want to tell him that, it’d probably be a let down.”

“Look, Joel’s a fucking asshole but he’s not that much of a fucking asshole,” he said, sounding a bit defensive. “He wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

“He said he never wanted to see me again,” you irrigated the wound and looked it over again. “A lot easier to do if I dropped dead or left town.”

Tommy didn’t say anything. You put the saline away and got out the suture kit.

“I’m going to stitch you up now,” you said. “Let me know if you feel anything, I can add to the anesthesia…”

He just nodded and you started stitching.

“How is he?” You asked after a moment. Tommy paused a moment before answering.

“Survivin’,” he said eventually. You nodded slowly.

“He going outside the QZ too?”

“Not sure I should be telling a FEDRA doctor anything about that,” Tommy said wryly. You glared a him. “But yeah. He is.”

“Tommy,” you groaned. “Jesus Christ…”

“You think I can control a damn thing that man does?” He asked. You glared at him. “We both know he’s going to do whatever the fuck he wants, whatever he thinks is the best thing for everybody because no one else can take care of shit like Joel fuckin’ Miller can…”

“Been sitting on that feeling for a while there?” You half smiled.

“Something like that,” he muttered.

You finished stitching his arm and gave him a shot of antibiotics.

“That’s going to start clearing the infection,” you said. “But I’m sending you home with pills, too. You take every single fucking one of them or I swear I will come and shove them down your throat like I’m drugging a dog. Bacterial infection is a shit show here as it is, I will not let you make it worse because you create an antibiotic resistant strain of super bacteria by not completing your meds…”

“I’ll take the drugs, Kid.”

“Good.”

You wrapped his arm and sat back, looking at your handiwork.

“Come in like that again and I’m not giving you the anesthesia,” you said, cleaning up your supplies.

“Well there’s some incentive for you,” he laughed, shrugging back into his shirt. You threw away the trash and your gloves and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as he buttoned his shirt.

“How often are you leaving the QZ?” You asked.

“Don’t exactly have a set schedule,” he said, cagey.

“Tommy.”

“Bout twice a month.”

You nodded slowly.

“And how often are you getting fucking shot at?”

He laughed a little and gave you a cocky smile.

“Bout twice a month.”

“Jesus Christ…” you muttered.

“They’re bad shots, Kid.”

“Not that bad.”

You sighed.

“I’m only saying this because I know you’re going to keep going out there regardless of what I say about it,” you said. “But next time one of you is hurt and you don’t feel… comfortable coming to the clinic, please get me. I’ll come to you, you can come to me, I don’t really care. Just please don’t get yourselves killed because you’re stubborn idiots.”

“That go for my idiot brother, too?” He asked, watching you.

“Course it does,” you said. “Just hit him over the head with a frying pan after taking a thorough medical history so he doesn’t have to see me when I treat him.”

Tommy snorted, shaking his head as he got down from the exam table. He looked you up and down, a sense of sadness on his face.

“He’s an idiot, Kid,” he said, meeting your eyes. “I love him but he’s the biggest fuckin’ idiot I know.”

“He’s not,” you half smiled at him. “But I appreciate the thought. Try to make sure he stays in one piece? Look out for him?”

“I will,” he said, leaning in and giving you a kiss on the cheek.

You pressed the bottle of antibiotics into his hand and watched him leave the exam area, staring at the door he left through for a moment before going to the next exam room.

Your birthday was a Monday. It was hard to not think about the year before, the day that Joel and Tommy made it to the QZ. You’d thought, for a while, that it was a sign that the day might not be cursed. It could hold the best and the worst of life, it didn’t matter. It felt less good now.

This year, a long workday helped. Your students were particularly well behaved for a Monday. You weren’t sure if they sensed that you were off or if it was just a coincidence but either way, you were grateful for it. The clinic was good, too. Enough patients to keep your mind occupied and body moving, not so many that you were overwhelmed.

“Not a bad day all things considered,” Andrew said as you finished with your last patient’s chart a few minutes before 10. The White Album was on again.

“It was not,” you said, perching on the edge of the desk. He leaned beside you. “Thank you for The Beatles, by the way.”

“Course,” he kissed your temple and you rested your head on his shoulder. “Knew you’d need it.”

“I come bearing cake!” Jess sang as she came into the clinic, plate in hand. “Andrew said it wasn’t really that kind of birthday but I figure hard days are an even better excuse for cake so…”

“Any days are a good excuse for cake,” you smiled.

“My sentiments exactly,” she smiled back.

The three of you walked to your place and you put on the AC/DC album that you kept at the apartment specifically for when Andrew was being a jerk about your music or needed some cheering up.

“Awww, real music,” he said as you cut the cake. “You DO care!”

“Don’t read into it,” you shook your head and smiled a little, passing out plates. You poured each of you a beer and you gathered around your small table.

“To an honestly not bad birthday for the shittiest of birthdays,” Andrew raised his glass. You shook your head.

“If society ever returns, you’re not giving a toast at my wedding,” you teased.

You’d only gotten halfway through your beer and your slice of cake - Jess, as it turned out, was a talented baker - when there was a sharp knock on your door. The three of you looked at each other, frowning. Andrew gestured for both of you to stay put and tiptoed to the door. He checked the peephole before opening it, holding the door against his side so whoever it was couldn’t see in.

“Are you the Kid?” A woman’s voice you didn’t recognize asked. “I was told to come here and get the Kid, it’s urgent…”

You got up and went to the door, ducking below Andrew’s arm. He groaned.

“You couldn’t just stay at the table…” he muttered.

A woman, about 10 years older than you, was standing there. Her lip was swollen, blood at her arm where her shirt was torn. She looked you up and down, assessing you.

“You’re the Kid,” she said instead of asked it this time. “Jesus, you are young.”

“I’m 31,” you said defensively.

“Huh,” her eyes lingered on your hair. You’d put a ribbon on the end of your braid. “You look younger.”

“Thanks,” you said wryly. Andrew pulled you back against him, his hand on your shoulder possessively. You crossed your arms. “I take it you know Tommy?”

“And Joel,” she said. Andrew’s hand clenched you harder. “They need help and Tommy said I should come to you…”

“No,” Andrew said before you got a chance to respond. “I don’t care what shit they got themselves into…”

“I don’t think I was asking you,” the woman said. “Look, I don’t have time…”

“How bad is it?” You cut them both off. She looked you over again. You sighed. “Before the outbreak would you call an ambulance or drive to urgent care?”

“Ambulance.”

You shoved past Andrew and went to grab the go bag you kept stashed under your bed for emergency situations where they called you into the field from home. The woman had followed you inside. Jess waved awkwardly from the table.

“Celebrating?” The woman asked.

“It’s her birthday,” Jess nodded in your direction. The woman winced a little.

“Sorry about that.”

“Hasn’t been a day worth celebrating in a while,” you shrugged. “Don’t know why that should change now.”

Andrew grabbed your arm and you frowned up at him.

“You don’t need to do this,” he said. The woman stiffened, sizing him up. You ignored her.

“Yes I do.”

He pulled you in for a tight hug and sighed.

“Don’t let it destroy you.”

You gave him a stiff nod and hurried out into the night with the woman.

“Where are they?” You asked, walking quickly to the stairs. “Their apartment?” The woman nodded once. You started down the stairs and you looked her up and down. “Can you run?”

“There’s a reason I was the one to come get you,” she said.

You took off for their place the second you were down the stairs, glancing back to see that the other woman wasn’t far behind.

It had been months since you’d ventured into this part of the QZ. You’d actively avoided it. You tried not to think about the fact that it had been more than three months since you’d last seen Joel but you knew it would hurt. His picture was still on your bedside table. You thought about him all the time - when you found a clever line in a book you’d share if he were reading beside you, when you remembered the way he’d touch you without thinking about it because touching you was the most natural thing in the world, when you tried to channel his blunt way of moving through life when something about the QZ was especially frustrating. You’d missed him desperately before he came to Boston. It was worse now. He was so close, close enough that you could be touching him in just minutes and he’d never been further away. You were worried you were going to be stuck like this - longing and alone - forever.

And you were still running to his side.

The woman let you into their apartment. Joel was flat on his back in the middle of the living room floor, Tommy beside him with a towel on Joel’s side.

“Hey Kid,” Tommy said sheepishly. He was bleeding, too, what looked like a shallow knife wound on his ribs. You glared at him, going to the other side of Joel and dropping your pack next to him.

“I just patched you up fucking yesterday, Miller,” you said. “And this is what you do?”

“Can you lecture me after you save this asshole?” He asked.

“Move the towel,” you ordered. “I need to see what I’m working with.”

He obeyed, pulling the cloth away and revealing a bullet hole in Joel’s stomach.

“Son of a bitch,” you breathed. “You just had to fucking go outside the QZ again, didn’t you?”

“I know, I know,” he said. “Please say you can fix this…”

“I sure fucking hope so,” you looked between him and the woman. “Which of you is better with blood? Both with seeing it and have lost less of it?”

“I think I’ve lost less,” the woman said. Her fingers were winding around themselves. She was nervous.

“Good,” you said. “Tommy, move.” You grabbed the bag and went to where he’d been and looked at the woman. “You… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Tess.”

“Tess,” you repeated once, nodding. “You’re with me. Go wash your hands like you just swam in a sewer and you’re about to eat a sandwich. Tommy, I need light, a fuck ton of light. And boil water, I’m going to need sterile water.”

They both rushed to obey while you assessed the situation. Joel was unconscious. You tried really hard to not think about the fact that it was Joel who was unconscious. The bullet wound was your primary concern. You checked his pulse. It was a lot weaker than you wanted.

“Tommy,” you called. “How many towels have you gone through?”

“Three, I think?” He called back, running in with flashlights and depositing them next to you.

“Shit,” you muttered. Tess came back from the bathroom and you pulled a pack of gloves from your bag. “Put those on, hold pressure on the wound. I need to go scrub because I need to get in there.”

You pulled off your button down shirt leaving just your tank top below and left Tess there, trusting her to follow your instructions. You were still fighting not to panic about the fact that it was Joel bleeding out on the living room floor. You focused on the water running over your fingers, the soap, anything but whose life you were about to try to save.

Tess was holding the towel against Joel’s stomach when you came back in and you pulled on gloves, getting on your knees beside his body.

“This is going to be messy for multiple reasons,” you said, looking between Tess and Tommy. “Either of you ever drawn blood before?” They glanced at each other but were silent. “Either of you happen to know his blood type?”

“You don’t?” Tommy asked.

“Why would I know Joel’s blood type?” You looked at him like he was crazy.

“Weren’t you studying for that doctor exam when you were…”

“Yeah, I didn’t go around memorizing everyone’s blood types!” You closed your eyes for a second. This was going to take a small miracle. “Doesn’t matter. I’m O-, either of you O-?”

They shook their heads.

“Why’s that matter?” Tommy asked.

“Because I’m basically a walking blood bag,” you said, cracking your neck. “And he’s going to need a transfusion…”

“How are you going to transfuse him while operating?” Tess gaped at you.

“Fucking carefully I guess!” You snapped. “This is going to be a first for me, too, but unless you guys want to move him to the clinic and get potentially executed by FEDRA for leaving the QZ…”

“Right,” Tess nodded. “Right, OK…”

“Any other emergent injuries that I should know about besides the gunshot wound?” You asked. They were silent. You took a deep breath and nodded. “Alright, let’s do this. Tommy, I need light.”

He held the light over Joel’s stomach and you palpated his stomach, finding the bullet.

“Tommy,” you glanced up at him. “I’m not sure how unconscious he is, but if he starts moving, you need to hold him down. I don’t have anesthesia and I can’t have him thrashing around when I’m wrist deep in his abdominal cavity. If the call is light or holding him still, drop the light and hold him down, got it?”

He swallowed hard and then nodded. You picked up the scalpel, took a deep breath, and cut. Tommy made a gagging sound and you ignored him. You located the bullet quickly, lodged in the large intestine. All things considered, he got lucky. It had missed the pancreas, the stomach and the small intestine.

“Tess,” you said as you got ready to extract the bullet. “I need you to try to monitor his pulse. If it gets any fainter, we’ll have to start a transfusion now. Once I start pulling the bullet out, the bleeding could get a lot worse.”

You pried the bullet free, trying to move it as cleanly as possible down the path it had entered his body through - easier said than done without the proper tools. And he did start bleeding more. You just hoped it wouldn’t be too bad.

“I need gauze, from the kit, in the sterile packs.”

Tess moved quickly ripping it open. You yanked it out and stuffed the wound, giving you time to repair the damage to the large intestine without flooding the abdominal cavity with blood. “He’s getting pale,” Tess warned.

“Pulse?”

“I think it’s OK…”

You nodded, swapping out gauze.

“Tommy,” you said. “I need that water…”

He grabbed the still warm kettle, handing it to you. You splashed some on your skin. It was hot but didn’t burn. You cleaned the area and watched to see if he was still losing blood, if there was a repair you’d missed. You were pretty sure you’d caught everything.

“Good news,” you pulled the gauze from his body. “Damage was pretty minimal and it was a simple repair. I’m going to close him up, then we can just tap into me and finish this up…”

You stitched him up quickly and yanked the gloves off before switching them for a clean pair.

“In the bag, there should be a needle pack, alcohol wipes, some tubing and a tourniquet,” you said. “I need all of it.”

Tess moved quickly again, handing you the supplies. You didn’t have a bag to transition the blood from you to Joel, so you were going to have to settle for a direct transfusion. It wasn’t something that was ever really done anymore, but you’d read enough about it, you were pretty sure you could figure it out. You got everything set up and sat down, your back against the couch, before putting the needle in your own arm. You removed the tourniquet and blood started flowing from you into him. You slumped over a bit, finally able to take a breath. You kept his wrist in your hand to monitor his pulse.

“He should be largely out of the woods,” you said. Both Tess and Tommy visibly relaxed. “He’s going to need to take it easy for a while. Tommy, those antibiotics I gave you yesterday? Give Joel the same dosage. Track how many you give him, come by the clinic sometime this week when I’m there and I’ll give you another bottle.”

“Thank you,” Tess was watching you. “For doing this. Your friend was right, you didn’t have to…”

“Yes I did,” you closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the couch. “But I would have anyway.”

Tommy brought you a glass of water and you chugged it, trying to pay attention to how long you’d been transferring blood and how strong Joel’s pulse was. His color was getting a bit better. Tess and Tommy were talking in hushed tones in the kitchen but you didn’t care.

You hadn’t realized how long it had been since you’d seen Joel without tension in his face. He was soft and beautiful like this. It reminded you of life with him in Texas, when the biggest problems you had were whether or not Sarah should do regular soccer or travel soccer. You had to resist the urge to touch him, kiss him. Fuck, you loved him. You’d always be stuck loving him.

You decided to enjoy it. You doubted you’d have a chance to see him like this ever again, so you quietly memorized his face, the flecks of gray coming into his beard, the creases around his eyes, the precise arch of his nose. You looked away for a moment to check the status of his incision - relieved to see that it wasn’t oozing blood - when the hand that was in your fingers started to move.

You tightened your grip on him - not wanting to disturb the transfusion - but watched his face. “Tommy,” you called over your shoulder, still watching Joel. He and Tess both rushed over, the three of you watching as Joel slowly came round.

His eyes found you first and you braced yourself for his wrath, but it didn’t come.

“Hey Baby,” his lips tugged up at the edges. “Did I die? What are you doin’ here?”

“Not dead,” your heart was racing. “You’re very much alive, despite your best efforts.”

“He doesn’t remember,” Tommy said. “Why doesn’t he remember?”

“He will,” you said. “He’s just out of it. He probably won’t remember this at all, which is just as well…”

“Always remember you…” he muttered. He tried to sit up but you pushed him back down. His eyes drifted over you. “Even dead you’re so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Not dead, Joel. Giving you a blood transfusion right now,” you said. “And you just had surgery. You need to lie still for me, OK?”

“Knew you’d be a doctor,” he mumbled, closing his eyes again. “My girl the doctor…”

“That’s me alright,” you said, feeling light headed. You looked up at Tommy. “Hold him down for me? I think he’s got enough blood now and I can’t stand losing much more…”

Tommy listened as you stopped the transfusion and got everything cleaned up. Joel was unconscious again, but no longer bleeding out.

“He’ll need to be monitored for the next 48 hours,” you said, writing out some basic care instructions. “Anything goes to shit, Tommy, you know where to find me. And don’t forget about the antibiotics. We can’t have him getting infected…”

“We can pay you when we cash in from this run,” Tess said, her hands in her back pockets as she watched you. You frowned.

“I don’t want your money,” you said.

“I’m not comfortable owing someone,” she replied. You read between the lines. She wasn’t comfortable owing you, Joel’s ex. Something told you that Tommy hadn’t mentioned the specifics of your relationship to Joel. And Joel had moved on. Of course he’d moved on. There was a stabbing pain in your chest that you’d have to cry about once you were out of here.

“You don’t,” you said, desperate to go home. “Really. Hippocratic oath and all that…”

“There has to be something you need,” she said.

You looked at her, thinking for a moment before settling on something.

“Can you take me outside the QZ?”

A/N: Soooooo please excuse any and all medical errors in this sucker. I word for a living (that's right, I write all day at work and then I get on my personal laptop and write all evening because why not.) I know jack crap about anything medical beyond what some googling does and the fact that I binged watched both Grey's Anatomy and E.R. at the start of the pandemic. This is probably a medical disaster area but just act like I know what I'm talking about, OK? It'll be way more fun that way.

Thank you as always for reading! We're into the QZ era of the story which I might be weirdly excited about given the realities of it. I have lots planned for this chunk of the fic and I hope you all enjoy it. I love love LOVE reading all your comments and seeing what you respond to and connect with. Thanks so much for sticking with this story! I love you all!

Taglist (just comment below if you want to be added!): @paleidiot @ayamenimthiriel @ginger-swag-rapunzel @drewharrisonwriter

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you

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