#Disturbed Doc (Medic)

[tf2-plus2]

Employee Profile #135

Employee Profile for; Dr (Formerly) Bernhard Ludwig Medic

Age; 40

Hair; Dark Brown/Black

Eyes; Gray Blue

Blood Type; AB Negative

Height; 6'1"/185.4 CM

Weight; 204 Lbs/92.5 kg

D.O.B.; Oct 30, 1921

P.O.B.; Stuttgart, Germany

Class; Medic

Job; Doctor Assisted Homicide

Background Information; Dr Ludwig has stated part of his inspiration for his practices was in seeing how people were affected by new and upcoming medical practices. His parents, so he has said, were alchemists who refused to touch the medical side of the practice, which he seems to have more than happily learned in their stead. Perhaps watching them is where his habit of mixing chemicals was learned? His combat practices he said were learned during WWII while fighting against certain German forces. Anyone who could be found and interviewed on his combat history said he was a, quote, "frightening devil in the field, wielding tool and concoction as easily as other men aimed bullets", end quote.

Weapons; Medic is primarily trained with various bone saws, some home augmented with needles, crossbows firing needles, and an odd concoction housed in a "medigun" that seems to be turned into vapor that can be concentrated on allies. While he might be able to train with other weapons, he seems to prefer wielding improvised medical tools.

Notes; While he is certainly loyal to the team, Dr Ludwig seems very... eager to subject the others to his "Lifegiving Surgeries". Thankfully, despite this, the team doesn't seem offput by him enough not to trust him in the field. If anything, after the incident in which his medigun gas was first created, they seem to rely heavily on his healing to keep from respawning. He has also greatly streamlined and improved this process. Perhaps a "mad scientist" isn't so bad to have around, and his talents could be directed towards other avenues with time...

Hiring Date; [REDACTED], 1961

[pencil-n-pen]

TONGUES AND TEETH

₊˚ʚ 🌲₊˚✧ . °🍂 ೃ࿔*

jackson! joel miller x fem! loner! reader

masterlist | ko-fi

summary: Joel refuses to acknowledge the part of him that aches to be a protector. That is, until you come crashing into his life.

cw: canon-typical violence, reader had a rough go of things before Joel, nightmares, medical inaccuracies (oh the horror!) uhhh reader has a broken nose and it gets set, unspecified age gap, daddy issues but we all saw that coming and it’s vague, as an ellie lover and defender until the day i die, it pains me to say no ellie-au IM SORRY I COULDN’T MAKE IT WORK bella ramsey as ellie they could never make me hate you

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort as always, age gap, nightmare comfort, honestly just two messed up people loving each other

a/n: proof that i will find a way to write an eldest daughter fic for any fandom/universe

not officially writing for him !! just had this idea

another long(ish) fic. if you're here from my masterlist, now would be a good time to go pee, get some water, and maybe a snack or two :) same things for those of you scrolling. i see u

title taken from tongues and teeth by the crane wives (GO LISTEN TO THE CRANE WIVES !!)

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚🦴⋆｡°✩

Jackson living isn’t all Joel thought it would be cracked up to be.

Don’t get him wrong- objectively, it’s great. Running water, electricity, a clinic- three hallmarks Joel was sure he’d never see again. Not since the outbreak.

So by all means, he should be content. He goes out for hunting parties and patrols. Has his own house. Has a permanent place to keep his boots and his knives and guns and a bookshelf to make his way through. He has a bed. He has his brother.

But he’s restless.

Joel spent a long time walking. Searching. Surviving. You don’t quite slip back into easy civilian life just like that, no matter how perfect the conditions are.

At first, he solves this problem but going on more hunting parties, more patrols. He stays up late doing guard rotations and helps out his brother with projects when he can.

It doesn’t solve the itch, though. That sharp little thrumming, just beneath his skin: the need to protect. To have a job. To have something or someone to look after.

He denies this part of himself as much as he can, because he’s not that man anymore. Not after Sarah. He’s not. You don’t stay somebody dying to help and protect when you kill people. Because they’re still people, under the fungus. Under the parasite. Their brain’s still work. They still feel pain and anguish and fear.

He’s heard them cry before. Hunched over a corpse, body acting with somebody else at the reins, faces covered in blood and gore crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

So Joel isn’t a protective guy anymore. Had to take out those parts. Replace them with solitary and meanness and a distinct lack of sympathy.

It’s turned him into an angry thing. Like a gaurd dog; snarling, circling an empty pedestal it refuses to acknowledge is there.

He knows Tommy see’s it. Try’s to involve him in things whenever he can, invites him over to dinner. Hangs out at his house. Makes sure Joel isn’t alone-alone.

So Joel really, really should’ve seen it coming when he and the scouting party find you in the woods.

You’re just as surprised to see them as they are to see you. They thought they were tracking a deer— although some of the tracks and patterns of disturbance in the underbrush didn’t add up.

They’d entered a clearing, guns poised, just to see you, handgun leveled at them, perched in a tree. Way higher up than Joel would’ve dared.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” You’d hissed, voice carrying on the wind and rattling just like the leaves on the tree you’re in. How you managed to scale a tree that high in a busted pair of Doc Martens and lugging a backpack clearly full of supplies is beyond him.

But he doesn’t need medical credentials to know you’ve clearly had a rough go of things.

You’re young. Not young-young, but young. Dressed in clothes clearly pilfered, you’re wearing a thick brown jacket that probably would’ve belonged to a construction worker or something like that. It’s a few sizes too big, and the cuffs are frayed and there’s a hastily sewn patch on the elbow he can see. Your face and hair is littered with tree and other plant debris- though if this is a new addition from your tree climbing escapade, he’s not sure. Your nose has dried blood crusted under it, your lip is split, and there’s a cut above your eyebrow. Your knuckles and hands are equally torn and split, old and new scars and scrapes littering your skin.

In short: you look rough. And feral, in that way that cats that live outside a little too long and a little too far away from people end up looking.

“I said stay back!”

He remembers, abruptly, that you’re probably scared out of your mind and the rest of the scouting team is still pointing their weapons at you.

He makes the motion for them to lower their weapons, and he lowers his own, raising both hands in the universal “we come in peace” gesture.

You don’t lower yours, but your grip on it is looser.

“We’re from the Jackson settlement,” He shouts, hoping you don’t hear the gruff anger in his voice that Tommy always complains he needs to work on. “There’s running water and electricity.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Your hands have begun to shake on the gun, ever so slightly. “So what’s your guys prerogative, huh? Cannablism? Religion? You planning on burning me at the stake? Or did you have something else in mind? I am a woman.”

Joel takes a step forward but stops when a bullet hits the ground right where his foot was about to be.

“If you take one more step you’re gonna find out exactly why I’ve survived alone this long.”

“Look,” He says, dropping his hands to his hips. “You can shoot us, and one of us will shoot you, and it’ll all be fine and dandy—“

There’s a chorus of whispers behind him.

“Or you can stay in that tree and not shoot us, and we won’t shoot you, and that’ll also be fine and dandy.”

He turns, jamming a finger in the direction of the settlement. “Jackson’s that way. Go or don’t go. I don’t really give a shit, but you look like you could use a bandaid.”

He jerks his head, and the rest of the party follows his lead, leaving the clearing —and you— behind.

—

A few hours after he returns, somewhere in the late evening when twilight is starting to set in and the crickets are chirping, Tommy knocks on his door.

“There’s a girl here for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Someone asked for me?”

“Well, not so much as for you. Her words exactly were “that gruff, mean looking asshole,” but I got the picture.”

He sighs, deep in his bones. A small part of him —the part that’s still connected to that dog, still circling— had hoped you would show up. However, it’s hopelessly overshadowed by the sheer exasperation of it all.

He’s silent save for non-committal grunts and hmm’s the way over to the front gates where the evening rotation’s guards have you standing between them.

You’re slightly worse for wear since the last time he saw you in that tree. Your jacket as a new rip in it, and your nose is sluggishly bleeding again. Up close, he notices it’s a bit crooked.

Gonna hurt like a bitch to set, He thinks absentmindedly.

He slows as he approaches you, hands in his pockets and shoulders back.

“See?” He huffs, gesturing with one hand behind him. “Not cannibals. Or whatever else you’re worried about.”

Your face is hard set as you look around. “That remains to be seen.”

“Hello!”

Joel looks back to see a pregnant Maria waddling over, a concerned Tommy at her side.

“I told you I’d handle it—“

“And I told you I’m fine. Now,” She props her hands on her hips. “Who’s this young lady now?”

You (hesitantly) stick out a hand to shake and introduce yourself.

She shakes your hand with a smile. Leave it to Maria to be able to read people with such ease. “I’m Maria Miller. I’m one of the settlement councilors. The golden retriever fussing next to me is my husband, Tommy, and the angry looking bear next to him is his brother, Joel. I understand a scouting party found you?”

You nod, eyes flicking this way and that, cataloguing the area.

“I’ve been on my own for… awhile. I don’t have any supplies to offer, but I’m smart and strong. I’m willing to work in exchange for a place to stay.”

Maria hums, assessing. “I’m sure we can work something out. You’ll need to come with me to speak to the rest of the council, for our safety and yours.”

You tighten your grip on your backpack but follow Maria and Tommy, only sparing one backward glance at Joel.

He spends the rest of the evening trying to forget the look in your eyes.

—

He fails spectacularly.

This doesn’t mean, however, that he’s anywhere near pleased when his nightly reading-as-a-poor-attempt-at-normalcy routine is interrupted by a knock on the door. One that sounds suspiciously like Tommy’s type of knock.

Only he hears two voices as he walks up to the door, and the other one isn’t Maria.

Joel opens the door with a glare already fixed on his face.

“There have to be other places.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “It’s only temporary. The council agreed to let her stay so long as she’s watched by a trusted Jackson member, and well. You vouched for her.”

“And when exactly did I do that?”

“In the woods, when you met. You told her where you were from and how to get there. Honestly, Joel, you’re getting off light here. Some of the council members were not happy you told a random loner —no offense— where to find us. Kind of defeats the whole point.”

You huff a quiet “None taken.”

He can’t help the way his body tenses. “So this is a punishment?”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t—“

“Look,” you interject, clearly fed up with the conversation. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m not going to murder you in your sleep and I don’t leave dirty clothes lying around. It’s only for three weeks. Get over it.”

Another sigh threatens to release itself, but he stamps it down, figuring he’s hit his sigh quota for the day.

“Fine. But take her down to medical first. I don’t want her blood all over my house.”

Tommy shrugs. “No-can-do. Maria needs me back at the house. You know where medical is. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

And with that, Tommy leaves, abandoning Joel and you at the doorstep.

Joel scrubs a hand down his face. “Wait there. I’ll grab a jacket.”

The walk to the clinic is awkward and silent, and just when Joel thinks it can’t get any worse, one of the staff tells him that since he’s your assigned supervisor/watcher/whatever, he has to accompany you. To everything.

To your credit, you don’t look very happy about the arrangement either.

Still, you bear through all the exams, a grimace fixed firmly on your face. Apparently (and not surprisingly) you’re malnourished, dehydrated, running a small fever, deficient in several vitamins, have two cracked ribs (most likely, no x-ray machine) and some run of the mill scraps and bruises.

You’re cagey enough on the details of the cracked ribs and nose that the doctor eventually moves on to the fixing you stage of things.

It takes awhile. There are a lot of injuries to cover.

When it comes to resetting your nose, the second the woman pulls out a needle and syringe, you go rigid.

“No.”

The doctor blinks. “This is just lidocaine, it’ll numb the area so—“

“No.”

“You wanna feel all that?” Joel asks, the first time he’s spoken during your entire exam, “It ain’t gonna feel great. Crooked nose like that won’t set with one go.”

“No needles. No numbing.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “What, you got a pain thing or something?”

Your hands go white-knuckled on the exam table. “Fuck. Off.”

You’re shaking, he notes.

Ah, He says to himself. Not a pain thing.

Fear.

The doctor shrugs. “Not like I won’t take the chance to save what we have. You’ll want something to bite down on. Or squeeze.”

You wrap your fingers around your own hand, a pathetic attempt at self-soothing.

He decides annoyance is the emotion he feels at your small movement. Nothing else.

He rolls his eyes as he grabs your hand, maneuvering it in place of your own.

“Good luck breaking it.”

You don’t respond. He wasn’t really expecting you to.

He knows without looking the exact moment the doctor starts resetting things because your grip on his hand quickly turns from barely there to crushing. You make no sound.

The doctor, to her credit, works fairly quickly, though by the time she’s finished a single tear has carved a path through the blood and grime on your face.

He thinks about how someone learns to cry without sound.

The doctor moves on quickly, cleaning and bandaging the wounds that need it and telling you detailed instructions for how to take care of your nose and cracked ribs and what things you should be eating to avoid staying vitamin deficient. It’s all a lot of words Joel is glad he doesn’t have to memorize.

They stick in his head anyway.

You don’t let go of his hand. You’re no longer squeezing the life out of it, but you’re not holding its gently either. When you do finally let go (after the doctor’s left and you can leave) you practically tear your hand away, as if burned. Like you’d left your hand on a stove as it was heating up only you just now noticed it was hot.

He doesn't say anything about it. He figures you're liable to literally bite his head off, or some other violent action close to that.

Besides. This is all awkward enough.

The walk back to the house is just as silent and strained as the walk to the clinic. Only now your breath is just a little more labored. Steps a little shakier. Your hand's twitch at your sides like they're reaching for something, and you don't quite manage to hide the way you look around every now and then, a restless, nervous action.

He knows what you're doing. He was you, back when he first got to Jackson. Granted, he wasn't as twitchy as you are. He kept his distance, stayed mean and scary (as possible.)

He holds the door open for you when you arrive back to the house, because his mom raised him to be a gentleman no matter the circumstances.

You toss him a look of confusion and annoyance but step into the house, looking around the modest living room with something almost like wonder.

He toes off his shoes, sets them by the door, and takes off his jacket, hanging it on the hook. "Shower before you touch anything. You're filthy. And don't think I'm giving up my bed."

"I wouldn't have taken it even if you had," You sneer. "Where's the--"

"Down the hall on the left. You got clean clothes?"

"...I have less dirty ones."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Wait here."

He grumbles all the way upstairs, all the way through picking out clothes that'll fit you well enough until you either wash what you have or find something else.

He silently glowers as he comes down the stairs, thrusting the clothes out to you and turning on his heel when you take them.

"I'm going to bed. Don't wake me up."

When he lies in bed that night, he can't even pretend he's not thinking about you. In his defense, it's less about you and more about the new, strange, stand-offish person he's just supposed to live with for the foreseeable future. All because he had the bad luck of feeling bad for the battered, flighty, loner girl sitting in a tree.

He stares at his ceiling, internal clock (yes, he's old, he has an internal clock. Sue him) letting him know it is decidedly an hour he should be asleep. He refuses to go downstairs, on principle alone. He could get up and go find one of his books, but he knows that if you're anything like him, coming off of however long you spent alone, you're a light sleeper. You're probably awake now, listening to him toss and turn and being unnerved by the unusual silence of Jackson and the particular brand of night-noise it produces. That's what the first two weeks of Joel's life in Jackson consisted of, before he moved in here.

Maria had decided that Joel would stay with the two of them until he integrated in Jackson society. Perks of your brother marrying a council member, he guesses.

So he's not going downstairs. Not going to walk down there just to see a person, an entire person in his house looking like, looking like--

Fuck.

He throws his blankets off and angrily (but not loudly) marches downstairs to get himself a glass of water and the book he knows he left on the table by the couch when he was so rudely interrupted by you. This is his house, dammit, he refuses to be put out by a random girl.

Woman, his brain corrects.

The living room is completely dark when he makes his way down the stairs and he truly, honestly wishes he was surprised when there's a whoosh of air to his right and a knife embeds itself in the wall about a half inch away from the side of his face.

The living room is still and silent.

"I thought they took your weapons when you got here."

"I lied about what I had."

He scrubs a hand down his face, yanks the knife out of the wall, and tosses it back. If you can throw it, you can dodge it.

He doesn't hear any screams, yelps, or grunts of pain, so he assumes you caught it fine. Or at least dodged it.

He makes his way over to the kitchen, grabs the teapot, and takes down two mugs.

"You know they can kick you out for harboring weapons during your probationary stay."

He hears a rustle of blankets behind him. The sound of you stashing your knife, no doubt.

"Are you going to tell them?"

He snorts, filling up the teapot. "No. There's been a knife in my boot since the day I got here."

He hears more rustling, and decides against turning around. He's not quite sure what you've been doing down here all night since it's clear that you weren't sleeping.

He doesn't hear any footsteps, but when does turn around to set the mugs on the table, you're sitting at it, knees pulled up and head resting atop them, your cheek smushed. Now that his eye's have adjusted to the darkness of the living room, he can almost make out your features. They're easier to discern, now that you're not covered in blood and grime. You look... softer. Haloed in the glow of moonlight shining through the gaps in the curtains.

Your face isn't the only thing glowing. The tell-tale glint of a knife --a different, smaller knife than the one you'd thrown at him-- shines from it's spot, resting oh-so innocently on the table.

Joel just huffs.

"No weapons on the table."

He blinks, and it's gone.

He doesn't ask why you're still awake or what you've been doing instead of sleeping. You don't ask why he's down in the kitchen at all.

"What are you making?"

"Tea."

He gently places a teabag in each mug. He isn't really sure why he's doing this for you. You've done nothing but hiss and spit since he's met you.

But tonight, right now, blanketed in the not-quite calm of the night and the apparent unease you both drown in--

It's tolerable. You're tolerable.

So he takes the kettle off the stove and pours the water and places the steaming mug on the table in front of you.

To which you ignore, and snatch the mug out of his hands instead.

"Did you think I put that one," He points to the mug in front of you, "There for giggles?"

You cradle the mug in your hands, seemingly entranced with the warmth and steam. "You might've poisoned mine."

"Maybe I poisoned both."

You take a sip, then grimace when the too-hot liquid hits your tongue.

"You don't look like the kind of person to have built an immunity to poison."

"You also watched me make both beverages."

"So? It's dark. You could've slipped something in. Or maybe it was already in the teabags."

"What use would I even have for you dead?"

You shrug. "I don't know. You tell me."

“You’re a deeply mistrusting person.”

“And you’re not?”

Touché.

Joel remains in the kitchen, leaned against a cabinet sipping your tea, while you stay hunched at the table, sipping yours.

If he removes the irritability and the uncomfortable-ness of everything that involves you living with him, the moment is almost… companionable. Pleasant, even.

It… soothes that nervous part of him. Not the sad nervous. The angry nervous. That built up crack of anger.

There’s another person in his home that is neither attempting to perceive his problems nor actively attempting to kill him. Your belief that he might poison you aside, you still accepted the tea.

He firmly believes that Tommy isn’t right about the loneliness thing though. His brother being right is just a world Joel can’t live in.

Besides. It’s too early to tell anything anyway.

—

Unfortunately, the following few days do not go… terribly.

That isn’t to say they go well, though. Since he’s looking after you (read: making sure you’re not an axe-murderer or something) he’s not allowed to go out on scouting or hunting trips. Or solo guard rotations he’s come to covet.

It’s boring, and having you around is strange.

It’s interesting, when he gets bored enough, because if he focuses hard enough he can guess what events happened to you based on your reactions to certain things. He’s pretty sure you were drugged at some point based on your reaction to the doctor with the lidocaine. You’re general skittish and flighty nature can be easily attributed to the conditions in which everyone in the world is living in, but your particular brand of distrust and aggression says that humans, not the infected, have been the ones to hurt you the most. Your general unease in open areas or areas with not easily accessible exits leads him to believe that there have been several extremely close calls in several points of your survival.

He knows you’ve been shot before, but that one was an accident. He’d come downstairs, rubbing bleary sleep from his eyes and accidentally stumbled across you changing. Well, finishing changing. He’d quickly closed his eyes and turned around, and thankfully you hadn’t startled, but he had caught a glimpse of the stretch of skin not covered by the long sleeve undershirt you favored. On the left side, just above your hip and a few inches towards your bellybutton, there’s a jagged, raised, circular scar. Still pink.

He knows you have a very slight, very subtle limp. He’s not sure what causes it, but he knows you have one. It tends to act up when you do a lot of strenuous exercise for an extended period of time. Some days you wake up and it’s worse. On those days, you’re a little more mean, and a little more skittish.

He’s yet to see you actually, legitimately sleep.

He’s starting to think you haven’t, since arriving.

Which is insane, because it’s been four days.

The bags under your eyes are horrific, even to him. You’ve gotten clumsier and clumsier, your attention span and memory are terrible, and he thinks you might’ve started hallucinating, if the times he’s seen you staring off into space with concerned, fearful, or twisted expressions on your face and mumbled rambles he can’t make out are anything to go by.

On day five, when Joel comes downstairs in the morning and the knife you throw at him bounces harmlessly off the wall and clatters to the ground and you just stare at it, eyes foggy and unseeing, he decides to talk to Maria.

“I don’t really care,” He says, because he has a reputation to uphold dammit, “But I’m not sure how much longer she’s gonna last, and what she’s gonna do when she wakes up.”

“Mmm,” Maria hums, hands clasped on the table and staring at Joel with her best ‘I don’t believe you don’t care’ look. She’s really perfected it, “Well the truth is, she can’t go forever. It’s fear keeping her up now. Happens a lot with the loners that come in. Especially the women. She’s afraid that no one’s there to watch her back and terrified she won’t be strong enough to fend off any attackers.”

Maria looks at her hands. “The fear is exacerbated by the fact that the council took most of her weapons.”

“You knew—“

“She was lying? Of course I did. So did several of the other members, I’m sure. But she’s not a threat. She’s scared.”

He thumbs the thin scar on his cheek from the knife came just a little too close to hitting the mark when he sneezed in the kitchen. “She’s got a funny way of being scared.”

“Fight or flight, Joel. She knows flight isn’t an option.”

“Why are you lobbying so hard in her defense?”

“I’m not. I’m explaining her actions. Also,” She gives a knowing smile, “You’ve started to care. Otherwise you wouldn’t be coming to me about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He grouses. “So what am I supposed to do? Just wait for her to pass out?”

“You could. It’ll happen eventually. She very clearly doesn’t have that many hours left in her. That’s probably freaking her out more. Or, you could subtly show her that she can sleep around you. She needs to know that she’s safe from whatever it is she’s running from.”

Joel keeps his eyes locked on the kitchen table, tracing the grain in the wood with an absent-minded finger.

“I know you pushed for her to stay with me.”

“The council wanted a punishment that fit the crime.”

“Look, I appreciate the thought—“

Maria’s expression flattens. “Joel. Do not sit at my table and lie about how you don’t need anyone and you’re fine on your own. You need this.“

“I don’t need this,” He scoffs, “She��s practically half-feral. No one needs that.”

Maria stands, shrugging. “Then I guess you’ll have to file for a name change, No-One Miller. Until then, make sure she’s not alone when she wakes up.”

—

He did leave you alone for the duration of his conversation with Maria, because fuck if he was bringing you to that, and he figured you both could use some time away from each other. He knows he can.

He’s not very surprised to hear the familar whoosh of a small, sharp object sailing through the air that tends to accompany his arrival into rooms you’re occupying (he’s pretty sure it stopped being a fear response after the first two times and now you’re just messing with him) but he is suprised to see that this time, the knife doesn’t even make it head height. Or to the wall.

It clatters uselessly to the ground near his feet. He stares at the metal between his boots and then up at you—

“Why are you sitting on the kitchen counter?”

“I don’t remember.”

He leaves the knife on the ground and makes his way over to you, watching with mock disinterest at the several-seconds-delayed flinch you make when he stands in front of you.

You look up at him, eyes glassy and unfocused and you just look so, so tired.

There’s a curl of protectiveness in his chest that keeps trying to spread, keeps trying to grow. Here, in the kitchen, your legs dangling over the edge of the counter, bathed in the glow of the mid-day sun, it takes root. Right in the center.

He looks down at your feet. “What happened to your other shoe?”

You scrunch up your face. “I don’t… I was getting in bed, I think. But it wasn’t my bed. I forgot that things aren’t—“

That things aren’t the same anymore.

He crouches down, untying the laces of your boot and shucking it aside somewhere.

“Alright, come on.”

You slide off the counter, clumsy and uncoordinated. He takes your hand in his, leads you up to the bedroom.

The stairs are difficult for your tired, barely working brain. He has to stop multiple times to physically lift your legs or stop you from falling over and cracking your head open.

You finally make it up there, though, and he realizes that you probably won’t want to sleep in your everyday clothes.

“One last step.”

He can’t help but notice how intimate the moment is. Not intimate-intimate, but. He instructs you softly to lift your arms so he can tug your shirt over your head and replaces it with a soft shirt of his own.

Staring into your eyes is too charged and allowing his eyes to wander is bad for obvious reasons, so he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the junction of where your neck meets your shoulder.

He keeps his eyes there as he helps you out of your pants and into a pair of flannel pajama pants. The same ones he’d given you the first night you came. You’ve never slept and he’s never seen you go to any of the places he knows have extra clothes, so he’s almost positive you don’t have any pajamas at all.

His fingers work quickly to tie the drawstring on the pants, and even then, they hang low on your hips.

He doesn’t let his eyes linger.

“Come on,” He says taking your arm and tugging you toward the bed. “Time for sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” You mumble, standing in place. “And I can’t, what if they—“

“I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll keep watch.”

You mull his words over in your head for a few moments before stumbling the final few steps into the bed. You practically collapse into it, shuffling for a just few seconds before your breath evens out.

You’re asleep.

He reaches over, adjusting the blankets a bit, before grabbing the book he’d left on the bedside table and settling down in the chair by the bed.

The hours tick by quietly, accompanied only by the quiet rustling of pages turning and your soft snores.

For the first time in awhile, he doesn’t feel restless.

—

You sleep for a full eighteen hours straight before you stir.

He’s a good portion of the way through his book before he see’s your body tense in the corner of his eye. Your breathes are still even and deep, so if he couldn’t see you, he probably wouldn’t notice you’re awake.

“You’ve been asleep for eighteen hours,” He says, voice rough and scratchy with disuse, “You got in bed voluntarily.”

“You changed my clothes.”

“You didn’t seem all that capable of doing so yourself and I didn’t think you wanted to sleep in jeans. You mind?”

“…No.”

“Good. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t just—“

“You didn’t sleep for five days. If we’re going by the eight hours a night average needed or whatever, that’s forty hours. You’ve still got twenty-two left to catch up on.”

You roll over to face him with a grumble. “I don’t like how good you are at mental math.”

“Get better, then.”

You shimmy out from under the blankets, tossing him an “I have to pee,” as you make your way out of the room.

It’s early morning now, weak sunlight behind to strain its way through the curtains. He figures it’s a good enough time to make some food (and coffee) if you’re going to be going to back sleep, so he meanders down to the kitchen and throws together a small breakfast.

“Did you make us breakfast?”

He never really gets used to how quietly you move through rooms.

“Jesus— yes. Here.”

He hands you a bowl with oatmeal and a small plate with a slice of toast— toasted in a pan, because electricity aside, he doesn’t own a toaster. Why waste time scavenging for an appliance when something else works just as fine?

He sets a jar of jam on the counter that he’d picked up awhile ago in exchange for fixing the hinge on somebody’s door.

“You got any allergies?”

“None that matter.”

He nods to the table. “Go eat. Then get back in bed.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re annoying. Eat.”

You eat quickly and quietly, then wordlessly follow him back upstairs, climbing back into bed.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He tucks the blanket up over your shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

You obey easily.

—

Things between the two of you… soften after that. He slowly sees more pieces of your personality than the wild thing he met that day in the woods.

He learns that you love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but miss peanut butter and nutella sandwiches more than anything. He learns that on good days, you like drinking coffee straight black, but on bad days, you like it with milk and sugar.

He learns that your limp is the result of one careless mistake you’d made when you first surviving on your own.

“I thought the house was abandoned. It wasn’t,” You’d rolled up your pant leg to show horrific, deep, jagged scars circling your ankle, “Guy had set out a bear trap to slow down some of the clickers in the area. It was dark. Didn’t notice it until too late.”

He learns that you, despite your snide remarks and sarcastic comments, like having him around. He feels a bit like earning the trust of a stray cat.

You begin to grow more comfortable with life in Jackson, though not by much. He’s sure you weren’t a people person before the outbreak, much less so now that he knows some of the horrors you’ve been through before you got here.

He’s even started getting used to how quietly you move.

It’s easy to fall into a rhythm, from there.

He wakes up, goes downstairs. Sometime’s there’s a knife thrown at him, sometimes there isn’t. You’re usually sprawled on the couch, drool coming out of your mouth and grumbling incoherently about “old men and their stupid early mornings.”

It’s almost endearing.

Since Joel spends a lot of time helping Maria and Tommy get ready for their baby, you, in turn, get to know the both of them by being stuck with Joel. Maria set you on edge at first, Tommy slightly less so, but through continuous interactions your prickly nature smoothed.

One night, you were all seated on their couch after enjoying a dinner together —not the first and definitely not the last— having quiet conversation. You’re totally passed out on Joel’s shoulder, dead-asleep and quite content to use him as a human teddy bear.

Maria smiles over her mug of tea. “She’s grown on you.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. She’s not all bad.”

“High praise coming from Joel Miller.”

You have grown on him. And in turn, your relationship has started to grow into… something else. Sometimes his eyes linger just a little too long, and the looks you share feel just a little too charged.

Tommy sends him a look full of words only true siblings can understand.

“No, Tommy.”

“Oh come on Joel! You both clearly—“

“We are not having this conversation right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because—“

You fling an arm out wildly, smacking him in the side of his face and grasping around until your pointer finger finally finds his lips.

“Shhhh. M’ sleeping.”

He wraps his hand around your wrist, prying your fingers off his face. “You know that’s what bed’s are for. Or couches. Or any number of surfaces I’ve found you sleeping on.”

“You’re a surface I’m sleeping on.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a bed. Come on, up and at em’.”

You whine at the loss of warmth when he stands, scowling as you haul yourself to your feet. As he’s putting on his boots by the door, he hears you thanking Maria and Tommy for their hospitality, and he can’t help the little smile that twitches on his face. Seems like his parents weren’t the only ones who made sure he had manners.

You meet him at the door, hopping in place to put your boots on and getting frustrated when they don’t slide on immediately.

“You know, it would help if you untied the laces—“

“Fuck off.”

He blinks. That seems a little more mean than you usually say nowadays.

So Joel takes a step back. Watch’s your legs and your shoes and your hands—

There.

Your hands shake as you fumble with the laces, unable to get a good grip on the thin cords to untie and re-tie your shoes.

He shoos your hands away from the singular boot you haven’t managed to get on.

“Sit.”

He’s thankful that he built the shoe bench for Maria a few weeks after he got to Jackson. It serves Maria well for not having to stand while she attempts to put her shoes on while heavily pregnant, a feat she bemoaned a few times, and now it’s serving you.

You plop down on the bench with a huff, crossing your arms as Joel crouches, undoing the laces of your boot and sliding it on.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.”

“Why’re you doing it?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He secures the tie on one boot and moves on to the next. “It is tonight.”

Once both shoes are on, you both bid Tommy and Maria good night, and make your way home.

If your hand find’s Joel’s, then that’s not anyone’s business.

—

He notices things after that.

You’ve started snapping at him more often. You’re not sleeping as much. You’ve started flat out refusing to go with him on daily chores as tasks, which either leads to an argument or the both of you staying at home all day.

It all comes to a head when you wake up screaming.

He thunders down the stairs, ducking on instinct for a knife that doesn’t come. You’re not on the couch. He whips his head around, the screaming stopped he can’t find you—

A thud. A panicked gasp.

He moves on slow, apprehensive feet towards the kitchen, crouching down to see you huddled under the table, knife clenched in your hand and pointed toward him.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?”

Your eyes are wide and shining with tears.

“You died.”

“I didn’t. I’m right here.”

You shake your head, breaths coming short and shallow.

He settles on the floor, crossing his legs. “Here, take my hand. Come on.”

He extends his hand into the space between you two. Achingly slowly, you put down the knife, and take his hand in yours.

“See? I’m still here.”

Eventually, your breathing slows, and the fear begins to leave your eyes. You drop his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, no it’s just—“ You break off with a strangled noise.

He waits. Lets a few minutes tick by.

“Does this have anything to do with the fact you’ve been avoidin’ me?”

You look down. “You noticed?”

“I do have eyes, sweetheart.”

You grab the knife again, twisting it this way and that in your hands.

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

He tilts his head. “How come?”

You’re silent for a little while again.

“I feel… okay with you.”

“And that’s scary?”

“Yes,” You breathe, “You could leave, or die, and it scares me that I’m already attached to you. That having nightmare’s of you dying affects me so much. That they happen at all.”

He hums. “Seem’s were at an impasse.”

He taps a finger on his knee.

“It’s not all bad. To care.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You know, against my better judgment, I’ve come to tolerate having you around.”

“Tolerate?”

“Mhm.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“So you’ve never thought about kissing me?”

Heat rushes to his face. “Is that really a question you want to be asking right now?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” He stands, “Well I don’t answer that kind of question at this hour. Come on.”

He reaches under the table and pulls you out.

You clamber to your feet, still a little shaky after your nightmare.

You turn to go back to the couch, but stops when he tugs on your arm.

“Mm-mm. No couch tonight.”

You look up at him, a question in your eyes he doesn’t know how to answer with words.

He steps forward, rough hands coming up to your face, thumb swiping the crest of your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss, soft and slow.

He pulls away after a few moments, searching your face for any sign of negativity or displeasure or disgust or, or—

You surge up, kissing him again, all the same fiery passion he saw the day you met.

“I suppose that answers my question.”

He chuckles. “You think?”

“I hope so.”

His hands slide down to your waist. and he can’t resist the little squeeze he gives the skin there.

“Alright. Back to bed, let’s go.”

“I forgot how tired old men get.”

“Please don’t call me an old man right after we kiss.”

He can hear your quiet snorting laughter as you climb the stairs, socked feet silent as always.

You climb into bed first, shoving yourself into the side by the wall and then making grabby motions for Joel.

“Am I just a pillow to you?”

“Yes. Come be a pillow.”

He rolls his eyes but slips into bed next to you and quietly relishes in the pleased hum you let out as you wrap your arms around his waist, practically smashing your face into his chest.

“You comfortable there?”

“Mhm.”

He curls one arm around you, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. This close, he feels the shudder run through your body at the motion, and curious, he gives your nape a little squeeze.

Your reaction is instantaneous. You go limp- completely boneless.

“I got you, I got you. Go to sleep, now.”

It doesn’t take you long. And with you asleep so soundly in his arms, he follows right behind you.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

[sunshinescribes]

Hi Sunny!! So I can’t get the idea of Trafalgar Law waking up in the arms of his female crush or s/o (early on in their relationship) with his face buried in her chest as the reader pulled him into her cleavage in her sleep! In my mind I can’t decide if Law is shy or lowkey perverted! It all suits him well to me, so you do with that what you want.

So may I get something like that? It could be either fluff or a starter for smut I just would love to read something like this 😍

I hope I made sense and thank you in advance 💓💓

ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE…

Law doesn’t recall his bed ever feeling this soft and warm.

He also doesn’t recall ever having such peaceful sleep. The dark circles under his eyes and his tendency to be irritable are a testament to how often sleep evades him.

His eyes are still closed, his mind groggy but very much alert, and his body has yet to catch up. His limbs feel heavy, as if the simple act of lifting his hand would take all the effort in the world. It’s a strange sensation—would be fucking terrifying if not for the warmth that radiates through his body, an unfamiliar comfort that tells him everything is alright—he’s safe.

Law groans softly as sleep finally releases its hold on him. He blinks slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim light the lamp on his desk casts over his room. He’d forgotten to turn it off last night, pulling his usual all-nighter. He had been flipping through a medical textbook, his eyes heavy, words blurring and blending, and yet he couldn’t compel himself to go to bed.

And then a soft knock sounded at his door, accompanied by your voice, softly asking if he was still awake. He’d let you in with little convincing, and then…and…then?

Law nearly chokes when his eyes fully adjust, realizing his face is buried in your chest. Your softness, your warmth—this is what he was feeling, what had helped him stay in sleep's warm embrace. The missing memory finally comes back to him—you slipping into his room, scantily dressed. You’d made a beeline to his bed, patting the empty space beside you as you called his name. Lay with me for a bit? You’d asked so sweetly, with those pretty eyes of yours watching him, waiting expectantly. He had been slow to comply, but soon his book was forgotten, his chair empty as he laid down beside you. You had rubbed soft circles against his back and tiredly whispered, You gotta get some sleep, Doc.

And so he did.

Law carefully stirs, tries not to disturb you as you continue to sleep restfully beneath him. He can’t be caught with his face between your breasts like some kind of demented, sex-crazed pervert—no matter how unbelievably soft they are (and maybe he finally understands Black Leg’s obsession). Not that he’s opposed to sex, especially the idea of having it with you, but that’s a line you two haven’t crossed yet, and he’ll be damned if he looks like he’s trying to take advantage of you in your sleep.

He turns his head, accidentally nosing your breast in his failed attempt to move away. Law stills as noise escapes your lips, light and airy, and one of the most beautiful sounds he thinks he’ll ever hear—your laughter.

Law glances up at you, finding your pretty, tired eyes already trained on him, and the corners of your lips pull upward as you chuckle. He feels heat flood his cheeks, not knowing how long you’ve been awake or what you must make of his head still being positioned between your tits.

“Mornin’,” you greet him with a smile. “I think? I can never tell in this damn tin can.”

The quickly formulated explanations catch in Law’s throat as he blinks up at you, surprised you aren’t offended or even a little shocked with his current placement.

Relief washes over him in waves.

“If this was a tin can, we’d be food for sea kings by now,” he retorts, his voice thick with sleep.

You playfully roll your eyes—he’s so sensitive about his metal deathtrap—before lifting your hand to thread through his thick, dark tresses. “You know what I mean…”

Law hums contentedly as you massage his scalp, turning him boneless with your touch. It’s moments like this that he swears you have devil fruit powers—some kind of supernatural ability to completely dismantle his defenses. His eyes flutter shut as he basks in your touch—the softness of your flesh beneath his face and the soft patter of your steady heartbeat. He wouldn’t mind staying in this moment forever, far away from the threats that plague him and his thoughts.  

“Mind if we stay like this a little longer?” he asks—murmurs, as sleep extends a welcoming hand to him once more.

He can’t see your face, but he hears the smile in your voice when you answer. “As long as you need, Captain.”

ONE THING Y’ALL ARE GONNA LEARN ABOUT ME IS THAT IF I HAVE THE CHANCE TO WRITE FLUFF I ABSOULTELY WILL.

Thanks for the request anon! I hope you enjoyed!

[fanaticsnail]

The government is running out of money?🤨🤔🤭

That must suck.😚🤧

I have a proposal!🤓☝️🤠

*grabs the "hey Doc" series by the throat"

I need Snail to make more of these. 👁👁

-V🌱

Thank you for your ask, V🌱. I love writing for this series, and I adore the fact that you like it too 🥹.

It's okay, Heat.

Hey Doc Masterlist

Word Count: 1,700+

Synopsis: After using his abilities as a fire breather to heal your injured leg, he is wracked with guilt over inflicting such pain onto you. You reassure him that you don't hate him for it, and share a moment of vulnerability with him.

Themes: platonic!Heat x gn!reader, injury, burn treatment, reassurance, swearing, wound dressing, medical practice, pain.

Notes: I feel like this will be the last of the serious ones for a little while. I need to get back to the sillies for these guys, but I couldn't leave you with your leg like that!

“Hey Doc.”

Having Bubblegum leave your side after spending time taking you in and ensuring you were comfortable made you feel almost lonely. His boisterous and insatiable appetite for ensuring your comfort was both endearing and obsessive. It was beginning to drive you a little bit crazy how much he was in your personal space, but you enjoyed how much he truly cared for you.

The crew had been silent, no murmur was heard as footsteps passed your bedroom doorway. None of them dared speak or breathe, as the Captain had barked that none should disturb your recovery.

As Heat moved through the doorway, his head hung low and his sunken eyes refused to meet with yours. This stance reminded you of his requests to aid you in his more intimate ailments, his sheepish behavior often bringing a great comfort to you. At this time, the air he breathed was as thick as concrete, and there was no bashfulness in his demeanor.

Before he had a moment to speak his confessions, asking for your forgiveness in his part in treating your wounds as best he could, you halted him with your palm extended in front of you. He shuddered out a shaken breath, the warmth rising in the room with his exhale.

“Come here,” you lower your voice to a soothing whisper and flicker your digits to beckon him to your side.

The weight in each of his heavy steps weighed far less than the guilt in his heart as he drew himself closer to you. Patting the bed twice, Heat’s eyes briefly drew themselves up to meet with yours before flickering away as quickly as he approached the bed. Turning to face away from you, he slunk down to sit on the mattress by your side and hung his head to the floor.

“Oh, Heat,” you scoff at him, giving his back a gentle tap to playfully nudge him, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and come here, would you?” He upturned his scarred lips in disdain for being scolded before turning to face you. Hanging his head low, he slowly drew his eyes up to meet with yours.

“I'm so s-.” Heat was cut off immediately by the look you shot at him. The dangerous warning in your searing gaze, the curl of your lips, and the low growl emitted from your throat had him halt his words.

After taking a moment to remain beside him and dwelling in the thick silence beside him, you cast aside the sheets from your waist and drew up your leg. Peeling the bandage away from the warmth of your thigh, Heat’s gaze was fixed on your every movement. As the material of the bandage became close to the gauze around the wound, you finally drew your eyes up to meet his.

“Who treated me for the burn?” You asked him, darting your eyes quickly down to the gauze and back up to his eyes. His lips curled downwards as he confessed lowly, “I did.” You nodded, peeling back the first wound at the top of your thigh and grimaced at the sight.

“The puss means it's healing,” you commented on the elevated skin and the crusting around the wound, “Did you use ice or water?” He turned from you, grabbing another large elastic plaster from the bench and passing it to you.

“Water,” he uttered his profession, “You said twenty minute intervals beneath cold running water, with ten minutes of rest between each session.” You took the clear elastic from him and flicked your hands to gesture to the aloe burn aid.

“In my lucidity?” you asked him with your brow raised. He nodded slowly, passing you the cream with his lips clamped shut in a tight line. You smirked playfully at him, scrunching your nose and teasing him with, “Fuck I'm good.”

He chuckled at that, the deep rumble of his voice falling from his nose with his dry laughter, his lips still clamped shut. You laughed along with him, taking an amount of cream in your hand and dabbing them over the scar tissue with a soft hiss. He winced empathetically at you, finally parting his lips to suck in a hiss.

Surging forward, he took the elastic from you and began dressing your wound as soon as you lifted your hands off the sensitive skin. Lulling your head back on your shoulders, you scrunch your eyes tightly shut as he pressed the stretched fabric over your skin. Reopening your eyes you stare off at the ceiling and inhale slowly.

“Make sure the plaster-.” You began your exhaled guide to the fire breather, halting as he spoke over you.

“-Has no bubbles or tears. Aye, Doc,” he nodded, continuing to guide the plaster over the top of your thigh. You scoff at him, shaking your head and furrowing your brows at his words.

“And don't have the tacky edges-.”

“-Stick to the aloe,” he again cut you off, using the pads of his thumbs to gently smooth over the borders, “I know, Doc. I have done this before. You've taught me well.” You snap your head down at him and glare at him, knowing the smirk that was awaiting you once you did so. He pursed his lips in a thin line, darting his sunken eyes up at you while giving your knee a gentle tap.

“Now the underside,” he gestured to beneath your thigh to replace the other gauze, “You can bend your knee up, lie on your stomach, or throw your leg over my shoulder so I can reach it. Choice is yours.” Your glare deepens, causing him to chuckle more at you.

“It is gonna take more than that to get me to throw my leg over your shoulder, Heat,” you huff towards him. Gently raising your knee, you peeled off the worn fabric beneath your thigh and threw it in the discard bin beside your bed. Repeating your motions with the aloe, Heat prepares the elastic gauze to glaze over your wound once your hands come away.

As soon as your hands leave the wound, he replaces them with his own to cover the burn. Taking a moment while placing the sheer gauze over your deep welt, he can see the injury he inflicted above the rod exit scar with the painful reminder of his actions. A heart-shaped kiss from him was permanently seared into your flesh from both sides. His quick thinking had caused your flesh to scorch and burn, bubbling and oozing while beginning the healing process.

Sensing his distress once he placed the gauze down, you arch forward and clasp your hand over his wrist. His eyes immediately snap up and meet with your serious expression.

“I don't blame you for this. You did nothing wrong,” you immediately reassure him, darting your eyes between his to brand in your words. “Your quick thinking saved my leg, and my life. The way you heard me without me speaking, effortlessly doing what I asked in my delirium, was flawless.” Leaning up closer, you remove your hands from his wrist and clap your hand on his shoulder.

“You are not at fault here. There is no-one to blame for my injury but myself,” you nod, hypnotizing him to nod with you by the bob of your head, “You acted exactly the way I needed you to, and I am in your debt. Thank you-.”

“-Don’t thank me,” he hushed his tone, scolding you with his haste, “Not for this. I hurt you-.”

“-You saved me,” you firmly growled at him, “You closed the wound, stopped the bleeding, and purified the poison with the power of your lips. You were perfect, and I am grateful for it.” Reaching up, you clap your hand over his scarred cheek and ensure his eyes never leave yours.

“I would rather heal a complex burn than rehabilitate after amputating my own leg,” you lower your tone and sharpen your tongue, “Not after Cap lost his arm and we dealt with the consequences thereafter. I-I-... -I am forever grateful to you, Heat. You've done so good by me,” you stutter, feeling your emotions overcome you as you drop your hand from Heat’s cheek and have your head sink lower.

Circling his arms around you, Heat draws you in close and embraces you against himself. He is not accustomed to witnessing you express weakness like this, nor confessing any trauma that came from your past in healing Kid. Feeling awkward and rigid with you in his arms, he attempted to soothe you by rubbing his thumbs over the back of your head.

“Want me to get Killer for you?” Heat whispered softly, the tone of his voice coming across as awkward as he attempted to hold back his own emotional experience at your words. You inhale deeply before exhaling with your emotional release.

“Not right now,” you whisper against his chest before pulling yourself away from his grip. “I think I need to rest a little on my own. Bubblegum was beginning to drive me up the fucking wall with his constant need to be near me,” you confess softly before adding, “Not that I'm not grateful. I love that purple-haired weirdo. It's a lot, is all. Just tell everyone I'm alive, and I'll be back on duty in a couple weeks while the muscles knit back together.”

“I'll let ‘em know, Doc. I promise,” Heat nods at you, offering you the softest of smiles as he rises back up to his feet and begins to walk towards the door.

“Try to let everyone know not to shove things in parts of their body that aren't easy to get out,” you call softly after him, “Can't really perform retrievals from my bedside. Nothing up or in, you got that?” Heat offered you a low chuckle in response, halting at your door and smirking at you.

“I will make no promises, Doc,” he called over to you before leaving to slink down the hallway, closing the door behind you.

With a small laugh of your own, you lie back town on your bed and attempt to get comfortable with the searing burn on the two sides of your leg. Seeing the expression on your attacker's face, the hate in his eyes, the snarl on his lips: you couldn't help but sigh out in sorrow at the whole situation.

The odds of a person from your hometown having the intent to kill you on sight, especially on an island so far away from your origins, was one in a million. Closing your eyes, you picture the faces you left behind while embarking on this journey. A home, a culture, a thesis based on your upbringing, a career in a reputable medical profession. You have it all up to serve Eustass Kid as your captain.

And you had never once regretted it.

You loved your life, your crew, your found family, and your job. Nothing could ever tear you away from them, not even a spear in the leg from an old ally turned enemy. You were a Kid Pirate for life, to whatever end found you.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @nerium-lil @sinning-23

[himbodruid]

A Kitten and A Crow

Part 2

Sylus x named!MC

Touch her and die vibes -:- possessive Sylus -:- soft Sylus

Pretty tame chapter but next part will have 🌶️🌶️🌶️

CW: descriptions of violence

Read part 1: Tumblr | Ao3

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Senses returned to Helene slowly, the first of which being the feel of cool satin beneath her, and a down-filled duvet covering her. Puzzled, she tried to focus her hearing, but the only sound she got was a ringing in her ears that seemed to coexist with the obnoxious headache.

Her body felt heavy and she was exhausted, but she felt like there was something she was forgetting. A thought niggling at the back of her mind. A warning that she was supposed to-

“Sylus!” She sat up far too quickly, pain lancing through her skull and side, causing her to cry out. Her hands clutched her head, willing the throbbing ache to stop.

A cool hand gently caressed her neck, and she shied away from the touch until she realized who it belonged to. She threw her arms around Sylus’s torso, all but clinging to him in a trembling embrace.

“Sylus, thank gods you’re okay,” she muttered into his shirt. He hesitated for a moment before letting his hands rest on her in a half-embrace as allowed by the position.

“You were the one abducted, and you’re glad I’m okay? Kitten, I worry about your priorities.”

Though he tried to keep his tone light, Helene could detect barely restrained rage trembling beneath his usual timbre. She pulled away from him and looked up at him.

“Of course I’m glad you’re okay, the plan was an attack on you, to lure you out and-“ her words choked off. It was unthinkable, the idea of losing him in such a way. Because of her, of all people. Sylus opened his mouth to say something, but a knock on the door interrupted him.

“Boss? Doc’s here,” came Kieran’s voice on the other side of the door. Helene’s brows drew down in confusion.

“You brought Doctor Zayne to the N109 Zone? Are you crazy?” Her whispered words were harsh and admonishing, but Sylus only chuckled darkly.

“I apologize if I’m currently not in a forgiving mood when it comes to any man being anywhere near you. I don’t even care if he happens to be a childhood friend and your primary care doctor,” he said, sauntering to the door and opening it. “This is Doctor Natalya.”

A gorgeous woman pushed her way into the room, carrying a case that was all but bursting at the seams. Helene assumed it was her medical supplies, having seen Zayne with a similar bag in the field. Natalya’s eyes were a bright blue, almost silver, that contrasted beautifully with the raven-black hair she had pulled into a braid. Her arched brows were sharp and accented her cheekbones in such a lovely way, giving her an ethereal aura. Helene felt a stab of jealousy that Sylus even knew a woman as breathtaking as this. But when Doctor Natalya didn’t even so much as give him a second glance, she felt foolish and eased her stiff posture.

Without a word, the doctor began her examination. Her mannerisms were so clinically similar to Doctor Zayne’s that it was incredibly uncanny, and she had to stop herself from laughing at the similarities. Helene flinched when the woman’s elegant fingers pressed on the knot at the back of her skull, and again when she pressed on the cheek that had been struck by the perpetrator. The examination went on for several more awkwardly silent minutes before Doctor Natalya nodded to herself.

“The laceration on her side will need to be redressed at least once a day for the next week, but it should heal without issue. She has a severe concussion, though, and possibly a fracture on her left zygomatic bone and maxilla from blunt force trauma. The resulting swelling may cause a disruption to her airflow, but I don’t believe it will be an issue.

“Rest will be the best course for the patient, away from disturbances such as bright lights and stress, along with limited activity. I will write a prescription for pain medication and sedatives- Mr. Sylus, I trust you will care for the patient?”

As Doctor Natalya rattled off her diagnoses, Helene became physically aware of every single thing as the pain began to register. Sylus’s low voice became a hum to her ears as he left the room with Doctor Natalya, continuing to discuss her course of treatment while he saw her to the door. Luke and Kieran made a quick peek into the room, waving to Helene and then fleeing the scene before Sylus could catch them snooping.

Tara was going to kill her when she returned to the Hunter’s Association. So would Jenna, probably. Helene had no idea how she was going to explain the bruises that were no doubt covering half her face. Not to mention why she was going to be out of work for however long it took to convince Sylus she was okay enough to return.

He came back into the room and paused by the doorway, just staring at her. His jaw visibly clenched as those crimson eyes roamed over her. Helene swore she could still feel waves of anger rolling off him, but he hid it well behind a calm façade. Once he was finished with his assessment, he strode forward again and sat in the chair beside her bed.

“I need you to tell me exactly what happened, as much as you can remember.” He leaned back in his chair, giving him an air of deadly grace. Any other time, it would’ve given Helene a titillating shiver, to see him stretched out with such feline poise. But not when that lethal calm was directed at her, the storm hiding just under the surface.

“I don’t really remember a lot,” she began, her brows drawing down as she struggled to remember the events leading to this moment. Gods, but her face hurt. “I was walking home from work in Linkon when I heard a weird noise in an alley. It sounded like someone was asking for help? So, I pulled my gun and went in. I swear I was being cautious, but the bastard must’ve struck me from behind because next thing I knew I woke in the N109 Zone to him slicing me to wake me up and then holding my phone to my face. I think he called you, trying to use me to lure you out. I was trying to tell you not to come, but I think he realized it and…well, everything goes blank from there.”

Sylus closed his eyes and breathed deep. Helene assumed he was trying to calm his temper, based on the muscle feathering at his jaw as he worked it. She relaxed back into the nest of pillows with a pained grunt. Her body ached like it’d been run over by a vehicle. She was scared to even see what she looked like in the mirror.

“You’ll stay here until you’ve made a full recovery,” he said in a voice that brokered no argument. “I will make your excuses to the Hunter's Association, but I would feel much better having you where I know you’re safe and where I can monitor your condition myself.”

She knew this was coming, but she still scowled at him. Unfortunately, she didn’t really have it in her to deny the request. She was in pain. And the heavy exhaustion, courtesy of the concussion, made her uncharacteristically compliant. Sylus held out his hand, wordlessly offering her pain medication and a glass of water. She took them gratefully and allowed him to fuss over her further to check the bandage that wrapped around her torso.

“Wait, who bandaged my side? And whose clothes am I wearing?” She finally realized she wore nothing more than a silk shirt that was far too big for her, and a pair of shorts that were cinched the furthest they could go and were still loose on her hips. Sylus snorted an amused chuff.

“Couldn’t have you bleeding all over the base now could we? Your clothes were, unfortunately, beyond repair. So, you are wearing an old set of my gym clothes for now.”

His words had heat rising to her face.

“So…you…undressed me?”

He quirked his brow at her, as if her question was appallingly absurd. “And bathed you. I wasn’t about to have anyone else do it, and Doctor Natalya took too long to get here. There are no other women here, Kitten, and I wasn’t about to let the twins do it.”

She could feel a mad blush blazing across her face at his words. All she could do was look down at the duvet that covered her, willing her pounding heart to quiet down while her fingers fidgeted and twisted the fabric. It wasn’t so much that she’d been seen naked and vulnerable by a man, it was that it was Sylus that had seen her naked and vulnerable.

The man may as well have been the personification of raw allure- from that chiseled body, to that angled jaw, to cat-like crimson eyes and silver hair, to his stupidly perfect cupid’s bow lips. Add to that his cocksure attitude and the way he carried himself, she was sure any woman that happened to be in the vicinity of him had wet dreams about him. Maybe even the men had wet dreams about him, too. Well, she sure as fuck did- when she’d experienced her first attempt at riding his prized Akhal-Teke stallion, she’d had the embarassing dream of “taming” him that night.

His chuckle pulled her from her mortified musings. “What’s with the look of sheer panic on your face right now, Kitten?”

“I can’t hear you, I’m sleeping,” she replied, slamming her eyes closed and turning her head away from him.

“Just what are you turning over in that pretty little head of yours,” he said, laughter infuriatingly evident in his voice.

“Nothing!” The reply came too quickly, but she kept her eyes clenched closed, hoping he wouldn’t tease her further. She felt a hand caress the bruised cheek with feather light touches. The mood in the room seemed to plummet once more as he took in her injuries.

“My only regret is having to kill that bastard too quickly. He deserved to suffer far more for what he’s done to you,” he said in a soft voice that was at odds with the violent words spoken. She turned back to look at him, watching as his gaze trailed the line of bruises that circled her neck like a macabre necklace. The corner of his mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed as he followed the shape of the man’s hands marring her skin.

“But you saved me, and I’m okay now,” she murmured, taking his large hand in both of hers. She pulled his hand to her mouth, and placed an uncharacteristically bold kiss on his knuckles to distract him. “I forgot to thank you. For ignoring me and coming to my rescue anyway.”

He sighed and leaned over the edge of the bed. His lips found her forehead in a tender kiss. “I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you a thousand times more- I’d rather expose my weaknesses to protect you than see you injured. I would kill a thousand men if it meant keeping you safe.”

“Sy,” she muttered, trying to quell the rush of emotion that threatened to steamroll her. He placed another kiss on the crown of her head before standing and retreating.

“Rest,” he told her. “I will be here in case you need anything, all you have to do is call out to me through Mephisto.”

The mechanical crow squawked his confirmation from a perch in the corner. With a final tender caress, Sylus left the room and Helene let the exhaustion pull her into a deep slumber. As her thoughts faded to darkness, she had one final realization- she was in Sylus’s bed.

[orangezestt]

Vulnerable (remastered)

So this was one of my “fan favorites” and i got so much love on it and I accidentally deleted it while trying to edit my blog🥲 anyway I had it saved in docs.

In which Y/n is JJ’s anxious girl but he’ll always protect her.

JJ learned early on in their friendship that Y/n was much more reserved than the rest of the group. Don’t get him wrong, she was fun and outgoing and silly, but the smallest thing would have her shrinking into herself. It was only when they started dating that she opened up to him. She explained that she was diagnosed with severe anxiety when she was twelve, as well as OCD. Her mom tried every possible remedy in the book; therapy, OCD clinics, meditation, and natural remedies but nothing worked. She got put onto medication after a year of no relief and the dose was slowly rising until about a year ago. The medication did a great deal to help her, but her thoughts were still often clouded with anxiety. While the severity of Y/n’s OCD died down a lot, she still found herself needing to check her pockets and bag multiple times before leaving the house, and opening and closing the fridge door more times than she can count “because it didn’t sound right.” The Pogues knew better than to disturb her antics and waited patiently for her to sigh in relief and look up with a smile.

Once Kiara had tried to interrupt Y/n’s trance of opening and closing the front door of the Chateau, but it only ended in Y/n cutting into the palms of her hands with her nails as she tried to control herself and tears from the anxiety she felt because once again “it didn’t feel right.” JJ had also once tried to stop her from the never ending cycle of Y/n tapping each side of her arm to make it “feel even.” Then, she had snapped at JJ and locked him out of his own room. She’s well aware that this only exists in her head, but it doesn’t do much to make the feeling any less real.

JJ is against the headboard of her bed with Y/n on his lap. His hands roaming from her shoulders to her hips and back as he kissed her. With both hands in his hair, Y/n panted and squirmed in his arms while her hips gently ground into his.

“You want to do something tonight, angel? Don’t have to, I just think you’re a little needy,” he smiled as he broke away from her swollen lips.

“Um,” she mumbled. “maybe. I don’t know, like what?”

“Anything you want, maybe just putting my hand inside your shorts and rubbing you? Hm, how’s that sound?”

“I don’t know J,” she whined as she picked at her nails.

JJ only frowned and took her hands in his.

“Don’t have to do anything you don’t want, ok baby? Just tell me you don’t like it and we’ll stop,” he’s heard the story of her friend in high school who beat up his girlfriend. He was the last person you would expect to do something like that, and the thought constantly haunted her mind when surrounded by men. She trusted JJ with her whole heart, but her brain told her that she could never know for sure.

“Like, how?”

“How I would rub you?” He clarified.

“Mhm,” she whispered.

He smiled at her shyness: “Just over your panties sweet girl, unless you want more. Just play with your little clit and make you feel good,” he spoke as he held eye contact with her.

“Yeah,” she murmured as her eyes dropped to their intertwined hands.

“Yeah? You want that?”

She nodded with a shy smile before hiding in his neck and he tsked at her.

“Gotta use your words. I’m not gonna do anything until you say what you want.”

“I want that, JJ.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, yes please,” she whined.

“That’s my girl, kiss me baby. I’ll do the rest,” he smiled as she surged forward and her hands went straight to his hair.

JJ continued to kiss her and rub her back as his right hand crept lower and lower until it was resting over her hip, massaging at the skin and pulling at the band of her sleep shorts.

“Can I, baby?” He spoke against her.

“Yes,” she whined and connected their lips again.

As his hand dipped into her shorts the slightest bit, her stomach tensed involuntarily.

“It’s ok,” she whispered almost immediately.

He continued until his fingers were resting just above her clit and his wrist submerged fully into her shorts.

“Just focus on kissing me, baby,” he whispered into her mouth and moved his left hand to her lower back.

Once his fingers rested on her clit, she jumped and gasped, he felt her lashes flutter against his skin as her eyes shot open.

“It’s ok, angel. I’ve got you, I’d never hurt you, my baby. You’re ok,” he whispered.

“It’s just…” she cut herself off as she pulled her head back.

“I know, you’re ok. You’re my sweet girl, I’d never hurt you. Not ever, if you want to stop we can.”

“I know that, it’s just new, is all.”

“I know, and you’re doing so good for me, do you wanna keep going?”

“Yes please.”

He smiled against her lips and kissed the corner of her mouth. Moving his lips to her cheeks and jaw, and eventually her neck. JJ pressed his fingers into her gently and he felt her thighs tense; “I’m ok,” she whispered.

“You’re ok,” he confirmed in between kissing. He began to circle his fore and middle fingers against her as gently as possible.

“Oh,” she gasped.

“Oh?” JJ smiled into her neck.

“I like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm, feels really nice,” she breathed out an almost moan as he pushed his fingers against her mound with a little more pressure.

“Must have been aching, huh sweet girl? I can feel how warm you are.”

“Needed it,” she whined.

“Yeah? You needed me to touch you?”

“Mhm- JJ!” She sucked in some air as he let his hands dip until his fingers rested over her slit, still over her panties. He pushed slightly, not enough to push his fingers in, but enough to satiate that ache and draw out a loud moan.

“I know, I’ve got you,” he whispered before his lips found hers once again and his left hand on her back pulled her impossibly closer.

“I liked the other thing, can you do that again?”

“You liked when I rubbed your clit?”

“Mhm,” she moaned and bucked her hips when his fingers rested on her covered clit.

“Words, baby. Or I’ll stop,” he reminded gently.

“Yes, J! Please,” JJ couldn’t get enough of the sweet moans and whimpers that came from her, they made his stomach flip as an ache settled between his legs.

“More please,” she whimpered and ground her hips down into his hand.

“Can I touch you under your panties? Is that what you want?” Y/n couldn’t help the way her stomach fluttered when he called them panties.

“Yes please, I really want that,” she whispered and smiled shyly.

“Ok sweet girl,” he smiled and slid his hand into her panties. “God, you’re so fucking wet, baby.”

“Oh fuck!” She cried and closed her hand around his hair and tugged.

“Feels good?” He teased her.

“S-so good. Please, please,” she didn’t know what she was asking for, her mind too muddled with pleasure to think of anything else.

“Gonna cum for me?”

“Yes, yes J, please.”

“Cum for me, angel, I’ve got you.”

Her moans became louder and more frantic as her head fell back and her thighs began to shake.

“Oh my god!” Y/n came with one final mewl.

“Good girl, so good for me.”

“Thank you JJ,” she smiled as she nuzzled her head into his neck.

“Don’t have to thank me. I hate to make you get up but I have to go to the bathroom.”

“No, just a few minutes, please?” She pouted and whined.

“I gotta go take care of myself then I’m all yours.”

She stared at him for a second before her eyes widened in understanding; “Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, I’ll be quick I promise,” he kissed her one last time before standing up.

“JJ?” She called just before he entered the bathroom.

“Yeah, baby?”

“I love you, thank you,” she smiled.

“I love you more than you know, angel girl.”

[multiheadcanons]

TF2 MERCS BEING CHARMING

scout: scout is a tryhard; which makes it very difficult for him to come off as charming in an effortless sense. he’s particularly charming when he drops that facade. a hand on the back of his head, an inability to meet your eyes, a nervous laugh and a crooked smile… he’s a cutie then.

soldier: opposite of scout; soldier is at his most charming when he tries his absolute hardest to be charming. he’s gotta make that effort to be gentlemanly, because you get what he’s advertising, so if he’s giving the effort it’s a genuine act. it’s what makes him endearing. and any favorable inclination towards him will carry his efforts to the finish line.

pyro: pyro isn’t charming unless they’re on your side. before then they’re a faceless sight with many unsettling actions under their belt. if you know them, though, it’s a lot easier to see when they’re joking and— more importantly— know when they’re about to take a joke “too far”. but in their lightheartedness they are fairly charming in their own sense

engineer: engie is only charming because he wears goggles all the time. it is much easier to hide what he’s thinking when all he has to do is smile and smooth talk. when his goggles are off, you can read him easier; and it’s easier to determine whether you should be taking what he’s saying at face value or not. without that, though, it’s hard to not at least be flattered by the texan, who can and will insult you and make it sound like a compliment.

heavy: heavy doesn’t try often to come across as charming. he does not need to. and he doesn’t need to because he is charming in his most candid moments. in times where he’s listening to what’s going on around him and makes humorous remarks that will stop whoever hears him, never failing to get a smile or a snort of shock. he’s charming when his face lights up as he gets a joke. when he’s caring for sascha tenderly and you think “damn what i wouldn’t give to be a gun rn” he’s funny, with a generous sense of humor and a quicker wit than people would think, and most people don’t know that until he enters a battle of wits and wins.

demo: demo is a silver tongued devil who will charm the clothes off someone in minutes… when he’s sober. even then, you can’t escape his natural effervescence. he’s a good hearted man with a need to laugh, and isn’t afraid to make the joke himself to get the energy up in a room. his confidence is infectious, and will naturally open you up to him. his charm lies in making every offer and idea sound like good ones, being just as shocked as you when things go awry, and laughing it off just as quickly. being a silver tongued devil also required experience in yapping, so if you let him talk long enough he’ll hook you on his stories alone. he’s got a wonderful way with words.

medic: like pyro, medic isn’t charming unless he’s on your side. until then, he’s a disturbing man with bright blue eyes and many unsettling things to say. past that, doc is a professional yapper. if you don’t like listening to multi hours long podcasts consisting of one person, you will probably never like medic. but if you like a chatterbox, then there will be times where medic will have gone on a tangent of a tangent, and as you watch his eyes gleam with newfound knowledge to dump on you, and his teeth bare in a crazed, no, excited smile, as he makes unyielding eye contact behind his glasses, waiting with baited breath for your response… you can’t help but notice how someone could find him charming, even cute. though, also like pyro, but worse, you will never know when he is going to take a joke too far, or when a bad idea will become a series of bad decisions. when everything he says comes with a large, bordering animalistic smile… he’s at his best when he’s yapping, truly.

sniper: sniper is at his most charming when he’s most comfortable, and he’s most comfortable at work. there’s a reason his standards begin with “be polite”. he’s got a reputation for being a good natured guy with efficient and effective methods of a necessary service, and days on the job with him are usually filled with quiet chuckles and smart ass remarks under his breath. but it’s not shit talking if he’s hitting the targets. and it’s the cockiness that makes him come off as charming. it’s another sense of an inverse of scout, as to where scout can talk the shit and back it up, because he’s just cocky in general it can never come off as charming; meanwhile sniper, who goes out of his way to be professional in his job and generally doesn’t interact with people by choice past that, the confidence and results that come with the confidence are charming. everyone loves a man who can get the job done.

spy: spy is effortlessly charming. he doesn’t need to do anything to make himself more charming, and when he does try it’s annoying to anyone involved. why would he go out of his way to get someone flowers, or butter someone up in compliments, when he can smile and smoke his cigarette. he’s a handsome guy with a nice accent; the less he plays it up the better it works for him, because when he tries too hard it does come off as a scam. however. there is a time. a time where spy gets drunk. and turns into a professional yapper. he, medic, and demo turn into hens with how much they chirp and crow and gasp and screech laughter, and in these moments of decomposure… what a cutie. really. where he’s not thinking about being professional and it’s him and his “friends” chatting over a beer…. or two… or five. and with demo’s effortless ability to make any idea sound like a good idea, he’s been on the unfortunate side of a scandal before. but even as he plays angry and bitter; you see the smile he’s fighting. and when he and his gal pals get to hanging around again…. they can’t contain their chuckles. he’s even more charming then. when he’s done playing professional.

[msriri030]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Medic Reader

Masterlist

Ghost didn’t want to admit to himself that he had fallen for you—not because he was some immature kid, but because he was terrified. Terrified of dying before he could tell you, lacking the courage he needed. Emotions weren’t his strong suit. He could go on any high-stakes mission, but telling the person who took his breath away? That gave him goosebumps.

“Lieutenant? Are you okay?” you asked while checking his blood pressure. He had come to you, hoping to finally confess his feelings, but instead, he sat there frozen, doubts racing through his mind. Thoughts like, She probably doesn’t even like me. I’m not the kind of man who could make her happy. I’m just a monster, undeserving of her affection or time…

You gently flicked his forehead, snapping him out of his self-loathing thoughts. Ghost looked up at you, and you smiled at him, teasing,

“Welcome back to the battlefield, soldier. Glad you decided to stay with us.”

As you turned to jot down his blood pressure, he found himself watching the way you moved in your lab coat. He quickly shook his head, realizing he was being a bit of a creep, and scoffed softly.

“You know, you could get in trouble for assaulting a high-ranking officer, right?” he joked.

“If that’s true, Lieutenant, then I might ask you not to daydream in my office. I can’t help but bring people back to their senses,” you replied, smirking. “Now, back to business—can you go over the symptoms once more?” You pulled up a chair, clipboard and pen ready.

Ghost blushed under his mask, his heart racing. He cursed himself quietly. Here he was, a lieutenant who had taken countless lives, yet he felt as flustered as a high schooler. Noticing the concern in your eyes, he took a deep breath and replied, “I don’t know, Doc. My stomach aches, I feel nauseous, sometimes I want to throw up. It’s hard to focus, and sometimes I can’t even breathe—like my chest is tightening. And I keep thinking I’m catching a fever. It just gets worse the longer it goes on.”

“Hmm…do you have any idea what might be causing it?” You frowned in thought, scribbling notes. Ghost chuckled slightly, amused by your expression.

“Yeah, it’s… someone. Or at least, it happens when they’re around.”

You looked up, alarmed, and slid your chair closer. Placing a hand on his knee, you asked, “What? Is someone poisoning you? We have to report this—”

“It’s you, Doc.” His words stopped you mid-sentence. “I… I’ve fallen for you. I didn’t expect you to feel the same, but I thought I should tell you before my deployment.”

You sat there, stunned by his confession. Taking your silence as his cue to leave, Ghost stood. “I’ll take my leave now, Doc. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

As he turned toward the door, you grabbed his sleeve, stopping him. Ghost looked down at you, surprised, as you stared ahead, too shy to meet his gaze.

“My name isn’t ‘Doc’… it’s (Your Name),” you murmured, cheeks flushed. Ghost’s eyes softened as he lifted a gloved hand to cup your cheek.

“Alright, (Your Name),” he whispered, but before either of you could say more, Price’s voice echoed through the hall, calling Ghost to deployment. You both chuckled.

Ghost leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “Looks like it’s time to go. I’ll see you when I get back.”

You nodded, watching him leave. Just as he reached the end of the hallway, you called out, “Ghost! You better make it back, or I’ll never get to confess over one of my famous home-cooked meals, okay?” You smiled, waving him off.

Ghost nodded, a rare warmth in his eyes, before he continued on his way. Now, he couldn’t wait to come back to you.

[cherry-romper]

gen narumi x medic reader, where his vice-captain and platoon suddenly realizes why he gets injured so often (to see reader)

Gen Narumi X Medic!Reader

Warnings; Mentions of blood and injury

Contains; fluff, angst(?), GN!Reader

Word count; 936

For a guy who classes himself as “the best”, he sure gets injured a lot.

He was never grievously wounded, but he’s always need stitches – this just so happened to be your department.

His platoon often made fun of him, jesting at how he’d “fallen off”

It got so bad that he’d been called into the Director’s office, many were concerned as to why he was suddenly getting injured so often. 

No matter how small the cut, he'd always end up at your door. His platoon teased him relentlessly.

Ignoring them, he waltz into your office and man-spread in your chair.

He'd stare you down as you worked, unflinching as you cleaned and dressed his wounds. 

You’d shift uncomfortably under his gaze, looking up to him a couple times, irritated. 

You felt very judged, like he was scrutinizing your every move.

Even if the gash was on his back, he’d crank his neck round to watch you while you work. 

After the first few times, you got used to it and voiced your irritation: “Stop watching me while I work.”

“Why should I?” you didn’t even have to look at him to hear the smirk that tugged at his lips.

Frustrated, you set down your needle and thread with a clank. “You make me nervous; my hands shake the more you stare. I could hurt you more.”

“I can handle it.”

“Or stop getting injured, then we won’t have anything to worry about, would we?” you counted, sarcastically. 

He scoffed as you got up, shifting his weight in the chair. 

For the third time this week, you bandaged another part of his body. 

He’s gonna run out of limbs to injure soon, you thought to yourself.

He didn’t say thank you as he left your office. 

You tried to not let it get to you, he had a reputation for being rude. 

It was only two days till he was back again, some pathetic cut on his pinky finger. 

You were a professional, to laugh in his face wouldn’t be right, but it was hard not to with him stood there, cradling his hand like it had been cut off. At 2 am no less.

“Bandage,” was all he said, almost demanding.

Cocking a brow at him, you looked from his face to his hand. There was barely any blood, you couldn’t even see the cut.

“What did you do?”

“Papercut.”

“Narumi…go to bed.” You turned to close your door, but his foot stopped it.

Using just he leg his pushed your door open again, making his way over to his usual spot and held out his hand for you to examine.

You were shocked but thought it best to entertain him. Quicker you gave him a plaster, the faster you could get back to sleep. 

Grabbing what you needed from your cabinet, sat across from him. Taking his hand in your own, you can feel his familiar gaze on you. 

Wiping it down and wrapping a plaster round it, you tapped on the back of his hand, “there you go, now can I go back to bed?”

“No,” 

Puzzled, you looked back to him.

“I actually have this weird mark on my ass,” without hesitation, he shifted in the seat onto his knees.

“WOAH!! Not my department, buddy!” you scrambled to stop him moving any further. 

He laughed, “I’m just joking”

You didn’t know if you should laugh or cry, you were too tired for this. 

He saw himself to the door, “thank you…and goodnight, Doc.”

A week had passed since you’d last saw your favourite patient. Until your peace was disturbed on a Wednesday afternoon. 

Once again, Narumi had some meek slash on his abdomen. Not deep enough to cause issue, but enough to warrant stitches. 

Conveniently, his suit didn’t complete the healing process, again.

Your usual routine unfolded. Him staring and you just trying to work.

However, for the first time, he flinched. Not at the needle, but at your touch.

Taking a step back, you asked if he was okay. No matter who your patient was, their comfort and health were your top priority. 

He just nodded, nervously biting his lip. Unable to meet your gaze.

You made sure he was okay as you continued to weave the thread in and out of his flesh. 

He winced a couple times, jolting as your hand grazed over his bruised torso. 

His body temperature had risen, and you could feel the sweat forming on his body. 

Looking to his face, you could see the beads glistening on his forehead and the blood pooling in his cheeks.

“God, Gen. You’re burning up.”

He shook his head and cleared his throat, “don’t worry about it, I’m fine.”

“Of course I’m worried about it!” You knew form your years of experience it was best to finish one task before starting another.

Completing the last few stitches, you pulled them tight. 

A gasp escaped Gen’s lips. He launched forward, grabbing a hold of your wrist. 

He was hunched over in the chair, his hair covering his eyes. You couldn’t make out the expression on his face. 

“Are you okay? Talk to me, Narumi!”

He let out a weak chuckled, “you’re really loud, Doc,” 

His hand still gripping your wrist tight, he meets your eyes. 

His lips were pale and his eyes sunken. 

Panic immediately washed over you.

“God, you’re bleeding internally,”

Calling for extra nurses to assist you, he slumped against you.

“This is what I get for wanting to see you, huh?”

Perplexed, you try to lift his weight off you and move him into a safer position, but he wouldn’t budge. 

Resting his head on yours, he whispered in your ear “I’m sorry, Doc. I just didn’t know how else I’d get to see you.”

“Gen Narumi, you idiot.”

[rust-bearer]

The prisoner screamed in their cell, as First Aid watched through the window. Their servo, previously their pride of trade, had been cut off right where the nerve endings started; it looked fairly painful, and judging by the screaming, it was.

First Aid made a note of it, typing on his keypad.

“Hey doc. Fancy seeing you here,” Vortex purred from First Aid’s left, standing obtrusively in the doorway. First Aid spared him a glance, then return to the prisoner.

“Standard response of sudden amputation. Patient underwent a below-the-wrist amputation following extensive ischemic damage and necrosis of the servo due to unintended infection…” First Aid looked up again at the ‘prisoner’, before returning to his notes, continuing to speak aloud as he typed. “Preoperative imaging revealed critical tissue loss, with no viable circulation distal to the wrist. Procedure was uncomplicated and patient is expected to make a full recovery.”

Vortex made an interested noise, deciding to lean into First Aid’s personal space. “Sounds like you had some fun without me.”

First Aid set the tablet down with a small noise of dissatisfaction. Then, he spoke into a microphone, directed to the diminutive medical drones, currently puttering around the operating room. “Physician consent obtained for patient termination.”

As one, the drones all jolted to life. The prisoner strapped to the operating table barely had time to scream before the drones began to gouge him apart. First Aid shook his head, and made yet another mental note to recalibrate the drones. Always so messy. Never enough time to fix it, though. Especially not with…

Well, Vortex. Vortex, who was currently staring in disbelief. “Yknow, I was joking when I said you should lighten up. Isn’t this a little extreme? I mean, Primus, Aid, aren’t you supposed to be a medic-”

“What is it you want, Vortex?” First Aid sighed. He shouldn’t be even indulging this. “I wouldn’t have to kill so many patients if you left me alone.”

“Me? What did I do!” Vortex looks wounded, and maybe it’s an act. “You’re the one who chopped off his wrist, then, well… the rest of him too. Say, doesn’t he look a lot like your old coworker?” Vortex flashes a deep grin, unobstructed by any mask.

First Aid ignores him. Looks back to his notes. “Attending physician visual disturbance noted. Accompanied by auditory disturbances as well. Patient log closed for the day.”

“Hallucination?” Vortex makes to snatch away the data pad, but his clawed servo goes through it. “Wh- hey! First Aid, what did you-”

“You’re DEAD, Vortex!” First Aid finally snaps. “We have this conversation every other day! You’re- not real, and I shouldn’t even be talking to you…” Inhale, exhale. “I’ve been awake too long. This always happens, and I keep telling myself not to let it happen, and it always happens…”

Muttering to himself, First Aid stands up and leaves the room. Vortex, or what thinks it’s Vortex, stands over the data pad. Watches the text scroll automatically until it reaches today’s date.

Fifty thousand years after the end of the War. After Vortex’s last, hazy memory of… something, and then nothing at all. The room dims; the room goes black.

Nothing but a pair of red optics, staring out of the dark.

[kult-of-s4lvia]

heyy hey))) just want to ask you, did the other mercs know about Salvia? and if they did, how would they react?

(also, i love your art, ill be waiting for more lore cause i’m sure the lore is deep…)

Thank you!!<3 <3

And yeah, here is this information, i was about to post this until i saw your ask!

—♡—

🪱"Well, Medic was so proud of his creation that he showed her to his teammates when she was just a newborn.

🕊"Many were somewhat disturbed by her appearance, but not enough to be afraid of the poor little Salvia (the truly terrifying thing is Medic's god complex)..."

🎀 "Scout thought she was a pretty creepy baby, but Heavy elbowed him to make him stop talking."

"Uh, hey doc, ya know, ya did somethin' there. She's, uh, interestin' lookin', but, uh, hey, she's... adorable, I guess? Yeah, kinda odd, but, uh, heh, definitely somethin'..."

🐇 "Heavy and Engineer liked to carry her sometimes, but Medic didn't let Pyro do it for safety reasons, though they would've loved to. Spy kept pondering the consequences of this..."

🧸 "Engineer gave her a porcelain doll as gift."

🪶 "Salvia doesn't remember this times, so, she stay hidden and feels afraid of show herself to them."

[tf2-plus2]

RED Team all lounged outside in lighter combat clothing, waiting for the next mission or wave of BLU attacks. It was still summer, still hot.

"Ach... We need a break from this heat..." Medic whined.

"Ice cream," Soldier nodded, "Good, American, ice cream."

"I rather agree. A nice cold treat on such a hot day after fighting sounds perfect."

"There's a shoppe on the edge of Teufort that also has sodas."

Everyone turned back to look at Assassin, who hardly ever spoke up. She had her mask down for once, and raised an eyebrow at everyone before they looked away.

"What?"

"Well. Ya never really. Talk much," Engineer murmured, "Ya just sorta... stand there and add to the strategy or nod."

"...... You keep telling me I need to open up more. Don't act so shocked when it finally starts working."

Everyone shrugged and nodded and Sniper stood up, "Right. Pre'-y sure I'm th' only one with a truck big enough for all us. Pile in, an' let's get a treat."

The team followed him with a small chorus of agreement and debates on which flavor was better.

[judasrpc]

TIPS FOR WRITING COMBAT, TACTICS, AND / OR FIELD MEDICINE SCENARIOS

Saw a post that made me think about this, so I wanted to share some resources and online profiles I had around writing things such as combat, tactical operations, and / or field medicine! Plus my Call of Duty fixation is in full swing fjslfjdslfj

Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional, nor am I someone who has served in the military or law enforcement in any capacity. Some topics may be unsettling/disturbing, so please take care in reading.

This isn't as organized as I'd like it to be, but I did my best to make it fairly easy to navigate.

Doc Combat [TikTok] - A collection of videos focused around administering Tactical Combat Casualty Care (TCCC).

Tactical Combat Casualty Care Quick Reference Guide, First Edition (2017) [PDF] - A handbook published by the U.S. Government and military detailing basic management, what to do in scenarios, and how to address varying types of wounds.

Protocols for Common Injuries from Police Weapons [Archive] - A guide detailing various injuries that can be collected from police/military weapons and how to attend to them.

Organizing Armed Defense in America [Archive] - A guide on how to establish security and defense measures, as well as a list of equipment often used in militia groups.

FEMA Independent Study Courses [Website] - An extensive collection of free (yes, free) courses provided by the Federal Emergency Management Agency, which covers so many topics, such as Hazardous Materials, Active Shooting, Community Emergency Response, Fire Safety, and more! You can save any information provided in the course(s) you choose, as it's all public access.

Writing (US) Government Clearances [Tumblr] - A small guide on how to navigate government clearances.

TM 31-210 Improvised Munitions Handbook [Archive] - Pretty self-explanatory, but an archive of documents showing how improvised munitions are made.

The US Military Manual Collection [Archive] - A collection of US manuals published by the United States Army's Army Publishing Directorate.

Remember, all of this information is publicly accessible! I seriously cannot recommend using archival websites enough, especially since Google (and other search engines) manipulate what appears first with every search.

Also, I am not responsible for what y'all do with this info. Read responsibly, and stay frosty!

[jermer10]

hi! Would it be okay if you did a weapon kink scenario with medic like the other ones? If you're okay with requests right now! /nf

TF2 medic having a male s/o with a weapon kink

18+ only, male reader | i actually intended for medic to be apart of the original post, so here's what i had written for him! thanks for the ask anon!!

tw: sexual content, weapon play kink, implied necrophilia, murder

drabbles under the cut :P

- anyone with a brain and one eye could tell Medic had unconventional kinks - most were disturbed by this, resulting in his sexual encounters becoming very unsatisfying, and very limited - until he met you. the way you gasped and groped at the operating table as he attempted to extract a stray bullet hole in your chest was....distracting.. - distracting enough that he had to adjust his painfully stiff cock each time he looked at you, never mind the whorish noises you were producing - it all became too much when he had stabbed a bit too deep with the scalpel and you had mewled his name. not 'Medic', not 'doc', 'Ludwig.' - that was all it took for him to climb onto the operating table, dropping his equipment onto the white linoleum floors in the process - he was on top of you, holding the instrument to your neck with a crazed look in his eyes - "i apologize, meine liebe, but you vere teasing me too much. let me do zhis, please." you could feel blood dribbling down your neck, and something stirred in you. the knife was a threat, sure, but the unbearable feeling of fear was more of a turn on - "fuck, Medic, i'm sorry, i didn't mean to turn you on, i just- i-" he shushed you by pulling your pants down, your half chub disappearing and leaving an erection in it's place - he grasped at your left side, his right hand occupied with maintaining a strong grip on the scalpel, unrelenting and violently, he lifted you by your hips, lining his dick with your entrance - waves of pleasure washed over you both as he entered, the blade slowly cutting into your skin, beads of red dripping onto the infirmary's bed, Medic lapping up the sweat and blood coating your neck - your throat was hoarse, you were a slut, bouncing on Medic's cock like a good boy, a string of precum leaked from your length onto your stomach - he grew close, embarrassingly quickly, and with one swift movement he plunged the knife into your right carotid artery, you flailed around in distress, struggling to breathe, bringing Medic to climax from the sensation - you awoke in the respawn machine three minutes later, naked, confused, and covered in blood "what happened?"

[hellcifrogs]

There is the trope with doctors being the scariest thing if they get angry. Because of all the knowledge they have about the body.

What are your medic OCs like when they are pissed off and where would you put them in a 1-10 scale where 1 "Eh... ok doc..." and 10 is "Holy shit! I'm gonna die..."?

How convenient that I have (currently) exactly 10 official medic ocs in the Junko AU (these ones). I ranked them by imagining how they'd deal with troublesome patients.

The nice doctors:

1 - Petro is the least scary and most patient of the bunch, you'd need to break serious hospital safety rules, disturb the staff AND insult his sister to actually get him angry enough to be scary.

2 - Dante is also very very calm and controlled most of the time, but can also be strict in making sure his patients are safe and well cared.

3 - Kyouharu learned everything from Dante, he's so pleasant and kind to everyone that most people forget he's also a taijutsu master, and will use force to get things in order. He'll just go back to smiling right away so usually people only get shocked and confused, but not really scared.

4 - Diane tries not to scare people and be very gentle, but they're not exactly a trained doctor and will remind anyone that they're doing them a favor by helping treat them and can stop and leave anytime (Most likely won't, but activating the byakugan doesn't help soften the threat).

5 - Yuriko doesn't care about being sweet and polite to her patients, she's used to healing people in the battlefield and will get straight to the point when needed. She can be quite forceful and intimidating if anyone gets in the way of her work.

The scary doctors:

6 - Irene has a temper and her being scary when angry is just who she is. The fact that she does have medical knowledge without being properly trained only adds to it, but not many people actually know about that.

7 - Junko is not a doctor, she was introduced to the basics of it by Kyouharu, but overall she's not the best option to heal someone. And that's probably what makes her scarier, because if she's using what she knows, she's not using it to heal you.

8 - Suzuyasu is naturally intimidating, the rumors and gossip don't help his case. He can be scary on purpose and, like Yuriko, has been in far too many battlefields to know when to be forceful. All that aside he's a skilled doctor and is even great with children.

9 - Neno is neither a doctor nor here to treat you. She's only interested in poisons and if someone decided you're her patient, then you're in for some uncomfortable time, at best. She might actually get hired by the torture and interrogation team one day.

10 - Vera is probably the last person you'd want to find strapping you to a hospital bed. She doesn't need to get angry to be scary, much less if you know who she is. Traitor, assassin, crazy doctor... basically, you'll need to be tied down not to run away.

[gunslingerwastaken]

Question for you Gunslinger.

Had there ever been a time on the train so bad you had to fully rely on the freaky unstable pyscho? Like every single vehicle you're up against covered in hard steel making you fundamentally useless?

Or perhaps you've gone too injured and inconveniently medic happened to be busy healing passengers? Would you trust that unhinged fella with your life if it really goes bad? Are they even reliable specifically to you in the first place?

Unfortunately so. Even someone of my skillset has their weaknesses, and their lows. Relying on Psycho isn't something I'd be proud of saying, but I would be lying if I said he didn't have his moments. There was one particular incident that I can remember off the top of my head.. It was a employee escort mission that we both happened to be assigned to. Already off to a bad start, you don't have to say it. I know you're thinking it, because I certainly was. I mean, really, any mission with Psycho assigned to it is bound to go wrong. It's a miracle he ends up salvaging it last second- or his massive mess up turns out to work in his favor. ..Back on topic, employee escort. Vanessa demanded more manpower at their base of operations, with the drop-off site being generously placed in a forest. Unfortunately, the route that the train would have to take ran right through a wildlife conservation center. Doesn't sound like a problem in the slightest, does it? That's what I thought too. The last few waves have been a breeze, Psycho and I being able to work in tandem, the doc's efforts really tied it all together. An issue began to arise when we received another message from Vanessa. Usually, she called in to comment on our work, reward us, all that fancy stuff. Instead, it was to warn us about three of Wilford's.. weirdly passionate.. employees, waiting for us on the road ahead. These disturbances between missions never gave us a problem, taking them down was fairly easy. All you really had to do was attack. When we got to their truck, that's exactly what we began doing. Attacking, while ensuring the safety of the passengers underneath us. It was going smoothly up until we shot that bear off the truck. As soon as I blinked, an ENTIRE LOG came careening towards me and smacked me. Square in the face. I heard my shades crack- and maybe something else in my face, too. All that I knew was that it hurt a lot. No time to process it, I got right back up. I don't get paid to writhe in pain, I get paid to defend. There was almost no time to react after that. As soon as I got back up, I was back down. There were several new bullet wounds that weren't there before. Immediate, shooting pain that was unimaginable. Any doctor that would be around wasn't. The employees needed far more attention than any contractor, Vanessa was only concerned with the number of passengers at the end of a wave. I knew, in that moment, I was most likely going to die. That's when Psycho's miracle work kicked in. Almost instinctively, he stood in front of me and protected me from any further gunfire- or attacks in general. I couldn't really do anything else but sit there and wallow in pain. You'd understand the shock of taking a log to the face when you've only mainly faced the threat being shot.

Before anything else happened- I felt my gun being slipped away from me. It was easy to assume I had just dropped it and it had fallen off, but upon looking up, I would quickly be disproven. This guy was insane in every sense of the word. He had taken my gun and began finishing the job, exactly where I had left off. That made me wonder if he was looking into my work more than I thought.. His plan was working, too. Impressively so, might I add. The guy can aim when he wants to. I was about to use my sidearm to assist, and either he noticed or it was just a coincidence, but he nudged my arm with his foot as I was reaching for it. As if he were telling me to yield. ..So that's what I did. I sat, stirring around in agony as he fired away and took out this disturbance with unsettling ease. After he was sure we were safe, he promptly asked me to remove my coat. I was.. puzzled, but he responded quickly by tying it around the wounds as a makeshift bandage. He told me I'd need to see the doctor immediately after this if I could. When we arrive to the station, I thanked him and limped my way to the nearest medic in the hopes of receiving care. ...Hm, maybe I take this guy for granted, now that I think about it..