#Pain Management Surgery Center | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sydnikov · 2 years ago

Note

saw you were asking about requests and if that’s still the case: something hurt/comfort where the reader is comforting svech when he finds out he has have to surgery, and helping him through the recovery process.

either established relationship or a feelings realization maybe? whatever you’re most comfortable with.

In Five || A. Svechnikov

Author: Sydney / @sydnikov

Pairing: Andrei Svechnikov/Reader

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: Cursing (mild this time), sports injury (torn ACL/ligament), steamy kissing, bad proofreading, so much angst, but don’t worry there’s fluff at the end

A/N: I really tortured myself writing this. The emotions are still high, I hate the Bruins (sorry Bruins followers), and I hope you guys get all the feels as you read this. In all seriousness though, THANK YOU to whoever sent this in because it got me out of my writer’s block. (p.s. I’ve now opened requests to get me more inspired… so go submit stuff!!) anyways, I hope y’all enjoy 😁

It wasn’t bad. Not at first glance—at least that’s what you told yourself from the stands, clenching your fingers so hard they left nail indentations in the middle of your palms.

But you knew. You knew your best friend because you could read him like a book. Every twitch of the eye, a quirk of his lips, they all were a glimpse into his mind of what he was thinking. Andrei is your favorite book, and you just reached the chapter where everything starts to fall apart.

He was trying to hide it, the pain he was feeling from the quick stumble he took at center ice. It was just a small muscle pull, though, right? That’s what you thought, but then you saw him skate to the bench, favoring his right knee with the expression of one who knew he messed up.

Andrei played the rest of the game, but as you headed down to the locker room you couldn’t fight the feeling of dread steadily creeping up your heart.

“Hey,” you greeted a few of the girls leaning against the wall, waiting for their significant others to finish interviews. You were sort of an outcast in that manner, because Andrei wasn’t yours… No matter how much you wanted him to be. “Has he come out yet?” you asked.

The solemn shake of their heads gave you your answer, and you didn’t even bother trying to hide your worry when you leaned back against the wall with them, anxiously chewing your lip. The time came and went, seconds turned to minutes and minutes turned to an hour of watching the other Hurricanes players come and go—none of them the man you wanted, no needed to see.

It was times like these where you questioned how you got here, waiting on Andrei like a girlfriend but being firmly stuck in the friend zone. He had never made you feel like anything less because of it, but you felt it aching in your very bones when he’d flash a smile to the girls at the bars you frequented, or when he’d ask you whether the blue shirt or the red shirt would look better on a date with the cute girl he met at a shopping mall.

It was funny, too, because you hadn’t met him any differently than he’s met the other girls he’s taken out. It was at a bar, actually, one in downtown Raleigh not too far of a drive from PNC Arena, and you were nursing a drink with a few friends from work when the place exploded in activity because players from the Carolina Hurricanes had just arrived.

You didn’t ask “who?” like one of your coworkers asked, because you loved hockey and went to a decent amount of games, and you could confidently answer which player had which number. In one game you’d even managed to snag glass seats, and that had been the best night of your life.

Never had you actually met any of the players, though. Odd, considering you had always made it a habit to go out at least once on the weekends, but one fateful Saturday night was when you finally were able to get a good look at the players outside of their hockey uniforms. You were content to merely watch them from a distance, but soon you realized they were just like any other regular bar patrons and soon lost interest in eyeing them a few tables back.

It was as you were ordering another drink that you caught from the corner of your eyes a body settling down on your right, too close to be convenient because there were other open seats far from you. You hadn’t been looking for a hookup that night, though, so you figured playing hard-to-get might ward off any men looking for a quick one-night stand.

“Hi,” the man suddenly spoke, accent too thick to be attributed to intoxication. A foreigner? You met his eyes, your gaze colliding with warm brown that reminded you of the hot chocolate you’d buy to keep your hands warm in the winter. “Drink not up to standards?” he said, leaning against the bar counter to get a better look at you.

Your brain had short-circuited, because wow this guy was good-looking, and it only took another minute of analyzing his features with your tipsy brain to realize you were talking to Andrei Svechnikov, or rather, he was talking to you.

“Not much of a drinker to begin with.” you had replied smoothly, shocking even yourself because talking to attractive men had never been a strong suit. “What about you? What do you drink?”

You and Andrei, who had later introduced himself and to which you responded with a cheeky quirk of your lips, “I know”, had hit it off immediately. You talked for hours that night, unable to shake the undeniable chemistry you had between you until one of your friends ran into you slurring her words and stumbling in place that signaled your outing time was up.

You exchanged numbers that night, and unbeknownst to either of you, your hearts were beating in tandem for days after, and brains spiraling with ‘what ifs’ and ‘I think they like me’. Unfortunately… It had never gone beyond that, because communication was hard to begin with for Andrei without the added challenge of having to speak English, and well–past relationships have made it a little hard for you to put your trust in people.

So, here you were. Confidently able to say that Andrei was one of your closest friends who you just so happened to be in love with, but knowing it would never go beyond that. You’d rather have Andrei in your life as a friend than not at all, right?

That’s what you told yourself when you finally heard the familiar sound of Andrei’s deep voice from the locker room, coming closer and closer as the distance between you decreased.

“No, no,” Andrei said, firmly, finally making his appearance. “No hospital. I feel fine.”

“Son, you’re favoring your knee. You need to go, now.” Head Coach Rod Brind’Amour marched in right behind the left winger. “I let you wait out the rest of the game, that’s what we agreed.”

Andrei remained in place, stubbornly glaring at the older man with the two looking like raging bulls getting ready to charge the other.

“‘Drei?” you finally found the courage to speak, hesitantly stepping forward and breaking the heated glare between the two men. You didn’t even notice until now that the athletic trainer was waiting behind them, phone held to his ear. “What’s going on?”

Immediately, the Russian’s eyes whipped towards you and he stepped back from Rod immediately. He said your name in slight confusion, even embarrassment at being caught in the metaphorical pissing match between him and his coach.

“I—” he licked his lips, struggling to find the words in English. “My knee. It is… Messed up.”

“Messed up?” you said. “What do you mean?”

That’s when Rod popped in. “He took a bit of a stumble on the ice, it didn’t look too serious at first but his knee is hurting.” He turned to glare at Andrei. “He can barely stand on it.”

Andrei clenched his jaw, attempting to shift his weight onto his right knee, but he could barely manage to stand before his face twisted up in pain and he had to use the wall to balance himself.

You stepped up to the Russian, worriedly wringing your hands together before stilling them to grab your stubborn friend's arm. “You’re too stubborn for your own good,” you smiled wryly, attempting to mask your worry with a small tease.

Andrei towered over you, but his size had always made you feel safe rather than scared, and that applied to now, roo. “I am fine, darling,” he murmured the pet name in Russian, his voice matching the softness of his eyes he could never hide when looking at you. Sometimes he’d speak in his native tongue in front of you because he knew you didn’t understand, and the scowl on your face afterward always made him laugh.

But, even though he was definitely not fine, he could barely take having to bother his teammates and coaches with his issues, nonetheless you. He didn't want you to see him so weak, at least not like this.

“My knee is just stiff. Sore.” he shot a look towards Rod, who up until this moment had been staring at the wall to give the two of you privacy. “It is not that bad, I am sure of it.”

“Then you’ll go to the hospital to get it checked out since it’s ‘not that bad’.” Rod deadpanned, finally breaking the bubble of tension that always seemed to surround you and Andrei when together.

“I agree with him, Andrei,” you said, placing another hand on his arm to gain his attention. “You need to get it looked at, at the very least.”

You gave him your best puppy eyes, peering up at him as he stood over you. You could see the hesitation on his face, knowing his protesting was mostly because he hated bothering others with his problems.

“If not for your career, do it for me?” you said, attempting to bring back his smile by poking him in the chest. “Please?”

A moment of silence, you staring at Andrei and Andrei staring at you…

“—fine.”

He agreed, but his knee was not fine as he said it was. It was bad because it wasn’t actually his knee that had been causing his pain, but rather a torn ligament connected to the knee that turned out to be the ACL in his right leg.

And Andrei was devastated. You weren’t allowed to be in the room with him while they checked him out because he needed an MRI, but Martin and Seth were and it was them who came up to you in the hallway, grim looks on their faces as they broke the news. You could hear the raised voices of both Andrei and Brind’Amour shouting from the room.

You couldn’t see Andrei’s face, but you felt your heart breaking for him anyways as the doctor probably told him how long his recovery would take, the physical therapy he would need to endure, and the amount of time he wouldn’t be able to play hockey for.

“Nine months,” Andrei said, angrily typing away on his phone to his brother, Evgeny, probably. “Maybe six if I am lucky.”

You remained silent, watching him from the kitchen counter at a loss for words. You had offered to drive Andrei home, unofficially taking on the role of caretaker since Martin lived with his girlfriend and Seth was, well… Seth.

Andrei was on the couch, dressed in an old Hurricanes hoodie with shorts, his right leg propped up on a stool wrapped in a temporary cast. His face was flushed, and his hair messy from all the times he had run his hands through it. You knew he was in pain, both mentally and physically, but it really was unfair how he still managed to look so attractive all throughout.

Leg cast and all included.

“Is that what the doctor said?” you asked, finally gaining the courage to speak as you crossed the room. You carefully sat on the couch next to him, not wanting to jostle his leg.

The Russian dropped his phone on his lap, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes before gazing at you with determination. “Yes. But I’m going to be better in five.”

You finally cracked a smile, there’s the ‘Drei you knew and loved, your first one since hearing the news and bringing him back to his house. Andrei couldn’t help but grin, feeling the fondness for you in his heart grow. You were so good to him, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to keep his feelings to himself while you stayed with him.

He wouldn’t lie and say he didn’t mind having you stay with him for the rest of the year, though. Andrei was selfish, and he was also possessive, so he liked having you to himself. He considered Martin and Seth and Sebastian his good friends, his teammates, his bros if you will, but you were his. His best friend, his best girl—you were the only one he wanted, and maybe this new living situation would give him the opportunity to finally tell you.

Andrei just hoped you felt the same. He wouldn’t be able to stand losing you because he couldn’t keep his heart under control.

“Well, you know I’ll be here to help you get through it.” You stated with conviction, reaching over to give his hand a squeeze and your heart beating all the while.

You held your unspoken promise, especially on the day of his surgery a little less than a week after his prognosis. It was an early surgery on a Thursday morning, and you even called off work so you could be at the hospital with him when he woke up.

You already knew most of your friends and family were wondering why you were putting so much effort into caring for someone who was just a friend, and if you were being honest you didn’t have much of an answer to give them. They had a point after all, right?

You and Andrei were just friends. That was it. You may be in love with him (now more than ever), and you definitely omitted that little detail during past conversations, but still. Friends move in with each other to help recover from big injuries all the time.

This time with Andrei was no different, and you had to repeat this mantra over and over again in your head as the anesthesia slowly wore off and his eyes were so soft and droopy, mumbling his words and his accent was thicker than ever and your heart was beating so fast it was going to jump out of your chest–

“Thank you for being here with me,” Andrei slurred, gazing up at you with those warm, half-lidded eyes.

You grabbed his hand, gently, lacing your fingers together and squeezing once. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

Andrei squeezed back once before losing consciousness, his eyes closing and his head lolling back against the pillow. “That’s normal, right?” You asked the nurse, who was busy writing on a clipboard. She only had to look up once to take in the situation before responding.

“Everyone responds to anesthesia differently. Your boyfriend is just one of many who has to sleep it off.”

You felt your stomach drop, your eyes widening only slightly at the nurse’s casual use of ‘boyfriend’. Of course, that’s what you and your best friend must have looked like to her, right? You, holding Andrei’s hand, and he gazing up at you like you hung the stars and the moon.

It was probably just the drugs in his system. Definitely.

Andrei was cleared to leave the hospital the next day, and you heard the news from the group chat you, Martin, and Seth were in. It was comically titled, ‘Andrei’s bobble-leg’, courtesy of Seth, of course, and it was essentially just the three of you coordinating who has Andrei duty on the days you weren’t able to be with him.

Unfortunately, the day he was able to go home was the day you had to be back at work, so Martin and Seth left their morning skate early to drive him home. And so, here you were now, finally off from work and driving down Capital Blvd road to Andrei’s home.

Martin, Seth, and surprisingly quite a few of the players were already there when you arrived. You knocked on the front door before letting yourself in, curiosity written all over your face as you walked closer to all the noise.

Happy shouts of your name rang across the room when you appeared in the doorway, and your face flushed red in embarrassment at all the eyes suddenly upon you. “Hey guys,” you said, eyes scanning around the room looking for the only man you really cared about.

Finally, you found him. Andrei was seated on his couch, leg safely propped up on the ottoman and wrapped in tight bandages and a brace. He had an Xbox controller in his hand, the video game he was previously playing on pause.

“How was work?” Sebastian asked from the right of Andrei, also holding a controller. There were several bags of chips laid out across the ottoman, and both men were currently snacking.

It was probably against their diet, but you weren’t going to be the one to tell them that, especially Andrei.

“Work,” you finally responded, rather dry. Most of the population, including you, unfortunately, were not lucky enough to play the sport they loved as their job.

A few chuckles and about an hour later, everyone began packing up to leave. Somehow, you had gravitated toward Andrei during this time of catching up with his teammates and ended up on the couch next to him, on his left. His arm was casually strewn across the back of the couch, fingertips playing with the ends of your hair and occasionally brushing against your neck, sending shivers up your spine.

You liked to pretend it was just you harboring feelings for him sometimes because it was less scary, but every day that fantasy was getting harder and harder to live… Especially when you would turn your head to catch a peek at his side profile, and he was already staring as if knowing the effect he had on you.

“How’s your leg feeling?” You asked once you heard the front door shut, signaling the exit of the last guest. It was silent other than the TV playing softly in the background, it having changed from Call of Duty to a rerun of Friends some time ago.

Andrei sighed, attempting to hide his emotional turmoil with a smile. Bringing his arm down from the back of the couch, he tentatively rested it on your shoulders, gauging your reaction before bringing you to his side. He’s been an affectionate person since you first met him, so you were used to the random hand-holding or hugs, but it still never failed to make you long for something more.

He patted his leg gently, careful not to disturb it from where it rested. “Hurts. But that is to be expected, no?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it can’t suck.” You said, your voice nothing more than a murmur. You rested your head against his shoulder, tugging at a loose string on one of your sleeves.

The hockey player didn’t respond, instead, he placed one of his big hands on your shoulder and squeezed, a sign he at least heard your attempt at reassurance. Time passed quickly like this; Friends continued playing, as did your position tucked into Andrei’s side.

You felt at peace, and while he didn’t say it with words you could tell the Russian beside you felt the same. Hopefully, the next few months of healing will just fly by.

And they did, at first. But even though the Carolina Hurricanes were missing one of their star players, the games must go on. His teammates went out on the ice, each and every one of them feeling Andrei’s absence keenly.

You felt it too, as the Boston Bruins scored their fourth and final goal of the night, winning the game in a shootout. The hope immediately dissipated within your chest and in rose frustration and disappointment to take its place, but you were sure that was nothing compared to what Andrei was feeling beside you.

The entirety of the game, your hand was wrapped in Andrei’s, his squeezing down when the Bruins scored their first goals in regulation and releasing to clap when we were finally able to tip the puck in. Then the team came back in the third period—you weren’t sure what Brind’Amour had said to the boys during the second intermission, but whatever he said had worked.

The Hurricanes had been controlling the puck in the Bruins’ zone, something they had failed to do in the first two periods. They were passing, aiming, shooting, scoring, first by Skjei in the corner of the net and then by Aho on a tight pass from Martinook that slipped right past Swayman’s shoulder.

It was looking so good because Andersen had finally gotten his head in the game and the defense had stepped up, but then we went past overtime scoreless, and then to the fateful shootout.

You had felt the anxiousness from every fan in the arena. If anyone was an avid Hurricanes watcher, including you, they knew shootouts had never been this hockey team’s strong suit.

Andrei’s frustration was palpable next to you. His left leg was bouncing up and down for the entirety, and you could see the muscles tensing and untensing in his right leg as if he had wanted to move. It only got worse when Brind’Amour sent Burns out first, something that had you, Andrei, and every single Hurricanes fan in the arena watching on in confusion.

“No, no,” you had heard the Russian mutter from next to you. “Why is he sending Brent? He needs to send Fishy, or Turbo—” the words then died in his mouth as Brent missed as everyone knew would happen, and sadly Teuvo, who went out next, did too.

Unfortunately for us, the Bruins had good goal-scorers. Coyle had slipped the puck past Andersen, as did DeBrusk, and then it was done. Game over. Just like that.

You finally turned to face the man next to you just as his head fell into his hands, tugging at his hair and messing up the gel you forced him to put on because no, Andrei, you can’t show up with bedhead. He was muttering words you couldn’t understand, most likely the creative Russian curses you heard him say on occasion.

If this game had been hard to watch for you, you couldn’t even begin to imagine how Andrei was feeling.

“‘Drei,” you said, tentatively. “Are you—”

“No. Don’t.” He snapped, rubbing at his eyes before unsteadily rising to stand. His right leg shook, but he refused the arm you held out and didn’t dare to look in your eyes to see what look they held. As he tried to reach for his crutches, his leg buckled from underneath him, and this time you ignored the hurt of him lashing out to put your arms around his back to steady him.

“Can we— Is it okay if…” he struggled to speak, his accent thick with emotion as he struggled to find the words. Andrei had never been good at communicating when upset, literally, because everything always came to him in Russian naturally, and this time was no different. “Leave? Can we leave?”

“What about—”

“No. No team. No reporters.” he said, digging his fingers into the back of his jersey you were wearing.

You softened, gently maneuvering your body so you could face him better. Now you were chest-to-chest, your arms still wrapped around his midsection to keep him steady. “What do you want then, Andrei?”

“Home,” he murmured. “Home. With you.” he wasn’t able to convey it right at this moment, but his heart was pounding as he said the words. To him, to anyone in his culture, this was the closest he could come to expressing his love without outright saying it.

He found he wasn’t scared about finally admitting this out loud, either, because you were his home. Everything about you was home because he wouldn’t dare let anyone else except his brother and mama see him so vulnerable.

Of course, you were oblivious. He normally found it cute, but right now he wanted to shake you because all he wanted right now was to hold you in his arms and kiss you as he found comfort in your presence.

“Okay,” you finally whispered, the double meaning of his words flying right over your head. But something emboldened you, gave you the courage to raise your hands to his shoulders so you could reach up and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, right next to the corner of his lips.

“Let’s go home, ‘kay?”

The ride home was silent, comforting even despite the rough loss the team took. By the time you finally managed to get to the car, the two of you were struggling to keep your eyes open and also keep your hands off each other. Andrei tangling your hands together, you gently leaning against his side…

It was all surface-level, neither wanting to speak the words out loud but yet not wanting to sacrifice the innocent, physical intimacy you found with each other. This was all racing through your mind the closer you got to Andrei’s house, and you were almost positive he was thinking the same.

Andrei, in fact, was actually contemplating the one-hundred different ways he was going to kiss you, if he ever gets to that stage with you. He was currently facing the window but left enough room at the corner of his eyes to take little peeks at you, only fuelling his determination to do something about the tension between you.

And, yeah, maybe he was hyperfixating on you to distract him from the fact his team lost and if he was down on the ice he knew he would have been able to fix it, been able to score. His emotions had skyrocketed since the game ended, and everything felt so much more intense than usual.

Maybe that was just the pain medication he was on, though…

After you finally arrived at Andrei’s house, it took a little bit over an hour to finally get yourselves ready for bed. The problem? Neither of you were ready for any sort of sleeping, and you both knew it.

Currently, Andrei was leaning back into the couch, his right leg once again propped up on the ottoman and a blanket haphazardly thrown over his lap. You were next to him, legs comfortably tucked underneath you with a few inches of space left between you and Andrei.

There was half a family-sized bag of Doritos in between you that he said was in his pantry, so you were both currently snacking on them while watching the NHL channel. It was quiet other than for the TV, for neither of you were speaking a word for fear of breaking the thick silence between you.

The tension was so thick you could have cut it with a knife, and what made it even worse is that you didn’t think Andrei even noticed. He was wrapped up in his phone, most likely watching the game recap because his face was twisted up and his whole body seemed tense.

You shoved another Dorito in your mouth. Fuck. You were so, so screwed. You needed to get it together before you said something you regretted, especially since you had temporarily become his roommate.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore and spoke. “Andrei?” you said, hesitantly looking towards him.

“What?” he responded after a moment, not taking his eyes away from his phone.

Now you felt uncomfortable. Before, in the arena, he was looking at you like he loved you, but now he was snappy and tense and worse than normal because his team lost without him being able to play.

Picking at the skin around your nails, you attempted scooting down the couch before just giving up and moving to stand. “Nevermind,” you said with a mutter, feeling withdrawn and defeated. If he didn’t want to open up to you, fine, but you didn’t deserve to have him take out his frustration on you.

At least, not like this.

Andrei didn’t even respond, furthering your feelings of bitterness towards the man you had so many feelings for. Wrapping your hands in the long sleeves of his hoodie you were still wearing, you shuffled down the hallway and into the guest room you claimed as your own.

You could still hear the TV playing in the background, but that was the only sound in the otherwise silent house. You blinked the frustration from your eyes and crawled underneath the bed sheets, scrolling on your phone until you fell into a dreamless sleep.

Hours passed of restless tossing and turning, and then suddenly it was three in the morning and you were being woken up by countless knocks on your door.

“The fuck?” you muttered sleepily, crawling out of the cocoon of blankets you were in to answer your door. For whatever reason, your sleep-addled brain wasn’t able to comprehend that it was probably Andrei on the other side. “Andrei?” you said, confused as the Russian leaned against the wall.

He looked rather sheepish, slightly embarrassed. His hair was ruffled, and the TV was still playing so he probably fell asleep on the couch.

“Oh, shit,” you said, suddenly realizing that he was probably here because he needed help. Of course. That was all it was. “I’m such an idiot, sorry,” you breathed, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes as you stepped out of the room. “C’mon, I’ll help you get in bed.”

Andrei stopped you with a hand, opening and closing his mouth as he struggled to find words. “No, that is not it.” he finally settled on.

Okay, now you were curious. “Huh?”

“I am sorry.”

What?

“For what?” You asked, staring up at him wide-eyed. You were honestly too tired for a heavy conversation like this so you were struggling to keep up.

Andrei swallowed the lump in his throat. His leg was currently throbbing, but it was nothing compared to the throbbing in his heart as he looked at you. Your hair was all over the place in the most endearing way, and your eyes were droopy in a way that told him you were just sleeping.

“For not treating you right, for—” He cut himself off, sighing in frustration. Why was English so complicated? If only you understood English. “English is stupid.” he muttered, then released a big sigh and steeled his resolve.

Stepping closer, he brought the two of you chest-to-chest and brought his arms to cage you against the wall.

And you, you meanwhile, let out the most embarrassing noise possible when he suddenly got close, and then Andrei was everywhere and nowhere all at once. His body was trapping you in, and while your senses were on overdrive you strangely enough didn't feel like fleeing.

“Andrei?” You squeaked, sinking further into the wall if it was possible. Your eyes dropped, finding the center of his chest to firmly set your gaze. His eyes were so dark, intimidating, and swimming with an intention you were nervous to find out. “What are you doing?”

“Look at me, please?” A large hand smoothed against your skin, gently tilting your head up. Your eyes automatically locked with his, and the emotion on his face had you gasping. “There’s my girl,” He said.

Okay, yeah, your body was frozen, the breath leaving your lungs in a torrent of sharp breaths. This… This was new territory, for the both of you, and you couldn’t help but wonder how Andrei looked so calm while you looked like a startled deer—an unattractive one, at that.

He started speaking, heart thundering while the words poured from his throat like warm, melted butter. “I’m in love with you. You are my person, I knew from the very first moment I saw you in that bar so many months ago. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but tonight, having you next to me… You’ve always been next to me, and I’ve taken advantage of that. Darling, I want to make up for all the times I never kissed you senseless, and I want nothing more than to have you as mine, and I yours.”

Your favorite music, your favorite voice, words so filled with emotion and yet you couldn’t even understand him as he looked at you like you were his sun, and he a plant desperately seeking your warmth. Andrei had only spoken in Russian a handful of times in front of you – most being curses or quips exchanged with Pyotr – and never had he spoken so much of it.

You’d always thought Russian was rather harsh. The sharp whistles, clicks of the tongue, hissing of certain words; you admired anyone who could speak it, but it had never been an easy language to listen to you. But, when Andrei spoke Russian… It was soft, almost musical, and expressive to the point you felt like you could understand the very subject at hand if you thought about it. Maybe you were just biased, but you swore you fell more in love with him every time he spoke it.

“No words?” he said, a grin on his face that made you realize you’d maybe been silent for a little too long.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. You were breathless— literally.

“I show you, then, what I said,” Andrei brushed his fingers against the side of your neck, almost fully grasping it as he gently brought you closer. You had no complaints, though. “Yes?”

He said your name again, looking at you with those warm eyes so full of depth they hypnotized you and had you nodding yes, almost instinctively.

Andrei sucked in a breath, tightening his grip on you only slightly as he slid his hand around the back of your head. Your lips were slightly parted, shiny and red from where you’d been biting them previously, and that cupid’s bow that always drove him crazy when you smiled was quirked upwards as if it was asking him to kiss you.

He waited a moment, stared into your eyes, his fingers merely a whisper of a touch against your cheek, and finally took the leap. The first touch of his lips was shy, testing, but then you whimpered with need and tugged at his shirt to bring him closer and Andrei had an internal moment of fuck it where he realized just how crazy he was for you. Pressing you into the wall, he nipped at your bottom lip and was granted entrance with a gasp drowned out by the sound of his own groan. He put every ounce of his passion and love and relief into this kiss as if trying to convince you to stay because this, this here? It was worth it—you were worth it. Fireworks, electricity, butterflies, and everything all at once was igniting in your gut and caused you to let out a pathetic whimper the moment your lips finally detached. He was clearly skilled at this, wholeheartedly controlling the moment as his lips left a trail of kisses down your neck, nipping at the skin that met your collarbone.

“‘Drei,” you gasped, clutching the hair right at his scalp – when did you move your arms around his neck? – as he sucked a mark under your jaw. “Hm?” he hummed, not stopping with his ministrations.

“What,” you said, throat dry and raspy as you tried to speak over the sound of your beating heart. “What did you say— oh,”

Andrei’s grin was almost feral as he drew the beautiful sound from your lips. “Found it,” he said, voice full of pride as he brushed his fingers against the newly-found sweet spot on your neck.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore and grabbed his head in between your hands, bringing his head to yours so you could press a quick, affectionate kiss to his lips before pulling back to gather your thoughts because you had a lot of them.

Andrei pouted the moment you pulled him away but respected your boundaries and merely rested his hands on your waist to keep you close. He said your name gently, his tone bordering on questioning. “Did I… Did I push too far?” he said.

“No, no, not at all,” you rushed to correct him, already having caught the guilt in his eyes. “I just want to know what you said earlier, before you— you know.” It felt almost taboo to say ‘before you kissed the life out of me’, not wanting to break this delicate balance you found yourself in.

The Russian hummed, already catching on to your bashfulness and deciding to tease you for it. “No, darling, I think you need to remind me,” he brought a hand up to loosely wrap around your neck, the contact keeping you grounded. “On what I did before what?”

“Andrei,” you said, immediately dropping eye contact as your face flushed red. “You’re being a tease,” you muttered.

He dipped his head, brushing your lips together as he spoke. You felt his breath against your skin and had the sudden desire to taste him again. “I can do this all night, but the question is can you?”

You gave up at that because the moment he spoke he drew back and you couldn’t stand the feeling of not having him close to you anymore. “Andrei,” you sucked in a breath. “What did you say before you kissed me? In Russian?”

“I love you,” Andrei didn’t miss a beat as he crept his other hand farther up your waist. “That is mostly what I said. And more.”

“More?” you squeaked out as he drew closer.

The hockey player hummed, then suddenly stepped back and grabbed your hand. “Much more,” he confirmed. “Now—bed?” Short, sweet, and to the point Andrei always was…

Just one of the many things you loved about him.

Twenty minutes later you lay in Andrei’s bed, swallowed in another one of his shirts, and curled into his chest. His arm was wrapped around your waist, stroking gentle circles into the skin exposed to the room. It was silent, null except for the steady hum of the air conditioning and the gentle breathing of two humans reveling in each other’s presence.

“I miss it,” he said, suddenly speaking up. You lifted your head only slightly from his chest, already missing the sound of his heartbeat lulling you to sleep. “Hockey. And I miss playing with my brothers.”

Brothers. Your heart broke at hearing the longing in his voice, because every single player on the team he played with was his family, in one way or another, and now he was being forced to watch them play the sport he had no chance of helping them win.

You couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain he was feeling.

“I know, Andrei,” was what you finally settled on. Your voice was soft, gentle, trying to convey your understanding with actions rather than words. You drew tiny circles on his chest, taking pride in the way goosebumps rose in your fingers’ wake. “I know.”

He tightened his grip on you, holding you closer to him as if he were afraid you’d disappear. “Will you be here?” he suddenly asked, frowning. Andrei knew he was being slightly irrational, feeling so vulnerable, but he really hadn’t felt secure in himself since first tearing his ACL.

What was his purpose in life, really, if not to play hockey and have you with him?

You hadn’t yet spoken, so he quickly clarified. “In the morning. And all the mornings after.”

A smile broke across your face as you buried your head into his chest. You felt the rumble of his chest as he chuckled, and then he shifted to where you were laying on top of his chest so he could see your face. “All the mornings, huh?” you asked, feeling bashful.

Andrei grinned, his tongue poking out from behind his teeth, knowing the effect he had on you. “Every one,” he replied. “If you will have me.”

“There’s nothing I want more.”

And you meant it, truly, with every fiber of your being. The next months were going to be rough, the ones where you’d have to be there for Andrei as he watched his team ultimately compete and fall through in the playoffs especially.

But you knew the two of you could do it. Andrei was nothing if not committed, even through all the arguments, tears, and emotional breakdowns, you were there for each other through the long haul.

And Andrei, meanwhile, after many difficult months down the road, had the biggest smile on his face as the doctors told him it was a miracle.

Because he had healed from his ACL injury in five.

fin

A/N: Before my medical professionals come at me, YES I KNOW acl injuries take up to a year to recover from almost all of the time, but for the sake of this fic just pls ignore that little fact 😭 in all seriousness though, I can’t wait till our favorite Russian gets to play again bc I miss him sm. As always, please leave likes, reblogs, and comments. Ily all <33

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lockes-woods · 2 months ago

Text

Kinktober '24 Day 4

Request: (for kinktober) Shanks x AFAB trans man reader (post top surgery if possible) established relationship but it's readers first time, praise kink + daddy kink 👀 Perchance

Requested by: Anon

WARNINGS: Dysphoria, Oral Sex, PIV, Daddy Kink, Praise Kink, Fingering, Squirting, Mention of Masturbation, Some Angst

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. He would be here any minute. Fuck You cursed to yourself, getting up and beginning to pace; your decency only protected by the towel secured at your hips. You were torn between getting dressed in the cute robe you had picked out or just staying in the towel you were already in. Both gave him easy access to you. That’s what he would want right? Right? You questioned yourself. You took a few deep breaths to center yourself as you felt waves of self-doubt coming your way. As you let out one final exhale through your nose you ceased your pacing. You unfastened the towel from your waist, before sliding into a red satin robe, with lace accents. It was not just any red, but Shanks red. Continuing with your breathing you walked back into the bathroom of your room for tonight to give yourself one last look over before he was scheduled to arrive. You had both agreed it would be better to do this away from the crew and the Red Force so that all his attention would be on you. Hell, you were there when he explicitly told Beck to only get him if the Marines were involved, and even then, attempt to handle it himself.

You bit your bottom lip in a nervous habit as you have yourself a once over. The robe was cut left a deep V, most likely to show off cleavage, or in your case the two inner points of scarring from your top surgery on either side of your sternum. You opted to go without underwear, any men’s cuts of underwear would look off with the robe, and panties, while aesthetically pleasing, would most likely make you dysphoric. There wasn’t much to your look for you to mess with, you had already done your default styling of your hair and groomed yourself to the extreme when you first got into the room earlier. You caught your own eyes in the mirror and frowned.

While had been on a long road to self-love you still found yourself getting frustrated with your circumstances. Why did you have to be so different? Why couldn’t you inhabit the body you knew you were born to be in? Why did you have to jump through all these hoops just to make it halfway to the point of self-satisfaction that others were born with? Why did you have to be so strained and uncomfortable in your body that you were still a virgin at your age, while most in your shared generation had hit that benchmark ages ago?

Fuck, you sighed. you still had no idea why Shanks kept you around for more than your talent at fighting. Or at the very least have an open relationship that would allow for the sexual gratification he was missing with you. You’d been together for four months now, and Shanks hadn’t had sex with anyone in that time. It pained you for him to have to sacrifice that release, especially under all the stress that he had with his position. It pained you that you couldn’t have that connection because of your own issues. Every morning when you woke up together in his quarters you couldn’t help but feel guilty that instead of you helping him with his morning wood, he would kiss your forehead and have to roll out of bed to take care of it himself in the shower. You didn’t understand why he would keep a burden like you around, who demanded attention, emotional vulnerability, and love. He had to have more convenient options that were less work.

You let out a shaky deep breath, tears streaking your face as you let go of the counter you had been gripping unconsciously. You quickly dabbed at your face, hoping you had stopped crying fast enough to avoid a puffy face. You had just managed to get your breath back within normal range when you heard the door to the room open and shut.

“Baby?” Shanks called out. You gave yourself one last fleeting look before peeking around the door to the bathroom.

“Hey Daddy,” you greeted shyly. A wide smile graced Shanks’ lips as he took in your partial appearance; your robe hidden behind the door.

“Hey, handsome,” he greeted back pulling you in for a short, sweet kiss. He pulled back before quirking a brow, “Hiding something baby?”

“Um, yeah I-uh” You stuttered out, Shanks smiled down at you loving as you took a calming breath and pushed the door fully open. Shank shamelessly checked you out, making you even more flustered.

“My beautiful boy,” Shanks said affectionately, “Did you get this just for me?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you answered, as Shanks gently cupped your face and stroked your cheek with his thumb.

“It looks amazing on your baby, but I can think somewhere it’d look better,” he replied.

“Where,” you asked tilting your head in confusion.

“On the floor,” he responded cheekily, causing you to roll your eyes at him.

“You’re such a dork,” you laughed, taking the edge off your nerves. He smiled down at you boyishly, before pulling you in for another kiss. He gently stroked up and down your right side comfortingly also aiding in getting rid of your nerves. You always felt at home in his arms. He pulled back, now resting his forehead against yours.

“Are you still, okay going forward baby?” he asked gently.

“mhm,” you hummed.

“Baby,” he gently reminded you.

“Yes, Daddy.” You answered bashfully.

“I know we already went over this but, I expect verbal answers to all of my questions tonight. You remember the color system?” he prompted.

“Yes, Daddy,” you answered.

“And your safe word?” he asked

“Marine,” you answered.

“Good boy,” he responded, pecking your lips before pulling back. He gently took your hand in his and let you over to the foot of the bed. You sat on the edge, as Shanks squatted down to your eye level.

“I’m gonna undo this now is that okay?” he asked, his hand resting on the bow holding the robe together.

“Yes,” you nodded, your nerves beginning to grow. This was happening, like really happening. Sensing a shift in the mood Shanks pauses before looking back up at you.

“Are you sure baby? We can always do this another time. You have the right to back out whenever you want.” He reminded you.

“I-I’m sure, I’m just a little…” you trailed off.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you nodded

“About what part?” he asked.

“It’s just I’m scared it’s gonna be bad for you and you’ve wasted all this time for nothing.” You answer, your true emotions showing through.

“First, tonight is and will always be about you. You feeling safe, heard, and cared for are my priorities. Second, what do you mean all this time?” he inquired.

“I don’t know,” you said breaking eye contact as began to get misty eyes. “You haven’t had a proper release since we got together four months ago. What if-what if I’m not good enough? And you wasted all this time over nothing.”

“Oh baby,” Shanks said, gently cupping your face, “I’d happily go celibate if it meant being by your side. Anytime spent with you is a gift I’d never trade for the world. Would you like to do this some other time?” he asked, giving you an out.

“No,” you shake your head. “I really want to do it with you. I’ve never felt as loved as I do with you. I think outside of my self-doubt, I’m nervous because I’ve never done this before.”

“We’ll take it slow love,” he promised. "If you want to end at any time let me know.”

“Okay,” you nodded, as his hand moved back to the bow.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes, Daddy,” you answer, more self-assured this time. Shanks smiled at your response before tugging on the knot, revealing your body in whole to him. He’d seen you at varying stages of undress in the past, but this was the first time he was able to take in your full form. The closest he had gotten before was when he caught you masturbation in an oversized t-shirt with no bottoms. That was also the time he discovered your Daddy kink, as you moaned to him without restraint. His eyes went soft as took you in.

“How, did I get so lucky to have a beautiful boy like you?” he asked softly, before pulling you in for a heartfelt kiss. He gently pushed your shoulder down as he pulled back.

“I’m gonna kiss down your body before I eat you out to prep you. Is that okay? Are you feeling dysphoric at all?” he asked,

“Not really, just please avoid my chest,” you answered, luckily you rarely got bottom dysphoria.

“Of course, baby,” he nodded, before covering your body with his own. You let out a whine, as he left open-mouth kisses down the side of your neck; only stopping when you moaned over a specific spot. He smirked down at you causing a rush of blood to your face. He focused in and sucked a hickey into your neck before moving down. He skimmed past your chest, before gently putting pressure on the inside of your knee with his palm, prompting you to open your legs wide to accommodate his shoulder.

“Still doing, okay?” he asked, pausing.

“Yes, Daddy,” You answer, pushing yourself up on your elbows to see him better. He nodded nipping and sucking at your sensitive plush thighs. He gently stroked your seem, glancing up at you before he continued.

“Daddy please,” you begged, as he spread your lower lips.

“K, baby, I’m gonna eat you out now. Okay? If anything doesn’t feel right let me know.” He spoke.

“Okay, Dad-E!” you shouted as he sucked your clit into his mouth. You panted, adjusting to the new feel. You had just started to begin to when the bolts of pleasure shot threw you as he sucked and flicked his tongue against your clit, when he started fingering you. You let out an unabashed moan as his thick fingers stretched and stroked your inner wall. The duality of the sting of him adding another finger, and the pleasure of him hitting spots with ease inside of you that you knew you’d never be able to reach on your own. You began to hump against his fingers as you turned the corner on an orgasm.

“Daddy,” you moaned, the coil deep inside of you tightening impossibly taught. You held Shanks’ fingers in a vice grip as he struggled to finger you.

“Fuck, you’re doing such a good job baby. Are you gonna cum? You gonna be a good boy and cum on daddy’s tongue?” You covered your face in embarrassment as you felt an overwhelming pulse of an orgasm shooting through you for the first time. It felt rushed and hot and-. Fuck, you couldn’t focus on anything, your mind went blank.

“Daddy!” you yelled, writhing against his fingers, as a stream of fluid shot from you. You panted, looking down at Shanks as he wiped the excess liquid coating his lower face with the back of his hands. A smile of mirth split across his face. Oh, there was no way he was gonna let this go. You thought to yourself.

“My baby boy’s a squirter?” he asked, amused.

“Shut up!” you reply covering your face again, he was way too excited for your taste.

“Have you ever done that before?” he asked the rustling of fabric, causing you to peek through your fingers. You were flustered again as you took in Shanks’ shirtless form, his hard-on shamelessly pressing against the front of his pants.

“No,” you whined before he gently moves your hands from your face.

“You good to keep going?” he asked, hand perched at the top of his pants.

“Please,” you whine, finding yourself desperate for his cock. Your eyes widened as he slipped out of his pants, and you took in his unobstructed cock. You glanced up at him, meeting his eyes as he smirked down at your reaction.

“It’ll fit baby; I promise. All you got to do is sit there and be a good boy for Daddy.” He said crawling up in bed over you. He pulled you in for a sweet kiss, as he rubbed his tip up and down your slit to collect your slick. He slowly began to ease himself in. He supported himself on his left shoulder, while his right hand snuck in between you to stimulate your clit to deal with the pain. You let out a stuttering breath as he got halfway. You were moaning shamelessly as he slowly fucked the rest of his member inside of you little by little until he was flush against you. He sat for a moment to allow you to adjust.

“Fuck, look at you baby, taking it all like a good boy like I knew you would.” He praised you, pecking your forehead.

“Daddy,” you whined, getting desperate.

“Yes, my love?” he asked,

“Please,” you pant

“Please, what?” he asked smirking down at you.

“Please move,” you finally got out.

“Are you sure?” he clarified.

“Yes! Please!” you whined. He pulled you into a demanding kiss, before pulling all the way back and trusting in hard. You were a moaning mess as you let Shanks take full reign.

“Fuck,” he groaned, beginning to pant as well, “Where do you want me baby?”

“Fuck, in me please, please Daddy,” you respond desperately, cumming at one last flick of your clit. He followed immediately behind falling against you as he shot ropes of cum against your inner walls.

“Fuck,” you whined, “I love you daddy.”

“I love you too baby,” he said, like a promise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MASTERLIST

A/N: Thank you so much for taking the time to read! Stay tuned for Shanks x AMAB Reader tomorrow.

#a lot of consent #lockes kinktober #kinktober 24'#kinktober #one piece one shot #one piece #shanks x reader #red haired shanks #warning in description #cross posted on ao3 #ftm reader #trans reader

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writing-whump · 3 months ago

Text

At midnight

Brotherly revelations continue. Hector comes home. Isaiah is still sick. Emeto, angst and lots of comfort.

It was almost midnight when Hector kicked out the door of his apartment. "You should have called me right away that Isaiah was here! I'm gonna kill him for ignoring me-"

Hector stopped in his tracks. Isaiah was lying on the couch under a blanket. Curled up and pale, like he was hurt, eyes closed. His face was a mask of calmness that he had when he was sick and trying to not let it get to him.

"What the hell happened here?!"

"Stop yelling, would you?" Arnie was perched on the sofa next to Isaiah's head, for all intentions and purposes looking like a scary mother.

Hector slowed his pace as he came closer, peering over Isaiah.

"Hey. Been waiting for you," Isaiah said, smiling at him weakly.

"Why are you dozing off here?" Hector said. "We have a perfectly good room over there."

"Just...just for a few minutes."

"He has been saying that for the last two hours," Arnie said with a scrunched nose.

Isaiah had the decency to wince at that. "Sorry. Do you guys think I could...spend the night here?"

"As if I would let you go anywhere in this state," Hector scoffed, pushing Isaiah's leg out of the way to sit at his side, still looking him over.

"You stink." There was a faint smell of antiseptics and a oversweet metallic scent on his skin and something heavier coming from his chest.

Hector reached over, lifting the cardigan and unbuttoning Isaiah's shirt one by one with quick nimble fingers.

Isaiah lifted an eyebrow over closed eyes but didn't protest. Arnie gasped for breath as they got a good look.

There was a thick but small square of gauze over Isaiah's heart, though the injury didn't smell fresh or open. There was another even more worrying line at the center, a diagonal between his ribs. The cut was healed, but the skin had a distinctly darker and glasier colouring.

"See? Not sick. Just still in recovery phase," Isaiah said. That he wasn't trying to cover it or sit up alarmed Hector the same as the wound.

"Did someone stab you with silver?" Hector heard himself saying as if from a distance. That evening when Isaiah suddenly collapsed at the wolf meet flashed through his mind. The implication made him queasy.

"No. Had a surgery. Two weeks ago." Isaiah squinted at them both with obvious difficulty, frowning in concern. "Out of the blue heart attack. But it's managed now," he added quickly. "I have medications and prevention and stuff. Won't happen again. I can go back to almost normal with this. Just a couple things I have to watch out for."

Isaiah looked so...fearful as he said it. Curled up as a ball around his exposed chest, small as possible. Resigned, apprehensive, a pained line between his eyes. Hector could hear his heart speeding up and hated everything and anything that had put that look on his older brother's face.

How did they get here?

Isaiah's breath hitched and he made a choked up sound, trying to lift himself on shaky hands. Hector grabbed him around the shoulders and lifted him up before he thought better of it, but Isaiah gave him a small grateful smile.

Hector should probably say something, but his mind was completely blank.

"So that's why you are still feverish and gaunt," Arnie said thoughtfully. He was also trying to sound nonchalant and not like the news were earth-shattering. "You are going to be alright? Swear?"

"Yes," Isaiah said, tips of his ears flushing a little, like the whole thing was emberassing. His stomach let out a loud gurgle, when he looked at Hector, like he waited for the judgment of the devil.

"Well, you better get me that list of stuff to watch out for so we can fucking know how to not mess you up," Hector said through gritted teeth, helping Isaiah lean against the cushions in a sitting position. He had never thought of Isaiah as frail, but with the fever radiating off him and the bloody smell, he felt...protective. Scared for him even. "Rock-climbing sure seems out of the picture," he grumbled.

Isaiah looked at Arnie in confusion, who just threw his hand dismissively. "He means we would love to know what to do to help you with the recovery and anything else we can."

"Right. What do you need now?"

Isaiah looked back at Hector. "I'm fine, I-"

"What do you need right now?" Hector wasn't going to let that fast pulse slide anymore.

"Could you...get me some water?" Isaiah asked sheepishly.

Arnie nodded and shot out towards the kitchen while Hector sat shoulder to shoulder to Isaiah trying to look like he wasn't staring.

Isaiah's breaths came harder now too. He leaned his head back towards the ceiling, breathing through his mouth. He fumbled with the buttons of the shirt so Hector slapped his hands away and fixed them back up.

"He got sick earlier. I'm sorry, should have been forcing more water in him," Arnie said as he returned with the glass of water, his own from before discarded at the table. "Does your head hurt?"

"A little," Isaiah said. When Hector kept staring, he drained half of the glass. "I'm fine. See, I'm telling you!"

"So much progress," Hector rolled his eyes. He gulped down the shock and the a globe of something with sharp points down his throat. It felt stuck between his mouth and his stomach, burning somewhere in the middle.

He was not going to be emotional about this and worry Isaiah more. No way.

"Do Seline and Matt know you are staying?" Arnie asked. "Don't worry them."

"They know I might stay over," Isaiah said. He shuffed over to the edge of the sofa, movements painfully slow in Hector's eyes. He put the glass away on the table and panted through his mouth, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Zaya?" Hector planted his hand on his arm.

"Drank a bit too fast. It's fine," Isaiah said, a full-bodied shiver going through him.

"Idiot," Hector sighed. "Arnie, go get him a bowl or something, I'm taking you to your room."

Isaiah didn't struggle - or help at all, really - when Hector unceremoniously pulled him up by the arm and pushed him towards the guest bedroom. "My room?"

Hector coughed and looked away. "You have been always spreading your germs there, when you are staying over. Might as well keep it. Shoo. In bed with you, grandpa."

Isaiah chuckled, despite the uneasy, queasy grimace on his face, letting himself be manhandled into bed. He was swaying like on a boat, only Hector's grip keeping him going straight.

Hector considered making him change clothes, but Isaiah just pulled at his sleeves and hunched into himself, so he added another blanket instead. And more pillows. "You are gonna say exactly what you need. Nag me and pester me until you get it or I'll kill you, clear?"

Isaiah was still smiling but not lying down. Hector sat down next to him. "Still nauseous?"

"Uhm. I kinda always am these days." Isaiah braced his elbows on his knees, connecting his fingertips. He was still taking those careful measured breaths. "From the meds. Once I get used to it and we figure out the right dosage, it will be fine."

A loud sickly gurgle echoed through the room. Hector couldn't not notice how bloated Isaiah's stomach looked, straining under the shirt and sweater. "You are not in pain right now, are you?" Hector asked gruffly.

Isaiah gently put his hand on top of his stomach, right under the ribs. "No, it's just..." He swallowed heavily, first time, second time, then gagged against his hand.

"Where is Arnie with that bowl? Such a slowpoke," Hector grumbled, turning around to grab the small trashcan and positioning it under Isaiah's chin.

Isaiah panted, squeezing his eyes. His cheeks puffed out and then a gush of the water came out, splattering into the trashcan. Another mouthful came with the next violent gag, this time all over Hector's hand.

"Oh god, sorry-" Isaiah burped, spit dangling from his bottom lip.

Hector grimaced in disgust but couldn't help barking out a laugh. "Whatever. It's okay. Arnie does worse things when he is sick."

Isaiah covered his face with one hand, heartbeat picking up again. "Sorry, didn't mean to, I'm so sorry..."

"Shut up," Hector said, taking the trashcan away when Isaiah's throat seemed to have come to a standstill. He shook off his shirt, wiping the rest of the puke, then discarding it on the floor. "See, the room's all yours."

Isaiah said nothing, chest hitching. Was he sniffling?

"Oi, Zaya, come on. It's all good. You said it yourself." Hector touched his forehead with the back of his clean hand. Maybe the fever was making him overemotional.

Arnie came in, carrying a cold towel and a thermometer inside the mixing bowl, wrinkling his nose at the smell. "Ups, I see I'm late."

Isaiah curled up on his side, back to them. Arnie pushed the supplies into Hector's hands and climbed over, his voice soft. "Hey, none of that. Don't cry, it's okay."

"You don't even know what happened," Hector complained, piling the things on the nightstand and shutting the lights off in the hall.

"Not that much that could have," Arnie shot back, then wiggled his way next to Isaiah under the covers, draping himself over him. "Can I be like this? Does it hurt?"

Isaiah shook his head, choking on tears. It made Hector's skin crawl with how unnatural the whole thing felt. How new it was. Isaiah didn't cry, that wasn't how the laws of physics worked.

"Sorry. I don't know why...hic..." Isaiah rubbed at his wet eyes, curling around Arnie like he was a plush toy.

Hector sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. They were acting like kids, snuggling under the blankets and crying for nonsense. But he couldn't make himself leave.

Isaiah's stomach made another growling sound and the oldest wolf muffled a groan against the pillow. Arnie hummed unhappily.

Hector planted his hand on Isaiah's back, rubbing up and down. It worked out a loud burp that had Isaiah crying more.

"Oh, stop being so dramatic. You'll just make yourself sicker," Hector grumbled, putting more force into the rub.

He kept it up until he felt Isaiah's muscles on his back uncoiling, little by little and he melted into the sheets with a sigh that sounded more harmless.

They were going to be alright, weren't they? It wasn't fair that Isaiah didn't tell them, but Hector felt so tired of today's revelations that he didn't have it in him to kick up a fuss anymore.

But a heart attack. God, at 25, that was crazy. And Hector knew something was up with Isaiah's heart, the pain that the shadow couldn't take away. Why didn't he press him further on the issue? Why didn't he ask more? Why wasn't he there, when it happened? He wanted to know all the details, the diagnosis, how was something like this possible with a wolf at the prime of his powers.

A knowing tickle at the back of his neck meant he had some idea where this might be coming from. Arnie with the migraines, Isaiah with these mysterious pains that caused something like that. At this point, Hector just felt...grief for it all. What happened, that he let it happen, that it happened to them, to Isaiah of all people.

Once he could pinpoint and name the emotion, it crashed over him like a tsunami, squeezing the air out of his lungs. Hector hang his head, retracting his hand as he stared at a fixed point on the sheets. His shadow tugged at him in distress at the unfamiliar explosion of fear and sadness. It strained and wiggled, wanting release, fighting, taking revenge.

Hector shifted in his seat uneasily. Either the shadow was coming out or he would give the firecrackers between his ribs some other way out. He wasn't sure what it was supposed to be.

Isaiah tensed up, but said nothing. Arnie's hand came up around Isaiah's back all the way to Hector's shoulder.

He ended up nestling into the bed, just a few centimeters from Isaiah's back. It was comforting his breathing came more steadily.

Another crush of annoying emotions. Hector shifted closer, burying his head into Isaiah's back from behind, on top of the covers.

What a pathetic night it was. Hector hoped they would never speak of it again, snuggling closer.

#sickfic #emeto #hurt/comfort #bromance #vomiting #whump #werewolf wip #my writing #Isaiah #I swear I'm gonna make other characters sick soon too #the revelation was supposed to be one fic but then it spiraled so now it's two parts long

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leveloneandup · 3 months ago

Text

Christen Press' transformative journey back from injury

Christen Press once believed she was indestructible, immune to the injuries that had sidelined teammates and ended careers. But in 2022, an anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) tear shattered not only her knee but also the carefully constructed armor she had relied on throughout her career.

What followed wasn't just a physical struggle to return to the field but a profound journey of emotional recovery. Initially, Press saw rehabilitation as purely physical -- a means to heal her body. However, as setbacks kept her off the pitch and she explored new treatments, her perspective shifted.

The injury, the U.S. women's national team star realized, wasn't a curse but a gift, offering her an unexpected opportunity to confront long-buried grief and trauma.

"It wasn't painful," Press told ESPN in an exclusive interview. "It was more the realization that something was wrong with my body, and what that meant for my future."

In 2022, Press' future was tied to her hometown club, Angel City FC, after an 11-year professional career spanning America and Europe.

Incredibly, she had been available for every game except one, which she missed because of food poisoning. Her body had endured the physical demands of playing for both club and country. But in June of that year, during an NWSL match against Racing Louisville, she tracked back to help her team, committed to a challenge and crumpled to the ground following the contact.

Press had witnessed the ACL injury crisis in the women's game derail the careers of her peers, but she never imagined it would happen to her until it did, at the age of 33. By then, she was in the veteran stage of her career. An MRI confirmed the tear, and she underwent surgery soon after, beginning her recovery with a mix of apprehension and intrigue, expecting to return to competition within 9-12 months.

"I was sad, afraid and disappointed to miss the season," she recalled. "But part of me welcomed it because, as a professional athlete, pushing yourself is part of the process. I was confident I would gain something positive from the experience."

However, Press' body didn't respond well to rehabilitation. Significant challenges delayed her return to full fitness. Six months into her recovery, which had already included one revision surgery, Sarah Smith, Angel City's vice president of medical and performance, joined the club. With Angel City still developing its facilities, Press' rehabilitation took place off-site at the Meyer Institute of Sport, an elite rehabilitation and performance center.

Smith's team was in constant communication with the specialists, managing what became a complex injury. But soon, "career-altering problems" arose, causing the medical team "sleepless nights," Smith said.

"You think you're going to hit all the milestones and move smoothly through the continuum," she added. "But that's not always the case, and it's not reflective of the athlete's professionalism or the work they put in."

Every time Press neared a return to the field, another issue emerged. Devastatingly, this resulted in two more surgeries, making it four in total, testing her mental and physical resilience. She missed the 2023 Women's World Cup, and at times, it seemed her career was over.

"It was extremely confusing because every day I showed up with a smile on my face," Press said. "I never asked for a break, I never left early. I was very disciplined and extremely determined. I thought that would mean I'd have a linear path back, and it was challenging to accept it was out of my control."

Whenever she felt discomfort in her knee, she contacted her surgeon, desperate for some good news. But the diagnosis was always grim. "It was never just a bad day where the knee was actually fine. It was always, 'There's a cyclops lesion in your knee, and you can't play.'"

Running out of hope and options, Press started to explore alternative medicine.

"I have the best surgical team, the best physical therapy team, but that's not the only way to heal," she said. "I challenged myself to be around different types of healing."

What began as an attempt to fix her knee turned into an internal transformation, healing not just her injury but the trauma and grief she had been carrying.

"When I set out to heal my knee, I ended up healing my heart," Press reflected, referring to the pain she had harboured since the death of her mother in 2019. Her mother's death came as Press was preparing for the World Cup in France. The pursuit of ultimate glory became both an outlet and a distraction from her grief.

"Sport is so amazing in that it lets you process things differently -- getting all that adrenaline and sweat out of your body is detoxifying and balances your hormones, but it also masks a lot," she explained.

"It allows you to keep going and bury what's happened to you. When my mum passed in 2019, I missed one or two camps with the U.S. national team, then went back, and we won a World Cup.

"I was able to play for my mum, but it also left a lot of grief inside me that hadn't been addressed. That's the first thing I started to deal with in therapy.

"I did a lot of balancing my nervous system in acupuncture. I went to a homoeopathic doctor and he explained that in his opinion how the grief could have caused me to tear my ACL in the first place."

Away from her rehabilitation she remained in contact with the Angel City squad, attending game days and participating in meetings. Head coach Becki Tweed said Press requested a binder with set-piece tactics, to keep herself mentally engaged, while she was physically restricted.

The medical team remained cautious, taking a step-by-step approach to rebuild Press' capacity for movement, careful to avoid another major setback. Her rehabilitation work would often involve repeating movements 7-8 times more than a patient typically would, demonstrating the thoroughness required due to the complexity of her injury.

Throughout the monotonous rehab work and the frustration of watching her teammates train, the California native remained relentless in her quest to return to the field. Even when those closest to her wavered, she remained resolute.

"When you're told you need surgery for a fourth time, the people who love you start to ask, 'At what point is she going to wake up?'" said the two-time World Cup winner. "But it never even dawned on me to give up. That's just how I'm wired."

Her determination has left a lasting impression on the staff.

"You could see the discomfort in her knee during technical work," recalled Smith. "Watching her in pain, I wasn't sure more time or strength would help. It was hard to know that pushing through might not make it better.

"But she excelled throughout the two-year process, bringing optimism, hope, and joy to it all."

That perseverance has paid off. Although Press didn't make the 2024 Olympic squad, she is set to return for Angel City FC as the NWSL resumes this weekend. She's been training with the team for three months and made her return in early August, scoring a penalty in Angel City's shootout win over San Diego Wave in the NWSL x Liga MX Femenil Summer Cup.

"I had a conversation with her before the game, and she said, 'I'm not afraid,'" Tweed said. "During the game, she took the contact of a tackle, got up, and smiled. She needed that moment.

"After that, she had two shots. That's what she brings -- smart movement and the ability to find dangerous spaces around the 18-yard box."

At 35, with 64 international goals ranking her ninth in USWNT history, there's not much left for Press to achieve. But she's not done yet, even if her outlook has shifted.

"There are mixed emotions about how I can have the greatest impact for my team while minimizing long-term consequences for my life," she said. "But I'm excited to continue making progress and have a bigger impact on Angel City FC."

Her injury, though devastating, became a transformative experience -- physically, mentally, and emotionally.

As she steps back onto the pitch, Press is stronger in ways she never anticipated, having learned one key lesson: "You are exactly where you're supposed to be."

And for Press, that's back on the field at BMO Stadium this Sunday, with the grass under her feet.

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logansargeantsbabymom · 2 months ago

Text

None Of This Is Your Fault.

Brian "Otis" Zvonecek x Fem!Firefighter!Reader

A/N: Sorry that I've been so inactive, I know this is no excuse but I school started and my job is starting to get into it's busy season and to my luck I managed to tear my meniscus and I've been in so much pain so writing has been the least of my concerns. I am getting surgery on Thursday so I will be writing more soon. For now, please enjoy my new fic.

This is a 20 chapter story and I've put 10 chapters in one fic. It's a lot but this is my apology for being inactive.

Chapter 1:

Five years. That’s how long I’ve been with Brian. It feels like a lifetime and just a blink at the same time. We met in the most unconventional of ways—running into each other during a late-night call, both of us soaked in sweat, soot smeared across our faces, the smell of smoke thick in the air. It wasn’t the most romantic setting, but maybe that’s why it worked. There was no need for pretenses between us. We were both drawn to the fire, the adrenaline, the chaotic beauty of our work. And somehow, through the chaos, I found him.

Brian “Otis” Zvonecek—my partner in every sense of the word. He’s not the guy who sweeps you off your feet with grand gestures or sweet talk. No, Brian is the guy who shows up every single day. He’s steady. Kind. Funny in the way that only he can be, with those ridiculous puns and the way his face lights up when he thinks he’s landed a good one. It’s impossible not to laugh when he’s around, and God, that’s what I love most about him—he makes everything lighter, even when the world feels heavy.

But these days, the world is feeling a little heavier than usual.

We’ve both been working nonstop—Firehouse 51 is like a second home, though lately, it feels more like a first. There’s something comforting about the firehouse, the constant hum of activity, the sound of the trucks rumbling to life, the distant chatter of my crew—no, my family. And Brian? He’s always been at the center of it all. Our relationship bloomed in this place, surrounded by the people who understand what we go through every day.

I remember the early days with him so clearly. It started as a few casual glances across the engine bay, nothing serious at first. Just an awareness of him. His laugh was what caught me. The way he threw his head back, completely unguarded, while the rest of us were tense and wired after a tough call. He had this way of letting it all roll off his back, and I admired that.

It wasn’t long before we were partnered on every shift, making excuses to grab dinner after. One night, after a particularly tough rescue, he suggested we go for wings. I was exhausted, drained, and covered in soot, but something in his voice made me agree. I needed that—something normal, something grounding. We sat in that little corner booth, devouring spicy wings, laughing about the ridiculousness of our lives. It was simple, but it was the first time I felt like I had found something real. Something worth holding onto.

That’s how we’ve always been—just us, grounded in the simplicity of being together. No grand romantic gestures, no pressure to be anything other than who we are.

And for five years, it worked. I always felt secure with Brian. Sure, we’ve had our share of arguments—what couple doesn’t?—but they were always small, petty things. We’d bicker about who forgot to fill the gas tank or who left the towels on the floor, but those disagreements never lasted long. We were always able to laugh it off, make a joke, and move forward.

Lately, though, I’ve been different. Not us—me. I feel it deep inside, like there’s something pulling me away, pulling us apart. I don’t know why, but these past few months, things that shouldn’t bother me do. Things that used to make me laugh now irritate me. And sometimes, when the irritation boils over, I lose control in a way I never have before.

Brian doesn’t say it, but I can tell he’s worried. He’s always watching me now, his brown eyes searching for some sign that I’m still the same Y/N he fell in love with. But the truth is, I don’t feel like the same person anymore, and that scares me more than I care to admit. The outbursts come out of nowhere—sudden, violent flashes of anger—and then, just as quickly, they’re gone, like they never happened. And the worst part? I can’t remember them.

It’s terrifying.

It started small. A broken plate here, a slammed door there. I chalked it up to stress. Firefighting is a tough job, and we’re no strangers to pressure. But as the weeks turned into months, the episodes became harder to ignore. They were no longer just occasional moments of frustration—they were frequent, and sometimes, I wouldn’t even realize something was wrong until I saw the look in Brian’s eyes. That look of concern, like he didn’t know how to help me, like he was afraid to say the wrong thing. I hated that look. It made me feel like I was losing him, losing us.

But I kept telling myself it was fine. I was fine. If I just pushed through, if I worked harder, the episodes would stop. I thought if I ignored it, I could outrun it.

I was wrong.

Tonight, as I lie in bed next to Brian, listening to his soft breathing, I can’t shake the feeling that something big is coming. Something we won’t be able to ignore. I stare at the ceiling, the weight of it pressing down on me, my chest tightening. The love I have for him is overwhelming, and I don’t know how to protect it anymore.

Brian stirs beside me, his arm draping across my waist as he pulls me closer in his sleep. I close my eyes, taking in the warmth of his body, the familiar scent of him. He feels like home. But the fear of losing that—of losing him—is more than I can bear.

Tomorrow is another shift. Another 48-hour stretch. I tell myself things will get better, that I just need to push through. But deep down, I know something has to give.

And I’m terrified that when it does, it’ll be too late to save what we’ve built.

Chapter 2:

The first time it happened, I barely noticed it. Looking back, that should have been my first clue. It was such a small thing—a flash of frustration that I thought was just stress from work. We were off-duty, Brian and I, sitting at the kitchen table after a long day. We’d been talking about the usual—our shifts, the next firehouse event, Cruz’s latest terrible joke. Brian had a way of making everything feel easy. Comfortable.

But that night, something was different.

I don’t even remember what set me off. One minute, we were laughing, and the next, I felt this surge of anger bubbling up inside me. It wasn’t anything Brian said or did, not really. It was more like a wave crashing over me, completely out of my control. I felt like I was drowning in it, and the next thing I knew, I was standing over the kitchen sink, my hands trembling as I stared at the shattered remains of a glass I didn’t even remember throwing.

Brian was standing a few feet away, his face pale, his eyes wide with shock.

“Y/N… what just happened?” His voice was quiet, careful.

I blinked, trying to piece together the moment, but it was like a fog had settled over my mind. “I—I don’t know.” My voice sounded distant, unfamiliar. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” he said quickly, stepping forward. He placed his hand gently on my arm, his touch grounding me. “It’s okay. It was just a glass.”

But it wasn’t just the glass, and we both knew it. Something had shifted inside me, something dark and uncontrollable. And the worst part was, I couldn’t explain it. I couldn’t tell Brian what was wrong because I didn’t know.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my throat tight. “I don’t know what happened.”

Brian smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s fine. We’re both tired. It was just a glass.”

I nodded, but as I swept up the broken shards, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had broken inside me, too. And it wasn’t going to be as easy to put back together.

Chapter 3:

Weeks passed, and the tension in the air between Brian and me seemed to grow with each passing day. It wasn’t just at home anymore—my outbursts were starting to creep into our shifts at the firehouse. It wasn’t anything major at first, just little moments where I’d snap at someone or lose my temper more easily than usual. Everyone chalked it up to the stress of the job, and I let them. It was easier than admitting something was wrong.

But inside, I could feel it building—this pressure, like a balloon swelling inside my chest, ready to burst. I thought I could handle it. I thought if I kept myself busy, if I focused on the work, I could push it down. But firefighting isn’t a job where you can afford to lose control.

I remember one call in particular. It was a standard house fire, nothing we hadn’t seen a thousand times before. The flames were manageable, but there was a lot of smoke. We went in as a team, each of us with a role, moving in sync like we always did. Brian was with me, like he usually was, our movements so familiar we didn’t even need to talk to communicate.

But something was off that day. The smoke felt heavier than usual, the heat more oppressive. My helmet felt like it was pressing down on my skull, making my head throb. I tried to push through it, focusing on the task at hand, but my mind was racing. Every sound—the crackle of flames, the muffled voices over the radio, even my own breathing in the mask—felt like it was closing in on me.

“Y/N, you good?” Brian’s voice crackled through my radio.

“I’m fine,” I muttered, though my vision was starting to blur at the edges. We were almost done, just a few more minutes. I could make it. I had to.

But then, out of nowhere, the frustration hit me. I don’t know why—it wasn’t a particularly stressful call—but something inside me snapped. I felt a surge of anger, irrational and uncontrollable. I swung my axe harder than I needed to, cutting through debris with more force than was necessary. I heard Brian call my name again, concern clear in his voice, but I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I was too focused on the pounding in my head, the rage bubbling just beneath the surface.

When we finally exited the building, I ripped off my helmet and tossed it to the ground, breathing heavily. My heart was racing, my hands trembling.

“What the hell, Y/N?” Brian was at my side, his voice sharp. “You could’ve hurt yourself in there.”

“I’m fine,” I snapped, my voice harsher than I intended. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” he said, his brow furrowing as he looked at me. “You’ve been off lately. This isn’t like you.”

I turned away, not wanting to hear the concern in his voice. I didn’t want to admit that he was right—that something was wrong with me. “I told you, I’m fine.”

But I wasn’t. I knew it, and Brian knew it, too.

Chapter 4:

The firehouse had always been a place of comfort for me. It was where I felt in control, where I knew I could make a difference. But lately, even that had started to feel like a burden. My outbursts were becoming more frequent, and I could see the strain it was putting on everyone—especially Brian.

At home, things were getting harder. Brian tried to be patient, but I could see the frustration in his eyes whenever I lost my temper. He’d always been the calm one, the one who could smooth things over with a joke or a smile. But even he couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine.

We had one of our worst fights a few nights after that call. I don’t even remember what started it—something small, something stupid. But it spiraled out of control so fast. One minute, we were sitting on the couch, watching a movie, and the next, I was yelling at him, accusing him of things that didn’t even make sense.

“You don’t even care about me anymore!” I shouted, the words spilling out of my mouth before I could stop them. “You’re always at work, or with Cruz, or doing anything but being here with me!”

Brian looked at me like I’d just slapped him. “Y/N, what are you talking about? I’m always with you! We work together, we live together—how much closer can we get?”

“That’s not what I mean!” I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I didn’t care. “You’re here, but you’re not really here. You don’t look at me the same way anymore. You don’t—”

“Stop,” he cut me off, his voice calm but firm. “That’s not true, and you know it. I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

His words should have soothed me. They should have made me feel safe. But instead, they only made the anger flare hotter. “Then why do I feel so alone?” I whispered, my voice breaking.

Brian’s face softened, and he took a step closer, reaching for my hand. “Y/N, I’m right here. You’re not alone. But something’s going on with you, and you won’t talk to me about it.”

I yanked my hand away, refusing to meet his eyes. “I’m fine,” I muttered for what felt like the hundredth time.

But I wasn’t. I wasn’t fine, and I was pushing him away without even meaning to. I could see it in his eyes—the worry, the frustration, the helplessness. He didn’t know how to fix this, and neither did I.

That night, we went to bed without saying another word. Brian turned his back to me, and I lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of my own silence pressing down on me. I wanted to reach out to him, to tell him I was scared, that I didn’t know what was happening to me. But the words wouldn’t come.

All I could do was lie there and wonder how much longer we could keep pretending that everything was okay.

Chapter 5:

The firehouse was unusually quiet that night. It was the kind of quiet that crept into your bones, making you restless. We were on the second day of a 48-hour shift, and exhaustion hung in the air. Normally, a shift like this didn’t faze me—adrenaline and routine kept me going. But tonight, my head felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. The migraine was pounding behind my eyes, a dull, throbbing pain that no amount of coffee could fix.

I rubbed my temples, trying to will the headache away. Brian had noticed it earlier in the shift and offered me some Tylenol, but I turned him down. There was something about this headache that felt different, heavier. And I was already on edge—there was no way I wanted to dull my senses while on duty.

I kept my distance from the crew tonight, choosing to sit quietly at the kitchen table, nursing my coffee and staring blankly at the TV. Normally, I’d be laughing with the rest of them, especially Brian and Cruz, who were busy trading ridiculous jokes and stories. But I couldn’t focus on any of it. The migraine had lodged itself deep in my skull, making every sound feel like nails on a chalkboard.

I was counting down the hours. Only eight more hours of this shift. And then, finally, Brian and I could go home, grab food from the new Wingstop, and just unwind. It had been a long week, and I was craving something normal, something that would remind me of the simplicity of us. I clung to the thought of getting those wings together. It was the one thing keeping me grounded, the one thing I was looking forward to after the chaos of the last two days.

As if on cue, Brian wandered over to me, his smile easy as always, though I could see the concern lingering in his eyes.

“Hey,” he said softly, sitting down across from me. “How’s your head?”

I forced a small smile, though I knew it didn’t reach my eyes. “Still there, but it’ll pass. Just need to get through these last few hours.”

“We’re almost done,” Brian said, his hand reaching out to gently brush mine. “And then it’s Wingstop time, right? I’m starving.”

I nodded, feeling a small flicker of relief. “Yeah, can’t wait. Been thinking about it all day.”

Brian paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “Actually… about that. I just grabbed Wingstop with Cruz an hour ago. Didn’t realize you’d still want it tonight. You cool with grabbing something else?”

The words barely registered at first. They came out so casually, so matter-of-fact. But as they sank in, I felt a sharp, searing heat rise in my chest. My fingers tightened around the coffee mug in my hand as the rage swelled, unbidden and uncontrollable. I blinked, my vision blurring for a moment as my heart pounded in my ears.

“Wait, what?” I could hear the edge in my voice, sharp and venomous, even as I tried to keep it together. “You just had Wingstop? You knew we were supposed to get it together after shift.”

Brian’s eyes widened, taken aback by the sudden shift in my tone. “I didn’t think it’d be a big deal. We can still get it if you want. I’ll eat it with you, no problem.”

“No,” I snapped, the word flying out before I could stop it. “I don’t want it anymore.”

Brian frowned, confusion and concern mingling on his face. “Y/N, what’s going on? It’s just food. If you want Wingstop, we’ll get Wingstop. It’s not a big deal.”

But to me, it was a big deal. It felt like everything—the headache, the exhaustion, the tension between us—was boiling over, and this one tiny thing had pushed me over the edge. I could feel it happening, the anger building into something unstoppable, and I hated it. I hated that I couldn’t control it, couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out.

“You always do this!” I shouted, my voice breaking as the room seemed to close in around me. “You say one thing and then turn around and do whatever you want! Do you even care about what I want anymore? All I wanted was this shift to end so we could finally go home and have a normal night together. But no—of course you couldn’t even wait for me to get the food we talked about!”

“Y/N,” Brian said softly, reaching out to touch my arm, “I didn’t mean—”

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” I jerked away from him, my heart racing as the room fell silent. Everyone was staring now—Cruz, Mouch, Sylvie, Herrmann. Even Chief Boden, who had been standing by the door, was watching with furrowed brows.

I could feel my hands shaking, my vision blurring as tears welled up in my eyes. “All I wanted,” I choked out, my voice trembling, “was a little quality time with my boyfriend. But instead, I get stuck on this miserable shift with a migraine and a boyfriend who only cares about himself.”

The words hung in the air like poison, and as soon as they left my mouth, I felt something inside me shatter. My heart was pounding, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face. I didn’t even recognize myself in that moment. This wasn’t me.

Brian stood there, frozen, his face pale with shock and hurt. “Y/N, I…”

But before he could say anything else, it was like a switch had flipped. The anger drained out of me as quickly as it had come, leaving me feeling hollow and confused. I blinked, wiping my tear-streaked face as I straightened my posture, suddenly aware of the silence in the room.

“Why… why am I crying?” I asked, my voice soft, bewildered. I looked around at everyone’s faces—confusion, concern, shock—all eyes on me. The pressure in my head eased slightly, the migraine fading as quickly as it had come.

Without another word, I turned and walked to the bathroom, the weight of everyone’s stares pressing down on me like a heavy fog.

Chapter 6:

I spent a long time in the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face and staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face was flushed, my eyes red from crying, but it wasn’t the physical exhaustion that scared me. It was the blank space in my mind, the way the anger had flared so hot and fast, only to disappear without a trace. I didn’t remember half of what I’d said, and what I did remember felt like it had come from someone else’s mouth, not mine.

I leaned against the sink, gripping the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles turned white. I didn’t know what was happening to me, but it was getting worse. And I was terrified.

When I finally stepped out of the bathroom, I saw Brian waiting for me by the door. His face was etched with worry, but his voice was calm and steady when he spoke. “Chief wants to see us in his office.”

My stomach dropped. I nodded silently and followed him down the hall, my footsteps heavy, my heart pounding in my chest. Chief Boden rarely called anyone into his office unless it was serious. And this? This was definitely serious.

When we stepped into the office, Chief was sitting behind his desk, his expression unreadable. He gestured for us to sit, and the tension in the room was thick as we did. Brian sat next to me, close but not touching, his hands resting tensely in his lap.

“Y/N,” Chief Boden began, his deep voice gentle but firm. “Brian explained what’s been going on with you lately. I need you to listen carefully to what I’m about to say.”

I nodded, my throat tight.

“I’ve seen my share of stress in this job. I’ve seen how it can affect people—physically, mentally, emotionally. But what happened out there today wasn’t normal, and it wasn’t safe. For you or for anyone else. You’ve been one of the best firefighters on this team, but I can’t have you putting yourself or others at risk.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over me like a cold blanket.

“I’m not asking,” Chief continued, his eyes locking onto mine. “I’m ordering you to go to Chicago Med. You’re not coming back on shift until the doctors clear you.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. “Chief, I—”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” he said, his voice softening but still firm. “You need to get checked out. Something’s going on, and you can’t ignore it anymore.”

I felt Brian’s hand brush against mine, a silent show of support, but I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t face the disappointment in his eyes. All I could do was nod again, feeling a wave of helplessness crash over me.

“Take the rest of the day,” Chief said. “Go to Med. We’ll be here for whatever you need, but you’re not coming back until you get answers.”

Brian stood up, helping me to my feet as we left the office in silence. I could barely process what had just happened—how quickly everything had spiraled out of control. As we walked out of the firehouse and towards the car

Chapter 7:

The ride to Chicago Med was eerily quiet. Brian drove, his hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tight, his gaze focused on the road. I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, my mind a blur of confusion, guilt, and fear. Every bump in the road sent a fresh wave of pain through my skull, but it wasn’t just the migraine anymore—it was the uncertainty gnawing at my insides. Something was wrong with me. Deep down, I knew that now. But the thought of facing it, of having a doctor tell me what was happening… I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

Brian didn’t say much during the drive, and I was grateful for that. I wasn’t sure what I would have said if he’d asked me how I was feeling. How was I supposed to explain the emptiness inside me, the way I felt like a stranger in my own body?

As we pulled into the parking lot of Chicago Med, Brian finally spoke, his voice soft but steady. “I’m coming in with you.”

I nodded, unable to find the words to argue. I didn’t want to do this alone. I didn’t want to walk into that hospital and face whatever it was that had been slowly unraveling me. And as much as I hated feeling vulnerable, I needed him with me.

The bright lights of the hospital stung my eyes as we walked through the automatic doors, the sterile smell of antiseptic hitting me like a wall. Brian led the way, his hand resting on the small of my back, guiding me through the bustling halls. We didn’t have to wait long before we were ushered into an exam room by a nurse, who took my vitals and asked the standard questions.

Then, there was more waiting.

I sat on the exam table, swinging my legs back and forth, my hands folded tightly in my lap. Brian stood next to me, close enough that our arms brushed every now and then, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough—steady, calming, even though I knew he was as scared as I was.

After what felt like an eternity, the door swung open, and Dr. Will Halstead walked in. I knew him well—he’d treated me a few times before, and he was a friend of ours outside of work. But today, he didn’t greet me with the usual smile or lighthearted joke. His expression was serious, concerned.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, glancing between me and Brian as he took a seat on the stool across from us. “I hear you’ve been having some… unusual symptoms.”

I nodded, my throat tight. “Yeah. I guess you could say that.”

Will frowned, his brow furrowing as he flipped through my chart. “Brian filled me in on what’s been going on. The headaches, the mood swings, the memory loss… we’re going to run a few tests to get a clearer picture. I know it’s scary, but we need to figure out what’s causing all of this.”

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest. “Do you have any idea what it could be?”

Will hesitated, and that hesitation sent a chill down my spine. “There are a few possibilities,” he said carefully, “but I don’t want to jump to conclusions until we have more information. We’re going to start with a CT scan to get a look at what’s going on inside your brain.”

Inside my brain.

The words echoed in my head, sending a fresh wave of panic through me. I glanced at Brian, who was watching me closely, his expression unreadable. He reached out, taking my hand in his, and I squeezed it tightly, my pulse racing beneath my skin.

“Okay,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Let’s do it.”

Chapter 8:

The waiting was the worst part.

After the CT scan, they sent me back to the exam room to wait while the results were processed. Every second that ticked by felt like an hour. I sat there, nervously tapping my foot on the floor, while Brian paced back and forth in front of me. His anxiety was palpable, and it mirrored the panic building in my chest. I didn’t know what was worse—the not knowing, or the fear of what we were about to find out.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Will came back into the room, holding a manila folder in his hand. His expression was serious—too serious. My stomach twisted into knots as I watched him sit down again, the air between us heavy with tension.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice low, “I’m not going to sugarcoat this. The CT scan showed something concerning.”

I felt Brian’s hand tighten around mine, his grip almost painfully strong. I couldn’t breathe. My chest felt tight, my heart pounding in my ears. “What is it?” I managed to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Will took a deep breath, his eyes soft with sympathy. “You have a tumor in your brain. It’s located in the frontal lobe, which explains the mood swings and memory lapses you’ve been experiencing. It’s putting pressure on the surrounding areas, which is likely causing the migraines as well.”

A tumor. The word hit me like a freight train, knocking the air from my lungs. I stared at Will, uncomprehending, as if he’d just spoken a foreign language.

A tumor. In my brain.

I felt the world tilt beneath me, everything spinning out of control. My heart pounded in my chest, and I was suddenly aware of every sound, every breath, every sensation. Brian’s hand in mine, Will’s steady gaze, the sterile scent of the hospital—all of it felt too real, too overwhelming.

“I—I don’t understand,” I stammered, shaking my head. “A tumor? How…?”

Will nodded gently, leaning forward, his tone careful but honest. “It’s a lot to process, I know. But the good news is that we caught it early. It’s operable, which means we can remove it. We’re going to need to schedule surgery as soon as possible.”

Surgery. Tumor. The words swirled in my head, but none of them made sense. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was healthy. I was a firefighter—I fought through flames, saved lives. I wasn’t supposed to be the one lying in a hospital bed, waiting for a doctor to cut into my skull.

I felt my hands start to tremble, and suddenly, the weight of everything came crashing down on me. The months of mood swings, the fights with Brian, the outbursts I couldn’t control—it all made sense now. There was a tumor inside me, something foreign and dangerous, controlling me from the inside out.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, my voice breaking as the tears started to fall. “Brian… I’m so sorry.”

Brian’s arms were around me in an instant, pulling me close as I sobbed into his chest. “No,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, Y/N. None of this is your fault.”

“But I—” I tried to speak, but the words were lost in the sobs that shook my body. All the anger, the fear, the guilt—I couldn’t hold it back anymore. “I’ve been awful to you. I didn’t know…”

Brian held me tighter, his hand running through my hair as he pressed his cheek to the top of my head. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “None of it matters. We’re going to get through this. You’re going to be okay.”

I wanted to believe him, but all I could think about was the word that Will had said: tumor.

Chapter 9:

We left Chicago Med in a daze. The world outside felt too normal, too calm, compared to the storm raging inside me. The sky was still a brilliant blue, people walked down the street, completely oblivious to the fact that my life had just been turned upside down. Brian drove in silence, his hand resting on mine, squeezing gently every so often as if he was reminding himself I was still there. I couldn’t get the word out of my head—tumor.

It felt like some terrible nightmare, one that I hadn’t woken up from yet. Except this wasn’t a nightmare. This was real, and no amount of blinking or pinching myself would make it go away.

We pulled into the firehouse parking lot. I didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to face the crew and see their reactions when they found out. But we had to. They were my family—they deserved to know.

As soon as we stepped inside, I could feel the weight of everyone’s stares. They knew something was wrong. Cruz and Mouch were sitting on the couch, glancing at us with concern. Herrmann, sitting at the table, stood up as soon as he saw us, his brow furrowed.

“Everything okay?” he asked, his voice cautious.

I looked at Brian, but the words got stuck in my throat. How was I supposed to tell them? How was I supposed to explain that everything I’d been through over the past few months wasn’t just stress or exhaustion, but something far more terrifying?

Brian took a deep breath, his voice low and steady. “We went to Chicago Med. Will Halstead ran some tests on Y/N.” He paused, his grip on my hand tightening. “They found a tumor. In her brain.”

The room went silent.

It was like the air had been sucked out of the firehouse. I could see the shock ripple across their faces, the confusion, the fear. Cruz’s mouth opened as if to say something, but no words came out. Boden stepped forward, his eyes filled with quiet understanding.

“A tumor?” Herrmann repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “What does that mean? Is it… is it serious?”

I took a shaky breath, trying to keep the tears at bay. “It’s operable,” I said, the words sounding distant, as if someone else were speaking them. “They’re scheduling the surgery soon. I’ll… I’ll be okay. That’s what Will said.”

But as I said it, I wasn’t sure if I believed it. The fear gnawed at my insides, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. How could I be sure everything would be okay when nothing felt okay right now?

There was a long, heavy pause before Boden spoke. “We’re going to be here for you, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice steady and full of quiet authority. “Whatever you need—whether it’s before, during, or after the surgery—you’re not going through this alone.”

The words should have brought me comfort, but instead, they only made the knot in my chest tighten. I didn’t want to be the one who needed help. I didn’t want to be the one who was weak, who was sick. I was a firefighter. I was supposed to be strong, to take care of others. Not the other way around.

But now, everything had changed.

I couldn’t hold it back any longer. The sobs broke through, my chest heaving as I tried to breathe, to speak. “I’m sorry,” I choked out, my voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

Boden stepped closer, his hand resting gently on my shoulder. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said softly.

But I did. I was sorry for everything—for the outbursts, for the way I’d lashed out at Brian, for the times I’d scared the crew with my unpredictability. I felt like I was falling apart, unraveling at the seams, and I couldn’t stop it.

Brian pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly as the tears streamed down my face. I felt everyone’s eyes on us, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t hold anything back anymore. I cried for everything—the fear, the uncertainty, the guilt.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whispered into Brian’s chest, my voice trembling. “I don’t know how to be this person. I don’t know how to… how to be weak.”

Brian’s voice cracked as he held me even closer. “You’re not weak,” he whispered fiercely. “You’ve never been weak, Y/N. You’re the strongest person I know. And you don’t have to go through this alone. We’re all here for you—for whatever you need.”

I shook my head, pulling back just enough to look up at him, my eyes red and swollen. “But I’ve been so awful to you. I pushed you away. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, but I—”

“Stop,” he cut me off, his voice thick with emotion. “None of that matters now. None of it. You were scared, and you didn’t know why. But we know now. And we’re going to fix it. Together.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted so badly to believe that everything would be okay. But the fear was still there, lurking in the background, whispering that things might never be the same again.

The crew stepped forward one by one, each offering words of support, hugs, and quiet reassurances. It was overwhelming—feeling so much love and care when all I felt inside was fear. I wanted to tell them how much it meant to me, how grateful I was, but the words got stuck in my throat.

Finally, Boden spoke again, his voice gentle but firm. “You need to rest, Y/N. Go home, get some sleep, and prepare for the surgery. We’ll be with you every step of the way.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sleep with everything swirling inside me. But I appreciated the sentiment. I appreciated all of them.

Brian took my hand, and we started to leave. As we walked out of the firehouse, I looked back at the crew—my family—standing there, watching us with worried eyes. They believed in me. They believed I could get through this.

I just wished I could believe it too.

Chapter 10:

The night before the surgery was the longest night of my life.

Brian and I went back to our apartment, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence between us wasn’t filled with tension or misunderstanding. It was just… heavy. There was nothing more to say, nothing more to do but wait. I could see the worry etched into Brian’s face every time I caught him glancing at me. He tried to hide it, but I knew him too well.

We made dinner, but I could barely eat. The thought of surgery, of having someone cut into my brain, was too much to bear. I pushed the food around on my plate, my stomach churning with anxiety.

Brian eventually took my hand, pulling me into the living room. We sat on the couch, and I rested my head on his shoulder, closing my eyes as he gently stroked my hair. His touch was soothing, grounding me when my mind started to spiral.

“I’m scared,” I admitted quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Brian whispered back, his voice soft and full of love. “I’m scared too. But you’re going to get through this. We’re going to get through this.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to hold onto his words like a lifeline. But the fear, the uncertainty—it was all-consuming. I couldn’t shake the thought that something could go wrong, that I might not wake up after the surgery, that everything could change in a matter of hours.

“What if…” I started, my voice trembling. “What if something happens? What if I’m not the same after?”

Brian’s hand stilled in my hair, and he pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were filled with so much love, so much emotion, that it took my breath away.

“No matter what happens,” he said softly, “I’m here. I love you, Y/N. Nothing’s going to change that.”

The tears welled up again, and I blinked them away, trying to stay strong. But Brian’s words broke something inside me, and before I knew it, I was sobbing, my whole body shaking as I clung to him.

“I don’t want to lose myself,” I cried. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” Brian whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You won’t lose me. You’re not going anywhere, Y/N. You’re stronger than this. We’ll face whatever comes next together.”

I buried my face in his chest, feeling the warmth of his arms around me, and for the first time that night, I allowed myself to believe him.

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surgerycentrescsc · 10 days ago

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As an outpatient surgery center, CSC Surgery Naples offers the convenience of same-day procedures, reducing the stress and inconvenience associated with traditional hospital stays. Our focus on efficiency and patient comfort ensures a seamless experience from start to finish.

#Florida Outpatient Surgery Center #Joint Replacement Surgery Naples #Sports Injury Surgery Naples FL #Pain Management Specialists Naples #Outpatient Pain Management Naples

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gotham-ruaidh · 11 months ago

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Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Chapter 3 (Dancing On Glass)|| Chapter 4 (Merry-Go-Round)|| Backstage (1) || Backstage (2) || Chapter 5 (Danger)|| Backstage (3) || Chapter 6A (Love Walked In) || Chapter 6B (Without You) || Backstage (4) || Chapter 7 (Stick To Your Guns) || Chapter 8 (Time For Change) || Backstage (5) || Chapter 9 (Take Me To The Top) || Backstage (6) || Chapter 10 (Home Sweet Home) || Backstage (7) || Chapter 11a (Nightrain) || Chapter 11b (Nothing Else Matters) || Chapter 12a (Handle With Care) || Chapter 12b (I’m So Tired of Being Lonely) || Chapter 13a (Angel) || Chapter 13b (She’s My Addiction) || Chapter 13c (Patience) ||| Also posted at AO3

Chapter 14A: Where Do We Go Now?

Soundtrack: “Sweet Child O' Mine,” Guns N' Roses, 1987 [click here to listen]

She's got eyes of the bluest skies As if they thought of rain I'd hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain Her hair reminds me of a warm safe place Where as a child I'd hide And pray for the thunder and the rain to quietly pass me by...

Philadelphia || June 1988

Claire pushed her chair back a bit from the desk. Raised her arms. Stretched. Breathed deeply.

Reading for the eighth time the words she’d finally tapped out on the Selectric this morning, after days of rolling them around in her head.

Chief Physician

Boston Medical Center

To Whom It May Concern,

As you may be aware, I am a trauma surgeon at BMC. Twelve months ago I was placed on administrative leave by the BMC, and my medical license was suspended, pending the resolution of BMC’s internal investigation into my conduct. The investigation started by looking into a near-fatal error I committed during a surgery, and then quickly discovered that I had not only been forging prescriptions and stealing painkillers for quite some time, but also developed a severe addition to those painkillers.

As you may also be aware, I did not contest the actions taken by BMC. Subsequently I enrolled in an intensive drug rehabilitation program in North Carolina. I am happy to share that I am almost twelve months clean, having completed the program last December and successfully maintained my sobriety since then.

I have previously communicated to the Board, on several occasions, my sincere regret for what I did and my remorse for the incredible lapse of professional judgment and ethical standards I demonstrated. I repeat those regrets to you now.

Which is, in part, why I am writing you today. I wish to understand what else is required of me to return to work, in any capacity, at BMC.

Making amends for wrongs was something that Claire and Geillis had talked about a lot, during her time at The Ridge. Yes, doing that was a formal part of any 12 Step program.

But it was more than just saying sorry – it required the addict to recognize the wrongs.

To own them. To understand why they had happened, and the impact they had had on others.

Because nothing sounded more inadequate in the English language than the two words, I’m sorry.

But words matter. And this attitude shift was a crucial step on any addict’s road to recovery.

Making amends was something that Claire and Jamie had talked a lot about, too. She had seen him make amends many times, in their short time together – and quite often during their last few weeks on the road, as they traveled city to city for Print’s acoustic tour and Jamie came into contact with many people who had last seen him drunk/rude/high/demanding/hung over/acting like a total asshole during the last (disastrous) tour in ’86.

He made it a point to really talk to each person, to apologize for specific things he remembered doing. No matter if it was the venue manager, or the catering guy, or the lighting guy, or the security guard. I was a dick when I was drunk. I said terrible things. I hurt you. I’m sorry.

Two weeks ago in Chicago, he couldn’t sleep after a fucking incredible show at the old Chicago Theater. The adrenaline buzz after the show so much better than any pills or bourbon or groupie could have given him. He had tossed and turned for hours, until finally, quietly slipping out of their bed and perching in the easy chair in their suite at the Palmer House, watching Claire shift restlessly under the covers without him.

But of course, she knew when something was wrong. She woke, and turned to face him, easing up on one elbow. Watching him back. Giving him space.

When he finally spoke, it was just above a raspy whisper.

“How can you be here, Claire, when all you do is hear me talk about how awful I was to so many people?”

Her heart did break a little bit. “Because I never knew that version of you, Jamie. What I care about is who you are now.”

He sighed, breath ragged. “This shit is so fucking hard.”

“I know, baby.” Somehow she was standing beside him, and blindly he buried his face into the warm skin of her belly. She threaded her fingers in his hair, held him close as his pulse spiked.

“Deep breaths, Jamie. Focus on me. I’m here.”

He had had several panic attacks during the tour. Which could be chalked up to anything – the stress of changing hotels every day, the crush of fans and press that clustered around their tour bus when they arrived in a new city, the women who pulled down their tops in the front row at every concert, the Jack Daniels bottles and little baggies of powder left in his dressing room before the show in Wilkes-Barre.

But instead of smashing to pieces all alone, she sheltered him. He knew when to ask for help. And always found her just in time to crash against her, shaking and crying in bathroom stalls and green rooms and even once on the deserted tour bus. And each time she was so grateful for the psych rotation she’d done in med school that prepared her to help him.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

“Breathe in, Jamie. Think about how much I love you.”

He drew in a deep, sobbing breath.

“That’s right. Now exhale. I’m never going to leave you.”

He exhaled, shoulders shuddering.

“And inhale, Jamie. We can get hamburgers for breakfast again, if you want.”

He inhaled, and she felt a faint smile against her belly.

“That’s right. And out. Think about how amazing our wedding night will be.”

He exhaled. Gently bit the soft, soft skin above her bellybutton. She shivered, and smiled.

“Good. Center on me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She counted along with him – twenty four more deep breaths. Caressing his forehead, and kissing his hair, and loving him and loving him and loving him.

Finally when he had calmed down, she crawled back into bed, and he held her so close against him. Kissing her forehead. Whispering endless words of love.

“If I ever fuck up with you, Claire, know I’ll always own it.”

She kissed his eyebrows. “The same for me, Jamie. I’d rather be mad at you than not have you.”

He had said the same words to her this morning. A promise he never tired of repeating. Murmured against her hair when he bent over to kiss her in the bed, body thrumming with energy.

Colum had booked a studio here in Philadelphia for the day, so that the band could lay down recordings of the acoustic tracks they’d played to dozens of sold-out crowds during the tour. With the incredible press from the tour – thanks in no small part to Geordie Ash’s profile in Rolling Stone – and bootlegs in wide circulation, it was time. And for once, the band agreed with the label.

She would join him later, of course. But today she needed the time to herself, to finally write and then mail the letter to Boston.

All because of Jamie.

“You can’t stay in a state of limbo forever, Claire,” he had said one night, meeting her eyes in the bathroom mirror as he gently brushed her shower-wet hair. “And I know we still don’t know where we’ll live when we’re married. But you have the right to know.”

She had sighed, jamming her hands in the deep pockets of the hotel bathrobe. “I don’t want to go back to that life.”

He had set down the hairbrush they shared, slipping his hands into the pockets, pulling her close against him. “I know. But you can’t have that door hanging open, Claire. Whether you open it or close it, you know I support you. But you’re not doing yourself any favors by not knowing.”

She had nodded, and pursed her lips. Smiling just a little as he kissed the shell of her ear.

She blinked, and turned back to the typewriter.

I have been traveling for the past few weeks, and won’t be back to Boston for at least the next month. Although I may not be immediately reachable by mail or telephone, I’m enclosing the contact information for someone who can get any letter or other message to me.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Dr. Claire Beauchamp

She gently pulled the paper from the typewriter roll. Signed her name. Took a deep breath. Began to address the envelope.

#outlander #outlander fanfic #jamie and claire #little bit better than i used to be

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rebeliz7 · 1 year ago

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AUGUST - DRABBLE #10

10. Wanda and Natasha

…

The mission is not a complicated one, you’re to infiltrate a military base, hack into a computer, copy the drive and go back home.

Wanda isn’t worried, no one really is, you’re a specialist and working on your own is what you do best. Still, she’s in the room on coms next to your girlfriend as you infiltrate the base just so she can keep an eye on you.

You’re in, you have the drive and you’re on your way out when you go radio silent.

Daisy frantically hacks into the systems again but Wanda---Wanda leaves the Compound immediately.

…

Later, when it’s all said and done, she can’t stop shaking as the doctors take you away on a gurney. She’s terrified.

Rhodey is facing martial court for keeping an open line with the Avengers, and Ross is hellbent on gaining the upper hand, and it’s all because Wanda destroyed a military base in search of you.

She found you unconscious, two bullet wounds on your body and she lost it. No, she didn’t kill anyone but she could have--she certainly wanted to.

Her hands are shaking, even as Natasha drags her away and gets her to gently enter the shower in their room. Blood and water mix together on the white marble floor of the shower and her hands shake harder. There was so much blood---you were bleeding so much.

…

She sits outside of your room in the Medbay after you come out of surgery for the rest of the night. Natasha, Steve and Tony are gone, trying to contain the mess she made but she can barely think about any of that.

You could have died.

You could have died before she found you, and you could have died on that operating table.

You could have died, and she can’t even fathom a universe where you don’t exist.

She has to watch Daisy lay beside you through the large glass window, but she swallows down that pain because she’s aware of the pain she could be feeling right now and how much worse it’d be.

You wake up around eleven am the next morning, and Wanda can finally breathe. She retreats to her bedroom and finally cries, although she refuses to truly let it all out.

Tears roll down her cheeks as she pases back and forth, while flashbacks of you in this same room keep swirling through her mind.

…

Natasha gets back after midnight, feeling exhausted and uncertain still. She’s not sure if they managed to appease Ross, but a ceasefire was called and they were let go.

Logically she knows that someone’s head will roll for the destruction of that military base, and Ross will not rest until it’s done, but she’ll destroy him before letting him touch a hair on Wanda’s head.

She stops by your room first, talks to Daisy about your progress and even sits with you for a little while. You’re sleeping, the white sheets somehow swallowing your battered body and she feels her shoulders tensing.

You shouldn’t be on this bed, that mission was not supposed to put you on this bed. You were set up, which means Sam’s informant was followed, and she’ll have to tie a lot more loose ends than she anticipated.

…

Wanda is sitting on the couch when Natasha walks inside their bedroom. The large glass of red wine and the glistening eyes on her wife’s face tell Natasha everything she needs to know.

“Can I have one of those?” Natasha asks as she takes off her jacket, and Wanda moves to grab the almost empty bottle from the center table.

“Yes.” She drunkenly smiles as she stands up to retrieve another glass and bottle, as Natasha sits down in the loveseat.

Wanda is only wearing an oversized military green hoodie that isn’t hers, her hair is down and her face tells the story of a woman who’s been in agony for the last several hours.

“Here.” Wanda offers her a glass with a smile, that only accentuates the pain she’s feeling.

Natasha tries to swallow the heartbreak with a sip of wine, but the task is impossible. Wanda looks like she’s about to burst into tears, and Natasha finally remembers where she’s seen that hoodie before.

The hoodie is yours, you usually wore it when it was particularly cold, but she hasn’t seen you wear it since August.

“How did it go?” Wanda asks, her voice breaking at the end of her question and Natasha downs the rest of her wine before taking a deep breath.

“Ross was a pain, but we’ll get it settled. We always do.” She clears her throat when Wanda turns to look at her.

They’ve always shared this silent connection, and Natasha’s loved it until this very moment. The dam is broken, and the waves that take it down drown Natasha along with it.

“Are we finally gonna talk about this?” Wanda asks, her chin trembling and tears softly sliding down her pale cheeks.

The pain hits Natasha in the stomach first, and she can’t help but compare it to an actual punch, since the similarity is uncanny. But the pain slowly travels upwards to her chest and throat---she looks away.

Her eyes fall on their bed, the same bed that you probably became very familiarized with during August. She looks back at her wife, and reaches for the bottle on the table to fill her glass one more time.

“Where did you keep the hoodie?” She asks and Wanda lets out a little laugh, that resembles a howl of pain and that hits Natasha with the intensity of a second punch to the gut.

“I went and got it earlier---from the cottage.” Wanda says, and Natasha nods in understanding. She suspected, but the cottage was a sacred place for their marriage, and a part of her didn’t want to believe it if she’s being honest.

She downs the rest of her wine again, and sets the glass down. Wanda’s tears continue to silently roll down her face, but she sets her glass down as well. They look at each other, and Natasha knows that this is not the end.

“Do you want a divorce?” She still asks, and Wanda gives her a look that Nat knows well.

“Never.” Wanda says.

“Do you need space?” She asks next, and Wanda shakes her head.

“Not from you.” Wanda says, her chin continues to tremble---she’s scared.

Natasha knows where the fear is coming from, and she’s scared too. Wanda’s powers are still a mystery to her, but Wanda’s always learning, growing and that’s not a mystery either.

“What do you want then?” She asks gently, and Wanda takes in a deep breath that seems to break her.

A beat passes and then another, they don’t break eye contact and the silence stretches, embracing them in it until time itself seems to come to a halt.

“You know.” Wanda breaks the spell, and Natasha limits herself to nod her head once.

The sound of silence is now replaced by Wanda’s elaborate breathing, and Natasha welcomes the rare pressure on the back of her skull with a grimace. She’s not a stranger to headaches, but she’s been hurting for quite some time now, what’s a headache on top of it all?

Still, Wanda’s tears are gone and something else has settled on her shoulders--something that Natasha can’t quite define.

“Remember the day I asked you to marry me?” Natasha asks, her eyes still on Wanda and the nervous way in which she keeps playing with the glass in her hands.

“Yes.” Wanda clears her throat, decisively swallowing down more tears and refusing to break eye contact, stubborn as always.

“I knew we were doomed from the start,” Natasha says and this time Wanda’s interest becomes more real. “Not because love was running out, no, lack of love has never been our problem. I can safely admit that I love you now with the same intensity that I loved you back then, and it wouldn’t be a lie.”

“I wasn’t aware that we had problems.” Wanda says and Natasha allows herself to smile, however sardonic it might seem.

“Before August, you mean.” She says it softly, voice low and tranquil. The blow is not gentle though and it doesn’t lessen the hurt, hurt that reflects in Wanda’s expression without an ounce of regret.

“Are we gonna do this?.” Wanda frowns, the tone of her voice becoming hostile and Natasha doubts for a moment.

Does she want to humor her wife, and enter an argument that will definitely break her? The answer is no, the answer is a howling no.

“I don’t want to fight.” She deflates slightly, which only spurs Wanda into action.

Natasha observes her in silence and with a sinking feeling on the pit of her stomach, but Wanda stands from the couch, and begins pacing their bedroom like a caged animal in a rage.

Hands in her hair, on her waist, anger lacing every expression of her face that does nothing to hide the pain that is so obvious and that pokes at Natasha’s heart just as cruelly.

“Wanda.” Natasha calls her, still holding onto the hope that this won’t escalate.

“I can do anything I want. Anything!” Wanda’s voice echoes in Natasha’s ears, but Wanda’s pain stabs her mercilessly.

“And what do you want?” Natasha asks, her question hangs in the air for a few very tense seconds before Wanda turns to look at her.

That look on her face is devastatingly obvious but Natasha’s never been one to shy away from pain, not even when the pain is new.

You--your name is everything she can hear although neither one of them speaks it.

“Well, you can’t have that.” Natasha says, perhaps coldly but she’s only human, and she’s already taken more than she should have.

“I could.” Wanda says, stubborn as always, doubtful as always. Natasha almost recognizes the girl she married years ago in those scared, terrified eyes.

She’s always known, perhaps since the first time they met, that Wanda resembles a ticking bomb. Perhaps that’s what Natasha fell in love with in the first place.

“You could.” She concedes, because it’s the truth. Wanda could have you back just as easily as she erased herself from your memory. She knows it and Natasha knows it, but she’s learnt more than the proper way to throw a punch in the Compound as well.

“I won’t.” She shakes her head, a little taken aback from her own head, her own thoughts. Natasha knows her, she’s not scared. “You’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m pissed.” Natasha admits, as a raw and unpleasant feeling washes over her. “The thought that you would throw away years of our marriage and betray me like you have, is sickening.”

Her words bring Wanda to a stop, the night becomes darker and Natasha stands up too, she’s not done.

“The thought that you, my wife, would seek out the person I care for the most, the person I protected as if they were my family---”

Running out of breath and hands trembling, Natasha stops for a moment and Wanda can do nothing but wait.

“I’ve thought about what I’d say and what I’d do,” Natasha continues. “When we finally talk about it, but now that we’re here all that comes to my mind is the fact that I don’t really know you. Not completely, and not like you had me believe that I do.”

“I didn’t plan for this to happen.” Wanda says, and it might be the weakness of the excuse that makes Natasha’s anger die down.

“But you did it anyway.” Natasha concludes as tears begin to roll down her cheeks, finally unable to contain them like she has for the last several months.

“I’m sorry.” Wanda says, but it doesn’t take much for Natasha to realize that she’s not exactly apologizing for the right reasons.

When Wanda kisses her, it takes Natasha by surprise. There are lines that they haven’t crossed and Natasha respects those lines, lives by them. Wanda kissing her into silence is a clear sign that she no longer cares for those lines.

Wanda kneeling on the ground, taking down Natasha’s pants and underwear along with her means that she’d do anything, anything to leave those lines behind.

Later, as she lays on her bed with her wife cuddling up next to her, Natasha can’t sleep. She doesn’t know what’s worse, that she let Wanda take her to bed after months of no sex or that she’s willing to play along.

…

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff #august

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whatgaviiformes · 9 months ago

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Fic: Reflection 2/2

First Part here or Ao3 here Summary: Gordon stares at himself. In part 2 - ...and Virgil watches Words: <1K ~*~*~

Reflection - part 2

Virgil’s got a pretty good sense of what goes on in his periphery.

Granted, he doesn't immediately scan for entryways and nearest exits every time he enters a room the way his security-inclined siblings do. Kayo somehow manages to do it without an obvious deviation to her gaze, so it's not apparent at all that that's what's happening. But it is, and it speaks volumes to his sister's ability to multitask.

But this doesn't preclude Virgil from being in tune with what's happening around him. He may not be able to sense danger from the way someone’s shoulders hunch to hide themselves when entering a building, but he does have a strong sense of observation when it comes to what he knows well, or what he wants to know well. Things like the island landscape he's painted a thousand times and more; the exact paint hues he needs to combine to create the sapphire in his baby brother's eyes; the number of wrinkles on Scott’s shirt to know if he actually slept that night; how jittery John is in his fingers incremental to his caffeine intake.

Things like that.

So when Gordon rotates his shoulders and eases back to sit on his heels, Virgil notices the movement. He doesn't say anything right away because the moment doesn't warrant it. The chore is a little too heavy for ribbing about laziness, which would be the appropriate response if it were any other type of rescue. As it is, they are both trying to forget about the losses made all too real by the lingering mud on Two’s windshield, caked on so firmly that the water jets only managed to release about two thirds of it. The rest was down to human persistence.

Gordon's persistence.

And his own.

For him, it hurts when he lets himself think about it too much, which is why Virgil buries his ears in Beethoven’s 7th and lets the ache of the composer’s hearing loss envelop him instead while he listens for shifting key centers and tension tossed between instrumentation. The technical music analysis keeps his brain from wandering back to muddied faces, slack with breathlessness. Except for in the second movement, admittedly. Allegretto wasn’t just “less lively.” She was brutal, and his eyes may have blurred with sadness in the key of A-minor for just a moment while faces swam in the glass.

It still helps. Somehow. The painful reminder of human experience.

So that’s him - his heartbeat so firmly tied to the environment around him: the shape of its sounds and the timbre of its sights. He carries on because he must.

When it comes to Gordon, though? His brother is perseverance embodied - all the determination of an Olympian, resolve of a soldier, courage of a survivor, and tenacity of someone who gets up every morning balancing chronic injury with self-care and selflessness. His backbone might be physically lighter after surgery, but it’s equally fiercer.

Gordon’s been doing this work in silence, and Virgil wonders exactly what he’s been thinking while Virgil’s been drowning screams with violins. He knows it is possible for Gordon to detach, become the soldier he was trained to be. But it’s rare for their resident aquanaut to let Virgil witness it. Those experiences are something Gordon will channel with Scott, every now and again.

But Virgil has seen it before - regretfully. And this isn’t it.

Virgil squeezes his eyes closed, and when he opens them Gordon’s pressed his fingertips to his mouth, a strange expression on his face while his eyes lock on the crisscrossing of scars near his hairline. Painful memory or badge of honor? Virgil wonders. A little of column A, a little of column B. From his experience, nothing was ever so black and white.

He just hopes that when Gordon looks at himself in the mirror, when he’s not smiling for the rest of the world to see, he still notices the bravery and feels every iota of admiration marked with his name. Just as on more than one occasion, Scott has reminded Virgil of the same. It’s inherent in human nature to be harder on ourselves, to sometimes see ourselves so differently than those around us. It was never so obvious to Virgil as when he sketched the first draft of each of their portraits. Scott the commander, John the intelligent, Gordon the tenacious, Alan the boy genius. Himself? The supporting role. Scott had shaken his head and called him the heartbeat while Virgil flushed with embarrassment and confusion. Then, he asked Virgil to try again, until he was satisfied that Virgil’s self-portrait captured what the others saw in him.

Shoulders straighter, wider in the frame. Eyes more confident, but softer, kinder.

Eventually, Gordon catches him watching. It was bound to happen; they’ve worked together too long and traveled too far for them not to be in tune with the other. In barely a blink, in front of him is the man he painted all those years ago, scars and all, but eyes carrying the blinding gleam and the joyful spirit of a man who would always get back up again and smile.

He shifts his earphones, Beethoven barely audible as if through a fog, and Virgil asks genuinely if he’s ok. Gordon, true to form, plays it off with a joke and a smile, even though they both know it’s what they call “a moment.” They’ve had many over the years. This is just another, and it won’t be the last.

This part isn’t keen observation; it’s intuition. Virgil just knows that this moment isn’t one he needs to press. Gordon’s ok. They both will be.

So he grins back at him, gives Gordon the lighthearted response he knows he needs, and resets his music.

Virgil takes a breath, emboldened by his brother’s endurance beside him.

And then he keeps going.

#gavii scribit #for the love of fishtank #gordon tracy #virgil tracy #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction

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lifblogs · 3 months ago

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Afliplan Diatane

Week 13 Prompt: "Stop touching me!" // "I'm not touching you!" Alt. Prompt: Crashing Hard Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Word Count: 3004 Summary: Eight weeks ago Hunter was shot, and he received life-saving surgery, and has been recovering... now with the help of a med he's no longer supposed to be taking. Hunter's body doesn't handle running out of it very well. WARNINGS: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Drug Dependency, Suicidal Thoughts READ ON AO3

“Stop. Touching. Me,” Hunter hissed out through clenched teeth. He was in the cockpit, hanging his head over the console, waiting for the nausea he had grown quite used to dissipate.

Tech huffed from beside him, and moved away. “Technically I am not touching you. I was about to.”

“I felt the air displace from your hand.”

“I understand you have enhanced senses, but that sounds quite ridiculous.”

Hunter couldn’t tell him it was extra sensitivity from the meds. While they dulled the signals he was getting from his nerves, they seemed to enhance everything else, especially around when his body expected a dose. He didn’t want the others to know he was still on them though. But he needed these meds. He wasn’t an addict of some sort. He needed them!

Even now with the medicine re-entering his system the pain in his abdomen was an ache that stole all his thoughts. He had in fact been groaning, a hand to his stomach, until he’d at least sat down to get some rest.

The hand at his stomach clenched, a throb going around to his hips.

Tech leaned in, and Hunter wanted to snap that he was too close.

“Are you healing well from your surgery?” he asked.

“Yes,” Hunter lied.

To him it was a lie. The Kaminoan doctors said he was fine, that he could go back in the field, but he didn’t think fine meant that it would be hard for him to walk, to sit up, to do anything. It was always there—the pain, right on the edge of his awareness, if not fully taking it over.

He was hiding the medicine from his squad. He couldn’t let them know. They’d take them away, or report that he wasn’t up for active duty. He’d be separated from them, and worse… he’d be completely useless.

Hunter wasn’t sure he liked the dark medical exam room compared to the blinding white of the majority of Kaminoan facilities. He certainly didn’t feel comfortable being out of his armor, and wearing the drab, red clothes he’d been forced to wear during his brutal recovery.

The Kaminoan standing before him was looking over some test results at the moment, and had already lifted up Hunter’s shirt to observe the long row of puckered red scars on his abdomen that followed along on either side of a deep, long line. And in the center of that was a jagged, angry circle, a deep red that looked like his healing had scarcely begun.

“CT-9901, I am pleased to see this progression of your healing, and it is my expert medical opinion that you no longer require afliplan diatane.”

Hunter’s jaw clenched at that.

They’d already tried lowering his dose of the med, but whenever they did he was left with so much pain he could barely think, let alone walk, and function. He was managing to steal some just fine, but without it… Could he get away with stealing even more of the medicine? Now he wouldn’t have his regular dose to add to it.

“You’re sure of this?” Hunter asked.

“Physical therapy should be sufficient for pain management at this time.”

Sure, physical therapy was going great, and it was helping, but only so much. And worse, lowering a dose meant sickness. Without afliplan diatane he was usually nauseous, shaky, dizzy, and couldn’t stop sweating even as he was as cold as he was hot. It left him so miserable, and only the med could fix it. His body wasn’t ready.

I can’t… I can’t do this.

Hunter nodded his head, forcing himself to say, “I do like the physical therapy.”

“It seems it. Your scars are much more mobile than what we would expect from someone at this stage. You are clearly putting the work in.”

And he was. But he could only do it with the afliplan diatane.

The Kaminoan tapped away on the tablet, announcing, “There. I just canceled your prescription of this medicine, and you are cleared for field work.”

Hunter barely heard all the words, heartbeat speeding up from fear.

I have to get that med somehow. I’ll manage.

Hunter forced himself to take deep breaths, telling himself the med would kick in, that he’d be okay.

“What’s up with him?” Crosshair asked of Tech, as he entered the cockpit.

“I believe Hunter is still suffering from his wound and surgery.”

Crosshair huffed. “A droid did shoot right through him.”

Now the pain was burning instead of sore, a flash of pressurized brightness, and then he had collapsed, Wrecker having to drag him to cover. Smoke poured from the wound, the acrid stench of ash and burning flesh had had Hunter throwing up, blood mixed in, as his gastrointestinal tract had now been compromised. There wasn’t blood to hold in, the wound cauterized by the blast, but dust, and dirt, and smoke had gotten inside. Wrecker had brutally packed the wound as Hunter had screamed and lost all sense of reality.

By the time he’d made it back to Kamino, riddled with fever, delirious from the agony, near-dead, it was a relief to be taken to surgery, to fall into a cloudy nothingness of sleep and medicine.

Crosshair put a hand on his shoulder, and Hunter pulled out of his grip.

He leaned back, trying to breathe.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

“What aggravated it?” Tech asked.

The medicine. He couldn’t tell them it was because he had gone a bit longer without a dose, just an extra hour.

Panting, he wiped sweat from his brow.

“I don’t know,” he got out.

Clarity came back, like he had been looking through rippled transparisteel and now it had been smoothed.

Hunter took his first deep breath in quite a few minutes, and it was like stepping onto a planet with beautiful, fresh air, and bracing wind, and sweet relief.

In that moment, Hunter forgot that he was almost out of his med.

Hunter collapsed mid-battle. Everything was too loud, too bright, too confusing. Where was he? Who was shooting at him? What was he even doing here?

“Hunter!” Crosshair called through comms. “Get back on your feet. The tank is heading your way.”

Tank?

Oh, right!

He tried to rise, but stumbled, falling down to one knee, shaking, sweating.

He couldn’t stop sweating, couldn’t get a good breath in.

He was so hot he wanted to rip his armor off. He was so cold he wanted to lie cocooned in a heated bed.

Nausea had his vision tunneling, and vertigo suddenly took over his brain.

Hunter tilted sideways, tried to catch himself, slipped, and landed badly, right in the middle of the battlefield, probably tearing some muscles in his left arm. But that pain was nothing compared to the ruining agony in his abdomen.

His comms were so loud, his squad asking what was wrong. The dust was too confusing, the fires, the blasts, the explosions, it was all so much. And he didn’t really care about it, didn’t care about any of it.

He was too busy feeling like his stomach was getting ripped open.

Hunter had taken his last dose yesterday, and had been shaky for a day now, not sure how to get more, how to tell his squad about his problem.

And now he was crashing, hard, and he didn’t even care that he was a prime target now. Take him out! Maybe it’d make the pain stop. Please, just take him out.

Do something. Somebody do something.

Oh kriff, the awful pain. He curled in on himself, arms around his stomach, pressing, like he was having to hold his guts in like after his surgery.

“Tech, get Hunter. You’re the closest,” Crosshair called. “Echo, cover him. Wrecker, head for the tank. I’ll take out the main turret from up here. You do the rest.”

Time slowed, even as it sped up. Yet every second of this ripping, burning, sore agony was too much.

Someone was shaking him, and he almost threw up. He let out a groan through gritted teeth, panting hard, barely able to stay alive as this pain utterly destroyed him. All that existed were those moments between throbs, where the pain was incrementally less—barely, but almost enough to breathe—and then it’d throb, and his muscles locked up, and he screamed around a mouth closed tight from agony. His eyes were squeezed shut so tightly that they were starting to hurt. Hunter was clawing at himself, fingers digging into his hips, bruising. It was all he could do just to hang on, to somehow cling to life.

He was shaken again, and he groaned.

“Hunter, it’s me,” Tech said. “I’m going to get you out of here. Can you stand?”

Hunter couldn’t answer, which was all Tech needed to grab him, and start dragging him to safety. Tech wasn’t as naturally buff like the regs, or Hunter, but he diligently worked on each muscle group till they were hard, and powerful, and could do what needed to be done out in the field. Droids were closing in as Tech grunted, quickly dragging Hunter. Hunter clung tightly to his arms, armor creaking, which made him grunt again.

Tech deposited Hunter behind a ruined wall, and knelt over him, holding back the droids with his pistols.

Smoke cleared for a moment to show a clear blue sky, and Hunter wanted to sink into it, almost felt like he was, like he was floating, and falling, and he could feel the rotation of the planet, its course around its sun, and the solidity of the ground was no more, turning to liquid, and he was sinking, sinking…

“You ran out of afliplan diatane, didn’t you?” Tech asked, voice unusually hard.

“How—”

“I’m not stupid, Hunter. I have been tracking your symptoms and behavior for weeks.”

“I’m not an addict!” Hunter bit out around a scream that ravaged his throat.

“I never said you were. However, your body seems to be.”

Hunter’s head was pounding, right from inside, like something was trying to break free from his skull.

He tried to lift his head up, to watch the battle, but it fell back down to the ground all too quickly, wrenching his neck somewhat.

Hunter tried curling up again, but Tech didn’t move from his position guarding him.

The world blurred, vision like rippling and cracked transparisteel, the very essence of reality unable to make it through.

Days seemed to pass, the sun wheeling overhead. Maybe it was hours. Minutes? Time was fleeting to him, especially when compared to his pain. There was no perfect measurement of it for Hunter, not when all of it was suffering, and agony.

Eventually, he was vaguely aware that he was on the Marauder. Someone had taken off his armor from the waist up, and there was an IV dripping fluids into him.

“Is this gonna help?” Wrecker asked of someone.

Echo answered, “It’s the best we can do to keep him alive till we get to Kamino.”

“You stupid kriffing idiot,” Crosshair cursed.

Oh, was he addressing Hunter?

Hunter tried to think of a response, to bite back, but all he could do was groan.

“Do we give him pain medicine?” Echo asked.

“Bad idea,” Wrecker said. “Isn’t medicine the problem here? Maybe we shouldn’t be adding a different one to his system.”

Hunter grunted as he felt the ship jump into hyperspace.

Oh no, he was going to—

He turned his head, someone helping him onto his side somewhat, and he puked into the bucket that had apparently already been used at an earlier point.

A large hand rubbed his back.

Hunter couldn’t breathe, and his abdomen hurt beyond belief, and yet he couldn’t stop—

He was choking, burning, eyes watering so fiercely he couldn’t see. That large hand smacked his back, and he could breathe again, only to—

“Remind me never to get med withdrawal,” Crosshair said.

Hunter wanted to yell at him for clearly being so judgemental, and to tell him, tell everyone that he wasn’t an addict. He wasn’t. He wasn’t. They had to know, they had to—

Oh, finally, he was done… for now. He coughed and gasped, trying to catch his breath.

Those large hands—Wrecker’s hands—helped him get comfortable again. A cold cloth was placed on his brow, another to the back of his neck, Wrecker gently lifting his head to do so.

“How much farther to Kamino?” Echo asked Tech.

Hunter didn’t hear the answer, but Echo’s groan meant it wasn’t good.

Exhausted, Hunter drifted off.

White. Everything was white. So bright his eyes burned, so bright his head throbbed, and he tried to keep his eyes closed, but wakening and awareness told him to try and open them.

He wasn’t sure what had woken him, but then there was a sore, aching jab into his left arm. A grunt left him.

“Hey, Hunter, you with us?” Echo asked.

“Based on the machines monitoring him, he is clearly awake,” Tech scoffed.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Wrecker asked.

A Kamionan voice answered, “CT-9901 is stable.”

Hunter didn’t feel stable. His abdomen ached so fiercely he could have sworn a hole was getting punched in him.

“Am I supposed to be in pain?” Hunter asked through gritted teeth.

“Yes,” the Kaminoan responded.

Hunter sighed. “Oh. Great.”

He managed to open his eyes. He was in one of the emergency medical wings, and Crosshair was sitting on the bed beside his, checking his rifle, pretending to ignore him. The others were crowded around.

“CT-9901,” the Kaminoan said, drawing Hunter’s attention away from his squad, “when you are able, Jedi Master Shaak Ti would like to have a word with you.”

“Understood.”

Hunter’s heart raced.

A day later, Hunter stood before Jedi Master Shaak Ti at the balcony overlooking one of the training grounds.

“So,” Shaak Ti began, “Hunter, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

He straightened even more, stomach aching, and clasped his fingers together behind his back till they ached.

“I hear you have been struggling with recovery from a battlefield injury you sustained eight weeks ago.”

“Um… yes, sir,” Hunter responded, hesitant, not sure where this was going, but having some idea.

“I’m sorry to hear that. How do you feel now?”

What am I supposed to say?

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he eventually responded.

“Hmm, with this med, correct? Without it…”

She left that hanging, and Hunter bowed his head, looking at his feet.

“Sir, I—”

“It is okay to have these struggles,” Shaak Ti said. “You are not the first soldier to become dependant on a medicine, or a form of treatment. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

She’s talking to me like—

“I’m not an addict,” he insisted.

“No, perhaps not. But your body wishes to say otherwise.”

Hunter swallowed roughly, cheeks heating with shame. His stomach whirled. He forgot to breathe.

“Typically this type of behavior would lead to you being court martialed.”

Hunter raised his head, stunned, worried. “Sir—”

“But in this case, as the commander of an elite squad, such an action would leave your men without a clear path to follow. They need you, Hunter.”

“I know, sir.”

“And that means you cannot be dependant on this med any longer.”

Hunter shifted, wanting out of his armor. He was too hot, sweat sliding down the sides of his face, dotting his upper lip, and seeping into his fatigues.

He tried to be a good soldier, tried to keep in what he wanted to say, but it came out in a broken, guttural tone anyway: “The pain.” Oh gosh, he was shaking, feeling like the world was crumbling apart. His abdomen hurt. Did no one understand how painful his experiences had been?

Shaak Ti put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “I know, Hunter. The pain will fade in time. It is flaring because your body is trying to get more of the medicine. You will reach a point where your body understands it does not need it, and you will be all right.”

“Do you… promise?” he asked, broken voice quiet, feeling like he wasn’t supposed to ask a Jedi such questions.

“Yes, Hunter. You will be all right. But I have ordered your squad to watch you for the time being.”

He opened his mouth to object, and she went on, “Not that they weren’t doing so already, especially Tech, and Crosshair. Prove that you are not taking the med, and the watch will be lifted. This will all be behind you.”

“You’re talking to me like—like…”

Shaak Ti smiled, and her voice was soft, understanding, as she said, “Addicts are not bad people, Hunter. You are not a bad person. This will pass. As the leader of Clone Force Ninety-Nine, you were made to endure, and will heal from this much faster than other humans. I believe in you, Hunter.”

Hunter bowed his head again, not ashamed, but glowing and feeling hopeful with the praise, and not sure how to show it.

“Thank you, Master.”

She squeezed his shoulder.

“You are dismissed. Your squad has another mission, I believe. Hypori, as I’ve heard, is quite an interesting planet. But do keep an eye on Echo. The Techno Union has a droid factory there. I believe the situation could be… uncomfortable for him.”

“Heh, sounds like we’re all supposed to be watching each other.”

“Well, you see yourself as a family, do you not?”

Hunter smiled, his first real smile in weeks, months. “Yes, sir. We do.”

“Good. They’ll help you manage this struggle, and I know you’ll help them. You’re a good leader, Hunter. Keep going. Some pain is not forever.”

He gave her a quick bow, and left.

Afliplan diatane was still gnawing on his mind, the pain begging, and begging, scraping him raw with it, but if he leaned on his squad—his family…

I can do this.

And for the first time in months he believed it.

#summerofbadbatch2024 #week13 #stop touching me i'm not touching you #crashing hard #star wars #the bad batch #tbb #tbb hunter #hunter #fanfiction #writing #my writing

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youngchronicpain · 1 month ago

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I finally got the insurance authorization for my Medtronic SCS trial today. :)) Unfortunately my insurance isn't accepted at the surgery center my pain management doctor uses, so I will need to schedule with a different doctor. Which means the dates will be different, but I'm hoping it is no more than a couple of weeks away. I need to have the actual surgery before the end of the year for insurance/deductible reasons. So I'm just screaming into the void until I find out who can do the procedure and when it can be done.

#good thing the void and I are old pals #chronic pain #medtronic #scs #update

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avengersfantasies · 1 year ago

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A Night With Him in Bucharest - 6

Summary: You're struck by gunfire, and thanks to Bucky, you manage to survive the injury.

What to expect: violent stuff

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

Taglist (people who asked and that I think may be interested): @pattiemac1 @justsebstan @winterslove1917 @crist1216 @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @kandis-mom @vonalyn @mavrellover91 @natashasilverfox @gojoismysensei @ilovetaquitosmmmm

You grabbed your left shoulder – the feeling of a bullet going into the front-left of your chest and all the way to the right side of your back – lodging itself in in the center of your body and causing you to collapse to the ground – heaving and fighting for every breath.

“Get her out of here!” Sam ordered Bucky – shooting in the direction that the bullet came from.

“I’m fine,” you argued – knowing damn well that you weren’t.

“We’re getting you out of here.” Bucky picked you up from the ground and carried you bridal style. “You shoot, I run.”

You nodded and unholstered one of your pistols – keeping it aimed in front of you and shooting anyone who came in the path ahead. While Bucky ran as fast as he could, you began throwing up blood onto his jacket – coughing and gasping for air.

“Hang on, baby,” Bucky pleaded – laying you down on the ground next to your motorcycle and taking your jacket off.

“Open the seat,” you coughed – grabbing and holding the bleeding wound.

Bucky did as told – grabbing the military grade first aid kit from your storage area. Frantically, he searched through it and found a bottle of disinfectant. “This isn’t gonna feel good.”

“It already doesn’t feel good, Buck,” you hissed. “Just hurry up.” You closed your eyes and bit into your shirt – muffling your screams as he poured the alcohol into the wound. Continuing on, Bucky grabbed the packs of gauze and packed the wound as much as he could – the sounds of your screaming making him want to be done with this.

“Almost done, baby,” he assured you – grabbing a wrap and wrapping the upper part of your torso to keep the gauze packs in place and keeping pressure on the wound. He picked you up from the ground and opened the passenger door of the nearest car – running to the driver’s seat and quickly hotwiring it.

“How the hell do you know how to hotwire a car?” you asked through the pain.

Bucky let out a small chuckle. “I’m a hundred and six years old, sweetheart,” he reminded you. “I’ve learned a few things over the years.” He reached over and gently held your hand as he drove through the streets and to the nearest hospital. You were having a hard time in keeping your eyes open, and the amount of silence coming from you caused Bucky to become concerned. “Keep your eyes open for me.”

“Is hard,” you mumbled – coughing up some more blood and growing weaker.

The sight made Bucky drive faster, and he weaved in and out of traffic as fast as he could – holding your hand as tight as he possibly could. “We’re almost there.”

The sound of the tires screeching to a stop jolted you awake, and Bucky quickly got you out of the passenger seat. As he carried you into the emergency room, the staff ran up to the two of you with a stretcher. Gently, Bucky lay you on it and ran with the emergency room staff as they wheeled you into surgery. Unfortunately, he was forced to wait outside, but not before giving you a kiss and whispering that he loved you.

It had felt Bucky had been pacing back and forth for years until Sam and Zemo showed up to the hospital – sitting in the chairs as Bucky continued his rhythm – almost putting a hole in the floor with how frantic he had been moving.

“Buck,” Sam called out – causing the super soldier to look over at him. “She’s gonna be alright.”

Bucky shook his head. “You didn’t see her, Sam.”

Sam knew he couldn’t argue with that statement. He hadn’t actually seen just how bad the wound was, and he wasn’t going to pretend that he did. It took a while, but eventually, Bucky found himself sitting across from the other two men – staring off into space towards the floor. Too many thoughts were racing in his head…too many questions he couldn’t answer.

“Mr. Barnes?” a woman’s voice called out from the door of the waiting area – causing Bucky’s head to shoot up immediately and look over at the doctor. “She’s asking for you.”

Bucky let out a sigh of relief. “She’s awake?”

The doctor nodded. “She is.”

He rushed to his feet and followed the doctor to the room where you lay in – your shoulder wrapped and held in place with a sling. He walked up to the door – knocking gently on the doorframe and causing you to open your eyes.

“Hey, you,” you greeted him sleepily.

Bucky walked in and flashed you a soft smile. “Hey.” He pulled a chair up close to the bed where you lay resting. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like a bullet went through my body,” you chuckled lightly – looking into his beautiful blue eyes. “You saved my life.”

“You saved mine,” he smiled.

You smiled and shook your head. “Is this how our relationship is gonna be? Full of gunfire and fighting?”

“I hope not.” Bucky held your hand and kissed it.

“I love you too,” you spoke softly – causing the soldier to blush hard. You giggled. “I heard you before they put me under.”

Bucky looked down. “That wasn’t how I wanted to tell you the first time,” he confessed. “I just…if you didn’t make it…didn’t want you to not know.” You gave him a soft smile. “So,” he exhaled. “did they say what the damage was?”

You nodded. “Bullet was two millimeters from my heart and right lung is collapsed…They said that the gauze packing you did kept the bullet from moving any further towards my heart.”

Bucky gave you a sweet smile. “It’s my job to protect your heart.”

You laughed at his cheesiness. “You’re adorable, you know that?” you reached your right arm over and brushed his cheek. “I love my old-fashioned gentleman.”

He licked his lips. “I’m only gentle outside of the sheets,” he flirted with a wink.

“Believe me,” you smirked. “I know.”

The two of you laughed at the feeling of relief and cute flirtations. Soon, though, all of the motion taking place at the location of the wound causes you to hiss and cough in pain.

Bucky worriedly moved closer to you. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you nodded – taking a deep breath and exhaling. “Just can’t move that much.” He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Good thing I have the serum in me.”

“You’ll heal fast.”

You nodded in agreement. “Shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.” You looked over at him with sad eyes. “Bucky…I want our baby.”

“You want me to have someone bring him?” he asked – his flesh thumb rubbing the back of your palm.

You shook your head. “I don’t want him to see me like this...I just need his hugs.”

Bucky gave you a knowing look. “Not happening,” he argued. “I’m not breaking you out of here…you have a collapsed lung.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine…I do wanna see him though.”

“I know you do, baby,” he smiled sympathetically. “Want me to stay with you tonight?”

“Please.”

“As long as you get some rest,” he bargained. “Need you healed up as soon as possible.”

Knowing that your lover would be by your side, you found comfort in closing your eyes – letting your body take over control and begin healing itself.

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