#and those were his ONLY medical conditions
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kirozai · 2 days ago
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—HSR YANDERES AS TROPES.
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Forced Proximity? Soulmates..? Amenesia! Common tropes that always end up happy! Your favorite characters love you so so much! But.. is it in the way you want?...
content warnings: yandere, toxic love, unreliable narrator, descriptions of gore, unrealistic relationships, unwanted PDA, depressive elements, suggestive, gn!reader (maybe ideas for makeup but most of the part is gn) pairing(s): sunday x reader, blade x reader, aventurine x reader, jing yuan x reader word count: around 350-500 each, 2100+ words in all A/N: I got a tiny bit carried away
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Aventurine - Amnesia
WHAT’S PLAYING: engravings - Ethan Bortnick
Your eyes are blinded by the casino lights. The sound of chips being thrown and cards being shuffled fills your ears. Things feel so familiar, but at the same time, completely foreign. You turn your eyes to your lover. At least you think he’s your lover.
Two weeks ago you woke up in the dead of night on a hospital bed feeling numb from your head to the tips of your toes. The hospital lights were blinding making you feel dreary. You slowly regained movement by wiggling your fingertips and finally being able to sit up on the comfortable bed. As you gazed around the room you felt shocked to see gold engravings on the trim of the walls. It’s obvious it was a hospital, but it felt too expensive.
And you? You felt out of place.
A nurse walked into your room with a pan of what seemed like a new IV bag and other things like syringes and such. She turned wide-eyed and gasped as she suddenly dropped the pan of expensive medical equipment. You couldn’t make out what she said as she mouthed something out loud. The drowsiness hit you and you passed out.
The next time you woke up to a man sitting beside your bed in the most luxurious clothes you ever laid eyes on. He looked worried, very worried. Realizing you woke up once again his Avgin eyes-
Wait Avgin?...
“Sweetheart! You’ve been out for months. How are you feeling? Is there any pain? How… Can…?” He spoke quickly but after the first couple of sentences, his words faded into mush.
He called you sweetheart though, you deduced he was someone close to you. Someone that must have cared for you. 
But then why do you feel-
Cutting your thoughts you paused. Thinking was causing you too much pain and headache at the moment. You tried to recall what happened. 
And at that moment you realize you couldn’t even recall who you were.
After some time of recovery, you were able to get a couple of things down. The handsome man’s name was Aventurine. He is your lover. (?) You two have been together for quite some time now. You were diagnosed with severe amnesia, but your lover was kind enough to explain everything to you. Although, he was still hesitant to explain what happened to you and the reason why you were in the hospital.
You tried to get something out of the many doctors and nurses, but they seemed… scared.
Aventurine never left your side when other people were around. It was either you and him or no one at all. Leaving you lost and not being able to truly be clear about your condition. Everything went through Aventurine. 
One day during your walk around the large hospital, Aventurine got a call. He looked at it and furrowed his eyebrows, smiled at you, said it was an urgent call, apologized, and left for a brief moment. 
You dragged your IV stand a couple of steps more and abruptly stopped in your tracks as you overheard a pair of nurses talk about… you?
“IPC… they… lies… Aventurine… hiding.” Those were the only few words you were able to make out.
It no longer mattered though because Aventurine’s bright smile found you again and you walked back to your room first. If only you could see the piercing glare that he sent to the nurses. He wouldn’t know what to do if you heard about the fates of them after spreading lies to your pretty head.
After the recovery, you settled in enough to “your life”. Now you sit next to your lover whose luck shines more vibrant than a newborn baby’s laughter. You feel content for the most part.
I wonder if you would still feel content if you were able to take a good look past Aventurine’s perfect poker face. While you sleep he watches you worriedly, wondering if you’ll remember one day. Remember that this perfect love story he crafted isn’t so perfect after all. He wonders how you would react if you were to find out again the atrocities he’s committed in the name of “love”. He holds his chips tightly, but luck has always been on his side.
So tonight like any other night, you’ll smile with no idea of what had occurred in the past. At the end of the day, occasionally it is better to live unaware.
•••
Jing Yuan - Grumpy x Sunshine
WHAT'S PLAYING: Carousel - Melanie Martinez
The Luofu General was known for his joyous laughter and the positivity that he spread throughout the entire planet. He joked and was an infectious smiler. You on the other hand were known as the Yin to his Yang. If Jing Yuan was the sun, you were his moon. It’s adorable on paper, isn’t it?
You do nothing less than agree with the fact that your husband Jing Yuan was very positive. The reason why differed from others though. 
You believed the reason he was so happy was because he sucked every smile, every laugh out of you. 
Your story was the average fairytale, opposite attracts and then they fall in love. The End.
Unfortunately for you, Jing Yuan was anything but ordinary, and maybe that played a part in your perfect tragedy. 
Jing Yuan loved you. You knew that for sure. He had always been a PDA person, always close to you and you would most likely be seen dead than without his arm around your waist. It wasn’t a big deal though. This is what lovers usually do right?
Until you tried to back away. Things got… messy. 
Arguments ensued and you realized that he never really treated you as an equal. He loved you, yes, but he viewed you as lesser and somehow put you on a pedestal at the same. exact. time.
“You don’t respect me.” You stated firmly.
“But I love you.” He replied as if nothing was wrong.
You never thought your husband to be a jealous person and truly he was not. The possessiveness is what got you through.
It began small from making excuses on why you shouldn’t go out,
“It’s my day off!” or “It might rain soon.” Both are lazy excuses you’ve heard again and again. Yet you still seemed to fall again and again for his sunshine charms and wits.
You were the perfect lover to Jing Yuan, loving, kind, and malleable to believe whatever he wanted you to believe.
At some point after the large argument you two shared, you didn’t remember the last time when you had left the estate. 
You felt stuck, stuck on a carousel that kept going around and around and stuck trying to read between the lines of Jing Yuan’s perfect facade. If you caught him at the wrong time you wouldn’t see him for days and when he would return he would haphazardly apologize with the stupidest excuses. 
You never raised your voice anymore after THAT argument though. You were too scared to. So even when he scratches his name into your skin, even if he hugs you so tightly to the point that you feel like your lungs are collapsing, you find excuses for him. For yourself. To make this entire relationship work
Because you love him.
And you don’t not what scares you more anymore. The slight warning in his tone and the ever-present toxicity seeping its way into your originally “perfect” marriage. 
Or.
The fact you’ll still stay even if it gets worse.
Why?
Because you love him.
•••
Blade - Forced Proximity.
WHAT’S PLAYING: This is Love - Black Box
There’s blood on the walls, the floors, and even on the couch. Anything you’ve been able to find you’ve smashed onto the ground. Your hands are covered in blood. No worries to Blade though. He sits on the couch covered in the blood of a man. Your eyes flicker to the dead body right in front of you. The now dead man who tried to help you escape from this prison Blade oh so lovingly calls “your” home to no avail.
Blade’s red eyes stare into the distance of space. Perhaps he’s wondering what he should do next for your transgressions. Perhaps he is wondering what he can do to make you smile again. Or maybe, he doesn’t care. Maybe he finds happiness and contentedness in your suffering. After all, a being who is forever stricken by mara might find peace in others' pain. 
But.
Past this mara-stricken being is a man who does have some semblance of love for you. Blade knew your every like and dislike. He would trail kisses up your neck and on your lips. You’d joke together. You both were disgustingly domestic at times. At least that’s what appeared. Loving Blade wasn’t difficult when every moment you breathed you were near him. 
You wear outfits perfectly fitted to your style sponsored by your self-proclaimed lover himself. Anything you want you’ll get. Jewels, clothing, books, anything you could ever desire. It’s nothing but pocket money for the Stellaron Hunter. 
Your mascara has been smudged after all the tears. Your sniffles fill up the room, you look at your palms. Hands covered in scratches and blisters from broken glass and accidental burns. You don’t have to worry though, Blade will patch it all up for you. This situation will fade into the past just like all the others. Your head peaks again at the dismembered and maimed body on the floor. You stop breathing yet again. You shut your eyes and open them once again when you feel a warm breath on your neck. 
It’s Blade, you can tell that the mara had warned off him. He tightens his arms around your body and somehow pulls you closer than he ever did before in your “relationship”. You blink once again as a tear rolls down your cheek and pray to any Aeon out there for help. Despite this, you're well aware it’s no use. There’s no place in the universe where Blade won’t find you. So you close your eyes to hum a broken chord as you prepare for the cycle to begin again.
•••
Sunday - Soulmates
WHAT’S PLAYING: Butch 4 Butch - Rio Romeo
Fairytale love stories where the prince and the princess lived happily ever after were something that you grew up with on your home planet. As you grew up though, “soulmates” left your mind. Other things like making credits and exploring the galaxies were more on your agenda than finding “true love”.
True love was a fairytale. Something that didn’t exist and that’s what you stood by ever since.
Ever since your planet was destroyed by its inhabitants. If people couldn’t love the homes they lived in how could they ever love one another?
You enjoyed travel, you enjoyed learning about other planets, cultures, and people. You didn’t have time for the nonexistent love. Though you enjoyed hearing the stories of it. You’ve met others who found their “soulmates”, their one and only blessed by the Aeons themselves. 
On your travel across the world, you stumbled on Penacony, The Planet of Dreams and Entertainment. The perfect and endless days are what brought you in the most. You could be there for days on end but turn out to only spend a couple of hours outside in the “real world”.
Real world huh?
You think you miss the real world a little bit. 
“Are the pastries not to your liking love?” Sunday inquires.
“They’re… fine.” You reply.
Sunday smiles. You don’t know what it means though. He smiles at everything, he smiles at gatherings, at your laughter, and even at the tears you desperately try to hold in. He thinks of you as something to be protected, something that should be kept safe in a cage, away from the tainted lies of others.
Everything feels uncomfortable, from the moment you met Sunday you felt an odd gravitational pull towards him. It was truly as if he was your soulmate. 
Except,
Something begged you to run away, something deep in the back of your soul. It all went away when you laid eyes on him though. 
You wish you listened to your fight AND flight response.
Everything you wear is coordinated by the Head of the Oak Family. From the tiniest detail to your entire personality. Sunday is a firm believer that only the true you can come out behind closed doors, with locks only he has access to. His mansion was the perfect enrichment for a now flightless bird like you. 
Perhaps the fairytales were somewhat true. The prince and the princess always seemed to stay forever together.
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creepyscritches · 3 hours ago
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I read your post about open enrollment for the ACA and was hoping you might expand on why you believe it would take years to dismantle. I've been terrified that with a Republican house/senate, Trump could just snap his fingers and make it go away within months of taking office. I'd love some reassurance that that's not possible.
Hiya, sure I can share some thoughts on the matter! First, it's very important to understand the ACA is a huuuuuuuuuuuuge system with subject matter experts in dozens of places throughout the process. I'm one of those SMEs, but I am at the end of the process where the revenue is generated, so my insight is limited on the public facing pieces.
What this means is that I am professionally embedded in the ACA in a position that exists purely to show what conditions people are treated for and then generate that data into what's called a "risk score". There's about 6 pages I could write on it, but the takeaway is that the ACA is
1) intricately interwoven with the federal government
2) increasingly profitable, sustainable, and growing (it is STILL a for-profit system if you can believe it)
3) wholeheartedly invested in by the largest insurance companies in the country LARGELY due to the fact that they finally learned the rules of how to make the ACA a thriving center of business
4) since the big issuers are arm+leg invested in the ACA, there is a lot of resistance politically and on an industry level to leave it behind (think of the lobbyists, politicians, corporations that will fight tooth and nail to protect their profit + investment)
The process to calculate a risk score takes roughly 2 years. There is an audit for the concurrent year and then a vigorous retro audit for the prev year - - this is a rolling cycle every year. Medicare has a similar process. These are RVP + RADV audits if you would like the jargon.
Eliminating the ACA abruptly is as internally laughable as us finishing the RADV audit ahead of schedule. If Trump were to blow the ACA into smithereens on day 1, he would be drowning in issuer complaints and an economic health sector that is essentially bleeding out. You cut off the RVP early? We have half of next RADV stuck in the gears now. You cut off the RADV early? No issuer will get their "risk adjusted" payments for services rendered in the prev benefit year (to an extent, again very complex multi-process system).
The ACA is GREAT for the public and should be defended on that basis alone. However, the inner capitalistic nature of the ACA is a powerful armor that has conservatives + liberals defending it on a basis of capital + market growth. It's not sexy, but it makes too much money consistently for the system to be easily dismantled.
Or at least that's what I can tell you from the money center of the ACA. they don't bring us up in political conversation because we are confusing to seasoned professionals, boring to industry outsiders, and consistently we are anathema to the anti-ACA talking points.
I am already preparing for next year's RVP for this window of open enrollment. That RVP process will feed into the RADV in 2026. In 2025, we begin the RADV for 2024. If nothing else, the slow fucking gears of CMS will keep the ACA alive until we finish our work at the end of the process. I highly doubt that will be the only reason the ACA is safeguarded, but it is a powerful type of support to pair with people protecting the ACA for other reasons.
I work every day to show, defend, and educate on how many diagnoses are managed thru my company's ACA plans. My specialty is cancer and I see a lot of it. The revenue drive comes from the Medical Loss Ratio (MLR) rule stating only 20% MAX of profit may go to the issuer + the 80% at a minimum must go back to the customer or be invested in expanding benefits. The more people on the plan using it, the higher that 20% becomes for the issuer and the more impactful that 80% becomes for the next year of benefit growth. It is remarkably profitable once issuers stop seeking out "healthy populations". The ACA is a functional method for issuers to tap into a stable customer base (sick/chronic ill customers) that turns a profit, grows, and builds strong consumer bases in each state.
The industry can never walk away from this overnight - - this is the preferred investment for many big players. Changing the direction of those businesses will be a monumental effort that takes years (at least 2 with the audits). In the meantime, you still have benefits, you still have care, and you still have reason to sign up. Let us deal with the bureaucracy bullshit, go get your care and know you have benefits thru 2025 and we will be working to keep it that way for 2026 and forward. This is a wing of the federal government, it is not a jenga tower like Trump wishes.
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prince-liest · 1 month ago
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I didn't understand what people meant when they said that the patients where I've done medical school and am doing residency are "very sick," and I'm starting to realize that this is because I haven't actually had context for practicing medicine in a location where patients are less sick, and it is not in fact all that average to think, "It's a good day when I have a patient with a functioning liver and kidneys!" or be pleasantly surprised when I don't have to list "type 2 diabetes mellitis, hypertension, hyperlipidemia, chronic kidney disease stage X, heart failure (of some sort)" on the chart's problem list just, like, at default baseline, with a side of chronic opioid use and/or intravenous drug abuse.
On the other hand, those same people were correct: it's making me better at treating all of those things and handling comorbidities really quick!
One of the big things I keep running into is pain management, because three common things for me to see are liver disease and kidney failure. To simplify it a lot, liver disease precludes the use of acetamniphen/Tylenol, and kidney failure precludes the use of ibuprofen/NSAIDs. There are other pain treatment medications, but I have less experience with them, and they tend to either be for more specific/adjuvant uses (like lidocaine, the gabas, antidepressants, steroids) or opioids... and I've literally seen two patients in the past week who had to get Narcan for opioid overuse.
On the other hand, obviously people in the hospital often have very legitimate reasons to be in pain and we don't want to leave them that way. But it's a hard line to walk when the family is asking questions like "Why is dad not getting enough pain medication?" and "Why is dad talking to the walls about his days in the war?" or when you get people pulling shenanigans like, "I'm allergic to Tylenol, give me Norco instead!" (Hint: Look up what the main ingredient in Norco is.)
Thank you, on-call pharmacy. :'))))
Another thing I'm quickly becoming relieved about is patients who are...not jerks, I guess? It feels not great to put it that way because generally being in the hospital is an extremely poor time for anyone, but also, it sucks when a solid 1/3 of my patients are actively ornery to everyone who tries to work with them for whatever reason (altered mental status, depression, being in pain, general anger issues, drug withdrawal). Shoutout to the folks actively working together with me to help them get better.
Anyway, the hospital is very tiring. Surely the emergency department I'm going to next will - nah, I can't even pretend to finish that joke.
YOLO! I am really enjoying how much and how quickly I'm learning! Despite the crazy hours this is definitely a drastic improvement on medical school in terms of actually enjoying the work.
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raeathnos · 1 month ago
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#having one of those nights where I’m so desperate to be out of here that I’m searching prices for plots or land and yurts#why do rent and house prices have to be so high 🥲#like get me the fuck out of here holy shit#I cannot believe that like just a few years ago me and my dad were fine and not I can’t fucking stand being around him#I found out recently he’s been bemoaning never getting to be a grandfather again and I’m like#gee I’m sorry that I have a major medical condition that makes me horrifically ill and all you can focus on is that it makes me infertile#news flash! even if I didn’t have this I never wanted kids anyways!!!#and I can’t get that fact through his head#despite me always very loudly voicing that I didn’t want kids from a young age he’s co Vince’s this is a recent thing#fucking wild man way to show that you never paid attention to what I’ve ever said#also shoutout to never paying attention to how fucking sick I’ve ever been either#but you know you’re the real victim in this situation#I swear to fuck I am getting closer and closer to going no contact when we finally leave#I am for sure going limited contact but like#literally doesn’t care about the suffering I’ve been through in the past 22 years#I am once again reduced to only being a fucking uterus#it’s so fun dealing with the physical pain from said problem the emotional pain of him being an asshat and the dysphoria#I think he thinks the nonbinary thing is just a phase 🫠#I am very much in fml territory tonight#wish it wasn’t a work night I need a fucking drink#I wanna fucking scream and cry and leave and just never come back
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buttercuparry · 2 months ago
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Recently there has been a fall in engagement with Palestinian content on tumblr, and for those of us who are helping Palestinians fundraise it is very obvious that this has happened directly after the very public smear campaigns, carried out by some racist users with significant followings.
It seems half the site somehow found it easier to believe in the horseshit about “belgian scam rings” and “russian botnets” in an effort to justify their apathy towards genocide victims, and the other half seems to think that everything is over and that the evil was defeated just because some racist bloggers got run off the site after giving half-hearted apologies that did nothing to mitigate the damage they had done.
THERE ARE PEOPLE STILL IN DIRE NEED OF HELP !! There are people who are still getting death threats from zionists every day and have to stay on this godforsaken website because their gofundmes haven't reached their endgoals yet...
I'm going to keep this brief:
Siraj's ( @siraj2024 ) family including his parents, and his five siblings and their families were displaced during the recent attacks by IOF on deir al balah
This means there are now 23 family members that Siraj is the sole provider for at the moment. 
10 of those members are young children.
Siraj's wife, Halima, is having a terrible flareup of eczema and his children are suffering from skin infections and badly need medical attention.
This whole family has been living in unhygienic conditions in 2 tents, packed like sardines during this heatwave, leading to spread of infections between them as well– all during a time where hygiene products have become unaffordable due to the israeli blockade, and when water has become scarce, and kids cant even receive life saving vaccinations during polio epidemic.
All this while everyday siraj risks his life trying to reach out to us from an internet point amidst violence and shelling from the IOF in what once was a “humanitarian safe zone”, even more desperately than before because–
THIS FUNDRAISER IS NOW THE ONLY LIFELINE FOR FIVE FAMILIES INSTEAD OF JUST ONE !!
Currently at $55,614/ $82,000 CAD
TIME IS RUNNING OUT!! We have to get to 60k by thursday i.e WITHIN THE NEXT THREE DAYS!! DONATE AND BOOST
Vetting link #219
If you want additional incentive to donate, pls check out:
Art raffle here (ending in 4 days!!!) - where you get to win this zine as a prize as well for as low as $5 for 1 entry, please dont miss it !!
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suiana · 6 months ago
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✎ yandere! criminal who is helplessly in love with you, devoting his life to you and keeping your affections solely on him, and him only.
✎ yandere! criminal who can't help but flirt with you despite being so beaten up. i mean you're just so cute! why wouldn't he flirt?
✎ yandere! criminal who always reminds you that he has the upperhand no matter what his condition is like. he likes playing dirty.
✎ yandere! criminal who commits even more crimes after seeing you talk with someone who isn't him. doctor, you just never learn, do you?
"remember doctor, you may be smarter, but i always have the upperhand."
the criminal mutters, smirking as he leans into your touch. you merely click your tongue, grimacing at the his antics before going back to tending to his injuries.
you were his doctor, illegally caring for one of the most wanted criminals in the country simply because he was once your childhood friend. you knew it was wrong, you knew you should have rejected him the second he came stumbling to your apartment one day with a bloody wound.
but you didn't. you took him in and treated his injury, nursed him back to health and even offered your place as refuge if he ever needed medical attention again.
unfortunately, you failed to realise that the man was crazy in love with you, infatuated to such an extent that he would harm others without a second thought.
"please, you must understand, i've only ever wanted you to love me and not some other bastard. if you didn't talk to him i wouldn't have needed to hurt that guy."
he mutters, looking at you with such a fond expression that you would've mistaken for love. you really didn't know how to respond to his affections. after all, he was your childhood friend turned criminal. things would be even worse for you if you reciprocated him.
so you did the best thing possible and just ignored him whenever he went off on another tangent of his delusional rambles. you daren't speak up and reject him again. oh no, it happened once and you didn't want it to happen again.
"you look so sexy when you ignore me."
the criminal coos, placing his hand over yours as he brings it to his cheek. you uncomfortably maintain eye contact with him, grimacing as you allow him to mutter and talk about his love. it's okay... just tolerate it...
"oh baby, don't you get it? everything i do is for you."
yeah, you know. he tells you all the time. bout how all his crimes are dedicated for you or done in your name. of course he never says it to the public, he doesn't want you to get jailed! though, he can't help but fantasize about how romantic it would be if you two were both wanted criminals on the run together.
"why must you torment me like this? all i've ever wanted was for you to love me back."
he sighs, not noticing your pursed lips or obvious discomfort.
"never smile for anyone else. only i should have the honour of seeing it. all those other fools will never worship you the way you should be worshipped."
you can't help but twitch at his words. ugh, he always preaches about worshipping you and stuff. it's so... is he mentally insane too?
you get the love part, but the worshipping? you won't be surprised if he prays to you when he's on the brink of his death.
"no one gets me like you. that's why i love you so much."
your childhood friend mutters, finally letting go of your hand after pressing a tender kiss to the inside of your wrist. you allow your hand to limp by your side, standing like an npc as you continue to stare at him as he continues his dramatic talk.
you never knew he yapped so much before. when he was younger he was more introverted, more silent and just clingy. now he can't shut up. or maybe that's just around you.
you continue to listen to the male yapping, not really processing his words. hopefully it'll be over soon... but your hopes were crushed as you freeze in place, eyes widening in horror as he smiles widely at you, eyes fully deranged as he suddenly brings your hands to his cheeks, forcing your cold hands to cradle his cheeks.
"i mean, don't you love me too?"
shit, how do you answer this without meeting a bad fate?
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gay-dorito-dust · 6 months ago
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Hi! I hope your doing well while you read this request! May I ask for HSR Men (Jing Yuan, Blade, Dan Heng, Welt and maybe Boothill) their reaction when after 2 weeks of disappearance from their s/o because of a mission, they came back to them all exhausted and slightly injured. If I can be more precise, can you describe how they acted when they had no news of their s/o et their reaction when they came back please?
Thank you for the attention you’ll give to this request ! I hope you’ll have a great day/night!
-🩵✨
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This is a long one, so brace yourselves! And have a great morning/evening/night! 🦦🐿️
Blade
‘Where have you been?’ Blade hissed, anger laced his voice as he drags you to the nearest surface and eased you on it, keen to avoid worsening your wounds.
‘I was on a mission.’ You sassed, not wanting this to be your first conversation back from a near death experience.
‘I know that,’ he barks as he rummaged through the cabinets for a first aid kit, uncaring do the mess he was making in the process, ‘you’ve been on a mission for two fucking weeks and not once did it come to mind to keep in contact during that time?’ He adds, looking at you with a look that wasn’t angry but instead scared.
Blade had spent the past two weeks going utterly insane form the lack of communication on your end. At first he didn’t think much but by day 12, Blade was more or less ready to included himself in your mission. Unfortunately according to Elio, this wasn’t apart of the script and Blade was made to stay on the sidelines and await your return.
It wouldn’t take long before you came home but you came home in the worst of conditions that Blade had ever seen you in recent memory, and that made him extremely upset. Not at you though, more or less at the person or thing that made those wounds on you.
Communications were down, I had no way of telling you anything.’ You replied, having already grown annoyed at his constant pestering and prodding.
‘Well you should’ve.’ Blade muttered gruffly as he gently took your arm into his hand and examined the wound and had to bite his tongue from saying anything else, but found that task to be a bit too difficult for him. ‘Then I could’ve stopped them from hurting you.’ He added.
You groaned and punched your brow with your free hand, all you wanted to do was go to sleep but couldn’t help but feel warm on the inside at the idea of Blade getting revenge on your behalf. ‘That’s not necessary.’ You told him, trying hard not to wince as he cleaned your wound.
‘And why not?’ He asks, noticing your attempts and wordlessly tries a different approach in cleaning your wound.
‘They’re all dead.’ You replied nonchalantly and Blade couldn’t help but smile. ‘That’s my partner.’ He says but the smile soon falls as he finished patching your wound and looks you dead in the eyes. ‘However the next time you’re sent on a long mission I’m coming with, no excuses.’
You groan again, there was no winning with this man.
Jing yuan was trusting in your abilities to keep yourself safe but the longer he went without update of you nor progression of the mission, Jing Yuan grew worried that something had happened.
He already lost a lot, he didn’t need your loss on top of all that. He lost hope on appreciating that he was living once, he knew that if anything happened to you he would relapse into those old ways but with no chance of recovery.
He would try and fail many attempts of making contact with you, only to be met with static as a responses which didn’t exactly help his hope in seeing you that slowly began to dwindle the longer he tried, until he stopped trying all together.
In his mind you were gone a long time ago and he should start his grieving while he could.
However you did come back, but not exactly in the best shape…you were wounded and exhausted but to Jing Yuan you never looked more alive in that moment as he was quick to get you medical attention. Not once did the general think to leave your leave your side as you laid out on the bed, wounds patched up and fast asleep from everything.
He even slept in the chair next to your bed, making sure your sleep went undisturbed and had a familiar face to wake up to as to not feel misplaced somewhere foreign. Jing Yuan didn’t feel entirely comfortable in leaving you alone during this time, especially when you’re vulnerable and susceptible to a plethora of things.
Not when he barely avoided a possibility of never seeing you again. He didn’t care for the reasons why you couldn’t contact him, those can wait for another time, he only cared that you were back by his side and alive.
So he’d fall asleep with his hand laced with yours and his head resting on your lap, acting like your personal guard dog as he kept his body facing towards the door in the instant he had to protect you.
No one would take you from him again, mission or not, you were staying by his side from now on, generals orders.
Dan heng didn’t think much when you didn’t reach out and tell him about the things you’ve found that he might like whilst away, however that didn’t mean he didn’t have a bad feeling about all of it.
He did but he couldn’t prove why as it was too early into the mission to say why he felt that way. Dan Heng always trusted his instincts when it came moments of uncertainty as they’ve always been proven correct. However this was the one time where he really didn’t want that to be the case.
Yet the longer he went without the regular flow of communication between the two of you during missions, Dan Heng felt himself break out into a cold sweat during the night and out of breath from experiencing another nightmare where you didn’t come back from this mission, leaving him utterly heartbroken and lost for the rest of his days.
He couldn’t close his eyes for a single second without the nightmare flooding back to haunt him of a potential future without you, his other half.
He even had nightmares where you were calling out to him for help but he couldn’t hear them and was forced by an higher power to ignore your soundless cries and walk away unbothered. Those were the nightmares Dan Heng hated the most as there would never be a moment in his life where he would ever leave you to such a cruel fate; He’d be more than gladly suffer with you than ever abandon you.
So the moment you came home wounded and exhausted, Dan Heng didn’t waste time in getting you to medical, taking everything the doctor told him to help you heal seriously as your newly appointed caregiver. Some of the time he came across as strict but he meant well as all he wanted was for you to get better and soon, seeing as how you gave him the biggest fright of his life.
He doesn’t let anyone else near you.
You can blame it on his dragon noodle side as it grew overprotective of the fact that you -his mate- were in seemingly left in a vulnerable state. He didn’t care to listen to the reasonings as to why he should let anyone else come near you, not without knowing their intentions in descriptive depth, he could take care of you himself perfectly fine and without any outside help.
He was your partner, you were his responsibility but this was all just an excuse to hide the fact that Dan Heng was genuinely scared of letting you out of his sight, even if it was for five minutes because a lot could happen in five minutes. So now he stays close to you from then on as a precaution, holding your hand in his and squeezing it as thought he was trying to convince himself that you were actually with him weeks afterwards.
Boothill didn’t like the idea of you being so far from him and much preferred for you to stay in contact if you were going to be so far away from him for so long.
However nothing seemed to want to go the way he wanted as soon as he found that he couldn’t contact you. None of his messages were going through and neither were his calls, as he read and reread the message that said you were out of the area for his messages to get through to you.
Boothill grew more and more restless the longer his texts didn’t go through, still claiming you were out of the area, whatever the hell that means and had to actively find ways to de stress because of how often he found himself on the verge of blasting anything and everything that moved.
You were his anchor, his partner in crime and his voice of reason, without you Boothill was teetering on the brink of becoming everyone’s problem should you spend even another hour more away from him.
So when you did come back with wounds scarred across your body and looking as though you were on the brink of collapse, Boothill was made more worried than before. Your wounds weren’t very deep nor life threatening but Boothill didn’t care, you were hurt and he wasn’t made aware of it for the past two weeks.
He wanted to hunt down the bastards who made those wounds on your body and make them pay, regardless if they had a bounty on their heads or not, he’d gladly hunt them down just to set an example as to why you don’t fuck with Boothill’s loved one.
‘Don’t.’ You croaked, grabbing his hand. ‘Just stay with me and make everything okay cowboy.’
Boothill, not one to argue with you, especially not in your current state, obeyed your wish and stayed by your side as you slowly but surely recovered from your wounds with scars left behind as reminders.
Though that didn’t stop him from going off behind your back to hunt the bastards down, he never could let go of a grudge after all.
Welt basically worried himself sick when he didn’t hear anything from you the first couple of days, but was soon talked down from doing anything rash that could potentially put you in even more danger, regardless of his intention of being by your side.
Welt was restless for the remainder of the two weeks, double checking his phone for anything that could push him over the edge and force him into acting.
What happened to you?
Why weren’t you responding?
Were you hurt?
Were you in danger and he didn’t know?
So many thoughts floated in welt’s mind as he was left feeling powerless as he was forced to await your return, hoping that all his thoughts were just that, meaningless thoughts that had no real affect in reality.
He was wrong.
You did come home but you came back with some new wounds and a face that screamed exhaustion. You barely took one step before collapsing into Welt’s arms as he got you medical help.
‘What happened out there?’ He’d calmly ask one day as he held your hand, thumb rubbing the back of it reassuringly.
‘Communications were down,’ you told him as you squeezed his hand, just happy to be back home and with him, ‘then the mission went south as I found myself out of my depth on several occasions, I’m sorry Welt.’ You finish weakly.
‘There’s nothing to be sorry for.’ Welt reassures as he presses a kiss to your forehead. ‘Not all missions go according to plan and all that matters right now is that you’re safe, so please don’t apologise for things beyond your control.’ He adds as he watched you slowly drift to sleep, still feeling a little exhausted from the mission and everything that happened.
Welt stayed awake for a little while longer to commemorate this moment to memory, to treasure it during the moments when you were to be apart from one another again, but until that time Welt would hold you as close as he possibly could and keep you safe to the best of his abilities. Your safety meant a lot to him and he’d rather jeopardise his own safety if it meant that you’d never get hurt again, he’d do it in a heartbeat because that’s just how much you meant to him and todays events only solidified that.
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scuderiahalf · 5 months ago
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middle man — arthur leclerc
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pairing. arthur leclerc x ferrari driver!fem!reader
summary. you never set out to date your teammate's brother. in fact, it took arthur months just to convince you to go on a single date, but charles' opinion of you hit an all time low after he became aware of your relationship and nothing you did seemed to help mend your previously strong partnership. when charles takes it a step too far, you decide that you’ve had enough of it. 6.7k, 18+
warnings. injury, descriptions of injury, smut, dom/sub dynamic (sub!reader), fingering (fem receiving), impact play, penetrative sex, mirror sex
masterlist.
. . .
The slightest of contact was all it took. That was all it ever took. One second, you were making the overtake for P2, and the next, you were in the wall.
There was barely time to brace. Barely any time to hit the brakes. Reaction time was trained, drilled, conditioned into you until it became second nature. Thank god it was, otherwise, you might not have walked away from this one.
Your ears were ringing when you opened you eyes after impact. Your vision was swimming but you were conscious. You heard the cadence of the question in your ear more than you could actually understand the words being said.
Are you okay? Y/N, are you okay?
You weren't really sure if you were but your mind went to those that were watching the race, your fans, your team, your family, your friends. Arthur. They needed to hear you say that you were okay. The gritty details could come later.
"I'm good. We're good. That was a rough one, huh?"
You're sure that the pain was still evident in your voice. It was unavoidable after however many Gs of force you just withstood in that crash. You turned the engine off, took a moment to center yourself.
You had crashed. You were a Formula One driver. It was the Azerbaijan Grand Prix, the fourth race of your second season with Ferrari after your Haas contract expired two years ago.
Your boyfriend's name was Arthur Leclerc. Privately (and jokingly), you called him Artie because it made him cringe and you thought it was funny. He was your teammate's little brother.
He was the first person to make it to the circuit medical center after you had been loaded into the medical car. He was shaking as he hugged you, not from fear but from restraint, not wanting to hurt you by squeezing you as tightly as he wanted to.
"You are okay? Tell me you are okay."
"I'm fine, baby."
"I could strangle Max Verstappen sometimes. 'Leave the space' must only apply to others."
"Arthur, it's okay. It's just part of the sport."
He looked you over for a moment more before catching your mouth in a searing kiss. It spoke volumes, and you understood exactly what he meant by it.
I deeply respect your love of the sport but I would burn the FIA and the whole world to the ground if it meant keeping you safe.
"I love you," he said when he pulled back.
"Je t'aime," you returned.
That exchange of I love you's in your and Arthur's respective native languages of English and French had been a staple of your relationship since very early on. Your first "I love you" had been in each other's mother tongue. It had stuck ever since.
“Are you sure you are okay?”
“Yes,” you insisted, “A little dizzy, but okay.”
“Dizzy? You did not say you were dizzy.” That was the doctor that had checked you for any signs of a concussion.
You turned to face her. “Yes, but I had—“
You lost your balance as you turned. Your typical coordination escaped you and Arthur had to catch you to stop you from tipping sideways.
The doctor pulled out a phone. “I’m calling an ambulance. You’re going to the hospital.”
“I’m fine—“
“Mon coeur, please sit down,” Arthur urged.
Your calm but obviously worried boyfriend refused to leave your side even when it meant leaving for the hospital before the end of the race. You tried to convince him to stay for his brother but he wasn’t having it.
In the hospital room after you had completed all the precautionary brain scans, Arthur checked his phone.
"Maman is asking about you," he said. "Lorenzo, too."
You both took note of the lack of another of his family member’s text message, but you had grown all too used to it. It was easier not to comment on it.
"Tell them I'm fine."
"I will tell them we are waiting on your test results."
"Don’t worry them. I’m fine, Arthur.”
"We will know that once they have gotten their results."
Arthur had a very convincing poker face but this needless argument showed how concerned he truly was. He kept worrying his bottom lip between his teeth whenever he thought you weren’t looking.
You tugged on your intertwined hands to pull him closer. “Hey. I’ll be fine. It’s probably just a concussion.”
“You cannot know.”
“Then, call it positive thinking.”
Before anything more could be said, the doctor returned with the results of your tests.
You were okay, only a concussion as you had thought. You had a fair amount of bruising and a bit of whiplash to commemorate one of the worst crashes of your career but other than that, you seemed fine.
They still wanted to keep you overnight for observation but you should recover in a timely fashion.
When the doctor left, you only had time to shoot Arthur an “I told you so” look before his phone started ringing. The caller ID showed his second eldest brother’s name.
He answered in French, a language you knew almost fluently after living in Monaco since your rookie season. You had really buckled down to learn the language after beginning to date Arthur.
“Hello? ... I am at the hospital with Y/N. … I know but congratulations on third. Sorry I missed the celebrations.”
You couldn’t hear what Charles was saying, only your boyfriend’s responses. It was now over two hours since the end of the race. Charles must have only just gotten time to call Arthur.
“I know I am, but Y/N was dizzy and the doctor was concerned and I couldn’t just leave her. … She is part of Ferrari, too. I have a duty to both her and the team. … I was not needed at the garage. … And I said I’m sorry I missed your podium but I wasn’t going to leave her alone. What if something happened?”
You sunk back into your hospital bed. They were fighting again. Because of you.
You and Charles had been rookies together back in 2018. You had started your F1 career at Williams before moving through Haas to where you were now, your second year at Ferrari.
You were a handful of years younger than Charles and he had always treated you like a little sister. When you got the Ferrari contract, Charles was over the moon. You remember him going on a half hour tangent about how much fun it would be having you as a teammate, how excited he was for the next two years.
Charles adored you. At least, he used to, before you and Arthur told him you had started seeing each other.
Since then, Ferrari has been a minefield.
Charles was distant and cold. He stopped sending TikToks and stopped laughing at your memes. He unfollowed you on Instagram for about a week before the Ferrari PR team made him follow you again.
The PR department was working well past overtime thanks to you and Charles. You had learned not to try and approach him even when there were cameras around because he would continue to ignore you and it would further fuel the drama mill.
You missed your friend. You missed the fun you two had last year as teammates.
Now, you were with Arthur. And you loved him. And he made you so happy. But you missed being able to talk to Charles without him looking at you like you were the gum on the bottom of his shoe.
Arthur’s voice had gotten sharper the longer he spoke to Charles. “Not that you bothered to ask but Y/N is fine, by the way. We had to go to the hospital to scan her brain and make sure but she would be. Not like you’d care.”
Arthur hung up and tossed his phone onto a table where he couldn’t reach it. You reached out for his hand and he took it, kissing your knuckles and sighing deeply.
“I’m sorry,” you said quietly.
“Do not apologize. This is not your fault.”
“It feels like it is.”
“It is not. It is Charles being impossible for no reason. Before we were dating, he—“
He adored you. He called you mon ange. He praised your driving any time he could. He invited you to dinners with his family, which was how you got to know Arthur outside of racing.
Now, Charles couldn’t stand the sight of you. It hurt, you weren’t going to lie. Charles was your teammate and friend, but more importantly, he was Arthur’s brother.
You didn’t feel it was your place to try and close the gap gouged between you and Charles, not when he was Arthur’s family. You didn’t want to complicate things further, didn’t want to try and repair your friendship before the bond between brothers was mended.
“Maybe…”
You lacked the confidence to continue your thought. You didn’t want to suggest what you were about to, even if it could potentially fix everything.
You were selfish when it came to Arthur. You didn’t like sharing him and you especially didn’t want to let him go.
“What?” Arthur asked.
“Maybe we should take a break.”
“What? No? No. Why? No. Why would you want to—? Have I done something wrong? Why would you say that?”
You were quick to reassure him. “No, no, no, baby, it’s not that. I was just thinking that it might be a good idea to take a bit of time and come back to this in the off season. When Charles can separate me as your girlfriend from me as his teammate.”
“No,” he insisted. “No. I do not want him to ruin this any more than he already has. I do not want to take a break.”
“Okay. That’s okay. It was just a suggestion.” One that you were thankful Arthur objected to so vehemently.
“It is a dumb suggestion. I do not want a break. I will never want a break from you.”
“Okay.”
You let him lean in and kiss you. It seemed that Arthur was selfish with you, as well.
.
You were no stranger to Charles Leclerc’s yacht. You had spent many nights attending parties hosted by your friend on his impressive vessel and even more days lounging around or exploring islands along the Monaco coast.
But ever since Charles found out about you and Arthur, you hadn’t been invited back. Until the weekend between races, a week after your crash.
And you hadn’t exactly been invited, it was more that Charles had been told by his mother that you would be spending the day with the family and there was no getting out of it. Though, as the day stretched on and tensions grew higher, you were really wishing that you were the one who could have gotten out of going.
Your concussion wasn’t as severe as originally feared. Your ribs were still tender and the skin of your torso bruised but you were set to race at Miami next week as long as your checkup in a few days went well.
Arthur sat down beside you on the large daybed you had taken to reading on. It was shaded and secluded enough to be comfortable but not so far from the main seating area that you couldn’t easily rejoin the larger group. It was where you had usually set up camp whenever aboard Charles’ yacht.
Your boyfriend handed you the fizzy, non-alcoholic beverage you had requested. He accepted a kiss as gratuity.
“What are you reading?”
“One of those spicy fantasy novels you make fun of me for.”
“Oh, the porn books.”
“They’re not porn books!”
Arthur just laughed because he liked teasing you. He laid his head in your lap. You, of course, let him because you were not actually upset.
You smoothed the hair off his forehead lovingly.
“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not hurting?”
“No. I’ve been doing my stretches and using bruise cream. I’ll be right as rain next weekend.”
Arthur seemed pleased with that answer. “Will you read to me?”
You regarded the content on the page you were open to. “I’m not exactly at a publicly appropriate chapter.”
“Am I not a better option than ink on paper?”
“You are not always readily available.”
“You are far more busy than me. You are always away from me.”
“Exactly. I need something to do with all my free time in my hotel room. All alone. Just me. And my hands all over… my latest smutty book.”
“You kill me, woman,” Arthur groaned, sitting up to kiss you.
You let out a peel of laughter when Arthur pushed you onto your back. You two were not in the habit of making your close friends and family uncomfortable with excessive PDA, so Arthur abandoned kissing you to pin you down, gentle and conscientious of your torso.
“Okay! Okay, you’re better!”
Arthur leaned down over you. “Better than what?”
“You’re better than my books.”
“Good.”
He kissed you, then wiggled his fingers against your neck to make you shriek.
“Arthur, Y/N. Come eat!” Pascale called the two of you over to the group.
Arthur helped you sit up, then held out a hand to help you down the steps to the deck below because god forbid you take the three stairs on your own. You didn’t mind; you liked that he wanted to help you, even with things you didn’t need him for.
You smiled at Arthur, able to forget about the Leclerc civil war for a moment. Then, you turned toward where everyone else was sitting in the main seating area.
Charles was glaring daggers.
Your stomach dropped. You pulled your hand free from Arthur’s to fix your hair then didn’t take it again when you were done.
Arthur looked at you odd, noticed where you were glancing. He glared back just as hard at his older brother.
“Arthur,” you muttered in reproach.
“If maman was not here, I swear I would smack him across the face.”
“Arthur, please.”
After the race in Azerbaijan was over, after podium celebrations and post-race interviews, Charles had spoken a little too loudly about how it was your fault that you had crashed, that it was what happened when you "still drive like a rookie five years into your career."
The video that some random clubgoer had managed to capture of your teammate badmouthing you while you spent the night in the hospital for observation had gone more than a little viral.
To hear him talk about you like that just made you sad. You didn't have the energy to be mad over it.
Arthur did not share those feelings. When he first saw the video, it was everything you could do to keep Arthur from charging halfway across Monaco to kick his brother's door in. Instead, you anxiously sat on the couch in your living room as he and his brother shouted at each other over the phone.
If it wasn't for Pascale's not at all subtle attempts to get her boys to make up, you and Arthur never would have come today. But she was your boyfriend's mother. She would not accept a refusal of her invitation for today.
You ended up sat beside Arthur and about as far from Charles as possible as sandwiches and chips were passed around. You kept making eye contact with Pascale, awkwardly smiling whenever you did before glancing away.
"Charles, do you have any more wine on this boat?" Pascale asked.
Charles stood. "I'll go get some."
"Arthur, why don't you help your brother?"
You held your breath. You truly admired the balls on that woman, and the unapologetically obvious pursuit of making her sons make up. When you glanced at Arthur, almost hopeful, you saw the dark edge to his gaze as he looked at his brother; he was still too angry to be left alone with Charles.
You didn't believe Arthur would actually slap or physically harm Charles in any way but things would not be made better by Arthur confronting his brother right now.
"I'll help," you said before Arthur had to respond. "Lead the way, Charlie."
You false enthusiasm shriveled into nothingness by the time you reached the stairs down to the bar. You trailed after him below deck, staying several paces behind.
Charles was silent as he began opening cupboards. He hadn't so much as looked at you when you took his younger brother's place in assisting him.
"Charles, I—"
"I do not want to hear it, Y/N."
You swallowed around the nervousness trying to clog up your throat. "Are you ever going to let me explain?"
"There is nothing to explain. You are my teammate. Arthur is my brother. You both go behind my back to start dating each other and do not care of what it will affect."
"Believe me, we've talked about it. At length. We know it's a risk."
"And you do not care," Charles concluded, ducking down below the bar and out of view as he continued his search.
"No, we decided it was worth it." You took a breath. "I don't know how to talk about how in love with your brother I am without making you uncomfortable but if I had to choose between him and racing, I would hesitate."
That statement may not sound all that impressive but Charles had once said to you—after many, many drinks following a successful race weekend for Ferrari—that he would know he truly loved a woman if when he had to choose between her and never racing again, he hesitated.
As a fellow driver, you understood exactly what he meant. That was what you felt for Arthur. That was what the youngest Leclerc meant to you. That was how hopelessly in love you were.
"I love Arthur, I really do. And I know it's messy and complicated and whatever else but I don't care about that. At the end of the day, I am happier with Arthur than I have been in a really long time."
Charles was silent behind the bar. He was still ducked down. It felt like you were monologuing to an empty room. It made it a little easier to continue.
"While I am willing to put a little strain on my career for my relationship, what I have never wanted to put strain on is your relationship with your brother. I never wanted anything like this to happen.
“I never wanted to go behind your back. I never would have pursued my feelings for Arthur if he hadn’t been so persistent but he wore me down and I couldn’t tell him no.
“I am truly sorry for breaking your trust. But I cannot stop loving your brother. I will not let him go just because you cannot accept us, despite all the difficulties it may come with.”
Two bottles of wine appeared on the bar top just before Charles stood upright again. He still would not look at you.
"If you can't forgive me for pursuing a member of your family, that's fine. I understand. But Arthur is your little brother; do not throw that away because of me.
"Hate me. Be mad at me. Ignore me on media days. Unfollow all my socials. Make the entire world think you despise me. I don't care; just don't take it out on Arthur.
"I am not worth you two falling out."
You nearly jumped out of your skin when Charles finally looked you in the eye. You held his gaze, imploring him to listen to what you were saying.
His expression did not change the longer he surveyed you. Then, he took the bottles of wine, walked right past you without another word, and went back above deck.
.
"That is it?" Arthur asked as you recounted the events to him later that night.
He was sat on the lid of the toilet as you washed your face before you two were going to settle in to watch a movie.
"Then, I told him I'm not worth you two falling out over and he walked away. Without a word. Just back up the stairs and that was that."
"You are."
"Are what?"
"Worth falling out over."
You sighed. "Arthur—"
"You are. I am serious."
"Arthur, I'm not going anywhere. You don’t have to choose between me and Charles; I don’t want you to.”
“I am not losing you because of him.”
“I’m not asking you to compromise. I’m not letting you go because of Charles, either, but we have to try and make this work. He’s your brother. That has to mean something to you.”
“He is being unreasonable.”
“Have you even tried to talk to him about it? Or have you just been pretending nothing’s changed?”
“Nothing has changed," he said stubbornly.
“Okay, that's one of the problems."
"It should not matter that we're dating."
"No, it should. And it does. I'm dating my teammate's brother; that is going to change some things. You do recall the HR meeting all of us had to suffer through, don't you?"
Shortly after telling Charles of your relationship, you and Arthur had gone to Ferrari to make them aware as well. There had been no major backlash from the team but there had been a several-hours-long meeting with HR and PR that you, Arthur, and Charles all had to be present for.
Arthur physically shuddered at the memory. "Do not remind me."
"Us being together changes things. You cannot ignore it and hope everything will blow over."
"He hasn't even apologized to you."
"Worry about me later. Fix your relationship with your brother before it's too late."
"Y/N, you are not understanding. I cannot fix my relationship with Charles if he is going to speak of you like he did in that video. If he is going to treat you like he has been, nothing is going to be fixed."
"He's your brother—"
"And you are l'amour de ma vie. I do not care that he is my brother; I will not tolerate anyone speaking of you in such a way. I cannot remove you from the situation. I cannot make up with him until he stops treating you horrible.”
You had not realized Arthur’s view on the whole situation. You supposed it made sense now that you thought about it.
Charles was generally being mean to you, not his brother. When the two youngest Leclercs argued, it was over you. Charles seemed convinced that you would never prioritize Arthur or his career over yourself or your own.
True, you would never give up your seat for Arthur, but you wouldn’t do that for anyone. Should the time ever come where Arthur got an F1 seat, you would never give him anything; he would have to work just as hard as anyone else to race against you. That was racing.
You do not think that Charles meant anything to that extreme of a degree. He perhaps meant that Arthur would seldom be prioritized in place of a career in F1, period, but you and Arthur were on the same page about that.
You had spoken in length about it. You had laid everything on the table a few months into your relationship and spoke about it all until you reached a true and total understanding.
And Charles… Well, Charles would always see Arthur as his baby brother, as someone to protect, as someone who is young and unknowing of the world even if he was snugly into his twenties.
“You need to speak to him. Really speak to him. Talk everything through.”
“He needs to apologize, first. Then, and only then, will I talk things out.”
“You are. So. Stubborn,” you growled at him, jokingly pretending to choke him in your frustration.
“If I was not, how would I keep you in check?”
He slid his hand right up under your oversized sleep shirt to hold your core in his palm. Your freshly washed face went a little pink.
“I don’t need to be kept in check,” you said indignantly.
“Don’t you? You always seem to find some way to misbehave and then I have to punish you for it. You know how I hate to punish you.”
“Don't lie. You love my punishments as much as I do.”
He rubbed his hand over the cloth of your panties, pushed his fingers between your closed thighs to prod over the fabric at where you had already started to ache for him. It took so little to get you worked up, just a few touches and some dirty words and you were ready to melt into any mold Arthur wanted.
“Backtalk.” He clicked his tongue at you. “Already misbehaving.”
“I’m debating my point. That is not misbehaving. You’re just being mean.”
“Keep talking and I can show you how mean I can be.”
“That’s not fair—“
You didn’t get to finish your thought before Arthur stood and pushed you against the bathroom counter. Your thighs dug into the edge of the counter as Arthur pressed against your back, hips nestled into the soft curve of your ass.
“Arthur—"
"Hm?"
He slowly slid your hair out of the way. The collar of your ancient sleep shirt was easily stretched to the side so Arthur could kiss the bare skin of his shoulder. His teeth bit into the curve of your neck just enough to feel but not hurt.
You whined, pushed your hips back into him. "Don't tease."
He slid a hand up to your neck, met your eye in the mirror. "Be patient."
He held you there until you nodded your understanding. Only then did he hitch the back of your shirt up to slip his hand inside your panties from behind.
He grabbed a handful of your ass. You exhaled a soft moan.
You hadn't been intimate since the Monday before the Azerbaijan GP, meaning it was pushing two weeks since Arthur had touched you. You were ready to fall apart and he hadn't even really touched you yet.
"Arthur, s'il te plaît."
In the mirror, you could see him smirk at your French. He had told you before that he liked when you spoke to him in French, that he thought your accent was cute.
You knew it was a totally indulgent way to get what you wanted but you didn't care; it worked. His fingers slid between your folds, feeling how slick and ready you were for him.
He cursed into your shoulder, slipping into French to say, "So wet for me—fuck, Y/N."
"Want you, baby. Please."
"Want me? Want me where?"
"Inside me."
"So lewd, mon coeur," he teased. "You're so needy tonight."
"You started it."
"And I will stop it if you are not grateful for what I am giving you."
He pulled his hand out of your underwear and you whined. You reached back to slide a hand into his hair.
"No, please, I'm sorry. Please, don't stop."
Arthur huffed out a laugh. "I will take care of you. You do not need to beg."
He pulled your panties down until you could kick them off to the side. He gently ran a hand over your stomach and ribs. Arthur was always conscientious of you, especially when you were injured.
"Can you bend over for me?"
You did so immediately, elbows coming to rest on the sink counter. Your shirt slid up off your hips to hang loosely around your waist. You felt your arousal hit the air in the bathroom, the chill making you shift your hips.
"So good for me. My good girl."
You could cry from the praise and the fact that his fingers still were not inside of you that exact second. You were embarrassingly worked up.
Arthur seemed to take pity on you, circling his thumb on your clit a few times before slipping a finger into you. Just one was nowhere near enough to fill you up but you dropped your head onto your arms and moaned.
He kissed your backside, knelt down behind you. "So noisy, amour."
Any snarky response you may have had died in your throat when he pressed a second finger into you. That was enough for a bit of a stretch that had you pushing your hips back against his hand.
"Stay still," Arthur warned.
You really did try to listen to him but after slowly scissoring you open with two fingers, he introduced a third and started really finger fucking you. You pressed your forehead against the counter, not able to stop yourself from pushing back into him again, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, searching for something that would stretch you further, reach deeper into you.
He pulled his fingers out of you. Your whine was cut short when he slapped your bared cunt with the same soaked fingers that were just inside of you.
"You are so fucking impatient."
"Just want you."
"Yeah? You want me so bad you cannot even stay still and let me stretch you out? You want to be torn open by my cock?"
You whimpered. That was exactly what you wanted.
He slapped your pussy again. "Huh? Is that what you want?"
You raised your head just enough to be able to watch as Arthur pushed his shorts down. You couldn't see as he pulled his cock free with him stood behind you but you definitely felt it when he pressed his tip against your prepped entrance.
"Oh, fuck—"
He entered you in a swift motion. You choked around a moan.
He was gentle with his arms as he pulled you back against him but ruthless with his hips as he fucked into you without relent. He didn’t press on your bruised torso but he did get a hand around your throat to make you watch yourself in the mirror.
Your dynamic was like this. He was in charge and you loved that. He could hit you, fuck you hard, have you screaming, begging, crying, but where it truly mattered, he would always be gentle with you. His dominance was not just for him; he was always cognizant of your current state and how you were feeling in the moment.
“Arthur.” You breathed his name like a moan, like a prayer.
He kissed your neck, then your cheek. “So good for me.”
Arthur set the pace slow and deep. You could feel him nudging your cervix, stretching you open, the tug of your walls against his cock making you ache for him even more. You were a moaning mess for him in mere moments.
He coaxed you through your first orgasm like that, fucking you slowly from behind as you watched yourselves in the bathroom mirror, his hand between your thighs to push you along. Your legs shook and Arthur held you upright as he kept the torturous pace all the way through your climax.
“You have a bit more in you, amour. Yes?” he asked, still moving his hips as the continued stimulation was making you squirm.
You felt you could barely catch your breath but you nodded anyway. “Yes.”
Arthur hummed, pleased. “Good girl. Bend over.”
If your first orgasm was for you, the second was surely for Arthur. Sex was always a game of give and take with him. Though, even when he was taking, you were always being given so much.
As soon as he had you bent over again, he gripped your hips, adjusted his own, then started fucking into you fast and hard. You grabbed onto the counter to steady yourself, let your head drop onto the quartz as you went pliant and easy.
You were shaking from the overstimulation, from not getting a break between your first high and the second that Arthur was making you chase.
“Come on, amour. Come on.”
His pace was just uneven enough for you to become aware that he was definitely close. He was waiting for you.
His fingers found your clit again, rubbing out another wave of pleasure that had you trembling against the counter. Your head felt light, legs literally giving out and you would have fallen to your knees if Arthur wasn’t still gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, strong arming you into staying on your feet.
You cried his name and your body went slack. Arthur fucked you through your second high and past it, stroked himself out with your body and buried himself deep inside of you as he came.
You mewled at the feeling, at the depth and the spurting warmth. Arthur smoothed a hand up your spine to soothe you. He whispered praises and pressed kisses into your skin until you came back to Earth, getting your legs back underneath you.
"Welcome back, mon coeur."
You could hear the proud grin in his words but could only give a weak groan in response as you pushed yourself upright. Arthur helped you up, then sat you on the bathroom counter and kissed you sweetly before setting to cleaning you up.
He scooped you up into his arms once you were clean and dressed to carry you out to the living room.
"I can still walk," you told him but still happily wrapped your arms around his neck anyway, leaning against his chest.
"I'll have to do better next time, then."
Arthur set you on the couch. He told you to stay as he bustled around getting popcorn and drinks ready.
"What do you want to watch?" you asked.
"Whatever you want."
"Don't give me that kind of power," you mumbled to yourself.
You didn't giving in to the temptation to queue up some cringeworthy romcom you know Arthur would hate. He had given you enough tonight. You could be nice about the movie choice.
You made it through maybe half of the movie (some new Netflix film you thought looked decent) when there was a knock at the door. It was a soft noise, almost hesitant.
You shared a look with your boyfriend before you both checked your phones to make sure you hadn't missed a text from someone letting you know they were on their way over. You both came up blank.
Despite it being your apartment, Arthur pushed you down when you went to stand and ran to answer the door himself. You couldn't quite see the door from the couch, so you strained your ears to listen.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, not quite unkindly but certainly not happy.
"I went to maman's. You were not there."
Charles. Why had he showed up at your door unannounced this late in the evening?
"I've been staying with Y/N most of the time."
Silence followed. It was painful just eavesdropping on the two brothers. You nearly got to your feet to approach them and attempt to mediate but Arthur beat you to it.
"What do you want, Charles?"
More silence. You don't think you were breathing, scared if you made yourself known it would ruin whatever was about to happen.
"I wanted to apologize," Charles eventually said.
"Apologize?"
You bit your cheek to stop from screeching with joy. Finally—finally! You were so ready for this whole thing to be over with. Even if it took some subtle guilt tripping on your part, you were more than pleased at the outcome.
"For how I've been treating you since you told me about you and Y/N. Is she here?"
"Yes."
"Yes, well, it is her apartment, no?" Charles tried for a weak laugh but Arthur did not take mercy and join him. "Er, well... I—I shouldn't have been so quick to judge you two. I was upset, at first, that you had hidden it from me.
"I forget that you are an adult and you have pursued your own career and you do not need protecting from people who might try to take advantage of you—not that I believe Y/N would do such a thing!"
You cringed. This could go downhill really fast considering Arthur's protective streak over you.
"Yes, I am an adult. How you feel will not dictate my relationship. But how you treat Y/N will dictate my relationship with you. How can you speak of her like you have? She has been your friend for so long."
"I know what it has been like for you to constantly be compared to me. I know it has been difficult for you and I have become paranoid in my fame that someone will use the people I care about to get to me."
"That is ridiculous. Y/N is just as well-known as you, if not more. And she knew you before she knew me—how does any of this make sense, Charles?"
Arthur had a point but you could understand where Charles was coming from. It was always a fear in your own mind that something may happen to or someone might try to take advantage of your family or your friends because they were in connection with you.
"It doesn't," Charles admitted. "It doesn't make any sense. I was being stupid. I assumed the worst—thought Y/N was using you to mess with my head—and refused to see it any other way and I never should have treated Y/N as I have been or said what I have about her.
"She is one of the most talented drivers I have ever driven alongside. She is the kindest person I know. She has been my friend for years longer than she has been dating you. I should not have let my judgement be so clouded by my own fear.
"I am sorry, Arthur. And if Y/N is here, I would like to apologize to her, as well."
It was quiet for several moments. You waited in silence, still holding your breath. Had you breathed at all since Charles started apologizing? Was Arthur going to say anything? Was he just standing there?
There was the rustle of fabric followed by the telltale sighs of relief that accompanied a much needed hug. You exhaled and slumped back against the couch. Thank God.
It was long overdue that the youngest Leclercs made up. Thankfully, Charles knew his brother well enough to know that you must also be apologized to if things were ever going to get better.
"Y/N?" Arthur called.
You suddenly remembered that you had been eavesdropping the whole time. Charles had no idea you were just around the corner in your living room. You had heard the entirety of Charles' apology, even the things not meant for your ears.
You cleared your throat. "Yes?"
"Do you think Charles should be forgiven?"
You laughed and went to join the brothers in the foyer. "I absolutely do. Do I get a hug, too?"
Charles' face was red but he seemed to find the humor in the situation, too. He opened his arms for you and wrapped you in a tight embrace.
"I am sorry, Y/N. I know you would never purposefully try to hurt me or my brother. I was rash in my understanding of the situation."
"It's okay, Charlie. I just missed my friend."
"I'm sorry." Charles squeezed you tight once more before letting you go.
When you stepped back into Arthur, he let his arm slip around your waist. He kissed the side of your head. You leaned into him, too pleased with the outcome of tonight to fret much over PDA in front of Charles.
For the first time, Charles didn't seem deeply disturbed by your affection. However, he did sigh faux irritably.
"You two are way too cute together. It was so difficult to be mad at you sometimes."
You and Arthur laughed.
"I am serious! You should see yourselves."
Despite knowing it was an inappropriate train of thought to entertain in front of your boyfriend's brother, you couldn't help but think back to just about an hour ago and how you had watched yourselves through the bathroom mirror.
"Oh, we have," Arthur said, innuendo lost on his brother but not on you.
You smacked him in the chest. Arthur just laughed. Luckily, Charles seemed none the wiser.
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fatliberation · 6 months ago
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hi, i'm a fat person who is just starting to learn to love and appreciate my body and i'm very new to the fat community and all that.
i was wondering if you could maybe explain the term ob*se and how it is a slur. i've never heard anything about it being a slur before(like i said, i'm very new here) and was wondering if you could tell me the origin and history of the word or mayy provide links to resources about it? i want to know more about fat history and how to support my community but i'm unsure of how to start
Welcome!
Obesity is recognized as a slur by fat communities because it's a stigmatizing term that medicalizes fat bodies, typically in the absence of disease. Aside from the word literally translating to "having eaten oneself fat" in latin, obesity (as a medical diagnosis) straight up doesn't actually exist. The only measure that we have to diagnose people with obesity is the BMI, which has been widely proven to be an ineffective measure of health.
The BMI was created in the 1800s by a statistician named Adolphe Quetelet, who did NOT sudy medicine, to gather statistics of the average height and weight of ONLY white, european, upper-middle class men to assist the government in allocating resources. It was never intended as a measure of individual body fat, build, or health. 
Quetelet is also credited with founding the field of anthropometry, including the racist pseudoscience of phrenology. Quetelet’s l’homme moyen would be used as a measurement of fitness to parent, and as a scientific justification for eugenics.
Studies have observed that about 30% of so-called "normal weight" people are "unhealthy" whereas about 50% of so-called "overweight" people are “healthy”. Thus, using the BMI as an indicator of health results in the misclassification of some 75 million people in the United States alone. "Healthy" lifestyle habits are associated with a significant decrease in mortality regardless of baseline body mass index.  
While epidemiologists use BMI to calculate national "obesity" rates, the distinctions can be arbitrary. In 1998, the National Institutes of Health lowered the overweight threshold from 27.8 to 25—branding roughly 29 million Americans as "overweight" overnight—to match international guidelines. Articles about the "obesity epidemic" often use this pseudo-statistic to create a false fear mongering rate at which the United States is becoming fatter. Critics have also noted that those guidelines were drafted in part by the International Obesity Task Force, whose two principal funders were companies making weight loss drugs. Interesting!!!
So... how can you diagnose a person with a disease (and sell them medications) solely based upon an outdated measure that was never meant to indicate health in the first place? Especially when "obesity” has no proven causative role in the onset of any chronic condition?
There is a reason as to why fatness was declared a disease by the NIH in 1998, and some of it had to do with acknowledging fatness as something that is NOT just about a lack of willpower - but that's a very complicated post for another time. You can learn more about it in the two part series of Maintenance Phase titled The Body Mass Index and The Obesity Epidemic.
Aside from being overtly incorrect as a medical tool, the BMI is used to deny certain medical treatments and gender-affirming care, as well insurance coverage. Employers still often offer bonuses to workers who lower their BMI. Although science recognizes the BMI as deeply flawed, it's going to be tough to get rid of. It has been a long standing and effective tool for the oppression of fat people and the profit of the weight loss industry.
More sources and extra reading material:
How the Use of BMI Fetishizes White Embodiment and Racializes Fat Phobia by Sabrina Strings
The Bizarre and Racist History of the BMI by Aubrey Gordon
The Racist and Problematic History of the Body Mass Index by Adele Jackson-Gibson
What's Wrong With The War on Obesity? by Lily O'Hara, et al.
Fearing The Black Body: The Racial Origins of Fat Phobia by Sabrina Strings
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kombuuuu · 1 year ago
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Somethin’ Soft for someone Tough.
Earth 42!Miles Morales x Fem!Reader
“Let me stitch you up, Miles.”
i ❤️ miles and he is so bf uhuh (i’m insane put me in a cell)
also he’s soooooo a simp in this, none of that ihu typa love his mama raised him RIGHT
warnings: injury, stitches, medical practices from someone who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing, some angst, slightly suggestive at times
I dot NOT speak spanish so if anyone is willing to help with translation for future fics, I would owe my life to you (and give early release? i dunno wtv u want babygirl)
Miles didn’t understand your hurt. He didn’t understand why you hated him being the Prowler—, didn’t understand you crying when you found out. Or your shame and disappointment when it came to his..
-Profession.
It confused him, he did this to keep you safe. He’d already lost enough, he can’t lose you. He won’t. You just didn’t get that.
Having you be mad at him, loath him, despise and detest him for being Prowler. It was easier than you dead because he wasn’t.
He would rather you hate him, than only have your memory.
So when he came home to you sleeping in his bed, waiting for him to return to you only two weeks after his initial reveal, he did nothing but lay down next to you and let your hand slowly drag into his. Interlocking your fingers in a twisted pattern of forgiveness and relief.
And he didn’t try to understand why.
It was warm this night, the heat of a summers Sun leaving Brooklyn a mucky kind of hot. Sweat dripping down the flesh of those still dwelling outside so late, only taking solace in the rare occasion of a breeze through their clothes.
Which is why you felt ever grateful lying in an air conditioned apartment dawned only in a pair of your lovers boxers and a ribbed white tank top.
It was the pair you bought him a while back when browsing street stalls, decorated with little cats and hearts. You thought they were funny, he was not impressed (but he was happy you were happy).
Miles had been out a lot lately. Assignments, as he called them, had been increasing in frequency as of late. Willing you more and more worried about the boy you loved, he just kept coming home injured.
Which you endearingly (aggressively) scolded him for, tones of care seeping into your monologue of being safer with his job whilst he huffed and puffed begrudgingly.
Assuring you he was nothing but careful,—
“Mami, ¿por qué iba a ser imprudente con mi vida cuando te tengo a ti para volver casa a? Alguien tiene que cuidar de ti.”
"Mami, why would I be reckless with my life when I have you to go home to? Someone has to take care of you."
A bashful murmur of “Just be more careful.” Would only reward you with a hand on your waist and the beginnings of a smile. You sighed out in boredom, draping a hand over your forehead dramatically. Spread out on Miles’ bed awaiting his return that’s seemingly taking years.
A crash outside your (boyfriends’) window alerted you out of your position, the piercing sound of metal scraping against metal grating your ears. Shooting up from your laid position, you messily shuffled off the bed, almost tripping over yourself to get to the figure struggling beyond the glass. A heavy claw dragged the window open with the apparent little strength it had left, heavy breaths and short rumbles of discomfort reaching your ears.
The neon pink of the Prowlers mask greeted you, quickening your aid in slamming open the window and catching Miles’ stumbling body from toppling through.
A husking groan sounded from your sweetheart as the mask slowly peeled back, revealing the trails of blood creeping from a cut in his lip.
“Hey, mami.”
Miles was gorgeous, he was a still picture of a painted deity in living form. The plump of his lips dripping a slow streak of burgundy did nothing to taint the sight of him, you wished it had, maybe you could be madder.
“Miles, what happened?” Your concern had outweighed your admiration, you were now fretting.
“I tripped.”
You scoffed something unbelieving, smiling despite the ache in your chest at the poor sight of him. Your emotionally stumped man.
“C’mon, baby, come inside.” Your right hand caressed the side of his face, left collecting his claw adorned fingers in yours to help him through and into his room.
He squeezed his eyes shut as he stepped over the sill, sucking in a breath and hoping you didn’t catch it.
Glancing up at you from his hunched position, you gaped back at him, unimpressed but worried.
He dropped your hands, the clasps on his gloves clicking, and the metal dropped to the ground with a dull thud. Pushing his arms back and letting his backpack fall too, he cracked his neck and winced again.
You all but pouted at him, reaching for his hurt body in discontent.
He leaned down to put his head on your shoulder, breath tickling your neck as he peppered you with light kisses, nipping your skin in just a graze. He wasn’t one to usually be so affectionate, but his guard always lowers with you, shoulders dropping and pulse quickening.
“No está tan mal, ma.”
"It's not so bad, ma."
His hand lifting from out of yours and onto your waist, circling the exposed skin between his boxers and your shirt.
His boxers,—
—,his hand twitched.
“Not that bad?” Your hushed voice bled of concern. “There’s a gash in your side!”
The simple serenity he had found buried in your neck had been ripped away from him in an instant.
You all but hauled his body to the bed, urging him to sit down against the sheets whilst he sulked grumpily behind you. Pushing against his chest and sitting him down.
You ran to his bathroom, washing your hands thoroughly before opening the cabinet under the sink, reaching back to the first aid kit you had placed here for this exact reason and towel, you rushed back to his room and shut the door behind you. “Amor, It’s just a—“ Cutting himself off, he hissed and cursed some under his breath.
“No digas que es sólo un corte.”
"Don't say it's just a cut."
“Mi sol, I have suffered worse.”
“Let me stitch you up, Miles.”
You turned back, shooting him an exasperated look while you threw the towel. Miles catching it without much effort and putting it under him. Flipping open the latch on the kit you sat yourself next to his bed, knees underneath you and digging harshly into the scuffed wood. You grabbed everything you assume you’d need, setting it on the open lid of the kit and focusing back on Miles.
“You look good like this, mami.”
You choked slightly, glaring up at him.
“Take off your jacket, Morales.”
"Sabes, si querías que me desnudara..."
"You know, if you wanted me to undress..."
“One more word.”
“Understood.”
He groaned as he did. Jacket falling off his shoulders and onto the bed, he pushed it to the floor beside you and spread his knees. You shuffled closer between them, lifting his shirt enough to see the damage on his torso and sighed shakily when figuring he was right.
It was just a graze, but a damn deep one. On the right of his torso, falling just under his ribcage was a thin, deep gash.
“What were you cut with, Papi?”
His stomach clenched as you prodded around, checking the wound for any signs of oncoming infection and signalling for him to take his shirt off.
“A knife, probably.”
Despite the weary of the situation, a smug look adorned his face. You poked his stomach, him wincing.
“Figures.”
You hid your smile.
He slipped his shirt over his head, grimacing at the pull of his wound. You took it from him and set it aside, getting an unopened bottle of water from the kit and pouring it over the cut. The water ran through the blood, trickling down his abs and soaking the waist band of his pants, he tipped his head back, groaning lowly in pain.
“Mami, entiendo que estés enojada, but please be gentle.”
"Mami, I understand that you're angry, but please be gentle."
He gazed down at you lazily, the drawl of his accent coating his voice syrupy in light of his injury. He looked downright sinful, braids draping lazily and shoulders dropped. Leaning back on his palms with his legs spread.
“I am gentle.”
“Sure.”
You focus returned to his wound, grabbing a clean hand towel and patting his cut dry, gently.
The occasional hiss or moan would interrupt you, but other than that Miles stayed relatively quiet. Watching you work as you fixed him.
“There, all done.”
“Not gonna kiss it better?”
You huffed, amused as you started to put everything back where it belonged. You could change the sheets and dispose of the hand-towels tomorrow, right now he just wanted you.
Miles grabbed your waist as you stood, hands slipping behind you to shove you forward into him. He buried his face into your stomach and sighed. You giggled lightly, the lack of a smile on his face tagged with the need for your touch was something no one but you could get used to. Your hand slowly trailed up his bare back, nails scratching lightly at his skin. He shivered, tightening his hold on you further.
“Lay down, baby.”
He whispered your name, “Chiquita, you take such good care of me.”
Humming, you unhooked his arms from you and pushed him to lie back by the tips of your fingers.
“Gon’ spoil you after this.”
You grabbed the towel, surprisingly dry and dropped it to the floor with the other discarded items.
“You already spoil me, Papi.”
Miles kicked off his shoes, sparing you a glance and a hum at the endearment.
“‘S’cause you deserve it.”
He unbuckled his belt, threading it out through the loops and threw it to land somewhere. You dragged the corner of the quilt back up to the both of you, stopping halfway. Miles sighed in annoyance, huffing at his pant button and cursing it as he fumbled to pull his pants down.
You giggled, “Need help, baby?” He scoffed lightheartedly. “I got it.”
“Mhm.” He eventually did get it, pulling his pants off and over his legs, coughing slightly at the wind crushing his cut had caused him.
“C’mere mami.” He grabbed your thighs, dragging you on top of him. “Mm—“ “Shh, it don’t hurt.” You let yourself relax slightly, mostly leaning on your need as not to hurt him.
The stars in his eyes as he looked up at you, he sighed quietly.
“It’s hot baby, we’re gonna get all sweaty.”
“Hopefully.”
“Miles.”
You rolled your eyes in a laugh, hooking your arms around his neck and leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Mm, there. Now you’re all better.”
He rubbed shapes into your thighs, loving the proximity. The way your breaths mingled and skin stuck together.
He thanked the Moon and the Stars for letting him keep you, begged every day to anyone out there that could hear him to tether your souls and kill him have he ever lose you. Would kill a million men to keep you safe, and he’d already had a running start.
He cleansed himself of his sins with your love, showering in the light you provided for him, and watched the blood of any man drip from his fingertips and into the rivers you’d created in his veins. Letting it mix with his own and beat by the tone of his heart. Which only ever raced for you. Only beat for you. He could only live for you, your love and acceptance.
Of which Miles would never understand why you loved him, and he would never try to.
“Much.”
He laid down, you following. Lying your head on his chest and listening to his breathing stutter at the contact.
It was late now, far later than a healthy time to finally sleep. But nothing could break the bubble of ease that now seemed to suffocate him. Lulling him into a slumber with his love against his heart.
first fic shoulllllf probably be fluff b4 i angst again
as angst is all i’m good for
i literally don’t know how to write fluff so pray it was good
IF ANY TRANSLATIONS WRONG PLESASSSSSE CORRECT ME
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mya-valentine · 18 days ago
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Can I request a fic for Kinich x fem reader please? during the archons quest IV (spoiler‼️ for people who didnt do the archons quest) reader almost died in one of the bases but traveler and Paimon (doesn't matter who tbh I love the twins) was able to save them just in time and Kinich hugged her not letting her go until he knew she was real and safe in his arms
Not a huge fan of angst but I'm okay with angst with comfort (happy ending)
From the Edge of Darkness
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The Abyss Order had been relentless in its attack on Natlan, leaving a trail of devastation in its wake. With the nation in ruins, every base became a battlefield, and the resistance fighters were pushed to their breaking point. The Traveler and Paimon, desperate to help in whatever way they could, had been moving from one war-torn base to another, always hoping to arrive in time to save someone—anyone—from the onslaught.
This upcoming base felt different, though. As they neared the next base, an eerie silence filled the air. No sounds of clashing weapons, no cries for help. Just silence.
Paimon’s voice quivered as she spoke, “Traveler… something feels wrong about this place.” The suffocating tension in the air made it hard to breathe.
When they finally reached the base, the scene that greeted them was nothing short of horrifying. Destruction had torn through the camp like a hurricane. Blood stained the ground, mingling with the ashes of burned tents and scattered debris. Bodies lay strewn across the battlefield, broken and still. Each life extinguished in a brutal fight to protect their homeland.
The Traveler moved quickly, scanning the area, their heart sinking with each step. Please, let there be someone left alive. They silently begged the universe, their steps quickening with each heartbeat.
And then they saw you.
Amidst the carnage, there you were—barely alive. Your body was crumpled against the remains of a wall, blood trickling from a wound on your side. Your skin was pale, your breath shallow. You were hanging on, but only just.
“There!” the Traveler gasped, rushing toward you. They dropped to their knees by your side, frantically checking your pulse, their hand trembling as they felt the faint, uneven beat beneath your skin. “She’s alive, but not for long!”
Paimon’s eyes widened in horror. “We need to get her out of here! Now!”
The Traveler didn’t hesitate. With great care, they lifted your fragile, unconscious body into their arms. They could feel how weak you were, how close you were to slipping away. Every second counted. “We’re taking her to the stadium!” the Traveler barked. “That’s where the medics are.”
Paimon nodded furiously, her tiny body flying ahead, guiding the way. “Hurry! We don’t have much time!”
The journey back to the stadium felt excruciatingly long, each second a battle against time. But the thought of losing you—of arriving too late—drove them forward.
The stadium came into view, its towering walls offering a brief sense of relief. Inside, it was the last haven for those who had survived the Abyss Order’s attacks. It was bustling with medics, warriors, and refugees, each one desperate to protect what little was left of their world.
The Traveler barely made it through the gates before shouting for help. “Medic! We need a medic!”
The closest group of medics rushed over, their eyes widening when they saw your condition. Without wasting a moment, they took you from the Traveler’s arms and laid you on a stretcher.
The Traveler stood back, their chest heaving with exertion, watching helplessly as the medics tried to save you. Paimon hovered close by, her hands clenched tightly in front of her. “Traveler… do you think she’s going to make it?”
The Traveler swallowed hard, unable to answer. “I don’t know, Paimon… I don’t know.”
---
Not long after, the stadium doors burst open, and Kinich, the man you loved, stormed in. His usually calm and stoic demeanor had crumbled, replaced by pure, unfiltered panic. His eyes scanned the crowd, searching desperately for you, the woman who meant more to him than anything in the world.
When he finally spotted the Traveler, his heart lurched. He saw the exhaustion in their eyes, the grim set of their jaw. He knew something was wrong. “Where is she?” he demanded, his voice shaking.
The Traveler’s expression softened with sorrow as they pointed toward the medic tent. “She’s there. It’s… not good, Kinich. I’m sorry.”
Kinich’s breath caught in his throat as he turned toward the tent. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat filled with dread as he rushed toward you. When he reached your side, his worst fears were confirmed. You were pale and still, your chest barely rising with each shallow breath. Bandages covered the wound on your side, but you looked so fragile, so close to death.
“No…” The word came out as a broken whisper. He fell to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as they reached for yours. He grasped your hand in his, holding it tightly, as though if he just held on hard enough, he could pull you back from the brink.
Tears filled his eyes, blurring his vision as he bowed his head over your hand. “Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t—I can’t lose you.”
His body shook with the force of his grief, the tears falling freely now as he pressed your hand to his lips, praying for some miracle, some sign that you would wake up and tell him everything would be okay.
Hours passed, but Kinich never left your side. He couldn’t. The world outside the stadium continued to burn, but nothing mattered to him except you. He sat by your side, holding your hand, watching for any sign that you would wake. Every breath you took felt like a lifeline, fragile but present.
The medics came and went, their magic stabilizing your condition, but Kinich’s heart remained heavy with fear. He whispered to you the whole time, his words soft and broken. “I love you… please come back to me…”
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you stirred.
Your eyes fluttered open, and the first thing you saw was Kinich’s tear-streaked face hovering above you, his hand tightly gripping yours. You blinked slowly, your body heavy with pain and exhaustion, but you were alive. You were still here.
“Kinich…” Your voice was a soft, rasping whisper, but it was enough to break through the haze of Kinich’s grief.
His eyes widened, a sob of relief escaping him as he surged forward, pulling you into his arms. His grip was tight, almost desperate, as though he feared that if he let go, you would disappear again. His body trembled with emotion as he held you, his face buried in your hair.
“You’re awake,” he breathed, his voice shaking with disbelief. “You’re really awake…”
You nodded weakly, your arms coming up to wrap around him, though the movement was slow and painful. “I’m okay,” you murmured, your voice soft but reassuring. “I’m going to be okay.”
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze filled with love and relief. “Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
You smiled, though it was weak and tired. “I’ll try not to.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Kinich simply held you, his heart finally beginning to calm as he felt the steady rise and fall of your chest against his. You were safe. You were alive.
And as long as you had each other, nothing else mattered.
“I love you,” he whispered again, his voice softer this time, but no less sincere.
“I love you too,” you replied, your words filled with warmth and gratitude.
The world outside was still in chaos, but in this moment, as you lay in Kinich’s arms, you knew that everything would be okay. You had survived, and you had each other. And that was enough.
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help-itrappedmyself · 8 months ago
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Dead on Main AU 2
Masterpost
Jason blinks and he is not where he used to be. He can already tell he’s shorter and skinnier, and he’s staring at physics homework so he’s probably younger too. It takes him a moment to run all the scenarios. He knows what is most likely, he knows that soulmates body swap at sixteen and... Well, he’s not sure if he was dead or not for his sixteenth birthday, but he had been living on the assumption that he had missed it, whenever it was. 
Now he thinks that he’s the older one in this relationship. If his soulmate just turned sixteen, he’s still a minor. Society gets a little more lax about these things when it comes to actual soulmate relationships, but Jason- despite the age difference only being around two years- is not lax about it at all. So if this is what he thinks it is, he is going to have to have a talk with his soulmate about being just friends for a while. 
Which should be fine, it’s not like they know each other at all yet. Getting to know each other should take a while anyways. Though, he could start that now.
He looked to the right and saw the door to the bedroom on the same wall as the desk he was sitting at, and the door to the closet on the next wall. The bed is against the wall behind the desk, sitting in between two windows. There’s a nightstand with a lamp on it next to the bed and a chest of drawers against the wall to his left that has a mirror hanging over it. There are space posters on the walls all around the room.
Jason gets up and walks over to the mirror. The boy in the mirror is short and skinny, just like he thought. He has blue eyes and black hair that flops over his face. Jason takes a second to wonder if the kid had plans for his birthday, realizing probably not. It’s tradition nowadays to spend your sixteenth birthday with just your family in case the switch is made. 
So, Jason's soulmate is what appears to be a normal, messy teenager. Posters, clothes on the floor, homework to do. Jason goes over to double check the homework, to see if he can find any that’s finished. There, his math assignment is already done, and it seems his soulmate’s name is Danny Fenton. He takes a closer look at all the school supplies and in his backpack and doesn’t find anything with the school name on it. 
Taking another look around the room, Jason doesn’t see a phone, and it wasn’t in the backpack. Jason tries not to feel weird as he pats around his soulmate’s pockets. He finds a phone, thinks for a second, then types in his own number and calls.
It rings for a second. Someone picks up, but all Jason can hear is shouting until he hears his own voice.
“Um, hello, Jason?”
“Yeah, this is Jason. You with my family?” 
“If the people that were in the room with you before are your family. I really only have confirmation that one of them is your dad.”
“Have those motherfuckers not even introduced themselves?” 
“Sort of. Eventually.” Jason heaves a long sigh. Danny chuckles.
“Right, well your name is Danny right?”
“Yeah! Have you talked to my family yet?”
“No, haven’t left your room. Your name was on your homework though.”
“Oh, please do not judge the homework.” Jason laughs, he does not know how Danny made his voice sound like that, breathy and higher than his voice has been in years.
“Didn’t even look at that part. So, I’m assuming that you guys are coming to me?”
“I think so?” There’s a bit of a commotion. “Stop it, buzz off!”Is said away from the phone. “They said yes.”
“Please tell me they’re not all planning on coming.”
Danny makes an I don’t know sort of hum. “Look, I do need to warn you… about a few things actually. Jazz, my sister, her room is across the hall and she’ll be able to help you if you. I sort of have… like a medical condition. I would rather explain that to you in person, but she’ll watch out for you if you go meet her.”
“I can do that. Anything I should look out for?”
“My parents leave all kinds of weapons around the house, and sometimes they’ll target me-you- at random, so try not to touch anything, and either stay upstairs or have my sister take you somewhere in town. Whatever you do, don’t go in the basement, the lab is down there.”
“Kid, what?” Jason rubs his hand down his face.
“This is really an in-person talk.”
Jason feels like he can relate. There are a lot of things a soulmate should know that Jason doesn’t know if he’s ever going to tell Danny but if he did he would want it to be in-person. “Sure, okay. Find Jazz, preferably leave the house.”
“Yep!” Again, Jason does not understand how Danny makes his voice sound so peppy. “Is there anything I should know?”
“Shit, if I had time I would give you a warning about everyone in my family individually, but for now… I don’t know if this will translate over…” It will, but there’s really no way to explain that. “I have… I guess it’s sort of a health condition as well. My family knows what triggers it, and they should be on their best behavior right now anyways, but if you wouldn’t mind putting someone on the phone I can threaten them properly.”
Danny laughs and Jason hears a beep, before “You’re on speaker!” is called out.
“I swear to god if any of you scare him, hurt him, or anything I’m going to kill you. I know everything you love and if you don’t act normal, just know, it will be destroyed.”
“Yeah, yeah. Jay, this is your soulmate!” Dick sounds way too excited.
“Also, most of us love you so that threat doesn’t work as well as you think it does.” Steph yells.
“Bitch, I died once, I’ll do it again. Don’t test me on this right now.”
The room through the phone quiets down quickly except for Danny’s laughter.
“Oh, wow, same.”
“Danny! You know how we feel about the death jokes.” Jason hears as the door behind him opens. Talking starts up on the other end of the line, but he ignores it for the moment as a tall redhead walks in the room. She stops in front of him and raises her eyebrow.
“You must be Jazz.” Jason says. This gets a hush on the other end of the line. “I’m Jason.”
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loveanddeepthroat · 1 month ago
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Unlucky Thirteen
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Summary - Sylus liked the quiet girl with the poorly heart. She was the only kid in the laboratory who hadn’t come and gone before he could even remember what she looked like. When he doesn’t see her for a whole day, he knows that there’s only one place she could be—the Medical Bay. He’d been through it all before she’d even arrived at the lab over a year prior, and felt a duty to keep her company whilst her heart healed.
Word Count - 2.4k
Warnings - Child!Sylus and Child!MC as experimental lab rats. Mentions of child experimentation and non-consensual medical treatments. This theory of them being lab rats is not canon, so keep in mind that I have made this all up!
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Sylus couldn’t find the girl with the poorly heart.
It was the third and final free hour of the day in the laboratory’s Playroom, and she was nowhere to be seen among the children.
Again.
The girl had been missing a few times before now—usually for further experimentation. But for all three of their free time breaks from observations and alterations meant only one thing.
She had to be in the Medical Bay.
He didn’t know much about the quiet girl, other than the fact that she had problems with her heart. There was always a big, white bandage over her chest that just peaked out over the neckline of her plain white gown, but he would never ask her questions about it. They only got to see each other during mealtime and free time, so discussing the things they were put through in between was something neither of them wanted to commit any time to. She didn’t want to talk about her heart as much as he didn’t want to talk about his eye.
In fact, they didn’t talk much at all. They just had a common denominator that seemed to draw them to each other.
Sylus had watched kids come and go from this place for a few years, hoping that one day it would be his turn to leave. That futile hope had been short lived, and it became clear that he wasn’t going anywhere when all the other kids around him dropped off like flies. 
When she came in with a new group of kids around a year ago, he thought nothing of it. She was just a face he’d forget after she would undoubtedly be released. But as those weeks turned to months—the few children she had arrived with long gone—her face had remained a constant for Sylus.
He wasn’t stupid enough to believe that she’d finally been freed today. The people in the lab coats were far too interested in her as of late, and she was starting to look more withdrawn each time he saw her. Much like he had when he woke from an operation he didn’t know he was having.
The more he thought about her condition, the more he hoped that she was in the Medical Bay—rather than somewhere more sinister.
He’d grown a bit of an attachment to the girl. She was the only friendly face that hadn’t left him. Even in their lack of conversation, he enjoyed her company. Felt comforted by her. They often read in silence side by side, always in whichever back corner of the Playroom was free of other kids. The less significant test subjects always delved straight into the toys and games, but the two of them had no interest in joining in.
Sometimes, if the lab coats had prodded around in his eye too much, the girl would quietly read aloud to him. He liked it when she read to him. So much so that he sometimes played on his eye problems just to hear her read for an hour.
He was used to her being absent for one or two of the three free hours they get, but this was too much for him. 
He had to get into the Medical Bay.
His head had purposely been rested against the electric heater beside the bookshelf for a few minutes as he made himself appear as clammy and feverish as possible. His cheeks burned as he pinched them repeatedly, and he put on his best nasally voice once he approached the Playroom supervisor with a little book tucked under his white t-shirt, rubbing his good eye for added effect.
“I feel sick,” he whined to the stone-faced woman in all-black clothing.
She barely threw down a glance at him, raising a lazy eyebrow. “You were fine during dinner.”
Damn.
Plan B came into quick effect. He rolled his eyes back a little, swaying where he stood. The hot skin of his forehead bumped against her hipbone as he stumbled forward dramatically, and she quickly bent down to his level, steadying him with her firm hands.
“Oh for goodness sake,” she mumbled, her frown deepening when she pressed the backs of her cold fingers against his head. She pulled out a little radio device that was tucked in the chest pocket of her shirt, speaking into it frankly with a push of its button. “Patient S013 is feeling unwell. Feverish. Permission to move from Room 11 to the Medical Bay?”
Sylus held his breath, willing whoever was on the other end of the radio call to grant the cold woman the permission he didn’t know she would need. He’d only ever been to the Medical Bay once before, and hadn’t ever wanted to return. Being examined and tested by strange scientists everyday was bad enough. He had no interest in spending time with the nurses who tended to him after his surprise surgery.
“Permission granted,” a male voice affirmed through the radio.
The stern lady grabbed suddenly at his shoulder, pushing him lightly out of the noisy room and down the silent halls. He liked when they were silent. He’d heard enough screams from children to haunt him for life.
The walk to the Medical Bay was short, and Sylus remembered to throw a few sniffles and pathetic coughs into the silent trek to keep up his charade. He must’ve still looked red faced and sickly, the nurse on duty handing him a gown to change into straight away upon his arrival.
He changed as quickly as he could behind a curtain that gave him only a sliver of privacy, tucking the book he’d smuggled from the Playroom into the inner fabric. The nurse checked his vital signs In the small triage room with nothing but a blank look on her face for comfort. Nobody around here tended to smile or show any true emotion towards the children. 
It didn’t affect Sylus at all. He didn’t know any different. Didn’t remember a time when someone smiled at him. Or when he had smiled at someone else. 
He wasn’t sure if he ever had.
The small, sterile Medical Bay was empty as he followed the nurse inside—save for the tuft of the girl's hair he could see peeking out above her blanket. He almost audibly sighed with relief to see her, but the fact that something was wrong enough for her to even be in the Medical Bay struck alarm bells in his head.
“Patient S113 isn’t feeling good, so try to be quiet,” the nurse told him. She pulled back the covers of the bed next to the girl, hurriedly ushering him to get in before giving him a syringe of medicine to take. “I’ll check on you in a few hours.”
He nodded, waiting for her to turn around before he took a look at the sickly girl a few feet away. The skin on her face was shiny and damp in the stark light of the strip lights above them. She didn’t look well at all, and had the thin, white blanket pulled right the way up to her chin.
The nurse administered a dose of something fluorescent yellow to her in another syringe, pressing her hand to the girl’s damp forehead with a tut. Sylus could’ve sworn that the nurse sighed a little in concern.
“That medicine should make you feel a bit better soon. Try to sleep,” she murmured to the girl quietly, moving the strands of hair that were stuck to her skin before leaving the room. 
He didn’t know what to do once the nurse closed the door behind her. The quiet girl looked so…deathly. Her colouring was a good few shades lighter than it usually was, and there was a greyish tinge to it too. Whatever was going on with her, it didn’t look good.
“What happened?” he blurted quietly.
She slowly turned her head towards him, blinking a few times to focus her eyes. They widened a little when she realised it was him.
“Hi,” she whispered, her voice small and croaky.
The sound hurt something in Sylus’s chest. “What happened?” he repeated again, sitting up a little further in the bed to get a good look at her.
The girl lifted a shaky hand, pointing straight to where her heart was. “I think it’s broken,” she replied.
Sylus frowned a little. He didn’t know that hearts could break. Bones could break, he knew that much. He’d seen broken bones quite often in this place. Her heart wasn’t like most people’s—he knew that too. 
But it couldn’t break. Right?
“Are they going to make it better?”
She blinked at him a few times, and he really studied her. This was the most they’d ever said to each other in conversation, but it didn’t feel strange or wrong like he thought it might. It felt natural. Almost like they were both still here in the wake of so many other young patients’ departures for a specific reason. 
He found himself wanting to know more. He wanted to know everything about her heart—including how to fix it.
Her weary eyes glanced around the room for any listening ears, and she shifted the blanket down from her chin so she could see over it. She eventually whispered back to him, “I’m not sure that they’re even trying to fix it.” She took a shuddering breath in, wincing a little bit. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
That’s when he noticed it.
In the absence of the blanket, he saw the gnarly tail end of a stitched up incision where he would usually see a bit of the bandage she always donned on her chest. He may have been young, but he knew without having to ask what the lab coats had done to her. They’d done the same thing to him once before. Put him to sleep without warning to poke and prod into the innards of his most interesting body part—his right eye. He had no idea why they were so interested in it, or why they were equally as interested in her heart. But whatever the reason, it was mutually exclusive to the two of them.
“They’ve done that to me, too,” he reassured her quietly, trying to shift that anxious look from her tired face. She didn’t know what was going on, so he felt a duty to soothe any worries on her mind. “I woke up in here with a big bandage over my eye before you came to live here. Couldn’t see properly for a few weeks, but it got better. Like your heart will.”
The girl looked apprehensive, but seemed a little bit more settled to know that he’d been in the same situation previously. They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment before she spoke. “You’ve been here for a long time.”
It didn’t sound like a question, but he answered like it was. He didn’t want to stop talking with her, hoping it was bringing her some semblance of peace. “I have,” he confirmed with a nod. “Me and twelve other kids were the first here. That’s why I’m patient S013.”
“Thirteen is supposed to be an unlucky number,” she whispered.
Sylus cocked his head to the side, wondering if she was kidding. He’d never heard of that before, but if she was right, it would make perfect sense. Patients S013 and S113 being the two most focused on subjects in the lab coats’ top secret experiments did seem a bit too coincidental in his mind.
He sure did have a lot of time on his hands to think about things like that, too. She was the one hundredth kid after him to arrive, and ended up stuck here with him for the foreseeable. Maybe whichever newcomer unlucky enough to be patient S213 would end up in their same predicament.
“We’ll find our luck one day,” he finally responded, exuding all of his confidence into that one sentence. He was determined that he’d fight his way out of here one day, and that he’d be able to bring her with him. He wasn’t strong enough—not yet. But whatever they were doing to him here, he’d use it to his own advantage once he got a good understanding of it. “Maybe we’ll both get out of here, and we can see what the world is like.”
The girl smiled. Smiled at him, even in her state. It wouldn’t have been possible to not smile back, no matter how unnatural it felt for the corners of his lips to curl.
“Yeah,” she whispered. Her blinks were slowing down, and she looked sleepy. “That would be nice. I’d like to see the ocean one day, like I’ve read about in books.”
Sylus suddenly remembered the book he’d smuggled in, still resting coldly against his stomach beneath his gown. He quickly reached down into the neckline, grabbing it out and waving it up for her to see it.
“I could read to you, if you want? While you fall asleep.” He wasn’t sure if it would help her in any way, but the familiarity of a book seemed like the best form of comfort he could think of for her.
Her tired eyes lit up a little, and her smile widened. It struck something in Sylus’s heart, and for a moment, he wondered if he had a heart problem. He’d never felt such a feeling, but he liked it. It felt like a real feeling. Not just the horrible physical feelings of aches and pains.
It was a mental feeling. A caring feeling.
He settled himself back against the plump pillow behind him, opening up the book. It was a children’s fable that they’d read many times before, and the one book he enjoyed hearing her read. He checked on her once more, making sure she was still awake and eager to hear him read.
The idea of a book seemed to wake her up a bit from her fatigue, but even so, Sylus would read the book over and over until it lulled her into a peaceful sleep.
He quietly cleared his throat reading the title aloud the way she always does.
“The Kitten Who Met The Crow…”
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A/N: I hope you enjoyed this little story! I think the lab rats theory is so interesting and couldn’t resist this sweet little idea! I’ve been a bit slow on the content recently and I do apologise, but I’m in the midst of moving into a new apartment and the stress of that on top of the way my neurodivergent son is struggling to cope with it has turned my brain to mush. Things should settle soon and I’ll be back on the requests 🤍
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yellowjestertfs · 3 months ago
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Spare Parts
Al untucked his shirt, then tucked it in again, then quickly untucked it before landing on a French tuck—a mix of both that suited him worse than either. He had never been so nervous about going out with his friends. In the past, he was the life of the party, staying out clubbing until the witching hours, getting drunk, and ending up in some stranger's bed the next morning. That was before he made the fatal mistake of jaywalking drunk and got hit by a bus, which flung him into the path of another bus, which sent him off a bridge and into the water, where he was run over by a boat. Honestly, it would have been a pretty comical way to die—only he didn’t die. He should have died; he broke every bone in his body and turned his organs into a smoothie. The wonders of modern medicine intervened. He still didn’t quite understand exactly how, but the doctors had used stem cells, like those regenerating cells babies have, to essentially bring him back from the dead. A miracle, yes, but even miracles had their limits. The recovery process was long and hard, and even now, recently released from medical custody, he was not the same man he’d been before the accident.
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Getting hit by two buses and a boat does that to you. His face was mangled—not to the point of being monstrous, but not attractive either. His body had also suffered from the accident, practically wasting away as he recovered. While the old Al partied with abandon, this new Al was self-conscious of his appearance and absolutely terrified to cross the street. Now, he stood at the crosswalk, fidgeting with his short-sleeve button-down shirt, thinking about why he had asked an old lady to help him across. He clutched her tightly as they crossed, ready to throw her in the way if a bus came barreling toward them—luckily for both of them, none did. Despite her age and his current condition, the woman actually made a pass at him, calling him a “handsome lad” and asking if he wanted to go back to her place. It helped his confidence, if only a little, and gave him a strange tingling feeling.
Finally, after detaching himself from the woman, he reached the club. Despite the relatively early hour, the place was bumping; the bass-boosted electronic music and a flashing rainbow could be seen and heard from the outside. A quick check of his phone informed him that his friends were already inside, so he joined the short line and waited to be let in by the bouncer. As he neared the front, he realized he recognized the bouncer. Back when he frequented this place, he was friendly with the muscular man. Now, though, he doubted the man would recognize him, and he honestly hoped to keep it that way. Back then, he was sort of a legend, a position he doubted he could live up to now. As the bouncer—Rod, he thought—waved him forward, Al couldn’t help but admire the man's physique. It seemed that while Al recovered, Rod made some serious gains. His arms were particularly impressive; Al found himself feeling bad for the man’s sleeves as they tried and failed to contain his massive arms. Their sheer size was only enhanced by the web of veins that patterned the muscles. 
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“ID, please,” Rod said, indeed not recognizing Al as he had predicted. Al handed over his card, suddenly realizing the picture on the ID was pre-accident.
“Had a bit of a glow-down,” Al said awkwardly, trying to flash a smile but only managing to lift one side of his mouth—the other’s nerve endings were damaged beyond repair. Rod grunted but returned Al’s ID; even despite the discrepancies in the photo, there was little doubt that Al was of age. As Rod handed back his ID, their hands touched just slightly, and for a second, Al felt a slight tingling in his upper arms. Then it was gone as quickly as it came. 
“Have fun, man,” Rod said, “and nice guns.” Al laughed at that, thinking the man was making fun of his twig arms.
He lifted his arm, expecting the usual sight of his scrawny limb. But when his gaze landed on it, his breath caught. His bicep had swollen under the skin, somehow in the span of a heartbeat his twig arms had become tree trunks. Al’s fingers traced the now firm, rounded muscle, a mix of fear and fascination flooding his mind. The sheer size and hardness of his new bicep felt both alien and irresistibly satisfying, a forbidden thrill coursing through his veins at his arms meaty massive things they now were. They looked like almost exact copies of Rod’s, only instead of the man's olive complexion, the biceps had the pale look of someone who had spent the last two years in a hospital bed.
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Al felt light-headed. How was this possible? Was he having some sort of mental breakdown, a delusion? He needed to find his friends. No, he needed to find a drink. The bar was right where he remembered—just to the left of the entrance. Unlike Rod, the bouncer, he didn’t recognize the bartender—a short, slightly pudgy man who looked to be in his mid-40s, with a strong square cleft chin that didn’t particularly match the rest of his average features. Al walked up to him, trying to hide his now-massive arms to little avail. He found he couldn’t stop flexing and feeling them, equal parts concerned and turned on by the mysterious new muscles.
“I'll take a vodka soda,” Al tried to say casually, although the words came out more as a question than a request. Luckily, the night was still young enough that he managed to get the man's attention, although the fact that he wasn’t a pretty girl kept him from making small talk. As he worked, Al saw the bartender occasionally glance up at his biceps, which he had crossed in an attempt to hide them. They looked a little ridiculous with the rest of his scrawny body. Wordlessly, the bartender placed a garnish on the drink before handing it to Al. Just as with Rod, their hands innocently touched, and again Al felt a strange tingle, this time centering on his chin. Lifting the glass to his lips, Al quickly lowered it, uneasy at how strange the sensation felt. Years of drinking had made him familiar with the feel of a glass against his lips, but something felt off now. His bottom lip somehow felt more supported, stiffer. A quick exploration with his finger revealed that his chin was causing the offense. But that couldn’t be—his chin had been round and soft even before the accident. Whatever this new chin that had somehow attached itself to his face was, it felt like a block of stone, the bone protruding in a harsh, strong way completely foreign to his face. The deep cleft was also new, creating a valley in the mountain that was his chin. Pulling out his phone, he saw what his fingers had felt: his face now somehow sported a strong, masculine chin almost identical to that of the bartender.
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Al wasn’t the brightest, but even he began to put the pieces together. Somehow, he was absorbing the best qualities of every person he touched. His mind raced, trying to figure out what could be causing this. The stem cells he received might be the explanation, but why now? Al needed to get out; he needed to see a doctor. Panicked, he looked for the exit only to find a crowd had congregated between the bar and the nearest door. There was no way he could make it to the other side without touching anyone. Could he risk it? 
His contemplation was cut short as a woman sauntered up to the bar, her stumbling gait indicating she was already a few drinks deep. That was hardly the most noticeable thing about her; put bluntly, she had massive boobs—the type that could never fit in a top without being the center of attention. As she stumbled her way toward the bar, she tripped on one of her own feet. Al’s eyes widened as he realized too late that her fall would take her directly toward him. He tried to move out of the way, but as she fell, her arms reached forward for support, landing on his own. For a brief second, he hoped he might absorb her winning smile, but judging by the tingling in his chest, he wasn’t so lucky. Horrified, he glanced down, expecting to see breasts pushing out of his shirt. Instead, he found different mounds there—equally large, yes, but the lumps on his chest weren’t boobs; they were too firm and square. No, instead Al had somehow gained massive pectoral muscles from his contact with the woman. Their growth had unceremoniously demolished the first three buttons of his shirt, which was having a bad day trying to contain his massive chest and arms. The muscles looked downright strange on his body, the rest of it still emaciated from the accident. In fact, Al struggled to support the weight of his new mass, his shrimpy legs and shoulders straining under the sudden load.
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The woman pulled away from his arms, drunkenly apologizing before reaching out to grope one of his now-massive pecs. Luckily, no tingles followed, confirming Al’s suspicion that he could only absorb from a person once. Now, Al felt torn about what to do. On one hand, he still worried about the changes and their possible repercussions, but did he want them to stop? If he went to the doctor now and they fixed him, would he be stuck in his current disproportionate form forever? This could be a blessing—a way to heal from the damage caused by the accident, to become the ultimate version of himself—or rather, of the people around him. So far, none of the changes had been bad. Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Al scanned the room for someone with a feature he wanted to absorb. The choice became easier when a cute guy walked right past him, his clothing tight on his lean, muscular body, and he looked well-groomed. Before the accident—in fact, before tonight—Al had never paid much attention to the appearance of other men. Maybe it was the fact that he now saw their features as ones he could have, or perhaps it was something else, but for whatever reason, he found himself checking out the other men in the club, including the one walking by. On instinct, he stuck his foot out, tripping the man, their bare ankles making contact for a second in the process. The man stumbled and then turned to face Al, his face red with anger, which quickly cooled as he took in Al.
“Hey, I like your hair, dude,” he said. Al had hoped that he might absorb the guy's cute, tight ass or maybe his strong Roman nose, but his hair worked too. It was silky, thick, and coiffed attractively—definitely an improvement over his current thinning hair.
“Thanks, man,” Al said, reaching up to find that he indeed had hair identical to the man he had just tripped. 
“Do you go to Clarice?” the guy asked. The question sparked a brief conversation in which Al lied through his teeth, pretending they went to the same barber rather than admitting that he thought his stem cells had magically copied the guy's hairstyle to a tee. Eventually, Al excused himself, claiming he had seen his friends. This was true; as they chatted, Al had located his friends huddled close to the DJ booth on the dance floor. Steeling himself, he made his way over to them, trying to avoid physical contact. His efforts were only somewhat successful. An accidental brush of a college-age girl’s hand lengthened his eyelashes, while a hip bump into a man with rolled-up sleeves thickened his forearms, so his arms were now somewhat proportional. Once he reached the dance floor, however, he lost total control. Falling arms and thrusting hips assaulted him from all sides. An accidental step on a foot caused his lips to buzz as if they had momentarily fallen asleep, puffing up to appear pillowy and soft. A hand brushed across his back, causing a tingle in his shoulders, widening them and only making his progress more difficult. The elbow wedged awkwardly into the crevice of his pecs by a sheepish-looking man earned him a short, coarse beard across his jaw—a jaw that had become wider and sharper thanks to the impatient shoving of a male model behind him. Al quickly lost track of exactly what features he had gained from whom. A sudden numbness in different parts of his body was the only indication that he continued to change. At one point, a gigantic man who had to be some sort of pro basketball player moved next to Al. Al indulged himself, letting his hand “accidentally” rub against the tall man's leg and feeling his whole body lengthen. The constant shifting of the dance floor meant no one noticed Al or the way his features shifted. As he neared his friends, a twink dressed only in a leather harness and thong approached him and started to grind up against him. Even more shocking was the rock-hard abs that formed from their contact and the boner that Al inexplicably developed from the experience. The twink started to unbutton the last few remaining buttons on his shirt, and he let him, not wanting to deprive the world of his body.
At last, Al reached his friends, finally finding a pocket of relative emptiness near the loudspeakers. 
Al reached out to tap one of his friends on the arm before thinking better of it and just stood there awkwardly, waiting for them to notice him. Eventually, the song ended, and his three friends turned to face him. Only with a pang of shock did Al realize they didn’t recognize him. How could they? He had become a sort of Frankenstein’s monster of different features from the various patrons of the club. Where they expected their scrawny, balding friend fresh out of an extensive hospital stay, instead before them stood a 6’5” bodybuilder with a face, a hodgepodge of features from various people, somehow working together to give him a handsome and exotic look.
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“Hey, have you seen our friend? Short, skinny, looks like he might have been hit by a bus or two,” his friend Jordan asked. It was a simple question, but for maybe the first time in two years, Al noticed not a trace of pity in his friend's voice. No, rather it was admiration. Al’s previous intentions of coming clean to his friends and seeking help melted away as he realized the opportunity he had. He could finally escape the shadow of those busses; he could have a new start.
“Nope, haven’t seen anyone like that,” he said in a voice much richer and deeper thanks to the vocal cords of some unknown stranger. 
“I’m Jordan, by the way,” his friend said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. 
“Al.” Shit. So much for a fresh start. Jordan glanced at his other two friends but didn’t say anything. Instead, one of his other friends, Sergio, grabbed Al’s hand and pulled him into their dance circle. The contact made his whole body tingle and, glancing down, he saw that his skin had darkened to the same ruddy tan as his friend's. Luckily, the flashing lights and the general darkness of the club made Al fairly sure no one noticed the transformation.
Throughout the night, he became reacquainted with his own friends and found innocent ways of making contact with each of them. From his friend Marge, he gained her show-stopping ass, the muscular butt complementing the thick thighs he had gained sometime during his mad rush. Contact with Linsey copied her perfect Barbie blonde hair. The stylish haircut and scruff he had grown sometime during the night bleached itself instantly while all his body hair, limited as it was by various tingles, turned the same gold color. His friend Jordan took a special interest in the new Al, and Al found himself reciprocating the attention, for the first time noticing just how hot his friend was. When at long last they touched, Al grabbed the man and brought him into a passionate kiss. He swore he felt tingles but couldn’t notice any change on his body. After long hours of sweaty dancing, a round of shots, and many more kisses between the two former friends, the group headed over to Jordan's apartment. Al nearly blew his cover by heading straight to his friend's door, but the excuse of “lucky guess” seemed to satisfy his non-sober companions. After a few more hours of chatting and more alcohol, everyone left but Al and Jordan.
Jordan used the classic “let me show you something in the bedroom” line, which led to more kissing and Jordan feeling up Al’s new muscular body. Eventually, as both men removed their pants, Al discovered what he had picked up from his friend. Long and thick, Al’s penis was identical to that of his lover, which Jordan seemed delighted by, claiming he had never been with someone with a tool as big as his. It took a moment for Al to get over the surprise of his friend packing so much meat and the fact that he now did as well, but once he accepted it, he used his new member to the fullest. After hours of fucking, the two fell asleep, not waking up until the afternoon the next day. Al politely said his goodbyes and awkwardly avoided giving Jordan his number, not wanting to explain why it was the same number as Jordan's sickly friend. 
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Exiting the apartment, he noticed the same elderly woman from last night and to his chagrin, she once again hit on him, asking to hold his bicep while they crossed the street. When he touched her, he felt no tingles, which he thought strange until he remembered she was the first person to induce that sensation upon him last night. Could it be that he had somehow absorbed her sex drive or sexuality? Was that why he had a sudden appreciation for men? The thought amused him as he made his way to his car. But before he could dwell on it too much, his attention was abruptly pulled back to the present.
Lost in thought, he didn’t see the bus careening down the street, heading right for him. The blare of the horn hit him a second too late, and everything went black.
The next thing Al knew, he was waking up in a hospital—a horrifying déjà vu of two years ago. A young doctor stood over him, clipboard clutched in two massive, masculine hands. His eyes fluttered as he tried to make sense of his surroundings, the cold sterility of the hospital room bringing back memories of his long, painful recovery. Blearily, Al glanced down at himself. His perfect, hunky form was now a mess—bones broken, muscles flattened. All except his hands, which looked larger and callused, suspiciously identical to the doctor standing above him. It seemed that Al’s luck with public transportation hadn’t changed, but now he knew how to build himself back up. A minor setback, sure, but nothing a few spare parts wouldn’t fix.
Wrote this a while ago but thought i would post it here with images and some small edits. Not my best but think its still a fun story.
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peachesofteal · 10 months ago
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The Pit
COD masterlist Part 1/2 - Part 2
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Ghost/Soap/female reader 6.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, dub con, kidnapping, manipulative hurt/comfort, whump, the guys shave you, humiliation, forced orgasm, predator/prey, medical inaccuracies. Clothed males/naked female. The Pit by Silversun Pickups. Horror-ish. Misery inspired.
Winter in the mountains can be cruel. 
This is something you’ve always known, even as a child. You were raised with it. Chose to return to it after school, decided to make a go of it, of a life here, as an adult. You knew what you were getting yourself into, long cold winters that felt both bleak and promising, unblemished blankets of snow possessing the ability to be stunning, while also lethal. Winters were dangerous, silent killers that left corpses in their wake and no amount of lupine or paintbrushes, glacier fed lakes or springtime moose calves could make up for the hell that winter wrought. Winter brings most living things to the knife’s edge of survival, forcing most to bow beneath the weight of its fury, backs breaking with the burden of just existing in an environment that truly acts, and feels, inhospitable. 
Although, there are those who do more than survive the cold, violent stretch of winter.
There are predators who thrive. 
“You closin’?” Your coworker, the new one, asks from where she’s settled across the dark wood bar, two amber Budweiser bottles empty in front her idle hands, eyes wandering to guys posted up by the loneliest pool table in fifty square miles. 
“I am.” She casts the only window in the entire place a surreptitious glance, fingers peeling away at a label. It’s snowing, has been for hours, flakes fat and wet, fluffy enough that the density of the snow on the ground is light, but dangerous, as it hides the real risk underneath; packed snow sitting with a slick sheen of ice on top. 
“You still trying to make it over Fall River pass tonight?” You nod. 
“Yeah. Supposed to see my brother and his new place this weekend.” 
“Fall River? Is that even open right now?” Andy, a regular who lives a few streets over from you, chimes in, twisting an empty rocks glass in his fist. You pull the bottle of Jameson from the rail and tip it vertical, honey brown liquid sloshing like a wave until his glass is halfway full, and he gives you a flirty kind of smile, the same one he’s been giving you for a year now. Yeeesh.
“It is. I could go around, but it just takes too long. And it’s Friday. I’m not trying to be stuck on the highway with weekend traffic.” You complain, and they both commiserate your opinion. The traffic is brutal, especially in the winter. Driving in hazardous conditions is considered to be a talent more than an innate ability here, and people often overestimate their aptitude for it, causing crashes and delays that get the highway shut down for hours, or even days, at times. You shrug. “I’ve had my snow tires on for weeks. Might as well get some use out of them.” Andy snorts. 
“Like you haven’t been gettin’ good use out of them? First real snow was before Halloween this year.” You nod. He’s not wrong. You did get dumped on two weeks before the end of October, twenty-three inches piling up within two days, before half the area was even ready for it. You throw him a polite smile, one that you hope reads like ‘okay thanks for the concern, we’re done now’ and he sighs. “Well, drive safe.” 
Fall River pass, it turns out, is not open. It’s closed by the time you split off from the interstate and start the windy, switch-backed trek in your jeep, flashing orange and yellow lights dotting the top of a barricade just barely visible through the speckled snow flying by in your headlights. 
Fuck. You could have sworn the DOT website said it was open. You take a deep breath, quelling the anxiety that roils your stomach. Okay. Not the end of the world. There’s another road. A less maintained option, but… you’ll be fine. You’ve driven in worse. 
The other road, a sharp, narrow, desolate path that cuts through a large swath of unmanaged forest just outside the national park, is easy at first. You’ve been driving the same jeep for years, a 2007 two door Wrangler, and you know how it handles like the back of your hand. With snow tires, it could pretty much cut through anything, even unplowed, fire watch roads like this one. 
Which is why, after the first few miles, your nerves fully settle, and you allow yourself to relax a little bit behind the wheel, easing the jeep across the dips and slicks in the road as you cautiously build speed, snow falling fast through night, growing thicker the higher you travel into wilderness territory, and the farther you left modern civilization behind. 
An hour creeps by, and then two. Long enough that you’ve now realized you’re the only one using this road, fresh snow blanketing the woods around you, topography and vegetation starting to change as you encroach on what you assume must be eleven thousand feet. You’ve seen this road on google maps once, or twice maybe, having noted it for future travel just in case of a situation like this. It runs perpendicular to Fall River, and eventually meets another, one that must be similar, on the other side of the range. The secondary road is one that takes you along the ridge, and then down, you’re pretty sure, although you can’t be one hundred percent certain, because you lost cell reception before you even turned off from Fall River.
Still, won’t hurt to check and see if you have this area downloaded. 
You pull your phone from the center console, thumbing at the screen, allowing your eyes to linger too long without looking back up through the windshield. No one else is out here. It’s not like you need to worry about oncoming traffic. The little SOS insignia blinks at the top corner, and you tap on the map icon, hoping it will bring up your geo location so you can glance at the satellite image of the area. 
You’re so fixated watching the little circle of death try to load, that by the time you look up and see the tree laying across the road, it’s far too late. You do the first thing you were always taught not to do in winter conditions, and slam on the brake, shoving the pedal to floor, heart rate sky rocketing as you panic and lose total control of the jeep. You spin, shoulders and chest jamming against the seatbelt, headlights flashing off into the woods, illuminating an endlessly dark web of trees, bark and branch scratching across the paint as you careen off the road, tipping too precariously onto two wheels and then rolling. 
Time, your life, stands completely still for a moment. You see every individual fiber of the pine needles, every uniquely designed snowflake, every single droplet of blood that floats away from your face and through midair as you crash through the forest, your grasp on consciousness slipping farther and farther away, the jeep finally coming to a stop on its side, your head cracked against the driver’s window, stars and streaks spawning out across your vision, headlights finally blinking out completely, leaving you alone in the dark. Your head spins like you’re still rolling, and the only sound in the dead silent snow is your harsh breathing, frantic terror bubbling up through your throat as pain surges through your body. 
It's freezing, but you feel surprisingly warm. 
You’re going to die out here. No one knows you took this road, you don’t have service, by the time they find you, it’ll be too late. You’ll be a bled out, frozen corpse, long gone and- 
You lose your train of thought quickly. Everything starts to fracture, fissures forming in your consciousness, part of you already losing the battle to the inevitable, darkness pulling over your eyes like a knit hat, lungs heaving just a little harder with each breath. 
You could just close your eyes. Just for a moment. 
Light sweeps across the ground, flashing across your face. You think, if you were truly with it, in your right mind, you’d think it was too bright. You’d say it was blinding. 
But you can’t formulate anything of the sort, mind too busy slipping away, falling into an inky black depth, just barely on the verge when you feel a gloved hand on your skin, the lilt of an accent on the wind. 
Sleep. 
You’re drifting. Falling through a stardusted, molasses filled haze, your mind ebbs and flows with consciousness; soft and warm feelings contrasted with sharp pain that bites through your body as if it’s slowly trying to eat you, chipping away piece by piece.
There are words, voices. There are hands too, fingers walking across your skin, limbs being moved, arranged, always with pain that’s followed by a hushed whisper of apology, a confusing sentiment in the dark. Your eyes won’t open. Your mouth won’t work. Your head is stuffed with cotton, wispy strands of connections that can’t quite get there, scrounging along the walls of your skull, trying to meet in the middle. You’re drowning, sinking to the bottom of a macabre pool, the one that’s infected your synapses and kept you just inside the shelter of delirium.
You try to call for help, but you can’t.
You try to swim to the surface, but the grisly black of your mind is never ending.
You’re dying, the tiny sliver of rational thought assures. Or you’re already dead.
Despair swells, and if you could feel your face, you’d think you were crying, lost to the sweeping desolation of your pain. It steals your breathe. Your sense. Everything becomes secondary to the obliterating agony that you feel. 
Something touches your cheek. Your eyes fight to open, straining against the heaviness that weighs on them, just barely blinking wide enough to let some light in, your vision fuzzily trying to focus.
Wood beams come into view. A ceiling? Where-
You try to turn your head but an electric shock rattles through your brain, forcing you to slam your eyes shut again, world spinning on an uneven axis as something on the edge of your sight shifts. A monster. A man?
Something is said, whispered, and then everything fades away, your mind and body slipping beneath the waves of darkness.
The next time you surface, you manage to cling to consciousness long enough to take stock of your surroundings, realizing you’re tucked into a soft, warm bed almost immediately, something hot near your feet, pillows fluffed beneath you. A hand stitched quilt is spread across the top of copious other blankets and sheets, and your fingertips scratch against the fabric. Flannel.
You’re also awake long enough to truly experience the pain you’re in.
One thousand tiny knives rattle around in your skull, slicing into the soft matter of your brain, tearing you apart piece by piece, everything in you unmoored and off balance. Searing pain radiates up your leg, through your arm and wrist to your head and neck, and when your instinct urges you to try to move, your body screams in protest, the pain so intense that you cry out.
That’s when you see him.
A man steps towards you from the edge of your peripheral, and you freeze in terror.
“Shhh. We’re not goin’ hurt ye. Ye had a terrible accident. Pure luck we found ye when we did, dove. Ye would’ve died out there.” He coos in an accent, inching closer, and you manage to get a better look at him, recognition failing immediately. An accident? An accident… memories come flooding back, broken clips of the jeep spinning, rolling, the woods, the fear. Who is he? Where are you? Brilliant blue eyes look down at you with concern, handsome face tweaked into worry, furrow in his brow partially covered by the long strands of an overgrown mohawk. He’s pretty. “Can ye follow my finger?” He presents one in front of your nose, but it splits into two, and then three, just the attempt to focus enough to make your head throb, and a whimper escapes from your throat. “I know, I know.” There’s a ceramic mug in his hand, and he carefully lifts it to your lips, encouraging you as he tips it back, warm, sweet liquid washing down your throat. You can’t even move your arms to push him away, and when he seems to be satisfied, his thumb wipes the corner of your mouth. “Good love. Well done.” You feel woozy all of the sudden, maybe even a little nauseous, and you think you could be hallucinating when another man appears at the foot of the bed, handsome, but in a rugged way, watching you with honeyed brown eyes, the broadest, biggest thing you’ve ever seen.
“Those bones need setting.” He says, and the pretty one grimaces, fingertips trailing along your cheek.
“Maybe tomorrow. I’m still worried about the concussion.” His thumb cards across your brow.
“It’s been three days, Johnny. Can’t put it off too much longer.” Three days? Your brain latches onto the time. Three days of what? Since when? You’re starting to fade, trying to focus on what they’re saying but losing the battle horrendously when the blankets shift, warmth tucking down around your waist and shoulders, unable to react or even speak when they both press a kiss to your forehead, affectionate and longing touch that startles you until you’re losing the battle to sleep.
It's snowing.
You don’t have to see to know. There’s something about how it hangs in the air, how the world sounds during a snowfall that blankets everything: houses, trees, mountains… your mind.
You love the snow. Even as a child, winter was your favorite. Winter brought you a sense of calm, of peace. It’s what brought you back here, kept you here, even amidst the perils. The feeling of a forest, lying still beneath the soft spun expanse of white, the crisp smell of the air the morning of a big snow, the eternal quiet that exists in the night when everything is dampened by the weight of a million, billion, uniquely crystalized webs of frozen water.
This snow feels different. It doesn’t feel like a velvety white, candy-coated dream world; but a nightmare… one filled with pain, anxiety. Where are you? What’s happened? 
And why do you hurt so fucking bad? 
“You’re awake.” A deep voice says from your side, and you flinch on instinct, immediately wishing you hadn’t as lightning sharp pain zings through you, your voice breaking with a cry. “Easy.” He cautions, and your head stops swimming long enough for you to realize it’s the brown eyed man, the bigger one. He’s sitting in a chair that looks far too small for his width, watching you with an intensity that makes you feel exposed.
“Where… am I?” You manage to choke out through stiff lips, your head spinning and the world tilting at the same time. It sours your stomach, more than you thought possible, and you try to swallow the burn of bile that’s racing up your throat.
“Are you going to be sick?” He strokes your face, the touch nearly sweet, but confusing, and you hold your tongue, unsure. He sighs, expression shifting into disapproval, and then a frown. “Tell me.”
“N-no, I don’t-“ You can’t even finish your denial before your stomach is heaving and he’s springing into action, shifting you onto your side where a clean bucket sits right next to the bed. You wail in misery, pain shooting through your leg and arm, your ribs, bile and spit leaking from your mouth.
“It’s alright, that’s it.” A hand soothes up and down your back as you dry heave, sputtering on nothing, tears dripping to the wooden floorboards with a splash.
“Nnrgh-“
“I know, I know. Poor thing.” He coos, and it sounds… endearing, so sweet yet… frightening, like the poison of a predatory, a pretty display meant to draw you in before it snaps a set of jaws shut around your face.
Somewhere, nestled inside the last shards of your sanity, an alarm bell whistles, but the intensity of your pain quickly drowns it out, and you cry aloud.
“Hurts.” He rolls you back to your original position, arranging you like a doll. “It hurts.”
“I know it does, sweet girl, I know. We’re going to fix it.” A cloth dabs at your forehead and then down to clean your mouth, just as the man with the mohawk appears on the bed, one knee down, leaning over you, worry rife in his features.
“Poor baby. Were ye sick again?” Again? You blink up at him. What is going on? He presses a glass to your lips, urging you to drink, and then pulling it away after you’ve had a few sips with a gentle “not too much.”
“Who are you?” The water is cold, refreshing, but a ting acidic, and you wonder if it’s well water, maybe?
“I’m Johnny.” He’s setting up something beside you, organizing it, but you can’t turn your head to look, and can’t quite catch it from your peripheral. “An’ this is Simon. Or Si, but ye probably willnae be callin’ him that quite yet.” Quite yet? What? Did they find you? Did they rescue you? Why can’t you remember? 
“What happened.” You try again, gritting your teeth.
“Ye had an accident, remember? We talked about it yesterday. Ye rolled off the road, ended up nearly down the mountain, in the thick of the trees. Ye’re lucky the one didnae impale ye.” Impale?
“And you found me?” You're starting to feel tired again, all the sudden, woozy and weird, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. Shouldn't you be in a hospital? Why haven't they taken you to a doctor?
“Aye, we did. Pulled ye out, brought ye home.” Home?
“You don’t have to worry.” Simon, the bigger one, tells you. “We’re going to take care of you.” Take care of who? Everything is foggy, clouded, and you try to shake your head in confusion.
“I don’t… why-“
“Storm is pretty bad. One of those, once in a lifetime types. Pass is closed.” You close your eyes. Of course. The pass is closed. You guess you’re lucky. They could have left you to die, and you could have never been found. You could have frozen to death. Bled out.
“Thank… thank you.” Johnny hums, and then you ripple in shock as he leans forward and brushes his lips against your mouth in a kiss. This… this is not normal? Are Scottish people just… more affectionate? 
“Want ye to know, if we didnae have to do this, we woudnae.” What?
“Do what?” Simon casts you a mournful glance, rising from the chair. He’s got piece of leather in his hand, like a cut from a belt, and your eyes dart between them, fear freezing solid inside your pores. Do what?
“Bite down on this, precious.” Simon instructs, placing the swatch against your bottom lip, and you jerk away in protest, pain burning through your body.
“Do what?” You try to sound strong, demanding, but it comes out a little less than timid, and he gives you a sad smile.
“Your femur is broken.” A warm hand rests on your leg, over the covers, and you try to click the pieces together. “And I suspect your radius is, too. We need to set them.”
Oh. Oh no. 
“N-no, no, you… you ca-can’t.” You stutter. They can’t. A doctor should be doing that, shouldn’t they? Johnny hovers over you, placing his palm on your belly, stroking upwards to the middle of your chest, the other holding firm across your collarbone. His touch is gentle, but strong, and his thumb rubs in a cautious motion against your skin, lightly grazing the underside of your breast. It feels weird, and wrong… intimate in a way that makes you shiver. “Please. Please, please… don’t-“
“It’s alright.” He shushes you, and the pressure increases against your body as Simon wedges a thick finger between your teeth, slipping the worn leather in your mouth, bracing around your wrist, his other hand holding your elbow. You gasp for air, adrenaline fueled by pain and fear coursing through you, and Johnny coos, telling you ye’ll be alright, that ye’re with them now, and they’ll take such good care of ye. 
“Take a deep breath.” Simon urges, and you stare at him, wide eyed, pulse thundering in your ears.
“Ye’ll probably pass out, bonnie. We’ll get the second one done while ye’re down, and I already gave ye somethin’ for the pain.” He assures, like it’s supposed to relieve you, and your nostrils flare as something tightens against your arm. Simon’s grip. 
This can’t be happening. This has to be a nightmare. How can this happen? No, nononono-
There’s a crack. A crunch. Burning, obliterating torture rockets up your arm, exploding inside you like a shot. You scream and bite down at the same time, raw misery trying to claw it’s way out of your throat. You think you’re crying, hallucinating from the pain, having a heart attack, fucking dying, all at once. It hurts, it hurts so bad, stop, please-
“We’re sorry, we’re sorry.” Simon soothes, thumb wiping your cheek, but you can hardly hear him, your brain starting to sever itself from reality, floating away as you slip inside the dark tomb of your mind, losing yourself to the fog as they both stare down at you, sickeningly saccharine concern layered overtop the faces of wolves, predators licking their maws in preparation for a meal.
You sleep and wake in a haze.
You sleep. Your dreams are torments, visions of being chased through the mountains by monsters, being pinned to the ground, teeth tearing into your throat with no preamble, or nightmares of drowning, being swallowed by the ocean, lungs sputtering with concrete laden sea water.
You wake. Your vision blurs, mind scrambled by pain, vaguely aware of being moved, carried to the bathroom, held upright over a toilet, gentle touch soothing up and down your back, heavy palm cupping curve of your skull when your head is tipped back and something is dribbled past your lips. You blink blearily with stone weighted lids, taking in the room bit by bit, the wrought iron bed frame, crackling flames sparking in a fireplace, mountain of pillows sagging with the imprint of your body. Your limbs are wrapped and unwrapped, immobilized, and shifted, and the pain is enough to make you gasp for air, tipping you over into the decaying depths of unconsciousness again and again.
You sleep. Restless, chilled. Ice spreads from the nerves in the tip of your nose to your brain, your fingers, and you try to burrow it deeper, seeking the comfort of the pillows, but finding warm skin and muscle instead. In your sleep, it’s lovely. It’s comforting. Even when you’re rolled to your side, something sticking under your tongue, you chase the heady thick heat that seems to roll off the limbs around you.
You wake. There are voices, deep and rumbling, bouncing through the room. Warm water dabbing down your neck, your belly, your legs. You’re too hot, uncomfortable and smothered until you hear a sharp pitched snarl accompanied by a yank, and then there’s a void of emptiness around you.
You sleep.
You wake. The pain starts to change, melting into something that’s consistent, throbbing, but a little less sharp, unless you move, and then it shrieks through your nerves like an electrical shock, vibrating your jaw shut.
You sleep.
You wake. They’re there. Simon is dabbing a cool washcloth across your forehead. You try to flex away on instinct, but firm hands stop you, holding you in place.
“Hey there, dove.” Johnny whispers, smiling. It’s a shy kind of smile, sweet, and the world spins. You grapple with reality, trying to remind yourself where you are, what happened. The fire snaps and pops behind Simon, who stands at his side, massive hand on his shoulder. “Made ye some breakfast. Think ye can eat somethin’?” Breakfast? A steaming bowl of oats sits cradled in his hand, spoon at the ready. Nausea roars, enflamed by the pain in your bones, and you shake your head. “Ye need to eat. Been givin’ ye soup for the past few days, but ye need more carbs.”
“I- I don’t understand.” You try to explain your confusion, hundreds of questions brewing on your tongue, trying to spill out.
“You’ve been in and out consciousness for the last week.” Simon explains, and your eyes widen.
“What?” Panic knots, twisting you up tight, heart fluttering in your chest.
“We had to sedate you. Needed to keep you still through the first part of the healing process.”
“You… you drugged me?” You stammer, and Simon smiles, but it’s not sweet like Johnny’s. It’s severe. It’s dangerous.
“Soft calluses form around fractures, after they’ve been set.” He sits down on the other side of the bed, across your hips from Johnny. “Your breaks aren’t in casts, so we needed to minimize your movement until the calluses could strengthen.”
“Ye willnae be able to walk on the leg, or lift anything with that arm, but we’ll help ye.” Johnny assures. “We’ll be here for ye, as ye get better.” The words don’t compute, and you look at both of their faces, sweeping back and forth, blue eyes to brown, brown to blue, until the only thing that you can think of blurts out of your mouth:
“Where’s my phone?” There’s a flash of discontent in Johnny’s features, but it’s quickly smoothed away, and you wonder if it even there in the first place.
“I imagine it’s somewhere near where your jeep rolled. We weren’t exactly concerned with finding it, considering we were trying to save your life.” Simon’s hands flex in the sheets, and then relax, serious look on his face, and guilt swamps you. Right. They saved your life. You could have died. And the pass is closed. Maybe this is all… as normal as it can be, given the situation. Calm down. 
Still… 
Didn’t Johnny kiss you? 
The spoon clinks against the bowl, jolting you back to the moment, eyeing the scoop of oats as it drifts closer to your mouth, lips parting on instinct.
The first bite is difficult, an insipid, unsavory lump sliding down into your stomach, toothy grin stretching across Johnny’s face as you swallow. The second bite is easier. So is the third, and you manage a few more after that until you start to feel wooly, head fuzzy and stomach sick. “I can’t.” You bleat, and he nods sympathetically.
“Alright, ye did good.” Sleep tugs, insistent again, strong surge of fog pulling at your eyes, and you yawn.
“Tired?” Simon’s already moving, hovering, patiently adjusting your pillows and lazily urging you into them. “You should rest.” You’re too weak, too miserable to argue, so you let yourself fade to black, easily falling back into the webbed slush of sleep.
You drift in and out for days after that. A bright spot of consciousness here and there before it dissipates and you fall into oblivion, and you find yourself embracing it as often as possible, trying to escape into yourself, away from wooden beams and potential predators that flank you.
You’re content to let it stay that way, hiding away behind closed lids for as long as possible, until the morning you feel the washcloth.
“Sh-sh-shhh.” Johnny hums when you garble out a distressed question, tipping a glass to your mouth. Cold liquid rushes across your tongue, and you have no choice but to swallow, confusion webbing across your thoughts. Simon has the blankets pulled away, chilled air nipping and your skin, and you moan. It’s strange, like you’re exposed, half floating like you’re high, and half spiraling through your pain.
“It’s okay, we’ve got you.” They’re repositioning you, arms and legs like a little doll, and you frown. “Jus’ need to get you clean.” Clean? The washcloth coasts across your neck and down to your chest, warm water soaking a trail down your breasts. You’re naked, fully, a hot palm against your hip, skin on skin contact registering as you blink fuzzily, watching the way Johnny focuses on you, concentration shining in his stunning blue eyes.
Water sloshes. Squeezing and dripping, and then the warm, nearly hot cloth is being pressed against you, stroking over your nipples, washing the underside of your breasts. It feels nice, and you whine a little when it pulls away. Simon chuckles.
“Do ye like that?” Johnny coos, reapplying the cloth to your belly. “Does that feel good?” Does it? Is it supposed to? Your vision doubles then realigns, and you stare at the underside of Simon’s jaw, mesmerized by the scar on his chin, the width of his neck. He readjusts you, again, slowly moving your knees apart, spreading your legs, and heat climbs through your bones to your cheeks.
You’re naked. They’re fully clothed. 
“We’re goin’ clean this up a bit.” Simon murmurs, a thick finger tracing along your slit, through the soft curls between your legs, and you balk. Clean what? How?
“My… my-“ you can’t even get the words out, too embarrassed, and he nods, sliver flash of a razor twinkling in his hand. The air in your chest sputters.
“Your hair.” Johnny works the washcloth back and forth, water dripping down your skin to the towel that’s been placed under your hips, you can only lay there in mortification when you feel yourself getting wet, tepid arousal roaring to life between your legs. “If you’re a good girl for us,” Simon continues, spraying a big glob of shaving cream into Johnny’s palm, “we’ll give you a treat afterwards. How’s that sound?”
“A treat?”  You squeak, and then whimper, Johnny’s fingers creeping down your slit, rubbing the cream across your pubis and labia, heel brushing against your clit. You make a noise of a protest, but it falls on deaf ears.
“Ye’re alright.” He coos, bumping against the swollen bud again, and you try to stop the moan that builds in your chest with no success, slamming your eyes shut and trying to disappear into the pillows. “It’s natural, dove. Ye dinnae need to feel embarrassed.” He leans forward, slotting his mouth against yours, lips soft and fragrant in a pillowy sweet kiss that lasts too long, his eyes blissfully closed in front of your almost crossed ones. 
“Please…” you whisper, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for, and Johnny coos at you, bending at the waist to get a better vantage point between your legs. You shake your head, eyes wide with disbelief, with fear, your mind trying to catch up, trying to rationalize what’s happening at the same time as your body is betraying you, slicking the cream that’s lathered between your thighs, clit pulsing with desperate need.
“I- I don’t want you to… shave me.” You whisper. You don’t want them to touch you… there, and the panic that’s pulsing between your ears continues to rise as your protests go unnoticed. Just saying it out loud makes you want to die of embarrassment, and Simon clucks.
“We have to take care of you, sweet girl.” Simon grips your thigh, fingers pressing into flesh, and the cool blade of the razor moves against the grain with a flick of his wrist, drawing back to a bucket for a rinse before a repeat, breath frozen in your chest as he slowly eliminates the curls of your pubic hair. “It will be easier to do that, to see what you need without all this.” He hums, the smile of a wolf coy on his face. “Stay nice and still for us.” They work in tandem, perfectly synchronized, and your unwanted arousal starts to overpower the pain that’s radiating from your broken bones. It’s been so, so long since you’ve been touched by anyone, and your body does not care that you didn’t want this, or agree to it, too eager to be satisfied, to be touched in anyway it can get, and it gets worse, more intense the longer it goes on, the precise movements of their hands, the slow and methodical approach to your cunt. “Almost done.” Simon tells you, and the side of his finger passes over your clit unintentionally, and you whine. “I know, I know. You’re bein’ so good. Such a good girl.” Your good hand is shaking, gripping the sheets, and when he finishes, Johnny wipes you down with a clean cloth, passing over your clit again and again, electric shocks sparking in your belly. You’re paralyzed, helpless, and yet… soaked. Desperate. The warring emotions tear at you, shame and fear and desire rendering you speechless.
“I think ye need some relief, dove.” Johnny hums, looking from your pussy to Simon, both of them tilting their heads to stare between your legs. “Poor thing is so swollen, Si.”
“Do you want to touch her, Johnny? Give her a reward?” Simon asks him, so sweetly, and Johnny shimmies down to be eye level with your pussy, tongue darting out to lick his lips.
Half of you screams no. Half of you shouts yes.
All you can do is watch, helplessly, as they settle themselves between your legs, Simon over Johnny’s shoulder, tempering his frenzied excitement with assured patience. 
“Will ye show me how?” He’s eager, and you frown, confused.
“Johnny’s never made a girl come before,” Simon tells you gently. “You’ll be his first.” Oh my god. “Will you help him? Tell him what feels good?” Your brain melts. You don’t know what to say, mouth half open, staring at the both of them, and after a few seconds, Simon sighs like he’s exasperated with you, before ducking back down next to Johnny and murmuring softly to him, probing along your cunt, finger dipping into your hole, swirling in the wetness gathered there and then moving up to your slit. You gasp, eyes nearly rolling back in your head.
“She likes that.” Johnny groans, breath blowing over your exposed flesh, and Simon takes his hand, thumb over thumb, guiding him in small circles around your clit.
 “Nice an’ slow at first, when you’re rubbin’ her clit. Feel how hard it is?” He instructs, pressing a kiss to the side of Johnny’s head, and he nods enthusiastically, looking up at Simon with wide, puppy dog eyes, sappy and saturated with love. It’s sweet, and affectionate, like they’re the only ones in the room, in the world… and you’re intruding on a private moment between these two men and your body. Like you’re a bystander. Or a doll. It’s confusing, your brain trying to sort everything that’s happening into neat little boxes that keep overflowing or falling apart, fracturing under the weight of your helplessness, the shock and fear that’s nearly made you dizzy. “See how her little hole is clenchin’ like that? It’s ‘cause she’s empty, needs to be filled up. When she comes, she’ll get real tight.” He explains, your body enflaming in mortified heat. They’re pushing you closer and closer to an orgasm, and Simon increases the speed as your hips jolt.
“Fuck.” You hiss.
“That’s it.” Simon coaches. “Are you close, sweet girl? Gonna come for us?” You shake your head, but even if you wanted to close your legs, you couldn’t. You’re trapped, lost in a sea of wild waves that break directly over your head, one after another until you’re drowning, gasping, muscles so tight they burn, pain in your arm and leg a secondary concern behind the pressure in your belly, the zap of your clit as they drag you too easily to the bottom, before sending you breaking through the surface.
You come with a distressed moan, hips jerking, and then a raspy plea for them to stop, telling them it’s too much, you’re too sensitive, to which Simon wraps his hand around Johnny’s wrist and pulls his hand away.
“We can’t overwhelm her just yet. Gotta wait until she’s healed up, hm?” He murmurs, reaching for the cloth. You blink at the ceiling, drifting, floating away, little boxes in your mind broken up into gnarled pieces that don’t make sense.
What just happened?
You stay silent, blank, as they settle you, cloth cleaning between your legs, blankets being fussed with around your body, pillows plumped. Simon curls some of your unruly hair behind your ear, swooping down until the breadth of his body blocks out all the light in the room, lips brushing over your ear. “What a good girl you are, dove. Did so well, letting Johnny give you an orgasm. So sweet for him.” He tucks you in a little tighter, and Johnny ducks around him, kissing you gently, like you’re made of glass, thrilled smile tugging at his cheeks, unfettered joy the last thing you see before your eyes slip shut.
The next time you wake, Johnny is in bed with you. It’s dark, a flickering orange glow casting shadow across the room, and you startle at the weight of his arm stretched across your chest, cradling you close, half curled around you like a cat. You turn, face to face, his mouth slightly agape, breath blowing over your cheek. You can’t get enough leverage on one leg to slide out from under him, and when you squirm, he only tightens his grip, pinning you to the bed. You’re overheated, and when you peek over his shoulder to get a look at the fire, you see Simon instead, sitting upright in a chair, fully awake, watching you. White hot fear shocks your system, forcing your eyes down in disbelief, surprise, his chair creaking in the night. Your breath stops in your chest, and then there’s a hand smoothing over your forehead, as he leans past you to brush his lips against Johnny’s, and then rough stubble presses against your cheek with a jagged whisper.
“Sweet dreams, little dove.”
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woso-dreamzzz · 8 months ago
Text
Injured IX
Alexia Putellas x Child!Reader
Jenni Hermoso x Child!Reader
Summary: Things get worse before they can get better
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Two days after you and Jaume are admitted into hospital, several different things happen.
One: Jenni's manager calls and tells her that she can only take a maximum of two more weeks leave and that she needs to return to Mexico within the month.
Two: Jaume gets much better, very quickly. He's practically good as new and he's allowed out of his room for short periods of time.
Three: The pottery place lets Alexia know that her mug and your train are ready so she goes to pick them up.
Four: She comes back with your ceramic train and drops it on the floor in horror when she sees you being intubated.
'She took a turn for the worse' they tell her. 'We've upped her medication and she should be fine in a few days', they say but all Alexia can think about is the shattered train on the floor and how tiny you look in your bed.
You're moved to the ICU and remain motionless and asleep for days on end. Therein lies the second problem.
The ICU nurses are stricter than the nurses in the peds wing. They say only the legal guardians can go into your room.
You have no father. You had no other mother either, not legally anyway.
You have just Alexia. Just Alexia who can sign off on treatment plans. Just Alexia who can sign you out and be given updates about your condition.
Just Alexia who can go and sit by your bedside and sob.
It was supposed to be a good day. Jaume was better. You were going to get your train.
It's all ruined now and all Alexia can do is sob.
Jenni sobs too.
She can't see you. She can't even enter the ICU. She can do nothing but loiter in the waiting room.
She had nowhere else to go.
Eli and Alba can go and see Jaume but Jenni has nothing to do with Jaume. She just has you.
You who is intubated and asleep in the ICU. You who she had pinned down and so cruelly not explained anything to. You who was still so small and scared and stuck in hospital while Jenni would have to return to Mexico very, very soon.
"How is she?"
Jenni's ex looks away. Alexia looks exhausted, worse than Jenni's ever seen her before. There are bags under her eyes. Her hair looks unbrushed. Her clothes are crumpled.
"The doctors are optimistic," Is Alexia's answer," They think she's fighting really well. They..." Alexia's throat bobs. "They think she'll be strong enough to come off it in a day or two."
"And she can have visitors again?"
"Maybe not as quickly," Alexia explains," I think we should be conservative. Maybe not even until she's fully healthy again. I think-"
"Alexia, I have to leave soon."
Alexia breaks off. "What?"
"Back to Mexico. I've delayed it as long as I can. By the end of the month, I need to be gone again."
"What are you talking about?" Alexia still can't wrap her mind around it. "Back to Mexico? Bambi's still sick."
"I know!" Jenni snaps. "I know, Alexia. And you need to make a decision."
"A decision? Jenni, what are you talking about?"
"You need to put someone else on her papers. You've seen those doctors. We don't get told anything. It's dangerous."
"Jenni-"
"What if Bambi breaks her arm? Me or Olga bring her to hospital and they can't do anything because we're not legal guardians. What would have happened if they couldn't get a hold of you after they intubated her? They can't change treatment plans without parental consent."
"I-"
Jenni sighs, long and drawn out. "I know you have a lot on your plate, Alexia. I know, I do but this is about Bambi and what she deserves and she deserves two people on that birth certificate."
Jenni doesn't say what she wants to say. She doesn't say that she desperately wants you as her own. She doesn't say that she thinks in the deepest, most malicious part of her brain that Alexia has already ruined whatever relationship you had beyond repair. She doesn't say that she thinks a new start in Mexico would be best for you.
She doesn't say that she's already looked at a ballet academy near her apartment and that her club has some of the best childcare options she's seen in a long time.
Jenni doesn't say anything more.
She just turns on her heel and walks out.
Out of Alexia's company, out of the waiting room, out of the hospital.
She doesn't say anything until she's in her car and sobbing into her steering wheel.
Her words float through Alexia's brain even as she sits in Jaume's room with him.
He looks much better than before. The rash is gone. He's moving around again.
The only evidence that he was ever sick at all is the IV still attached to his hand, feeding antibiotics into his body to make sure it's fully gone.
"Something funny, little man?" Alexia coos as he giggles uncontrollably," What so funny, huh? What so funny?" She bounces him gently at each word and Jaume giggles even more.
"The little man's happy he's getting out of here in a few days," Olga says, hooking her chin over Alexia's shoulder," Isn't that right, Jaume? Is that why you're so giggly today?"
Jaume giggle in answer, kicking his feet out.
"Look at these kicks," Alexia coos," My little footballer, huh? Are you going to captain Spain? I think you are!"
"Your Mama and sister went home," Olga says," They'll be here early tomorrow, like always."
"Jenni went as well."
Olga goes to sit in the chair next to Alexia's, frowning. "That's unlike her. I swear, I thought she was going to sneak into the ICU yesterday."
"She told me that she needs to go back to Mexico soon," Alexia says," She's delaying it for as long as possible."
"All for our Bambi?" Olga hums," She really loves her."
"Yeah," Alexia says," She does."
Alexia is in awe of Jenni sometimes. Jenni has always loved you, Alexia thinks. Jenni's always been a part of your life even when Alexia didn't have the energy to care for herself. Jenni had always been there.
Alexia doesn't think she'll ever understand just how much Jenni adores you. You make the planets spin for Jenni. You hang the stars and the moon and sometimes, like now, Alexia wonders if she'll ever be able to live up to that.
If she'll ever be able to give you the life you deserve.
She doesn't want to give you up. Selfishly, she wants a life where she can hold both you and Jaume in bed with her. She wants a life where she can go to Jaume's football matches and your ballet recitals. She wants a life where she can win a Champion's League and see you running onto the pitch to celebrate with her.
But she doesn't know if that's the life you want.
She doesn't know if that's the life you deserve, constantly being shepherded from one thing to another, constantly living in fear that you'll be left behind again.
Alexia knows a life with Jenni, where you're the centre of her world, would be good for you too. But, still, Alexia can't help but let her heart flutter at hearing Olga call you 'our Bambi'.
'Our Bambi'.
Hers and Alexia's.
If you went with Jenni then you would be just Jenni's, no matter if Alexia kept her name on your birth certificate. You would be half a world away. She would see you when Jenni returned for international duty. She would see you a few weeks every year and Alexia doesn't know how she could cope with that.
Alexia doesn't know how she would explain to Jaume about the sister he never sees.
Alexia is your mother and she needs to do what is best for you, despite how selfish she wants to be.
She needs to decide if she can still give you the best life possible or if letting Jenni raise you is truly what will give you the best chance possible.
"Ale?" Olga asks softly, shaking her," You're crying."
Alexia swipes the tears away. "I was just thinking about Bambi. I should probably get back to her. The doctors keep saying that she won't even notice but-"
"But you should still sit with her," Olga says," She deserves to have some company. Here." Olga reaches into her bag.
She pulls out your ceramic train, the one Alexia shattered on the floor after seeing you with a tube down your throat.
"It's still missing a few pieces," Olga explains," But I tried my best. I thought you could put it at her bedside."
Alexia takes it gently, cradling it in her hands. Olga's right. There's still little chips and Alexia can very clearly see where Olga has glued the broken pieces together.
It's still fractured and broken but it's perfect.
"I love you," Alexia chokes out," I love you."
"I love you too," Olga says," Just as I love our kids. Go, Ale. Sit with her. Me and the little man will be right here."
The sun glints on your ceramic train for nearly a week until you wake up.
The doctors keep you asleep until they're certain that the meningitis is gone.
Jaume gets to go home with Olga the day before you get woken up.
There's a crowd outside your room early the next day and Alexia is the only one allowed in.
"We've taken the tube out," The doctors explain," And she'll be coming out of the anaesthesia soon. She'll be a little disorientated and emotional but once she's up, give it an hour or two, we'll check her hearing and her strength and if it all goes well then she should be out of here by late afternoon."
"How likely is it that her hearing's being affected?"
"Meningitis is known to cause hearing loss but I'm optimistic. Despite what's happened, she's fought it every step of the way. There's a good chance she comes out of this without any lasting effects."
"And once she's up? I can let people in?"
The doctor glances over at the assembled crowd. "Only one or two in the room at a time. We don't want to overwhelm her."
"Thank you."
"I'll be back soon."
Alexia retakes her seat at your side, holding your hand gently in her own. Your little hands are perfect to hold in her own. You could probably hold just a finger and it would still be bigger than your whole hand.
"I love you," Alexia whispers as she presses a soft kiss to your forehead," I love you so, so much, Bambi. You're all better now. You just need to wake up."
You don't come to for another thirty minutes or so and, when you finally do, it's slowly.
"Mami," You say," My throat hurts."
Alexia can't help the worried laughter that bubbles out of her throat. It's half in relief and half in how disgruntled you look.
"Mami?"
"Here, Bambi," She says," Sit up. Let's have a little drink."
She holds the glass as you sip the water. You lean easily into the comfort Alexia's offering, your head resting on her shoulder
"Wha's goin' on, Mami?"
"You were sick," Alexia says," But you're better now and you get to leave if everything's okay."
Your brow wrinkles. "I..." Your eyes dart around and Alexia suddenly realises what the doctor meant by you being emotional. "I want Mama! Mama! Want-Want Mama!"
Tears spill down your cheeks and Alexia knows exactly who you want.
She shouldn't take it personally. She knows you're sad and overwhelmed and you're reaching out for comfort for the person that you can't see.
Alexia knows this is normal. She's been told this is normal and yet-
Alexia pushes away her feelings, tucking you into the blankets and pressing a kiss to your cheek that you clearly welcome. "I'll get you Jenni," She promises," Just give me a second."
She pokes her head out of the door.
"Jenni," Alexia says, voice emotionless," She needs you."
Jenni's looking more relieved than Alexia's ever seen her before as she rushes into the room.
"Mama," You say, brow wrinkled and looking up at her with wet, puppy dog eyes," You hurt me."
"I hurt you?" Jenni echoes as she takes Alexia's seat," When did I hurt you, Bambi?"
"When the bad man touched my back and you held my legs."
"I'm sorry, Bambi," Jenni says gently," That was wrong of me. I'm very, very sorry."
You're still confused. Your brain feels like it's full of cotton, all fuzzy and weird like that time the tv made that weird noise and went all staticky.
You lay back down. Your head bounces a little from the force you've thrown it back into your pillow with.
Everything's all jumbled and confused and you gently take Ma-Jenni's hand in your own. She's got big hands with fingers you can wrap your whole hand around and still have your hand be too small.
You know someone else like that, you think and your brain strains to think of who it is.
You get glimpses.
Big hands. A Barcelona kit. Gentle strokes down your back and kisses on your forehead when you're sad.
"Mami," You croak out even as Ma-Jenni climbs into bed with you and cradles you against her body.
Mami was with you earlier. You can remember that. You lift your head to see where she's gone but you can't see her anywhere.
"Mama," You say, tugging on Ma-Jenni's shirt as tears still drip down your cheeks," Mami's gone! Mami's gone again!"
You don't know that Alexia's crying too.
In the bathroom down the hall, staring at herself in the mirror and only seeing your own tearful face reflected back at her.
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