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sparrowmoth · 2 years ago

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Written in the Scars • [AO3]

Teen | 3.2K+ | Marlos-centric/OT4 | Heavy Angst, Devotion, Whump

A/N: More detailed notes on AO3, if you're interested, but here, I will just say thank you to my lovely friend Blake (@finitevoid) for talking through this fic with me and inspiring me to push the plot further, plus impressing upon me the image of an insanely tall Maleficent, which has now become secret canon in my mind dajkgsjdkg <3

CW: Heavy angst, verbal and physical child abuse, emotional manipulation, non-graphic usage of medieval torture implements, threat of self-harm, a lot of swearing, and a hurt/no comfort kinda cliffhanger in this first chapter (sorry).

Chapter One: Birdcage Religion

The knife isn’t dropped with a clatter to the stone floor. It is thrown at the feet of the Mistress of All Evil—Mal’s mother, her queen and, at a whim, her executioner. She’ll be that today, from the look on her face—the way her eyes flick to the knife and she tells Mal to repeat that.

“You heard me,” says Mal, stepping out in front of Carlos.

He doesn’t try to pull her back, though from the corner of her eye, she can see his hands twitch, like he’s thinking about it. His face has gone blank, but she reads fear in his quiet, the way he stands like a ghost, trying not to be seen. He thinks he’s caused enough trouble.

That makes Mal want to cause more.

She doesn’t shrink when her mother stands slowly from her throne, rising to her full height of seven feet and then some. Her horns add another foot and she’s standing on the dais. The candlelight behind her casts a shadow that much longer—a monstrous form, in all—

“So disappointing,” says Maleficent, voice dripping sickly sweetness. She takes her staff from where it’s leaning and takes a slow stride off the dais, almost gliding toward her daughter. “It seems your heart’s grown like a tumour in that precious little chest of yours.” Her words warp to a snarl as she lifts her staff up, spearing it forward, striking Mal hard in the sternum, sending her stumbling back into Carlos.

Mal grabs the end of the staff to keep from losing her balance, eyes flashing green as she glares at her mother, whose own burning gaze comes down the length of the staff. Only hatred there. No, intent—

“PROVE YOURSELF, GIRL,” roars Maleficent, wielding the staff in an arc as she kicks at Mal’s shin, sending her down and out of the way, leaving a path to Carlos. “THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE.”

Carlos, in a slight daze from having hit the stone floor—hard—recovers quickly at the sight of Maleficent encroaching, her staff poised to strike, coming down like a falcon, everything a blur—

Mal throws herself in front of him just in time to take the blow.

In some far part of his mind, still dazed, Carlos hears her ribs crack like a shot. He feels the part of a rabbit having watched the hound dog take a bullet for its prey, right from its master’s rifle—

Then, Mal is slumping across him, wheezing for breath, and he’s trying not to panic as he tries to sit up, tries to drag Mal away, tries to think through the thought stream of stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid—because he’s scared and he’s angry and he doesn’t understand. Why didn’t she just do it? Why didn’t she just hurt him? Why didn’t she…

“Ah, so it is a cancer,” says Maleficent, practically in a purr. She’s put the end of her staff under Carlos’ chin now, forcing his gaze up. She smirks when his open, vulnerable face turns quickly to something vicious. “You don’t fool me, boy. I can see your weakness…”

Mal’s arm shoots up and she grips the staff hard, pushing it away.

“Leave him alone,” she grits out, struggling up while half in Carlos’ lap still. “This is…” She coughs, blood speckling her lips. “Between you and me…” she manages, craning her neck to meet Maleficent’s eyes, high as a god’s above hers, staring ever down, down, down.

Maleficent smiles, something sinister, and she yanks her staff back easily out of Mal’s fist. “Do you know what I think?” she asks, the point of her staff hovering just above the stones. “I think… what’s between us are three little problems… and he happens to be one.”

With that, her staff comes down in an almighty bang, cracking open the stones and ushering in the guards—a group of boar-headed men with wide-set, matte black eyes set in wiry, mud-brown fur. They are dressed in leather armour with a dragon scale design, and various weapons hang from their belts or are carried in their hands—

They need no instruction beyond the simplest nod.

Carlos bites down on the first hand that reaches past him, trying for a fistful of Mal’s hair to drag her up. He draws a crude noise from the guard he’s wounded, but another moves in quick enough—

Mal is grabbed tight around the waist, weakening her kicks as she gasps for breath. Carlos is hoisted by the scruff of his jacket, but he writhes so much that he slips out from it easily, landing light on his feet, where he would normally make a break for it, except—

“Carlos,” Mal chokes out, a note of pleading in her voice.

He knows what she wants, what she’s trying to tell him.

He knows, if she could manage, she would say it’s an order.

But he doesn’t try to run.

Mal’s desperate eyes are the last he sees before a guard comes up behind him, pulling a sack down over his head and drawing the string tight, making him reach for his neck before his hands are roughly yanked away and burly arms lift him off his feet again.

Thick as the bag is over his head, the noises around him are slightly muffled, but loud as his breathing now sounds in his own ears, he hears Maleficent sigh, like this is all some inconvenience—

“Prepare the birdcage,” she addresses the guards, “and some chains for the mutt. No food, no water.” She pauses, then adds with a dark sense of promise, “If even one escapes, there will be pork roast for dinner, do you quite understand? Good. Now, to the dungeon.”

Maleficent’s dungeon is not unfamiliar.

Mal, Carlos, Jay, and Evie had plumbed the depths of the castle when they were all children. That was different than this, being carried down blind, hearing the echoes deepen, feeling the damp press in, a chill like death’s hands, goosebumps spreading—

There is sobbing, screaming, quiet moaning, and pleas behind the first door that opens at the bottom of the stairwell. They pass on through without a word from the guards or Maleficent herself.

Several more doors open and all sense of presence in the cells fades away to nothing. Now, there is only the footsteps, the rattle of chains and the clank of metal, words exchanged between the boar men in a guttural language, and underneath it all, the faintest of whimpers—

“You see now,” says Maleficent, “what your defiance will cost you, so I wonder…” She trails off and Carlos hears some shuffling, feels the bodies shift around him, and a hand pressing down on his head—

He’s forced onto his knees.

The bag is ripped away to reveal Mal, standing in front of him, with her mother behind her, one clawed hand on her shoulder—the other holding a knife, offering it for Mal to take—

But Mal’s just looking at Carlos.

“Slit his throat,” Maleficent whispers into her trembling daughter’s ear, lips close enough that she must tickle the flesh, “and I may just reconsider your punishment.” She trails her hand down from Mal’s shoulder, grabbing her wrist and guiding her puppet-like to grasp the knife. “Go on,” she urges. “His life is yours. He belongs to you. That’s what you’ve told me. Now, I’m telling you… to prove it…”

“Mal,” says Carlos, barely audible. I’ll come back goes unsaid.

She knows that. She knows that. Why won’t she just kill him?

This is the closest to mercy she will get from her mother.

Mal’s fingers twitch and Carlos holds his breath. He watches, heart pounding, as she slowly takes the knife, and then—much quicker than he can process such a stupid fucking decision—she’s whirling around, poised to stab her mother’s chest, no hesitation at all—

But Maleficent reacts, too fast for Mal to land the blade.

Her wrist is ensnared. Her mother’s face is stony.

This time, the knife is dropped.

It clatters to Mal’s feet and lays there, abandoned.

The silence that follows seems almost unnatural, as thick as it is—like a spell that can be broken by only Maleficent. And she does, but at her leisure, first gripping Mal’s chin with a punishing pressure—

“Do you want so much to die?” she asks, voice low and predatory.

Mal just stares at her, breathing hard and ragged, a soft-edged anger in her eyes, like fear is threatening to resurface—

She has no time to react before Maleficent withdraws her hand and brings it back with a hard slap that echoes off the stone walls and almost seems to make the torches flicker. The force of the blow should send Mal to her knees, but Maleficent grabs her, fisting her jacket, yanking her up. She takes a fistful of Mal’s hair and whips her head toward Carlos, forcing her to meet his eyes again—

“ANSWER ME, GIRL. WOULD YOU DIE FOR THIS DOG?”

Carlos, holding Mal’s gaze, almost imperceptibly shakes his head.

Mal stares at him for a moment, eyes bright with unshed tears, then her expression hardens and she spits blood at the ground, a trickle of red spit dribbling down her chin as she strains to tilt her head back and look at her mother, saying everything with her silence—

Maleficent’s lip curls. Her knuckles whiten, paler than pale—as though her skin is translucent, showing the bones. “Very well.”

She stoops, bending down to Mal’s ear—

“But know that, this time, you will not be buried.”

Maleficent straightens to her full, monstrous height, shoving Mal to her knees before she commands her, voice thunderous, to surrender her weapons, her jewelry, her outer clothing and her boots—

Pridefully, Mal looks back up at her mother as she moves to comply, slipping out of her jacket to show the knives strapped to her arms.

She removes them, one by one, and simply tosses them aside.

Carlos watches, breathing ragged, red creeping in at the edges of his vision. She’s giving up—and for what? “FUCK YOU, MAL!” he bursts out, startling the guards on either side of him; their grip on him had slackened, so he slides easily to the ground. “I’m not fucking worth it,” he growls, staring dead into Mal’s eyes. She looks stunned, on the verge of anger; then, the knife’s pulled from his boot, and—

“NO!” She’s up on her feet, lunging for Carlos before a pale, clawed hand hooks her upper arm, dragging her back with an effortless tug.

Carlos’ knife is at his own throat, and the guards who, at first, had moved to disarm him, are melting slowly back away. Their eyes are ever on their mistress, who has one hand raised—a silent command.

“Carlos,” Mal gasps softly, straining hard against her mother’s hold.

His eyes are raised above her head.

Maleficent is smirking.

She… wants him to…

Carlos falters, lowering the point of the knife from his throat to his collarbone. He looks at Mal, takes a breath, makes his decision—

And plunges the knife into the nearest boar man’s knee.

They squeal and the sound of it, so piercingly loud, rings in Carlos’ ears as the guards bear down. He thinks, for a second, somewhere through the din, that he hears Mal laugh—in spite of everything—

The thought is interrupted by a boot to his gut, leaving him winded. No time to catch his breath before he’s dragged up by his arms—and Mal is screaming now. He’s sure of that. He can’t focus on the words because there’s too much stimulation—the rattling of chains, the icy bite of metal, the hot breath on his face. He tenses under large hands checking over him for weapons, taking each as they’re discovered—

Carlos’ too-small boots are yanked off and he briefly feels the stone floor, burning cold beneath his bare feet; then, the chains hooked to his wrists are pulled up sharply toward the ceiling. The ground goes out from under him and he struggles not to flail, feeling panic swell up in him. He strains to touch the ground, but only manages on his tiptoes—and that’s only for a moment before a hard shove sends him swinging, shooting pain down through his shoulders—

The boar men snort with laughter as Carlos struggles, seemingly in vain. He gets a grip on the chains attached to his shackles and, with all the upper body strength he can muster, swings himself with legs outstretched—just when the guards have turned their backs to him.

He catches the nearest one around the neck, legs quickly constricting until the boar man starts to choke, clawing at Carlos’ skinny ankles as two of his fellows rush to assist him—

One grabs hold of Carlos’ leg and tries to pry it back, even almost succeeding—until his sweaty hands slip and Carlos’ leg snaps back with force, catching the choking man right in the snout. His tusks dig in to Carlos’ flesh, but the pain is distant from Carlos’ fury—

Until the weight of a spiked club connects with his hip.

He bites down on a cry as his legs come loose from around the boar men’s neck and heavily succumb to gravity. His shoulders ache and his hip throbs and he feels numbness in his fingertips.

Still, when a guard stoops to seize his good leg, Carlos spits down at their head and meets a snarl with a snarl. His ankle is shackled to a short length of chain, attached to an iron ball that’s set a little away.

His toes can touch it if he stretches, but it’s too heavy to drag nearer in any hope that he could stand on it, so he just glowers at the boar men as their numbers start to dissipate—

And Mal comes sharply back into focus.

She looks beaten down, quite literally, on her knees in front of her mother, wearing nothing but her thin, black underwear. There’s an open cage behind her, in the shape of a person much taller than her, albeit nowhere as tall as Maleficent, with her horns that scrape the ceiling. She is a god here on the Isle and she carries herself as one.

Huge, even at a distance, Maleficent’s stare turning suddenly on Carlos makes him feel like a lame deer in a grizzly’s line of sight.

“Still alive, I see,” Maleficent remarks.

Mal’s head jerks up and she meets Carlos’ eyes.

“There’s cruelty in you yet, child, to not have spared him this torture when I gave you the chance.” Maleficent smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “His pain will be immeasurable, and all because…” She tips forward, bending at the waist, one hand slowly extending until she cups Mal’s stubborn chin and forces it upward. “You are a sadistic, selfish little girl,” Maleficent coos, her voice like poisoned honey.

Mal tries to shake her head, but her mother holds her chin tight.

“He begged for a quick death, but you denied him…”

“SHUT UP!” Carlos bellows, writhing in his chains despite the pain that lances through him. He can’t listen anymore. He can’t just feel this helpless. “YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU KNOW?” He glares at Maleficent, all fear in him burnt up.

The air seems almost to coagulate, growing thick with a tension that holds the guards in their places, their eyes on their mistress as she rises to her full height, reaches out to take her staff, and—

“DON’T HURT HIM!” Mal bursts out, struggling up to her feet. She puts her arms out like a pair of spread wings—a feeble sort of shield.

Maleficent simply takes her staff in hand, face plain and unmoved.

“Speak again,” she says, addressing Carlos, “and I will cut out your tongue.” She looks at Mal, eyes dead of emotion, then lifts her staff and slams it down against the stone. “Enough of my time has been wasted on you.” She circles behind Mal, who turns to face her, wary as a mouse in the presence of Bastet. “Had I only known you’d be so human, so stupid and WEAK…” She takes a menacing step forward, backing Mal up to the birdcage. “This would have been your cradle.”

Maleficent shoves Mal and she goes stumbling backwards, right into the cage. Her head slams against the iron bars and she sinks dazedly down onto what feels like a stove with the switch just flicked on—

Her mother steps back and gestures for a boar man—one who shuts the iron cage, turns the key in the padlock, then—throwing his head back, jaws open to the ceiling—drops the key right down his throat and forces a swallow. He suppresses a cough before opening up his mouth again, presenting his throat for Maleficent’s inspection—

She perks an eyebrow, leaning over him, then gives a curt nod of approval. “Finish it,” she says with a snap of her fingers, and two boar men rush to operate a pulley made stubborn with rust—

Maleficent watches as the birdcage is raised several feet in the air—then higher still at her direction. Only when it is hanging out of the reach of any normal person does she utter, “There. Now secure it.”

Mal chokes down a whimper, just now starting to squirm.

Her mother regards her without any emotion, and somehow, that’s worse—worse than laughter or gloating or even… disappointment, because if Mal’s blood were pure, she would already be screaming.

“Mom.” The word escapes Mal as Maleficent turns her back—

She stops—and from his vantage point, Carlos sees her teeth flash.

It’s a moment, only, and then she’s icily calm. “Guards,” she says, and they come quickly to attention, awaiting her orders. She holds the room in silence uncomfortably long, slowly tapping her fingers against her staff. “You will inform Jafar and Evil Queen that I have withdrawn protection of their wretched whelps. Furthermore, that I will not tolerate any sight of the two in the shadow of my castle—and should they appear to darken my doorstep… I expect you will report to me with a body to be buried. Do you quite understand?”

She glances over her shoulder, then starts toward the door.

Mal stares after her wide-eyed, fists clenched tight around the iron bars. Her knuckles are bloodless, but her palms are reddening.

Her lips are parted, but she doesn’t speak.

Carlos is quiet, too—teeth grit so hard, his jaw aches. He’s breathing hard through his nose, glowering at Maleficent as she glides through the door, and all the boar men with her. The door slams shut and the jail keys jingle, locking up this cell that will, in days, become a tomb.

When all the footsteps have faded, Carlos finally screams—

Pure fury. Unspent anger. Hatred. Bloodlust. Wrath.

He’s not afraid. He will come back. He will come back. He’s not afraid. Death is familiar. He will come back. He’s not afraid. It isn’t that. It’s not the dying. Not the torture. Death’s familiar. So is pain.

It’s just that—if he hadn’t kissed her—

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are always appreciated. And feel free to subscribe on AO3 if you want to be alerted when the next chapter comes out. Kudos and comments are lovely, as well! ♥

#descendants #marlos #rotten OT4 #descendants fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing #descendants fandom #man it took me like a week to get this chapter out of my brain #it kept making me sad so I had to stop writing ajkgjsdkg #but it's finally here #and chapter two is vivid in my mind #so I will start writing that soon #though I might finish evil puppy carlos's adventures first #we shall see we shall see #I am really on a marlos kick #but I promise Jay and Evie are coming next chapter #and they have a huge role to play #plus they are going to commit crimes!#nothing like a murderous jayvie <3

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taproot-bread · 3 years ago

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I really hope your meowcat will be OK. <3 So stressful to have a sick kitty.

Thanks! I trust her vet who is also going to do the surgery since she has been treating Gomo for almost a couple of years now.

This is the cat in question btw (excuse the shitty quality my phone is an old ass android)

CW: animal health stuff bc I want to talk about it

I never mentioned here but Gomo, who we have had for like 6 months, has had chronic ear problems ever since she was found unconscious on some cottage road. She has had a couple of (not serious) tumours in her ear canal and currently has an infection that refuses to go away. We knew this when we adopted her but we didn't quite expect it to get this expensive lol. She is otherwise young and healthy and we try our best to get her used to people since she is basically feral. She love's my boyfriend's cat tho and really wants to be friends with her but both of them are kinda awkward lmao

#talks #cats #cw animal health #cw animal sickness

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punksarahreese · 3 years ago

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"you're the reason i'm still here" for recurrence!au? cancer is making my brain go brrrrrr too

Still Here | Recurrence

Cancer!AU; it’s never easy but love can ease the burden just a bit

Prompt: you’re the reason I’m still here

Word count: 1824

CW: cancer, medical talk, death mention

***

Chemo is always made out to be yet another evil in the web of pain that is cancer. Ava supposed that made sense, since being pumped full of chemicals designed to rip apart every cell wasn’t exactly comfortable. Still, it beat a lot of the other aspects of being a cancer patient. She could take the nausea and the hair loss, as much as it still shocked her after all this time. She could handle the chemo because she knew it was her best shot, even though her body had never really been the same after her treatments decades before.

Chemo was better than coughing up blood and passing out in the scrub room. That had been a mortifying experience, when she had tried to go back to work a couple days after her rediagnosis. She had an oncologist appointment scheduled that day and there was no way in hell Ava was about to sit around and mope any longer. She still had patients and surgeries to attend to; being a cancer patient could wait a few hours.

She regretted that decision when she had an episode after a 5 hour surgery, barely missing the edge of the sink on her way down. A head injury would have been the cherry on top of that horrible day, though the CT and endoscopy that followed her accident was almost as bad. Somehow it made it worse that Connor didn’t tease her about it, instead he had been hovering by her side throughout all of the tests and making sure she was alright. Maybe it was a little sweet that he clearly cared, yet Ava kind of hated it all the same. Connor acting like this meant he was treating her differently, usually he didn’t hesitate to bully her and expect a snide remark in return. That was the part of cancer that was more unbearable than any chemical soup infusion or oncologic emergency; the knowledge that everyone saw her as broken.

So even though it burned as it trickled into her veins and left a strangely metallic taste in Ava’s mouth, the chemo was the least painful thing that had happened that week. She was settled in one of the purple chairs, a fuzzy blanket with South African flag motifs tucked around her legs. The infusion room was always a bit on the cold side, no matter what hospital it was in, and so she came prepared. It was a fleeting comfort, the soft fabric not helping much as she felt a chill that settled into her bones. Nothing could quell that, no amount of comfy items or get well soon messages; it was just how one felt when they were on death’s door for the billionth time in their life.

Ava wasn’t the only one in the room but it was still silent, save for the mechanical buzz of the IV equipment doing its job. She didn’t know any of the other patients, save for one man with an inoperable cardiac tumour she remembered consulting on. That was a bit awkward, though she wasn’t quite sure if the old man even recognized her. She barely recognized herself that day, makeupless and her hair partially hidden under a silk scarf her sister had given her years before. Her hair was still intact, she was just preparing herself for the inevitable. Maybe she would cut it super short or dye it before it all fell out; that could be fun.

It was times like this where Ava didn’t feel like a person, let alone a surgeon. Maybe that was better in that situation anyway, the last thing she wanted was any patient to think she wasn’t giving her 110% in all of their surgeries. She had never let cancer stop her in the past so she sure as hell wouldn’t let it now.

She had been trying to read a book that Sam had recommended, a cozy novel about a surgeon’s life that actually turned out to be pretty accurate. Ava had given up on that pretty quickly though, chemo brain ruining any chance of her understanding the plot. It was only her second infusion out of the 14 cycles her oncologist planned with her, which was a tad frustrating. If she was already having trouble quelling the chemotherapy side effects, Ava worried she might not be able to work through her treatments. That was the worst case scenario, though, and she was already stubbornly refusing to take any extra time off.

Slumping back in the chair, Ava’s head hit the headrest a bit too hard. She stifled a groan, the action not having helped her pounding headache. The sounds of the room were starting to become too much, probably due to the stress already on her body and mind.

“Want some company?”

Ava lifted her head at the question, smiling weakly, “Hey, don’t you have rounds?”

“I’m taking a break to do a private consult,” Sarah answered as she tugged one of the rolling chairs over, “Perhaps my favourite cancer patient, I need to check on her mental status of course.”

“Sarah…” While her girlfriend’s playful smile made Ava feel a bit giddy, she could see there was true worry in her words. The psych resident was prone to worrying, especially when her girlfriend was actively in a chemo cycle. She had done far too much journal reading, Ava would tell her countless times, the mental effects of cancer care were nothing in comparison to her physical pain.

“It’s my job to worry,” the slight tremor of her hand prompted Sarah to take it in both of hers, “Especially since you insist upon working through treatments.”

“I’m not going to let my rare recurrence of cancer endanger my patients’ lives.”

Sarah’s incredulous look almost made her laugh, “That’s single handedly the stupidest and most selfless thing you’ve said.”

“I’m nothing without surgery, Sarah.”

“Ava, don’t be like that. You need to take care of yourself, with or without your job. You can’t help your patients if you’re dead.”

Shaking her head, Ava shifted a bit in her seat, “Does pumping my body full of cytotoxic drugs really count as taking care of myself?”

“If it’ll shrink the tumours? Yes, actually.”

“Babe, I’m doing the chemo,” she reminded Sarah by gesturing to the bright red liquid slowly dripping through her IV, “Full of Doxorubicin. They’re doing a VDC/IE cycle, fourteen weeks of this will either kill the cancer or me in the process.”

“Don’t…”

“Sarah, I’m just teasing. I’ll be fine, this is going to shrink the mets enough for Connor to remove them, okay?”

“Well you need to be cooperative then,” she reminded her girlfriend sternly, “No complaints, if your oncologist wants you to take time off work you will.”

“That’s unfair. They’re already talking about putting a port in, the last thing I want is to have a tube in my subclavian again. Are you going to make me stay home and be a vegetable in bed too?”

The way Sarah sighed made Ava realize she was pushing the boundaries a bit too far. She had long since gotten used to the pain and uncertainty that came along with cancer, so Ava had no qualms about joking around or acting like it wasn’t all that bad. It was bad, of course, but she had spent far too long moping about her health history and this time she wouldn’t let it set her backwards.

Sarah, however, was unsure about the whole thing. This wasn’t like when she was seven and her great grandmother she didn’t remember well died because of stomach cancer. This was a person she knew and loved so much, they were both adults and she only ever saw a future with Ava, so it was more than terrifying. She knew Ava was used to this but she also wanted everything to go 100% right, Sarah feared that her girlfriend’s work-oriented views would impact how successful her treatments were. Besides, once the chemo side effects hit Ava would be begging for a few days off if she wasn’t already bedriddden; they both knew that.

“I’m sorry,” Ava did her best to hide the flinch that was triggered by a tugging on her IV, the cannula moving uncomfortably in her arm. She had reached for Sarah but her girlfriend had scooted just far enough away, looking at her with a worried expression. She had a right to be upset, of course, but Ava didn’t want to make things any harder on them for the long term.

“Seriously, love,” she continued with a tiny pout playing on her lips, “I will behave.”

“Promise?”

“Mhm, just for you.”

“You’re a pest,” Sarah’s reply was lighthearted despite her words, and she didn’t protest when Ava’s free hand hooked into the arm of her chair, tugging her closer again. She knew this was just the way her girlfriend coped and really it made sense. After so long all she ever wanted to do was do surgery and then spend her off time with her love, so Sarah was aware how much this changed things for them both.

“You’re the reason I’m still here, Sarah Reese,” Ava admitted quietly, her gaze trained on the way her hands fiddled with the edge of Ava’s blanket. She was quick to stop the worrying of the fabric, lacing Sarah’s fingers with her own instead.

“Don’t get all mushy and existential on me, Ava Bekker,” she retorted, “It’s far too early on for that.”

“Hey, you’re my rock; not just in the cancer stuff but also in general. I don’t think I’d be here, in Chicago or anywhere for that matter, if I hadn’t met you.”

“It would be very unprofessional of me to kiss you right now,” Sarah’s cheeks were a little pink, staring at her girlfriend with a bittersweet mixture of love and pain. Ava just laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood, pressing a kiss to the back of Sarah’s hand as a compromise.

“Go catch up with Doctor Charles for rounds, Darling,” she said softly, “I’ll see you later.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I have another hour or so of this,” she gestured to the IV pole holding her hostage in the harshly lit room, “And you have work. I’ll catch up with you once I’ve changed, I don’t have a surgery scheduled until four pm.”

“Okay… Ava don’t push yourself. Call me if you feel even a little unwell, okay? I mean it.”

“I will, Sarah.”

“You better,” she stood from the chair, accidentally sending it sliding backwards a bit with the momentum, “I love you.”

“And I you,” Ava smiled because even if Sarah’s presence didn’t take her pain away she certainly made it a bit more bearable. She gave her hand one gentle squeeze and let go, “I love you, Sarah.”

#gay rights babey #ava bekker #chicago med #sarah reese #reesker #my aus #recurrence #cancer!au #cj add this to your fic masterpost #mutuals #graye tag #crockettstiddies #purple-dahlias

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not-poignant · 3 years ago

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pink, morning glory and mugworts?

Pink: Where is home?

I've seen this answered in practical and like...philosophical ways, I'm going to try both.

Philosophically I'm not sure I've found it yet.

Practically, my home is in Western Australia. It's a little cottage with a back garden (which is rare for cottages to have gardens in this suburb) and the government owns like 30% of it because we're basically 'welfare poor.' Or we were when we got this house. There's two lovely but aging cats, an art/writing studio where I spend most of my time when I'm not sleeping, an electric piano, and it's cluttered, because there's so many books folks, so many.

Morning Glory: What was your bedroom like growing up?

For a few years we lived in a house with no hot water because we couldn't afford it (Mum talks about how hard it was hand-washing all the clothing in the cold) and that bedroom was pretty bare.

Then it was a space that I just filled with as many books as I possibly could, with a fairly even split between non-fiction and fiction.

And then when I was a teenager, it had a pagan altar in it (I got into witchcraft very early, lol), a single bed, a lot of books, and an upright piano. I never had any technology in my room growing up (like televisions etc.)

There was always a lamp or nightlight though because I'm afraid of the dark when I sleep (partly because I have a tendency to hallucinate after waking up from nightmares or flashbacks). To this day I often still sleep with a light source on.

Mugworts: What was it like for you as a teenager? Did you enjoy your teenage years?

Ah, no. So after years of repression of Stuff in my past/childhood, I developed full-blown severe PTSD at 13/14 (because of an attempted sexual assault, lol), which wasn't diagnosed for a while after I developed symptoms that made me sure I was going to be committed (I used to have a really unhealthy relationship to the concept of psychology and mental health) and I didn't know PTSD existed as anything except 'something that war veterans get.' It wasn't like the internet was around at that point to teach me differently. (It was around, but Google wasn't, and Wikipedia wasn't).

(Suicide CW) I first attempted suicide when I was a young child, and as a teenager I mostly just spent a lot of time trying not to keep doing that, trying to hide my PTSD from everyone, telling myself that I was actually batshit insane, being bullied pretty aggressively because guess what I am not neurotypical and that was way more of a problem back then for me than it is now (I was physically injured a few times) etc.

In my later teens though, I did make some good friends, and I have some okay memories from that period. But I am very, very grateful not to be a teenager anymore. So grateful. Endlessly grateful. Going through puberty on top of all of that was like. A ride. And then like literally a year later I grew a tumour and the surgery nearly killed me, and that was my grand opening into turning 18, lmao.

From the flower asks meme!

#asks and answers #memey goodness #personal #suicide cw #maybe i should've just said 'no' to did i enjoy my teenage years #it was a gauntlet #it was hard for me as a teenager #also we were very poor #and poverty adds another dimension to being a teenager #but it actually wasn't by any means the biggest or hardest thing i was dealing with #and by that point i was also used to it

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makoandharu · 4 years ago

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I'm feeling for a bit of angst (who doesn't love a cheeky bit of angst every now and again?). Do you have any recommendations on good angst Makoharu fanfics? It would be great if they're based around their fight in the fireworks scene... Maybe Haru trying to make it up to Makoto? Or maybe they do separate after high school but come together when they're older?

Anything like that (or just great angst fics in general! I'll take any!) to make my depressing time in isolation just a bit more depressing 😂🥺

Why did i think i already replied to this omg

I've recced some angsty fics here before, though none of them are fireworks angst specially. (All Our Years is kinda fireworks angst related, a bit)

Some more general ones:

Everything to Nobody But Me (tw non/con; not describe) Haru is a host, Makoto is a client

Maple Leaves (cw illness/cancer;no character death) Makoto has a brain tumour (this one does address the the fight! V cutely handled)

What He Wants about Makoto's decision to become a trainer instead of pursuing teaching, and Haru's not happy

Use Your Words (cw smut) idk if this is angsty per se but. It's really good lol (what by @softmakoharus isn't amiright). They try a position that Makoto isn't comfortable with and they feel weird about it

Night Changes again not the most angsty but a good read. Makoto has a bad dream (pls read tags!)

The Sun that Didn't Set based on what Ryuuji said about having to sacrifice something to get ahead in the professional world (love this one a lot)

When You Lose Something You Can't Replace (cw major character death) Makoto dies on the job as a firefighter.

Some Fireworks Angst:

Come Closer and You Will See written straight after ep10 aired, so not exactly canon compliant, but cute. Makoto comes over after the fight.

Don't Leave Me Behind Makoto doesn't let Haru run away and they t a l k

Safe Landing similar to the one above with the addition of smut

Turns Out Freedom Ain't Nothing But Missing You immediate aftermath of the fight from Makoto's perspective, him going home and breaking down

Stepping Out of Skin We Grew Together this one just makes the fight so much worse lol. Just straight up suffering

Twelve Hours, Three Minutes idk if this angsty, but it's Makoto being wholesome af after the fight and wanting what's best for Haru and having full faith in him. V cute.

Firworks boys sorting their life together after the fight

I also remember reading a fic when s2 came out, Haru not coming back from Australia, and when they meet years later, Makoto has a daughter. But i can't for the life of me find it :( anyone else know what I'm talking about?

Also if u just wanna go through fireworks angst in general may i suggest this tag on @caffernnn's blog

Hope this is okay, they're not really what u asked for i think, but these are the only ones I could think of from the top of my head! Sorry

#as always sorry for the late reply #makoharu #ask #anon #ficrecs

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meetmeinthematinee · 4 years ago

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New Year, New Pronouns!

A Very Personal post from me, your friendly filth writer.

CW: Mental Health, Cancer, Death, Gender exploration, ADHD

2020 was a wild fucking ride for a lot of reasons.

I lost a family member to brain tumour(s). They were mom to my 2 little 2nd cousins. That was hard. Very hard. The kids are both under age 10.

I had my own health issue pop up (sinus / tooth hell combo and it’s been dragging on and on because of the pandemic)

I had to shift my entire job to working from home and online and helping an entire academic unit make that transition -- while learning how to do my job in that way AT THE SAME TIME.

I also got to the point where I was about to have a full on nervous breakdown and thought I’d have to quit my job or go on stress leave. Which brings me to my next point.

I have ADHD. I finally, FINALLY have answers to A LOT of shit I didn’t understand about myself and my brain no longer feels like it’s on fire 98% of the time. I was able to talk to my dr, be screened for it and start meds and holy fuck its like being a new person. My near constant anxiety? Practically gone. It still pops up now and again but its not ever present in the way it was. I feel calmer. I feel like myself. I don’t have to work so fucking hard just to do basic things day to day.

I’ve also ALWAYS been uncomfortable with who I am in the body I’m in. I was always so squicked out and panicked by reproductive stuff even as a kid. I thought I hated my body because it was too curvy too young. Too fat. Too whatever. Ive been working on questioning that hatred and deep discomfort. Trying to unpick why I was so uncomfortable even touching that subject. So I started working on that. In this year where there was not much else to do and nowhere to go. I talked about it with my husband. Told him I thought maybe I was uncomfortable with being seen as a woman. That I don’t feel like....any gender really.

Being able to be treated for ADHD and having that clarity and space that came from having a brain that again, wasn’t absolutely on fire all the time really let me see what was going on. Helped me feel confident about myself and my body. Helped me NOT HATE myself and my body.

So, on NYE I put up a post on fb and let all of my friends and family know in one grand internet swoop. (in true aries I’ll light shit on fire and worry about it later / never fashion) I’m adding a they onto my pronouns. I’m not 100% sure where I’m at on the gender spectrum but for now I’m happiest and most comfortable with being referred to as She / They.

So that was my 2020--I wanted to make sure I left as much of the ugly feelings about myself in that year and moved into 2021 with a clean slate.

So everyone knows. And now you know too. So now really everyone, everyone knows.

Thanks for reading--and in the words of my two fav valley bois.

Be excellent to each other, and party on dudes!

-----------------------------------------------❤--------------------------------------------------------

#she / they #new pronouns who dis #still just me #late bloomer #guess the people that bullied me in highschool were right #i am queer af #lol #its ok to be in your mid-late 30s and figure that shit out #not everyone comes out young #especially not when youre from a small town and you have lots of other shit to unpack #the fam doesnt know Im bi tho hahaha #baby steps #my mom was like I don't feel like a woman either whats the big deal #and I was like lol mom you're so close to understanding and yet #but shes supportive anyhow

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mingain · 3 years ago

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I’ve had a really shit day today.

CW: talk of hospital, surgery, cancer, vomiting, illness in humans and pets, heart problems, loss of a pet

So, this morning, my mum had to drive my dad to hospital at 5:30am to be there in time for his surgery. He has cancer and went into have his tumour removed. It was a major surgery that takes 5 hours on its own.

Then I had therapy which was fine, honestly but I felt like shit both physically and mentally so I took the rest of the day off. Then I got the news that I didn’t make the top 30 of the songwriting competition that I entered.

Next thing I know, it’s 10pm and my mum’s taking the youngest dog to the vets. Willow has heart problems which can lead to a build up of fluid in her lungs. My mum comes back an hour later with instructions to keep her calm and I went to bed

My mum came up and got me out of bed at 1:30am to take Willow down to the vets again because she can’t drive while keeping her calm. So her and Willow are taken in while I’m left in the car. Then my mum comes out saying that we have to make a decision because it’s not looking good. So now, I’m sat in the car while my mum is with the vet as she’s putting Willow down.

We got Willow after our first dog, Daisy died in November 2020. The middle dog, Rosie has only been the only dog during the period between Daisy dying and us getting Willow.

None of my friends are awake at the moment, which is ironic because they all joke about how they stay up till like 3am. Guess today was the one time they didn’t.

If you read all of that, thank you. I know it was a lot.

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ahkaraii · 7 years ago

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gross yamato origins fic

So I may never properly finish this, but it’s a disgusting idea that started bouncing around in my head and I can’t get rid of it so here’s 4,666 words of it that I wrote instead of doing my homework. Yamato’s relationship to dichotomies: success/failure, life/death, growth/decay. full/empty. love/hatred. He is both and neither, like he is nameless and many-named.

he is both clean and unclean.

cw: scat/fecalism, cannibalism/vore, descriptive gore, rather heavily implied child abuse, and all this i guess culminates in a semi-functional eating disorder. this is such a mess and it’s not even that well written haskjtha sORRY WORLD

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“You’re weighing more than usual,” Orochimaru-sama mutters. “Another tumour?”

You know that word: ‘Tumour’. It means coming back with scars on your body, or not coming back at all. You don’t want to be a Failure. You don’t want your body to be empty of you, like Test Subject Two, and Five, and Twelve.

Orochimaru-sama’s face seems to melt a little. It’s hard to look at it. “Stop fighting, or I’ll eat you!”

You lay limp in his arms, then. They are warm, and soft, and you desperately want to go back to your cage, where it is always cold, and safe, and sterile.

“Stop crying,” Orochimaru-sama says as he works around you. “It’s a waste of electrolytes. I’ll have to modify your drip to compensate, and I really don’t have the time to recalculate it.”

It isn’t a tumour, in the end. It’s intestinal parasites.

“Who fed you?” Orochimaru-sama growls, face transformed into something otherworldly. “Who contaminated you?”

“Jiǎ chī zhège.” Yi-san touches your mouth and you automatically open it. “Zhè hěn měiwèi.”

The texture is odd and sticky, and loud. It’s too much. You know better than to cry, though, so try to make your face hard to look at, like Orochimaru-sama sometimes does, and she makes a sound you have no reference for. Her teeth are not as white as whatever it is she put in your mouth.

“Nǐ xǐhuān ma?”

You obediently open your mouth again. Later, much, much later, Hound-san will tell you it was probably rice. That’s the first food you ever had.

Later, your abdomen feels like Orochimaru-sama is pushing down on it, putting all of his weight onto it. You push against the bars of your cage and make sounds like Orochimaru-sama is cutting out a tumour.

Test Subject Six makes noises back, and so does Test Subject Ten. Everything is getting louder.

Then it feels like something’s coming out, out of somewhere nothing had ever come out of before, and your cage smells rotten like Test Subject Five’s had, before Orochimaru-sama had taken its body forever. The texture is odd, and sticky. There’s little things moving in it. Curious, you reach out and pluck them in between your fingers. They wriggle and writhe, alive and dying.

Your heart starts pounding really quickly. It feels like your body is being emptied of you, like Orochimaru-sama will never bring you back to your cage after this. You put your life back in your mouth, and don’t let it escape, even if it really wants to.

Turns out shit was the second food you ever had. Kakashi-san will eventually make a big joke about it, but you don’t ever really find it that funny.

“She calls you Jiǎ, doesn’t she?” Danzo-sama asks.

You don’t answer because you don’t know. Does she? All you know is that Yi-san is crying and you think Orochimaru-sama would not like that at all. It’s a waste of electrolytes.

“ROOT shinobi do not have names unless I give it to them. Do you understand?”

You nod like you were taught to. Test Subjects are given Numbers, which are not the same as Names, though you haven’t quite figured out why. They both are used to tell you apart from Others, but you know better than to think too deeply about anything. You accept reality as it is, as dictated by those that tell you what to do.

“Show me the Shodaime’s jutsu, then. The Mokuton.”

You press your hands together, and the familiar surge runs through you, beyond you, into the ground and then above. It feels like growing a tumour, but faster, and on purpose. Yi-san’s body shudders as you pierce it with branch after branch, until it’s become empty like Two, like Three, and Four, and Five, and everyone else you’d outlasted until this point. You’re reminded of that excrement with intestinal parasites, all brown and pink and red. Your mouth tastes odd, and you wonder if she’d taste odd, too. If you could eat her death and shit her out alive.

“Incredible.” Danzo-sama’s cheeks are red and emitting sweat, and his voice is higher. “You’re incredible. I can’t believe Orochimaru left you to rot -- you’re not a failure at all!”

To be left to rot, you wonder. Rot is a word you’ve become more familiar with, now that you’ve been taken out of the cold, sterile safety of the laboratory and flung into a louder, dirtier home. You don’t like it, but you placidly accept your lot in life as long as it means your body will not be empty of you. You are not a Failure, and that is all that matters.

“From today forth your name will be Kinoe,” Danzo-sama tells you. “Welcome to ROOT.”

ROOT shinobi are not like Test Subjects. They do not cry or scream or whimper. Throughout the day they shift between two faces: their Animal mask and their Human mask, but neither express much emotion. But sometimes they talk and sometimes they bleed, and when they die they rot much like Test Subjects do.

Most things rot because they are Organic, you learn. Everything rots eventually, except for things made of Metal. You prefer metal, you think. When Danzo-sama gives you a choice between forehead protectors, you chose one that cradles your head. It reminds you of your cage: how cold it was, how safe and how sterile. Danzo-sama seems pleased about it.

“You look like him, you know.” He says quietly. “You look like both of them.”

You do not know of whom he is referring to, but even if you did you would not say anything. ROOT Shinobi only talk when given permission to do so, and thinking is reserved for missions.

That's something new, too. Missions.

You don't understand where you are going, or why, but you don't need to. You follow your superiors, and imitate them. Codename Kinoto is your immediate superior. Danzo-sama tells you that he is the yin to your yang, and that you are to be by his side whenever you leave ROOT. You curl up around Kinoto-san when it is dark, and shadow Kinoto-san when it is light, and together you empty many people of their bodies, spilling their life to feed the earth. Your jutsu works best when it eats chakra, and it feels only logical that you should grow stronger when you eat them, too.

Kinoto-san reports you to Danzo-sama for it, after.

Danzo-sama expresses more emotions in his face than you've ever seen on another human. He speaks poorly about Orochimaru-sama. You recognize the word 'Contamination'. When asked to explain your behaviour, you try to explain about the rot, about the chakra, about the tumours, but you don't have much experience explaining why you do what you do. You hardly understand it yourself.

"I was wrong," Danzo-sama says. "You're nothing like them."

You don't eat anything he hasn't approved of, after that. What he approves of is food pills and water, and, some time later, when you're alone with him, bread and rice that he feeds to you by hand. You take it without letting your face melt, because ROOT shinobi do not scream or cry or whimper, and Danzo-sama goes quiet then, and sometimes he even praises you. You feel less empty then, though it feels more like being filled with worms.

When you show no more progress with your single-styled Mokuton, Danzo-sama takes it upon himself to train you personally. It is unheard of, if Kinoto's words are to be trusted, and he and the other ROOT whisper about it when before they would have chosen to remain silent.

Danzo-sama runs through hand signs he remembered his own sensei using--the Shodaime himself!--and he praises you when you do them right, and has you do them again when you can't. Again and again and again, until sweat is dripping off you in rivulets and there's a wheeze in your lungs and your whole body is in pain. It feels a lot like growing a tumour and then cutting it off, but it's worth it because Danzo-sama smiles at you and only you, and you are not a Failure, you are not a Failure, you are a Success and you are Incredible.

When Orochimaru-sama betrays the Leaf and runs, you dutifully bow to Danzo-sama's will and go alone to the Iburi clan to secure Orochimaru-sama's escape.

The Iburi are a fragile people whose bloodline limit permit their bodies to turn into smoke. The merest gust of wind will tear them apart and leave nothing to bury, so they mark their dead with trees as they await Orochimaru-sama's return. They tell you they owe Orochimaru-sama a debt, for Orochimaru-sama had altered them, given them substance enough to live a halfway decent life, even if only as ghostly wraiths below ground where the air is stale and unchanging.

Orochimaru-sama gave you life, too, but he left you to rot. From your test tube you saw the Other Subjects choke, and die, and bloat, until their bodies sloughed off in pieces, turning the water brown and black and red. You, too, would have rotted in that stagnant water, had Danzo-sama not rescued you from the fetid depths and given you a name.

"Tenzo!" An Iburi girl a head taller than you has wrapped her arms around you. "It's me, Yukimi!"

You stand stiff in her embrace like a tree, stoic and unmoved. "My name is Kinoe." Danzo-sama had given you this name, and you abide by it.

"No, you're my brother, Tenzo! I know it!"

It is a mission so you allow yourself to think about that, if only for a second. Whether her belief on your origins is true or if it is false, the fact of the matter is she's technically right. You are both alive right now because Orochimaru-sama made it thus, and so, in a way, you really are siblings.

Her smile reminds you of Yi-san's, only her teeth are whiter.

Yukimi-san promptly turns into smoke and invades your body. You startle and struggle but it is not painful--you feel oddly full, as if before you had been empty. She moves you like a puppet and you are powerless to stop it.

"Because my body is so fragile I've never been allowed outside. Please, let me feel the sun!" The pull of the mission is strong, but her will is stronger.

The wind, she screeches, feels amazing on your skin. It's just wind, you think, but to her it is beyond description. An echo of her enthusiasm bounces inside your emptiness, fills it with sound, and you feel rattled, like a sword has hit your forehead protector and the metal is vibrating against your skull. Like a near-death experience, but opposite of the familiar stifling, muffled feel of drowning.

"Hey, I smell something tasty!" Her attention to your nose has led you both to a loud, noisy gathering of humans. "Tenzo, look! It's a festival!"

"I can't," you try to say, but Yukimi-san's will is still stronger.

Yukimi-san loves the food. She loves the taste of corn, of squid, of cotton-candy. With your hands she eats and eats and eats until you feel like you'll explode, and her happiness is overwhelming. You've never heard yourself laugh but with Yukimi-san's will it is a loud, delightful thing.

"I'm so glad you came with me, Tenzo," she admits, turning your hands in your lap. "If I had been alone, I don't know what I would have done."

There is something burning inside you, something wrecking havoc in your stomach, up your esophagus, giving you heartburn. But nothing comes up. Your body just hurts for no purpose, and the curse seal on your tongue hurts, and you think, absurdly, of your cage, of that cold, sterile, safe place, and then of the test tube, where you watched the other subjects and they watched you, until everyone had rotted away and only you were left, alone, slowly being emptied of you in the dark, and how you're not alone now, how Yukimi-san has literally filled you, with the food and with her life smoke.

"When I am alone..." You bite your lip, and find the words. "When I was alone, all I could think about was dying."

Yukimi-chan is quiet, listening. In the trees, though you do not know it yet, Hound-san is quiet, listening.

"But when you're with me, suddenly I feel like I want to survive."

For the first time, you want to run away from everything--from your mission, from ROOT, from Leaf itself. You feel stronger now, full of Yukimi-san's life and Yukimi-san's food and Yukimi-san's confidence. You aren't locked in a cage, and you aren't drowning in a test tube. You aren't underground, never to see the sun. There is only the sky above you, and dirt below, trees at your side, and you -- Yukimi and Tenzo -- are running.

Unfortunately, Hatake Kakashi is faster.

In the end Yukimi-san does not rot, like everyone up until that point has. She just turns into smoke. You scream, and you cry, and you try your hardest to contain her. Your Wood jutsu races after her, tries to suck the chakra of her, tries to consume her death and bring her back to life, but there's nothing to be done.

She's gone, and all that's left to mark her passing is a magnificent tree, buried deep underground where no light will ever reach it, where it will decay and rot and fade away as surely as her smoke had, as surely as these feelings will, for you are a ROOT shinobi and ROOT do not have emotions, or a past, or a present, or a future.

You are not a Failure: Orochimaru-sama has escaped and thus you've completed your mission. You tell Danzo-sama about Hatake Kakashi, and the demise of the Iburi clan, but you do not mention Yukimi-san or the name she gave you. Lying by omission feels like treason, but you are hollow again, and empty, like a proper ROOT shinobi should be. Yukimi-san had contaminated you, and now the contamination is gone. Like Yi-san, all you've left of her is branches. There is nothing further to report.

When you're alone with Danzo-sama that night, you shit all over his cock. It's strictly back to food pills and water for you.

"The wood style is important to the Leaf," Hatake Kakashi tries to convince you, a few years down the line. He, the Hokage's ANBU, and you, Danzo-sama's ROOT, have joined forces to investigate a lab abandoned by Orochimaru-sama. "Danzo wants to keep you for himself, but you should be above ground, serving Leaf openly."

What Hatake Kakashi doesn't know is that your real mission is to steal his eyes for Danzo-sama.

"Tenzo," Kakashi pleads.

"My name is Kinoe," you snarl, and try your very hardest to kill him.

You belong to ROOT. You belong to Danzo-sama. You belong--

This is Orochimaru-sama's lab, so of course there's a giant snake. In fact, it's a huge snake made up of a lot of small snakes, and before you know it you're writhing in a mass of them, and you remember the parasites, red and brown and black mess of it, it's in your mouth, it's everywhere, contaminated shit and rot and ROOT shinobi do not scream, they do not cry, but you really don't want to die, not like this--!

Of course, Kakashi saves you.

His electricity jutsu turns the air acrid, and the snake chars from the inside out. Burnt flesh smells different from earthy rot, or watery decay, and the smoke fills your nostrils and your lungs, both similar to and nothing like Yukimi-san's gentle air.

You cough, and gag, and somehow do not vomit.

"Are you okay, Tenzo?"

That name again. You look up at Hatake Kakashi and his sharingan eye, the mission Danzo-sama entrusted you with, and your insides hurt.

"...Why did you save me?"

"I never abandon a comrade," Kakashi says quite solemnly. "And I did not lie. Your jutsu is needed in the Leaf."

He talks about the container of Nine-Tailed Fox, now four years old, and how your Mokuton and his Sharingan are of the few things that can contain it. You are needed above ground, he insists. You are needed in the sun.

"The Sandaime Hokage will protect you," Kakashi promises.

So you bring Danzo-sama a fake eye.

"I failed my mission," you confess, head hung low. "I cannot kill a comrade of the Leaf, for I am of the Leaf. Tomorrow, I will go above ground and serve the Sandaime Hokage."

Kinoto-san stares at you, confounded by this betrayal. Danzo-sama is furious beyond description. "Who contaminated your mind with this!" He howls. "Who poisoned you against me?!"

You've heard those words before. The old fear of being emptied of you returns, and your mouth salivates, and your stomach hurts like a pang of hunger. Danzo-sama's hands are wrinkled and familiar, and you remember the taste of them in your mouth. You may almost miss them.

"Kill him, then," Danzo-sama says lowly. "Or be killed."

Codename Kinoto does not hesitate. He is the yin to your yang. You have countless days slain by his side and slept by his side for countless nights and, while he never emoted before you, for ROOT shinobi are not permitted it, you think of the ache you felt for Yukimi-san and Yi-san as you skewer Kinoto-san in fifteen places. He will not rot--you will not allow it. Your jutsu indiscriminately devours his chakra and soaks up his blood, crushing his skull and his insides and squelching the remains of him in between cracks, and impulsively you bring the wood back into you, the mess of Kinoe and Kinoto and the evidence of your presence in ROOT erased, all gone, absorbed into you, and you feel powerful, but you also feel like your face is melting, has gone hollow and hard to look at, like Orochimaru-sama's face used to look like when he taught you not to waste electrolytes on tears.

Danzo-sama stares back at you, black hair and red eye and brown skin--a single worm writhing in your shit, you think, easily devoured--and Danzo-sama flinches in what is unmistakably terror.

It's over now, though. You close your eyes and bow low, bent in half like a reed. "Thank you for everything, Danzo-sama."

"Leave," he hisses, and so you go.

By dawn, you are no longer a ROOT shinobi. You greet the sunrise above ground, by Hatake Kakashi's side.

Regular ANBU are not unlike ROOT shinobi. They, too, have Animal masks and Human masks. On missions, they do not cry and they try very hard not to scream. And when they die, they rot like every other organic thing. But their Human masks are flexible, and expressive, and among each other they do not roughhouse with the intent to kill, but with the intent to play. A bizarre ritual, but not unwelcome. You wonder if this is what it means to 'like' something, a new non-ROOT concept you've been introduced to.

"Yo, Tenzo!"

Hatake Kakashi is a constant presence. He is your immediate superior, and you follow him doggedly as you did Kinoto-san. Non-ROOT and non-ANBU shinobi are a completely different breed of human, and Kakashi-san can metamorphose between each as easily as putting on a mask, and you strive to mimic his actions by observation. He has many comrades inside ANBU and outside it, in the Leaf itself. All his comrades remind you of Yukimi-san, for they are all so enthusiastic, so loud, and so expressive, and so full of something unnamable, indescribable by ROOT standards. It's almost physically painful to look at, but you manage it by fusing with the trees and observing with wooden eyes. Your insides cannot churn if they are made of bark.

Kakashi-san is easier to look at. His face is often passive, and stoic, and far less fluid. But he walks among the humans lacking in chakra like he is one of them, and they greet him warmly. One day, you think, you'd like to be greeted like that, too. It's a possibility now that you aren't underground, and you have not forgotten the careless joy that came with being Yukimi-san's Tenzo, that may someday come by being Kakashi-san's Tenzo. But you also have not forgotten your primary mission: you belong to the Sandaime Hokage, and he has brought you above ground to be an asset against the container of the Nine Tails should you be so required. So you keep your anonymity by keeping to the trees and wearing your Animal mask, which you have since learned is a Cat.

Kakashi-san's animal mask is a Hound, so on missions you call him Hound-san. Together you empty many men and women and children of their lives. When the mission calls for it, you put your hands together and your Mokuton absorbs all, transforms all, becomes all. You are powerful and terrifying and you quite like it, knowing you were once Danzo-sama's pet and Orochimaru-sama's creation and now you are mostly your own monster.

After missions it is customary to get food with your mission partners, another difference from ROOT. You decline the first time, and the second, but you cannot escape the third, for Kakashi-san has rough-housed you into an arm bar and you cannot break it without breaking the unspoken rule of non-lethal 'playing'.

"I can't!" You're frustrated, a new emotion you've learned and borrowed and now feel quite strongly.

"Why the hell not?"

That's when Kakashi-san learns that you have subsisted on food pills and water for most of your life, and he starts hounding you for details. You have no reason to lie, though the cursed seal on your tongue keeps you from divulging all, and he learns about the rice, and the shit, and the bread.

Throughout it Kakashi-san's face becomes hollow and still, and it feels a lot like delivering a mission report, and you fall back into the rhythm of it, the cadence of it, the dryness of the facts. Yi-san had fed you rice through the bars of your cage. Danzo-sama had fed you bread from his fingertips. Orochimaru-sama--

Then Kakashi-san interrupts to laugh about the shit. "You fucking ate your own shit!"

Your face approximates a smile, because you are learning to smile, and you try a joke, because Kakashi-san is good at jokes. "Plants need fertilizer, don't they?"

He howls with laughter, and slaps your back, and he forces you to eat twelve pieces of sushi because 'you're not a fucking plant, Tenzo'. You have the worst case of indigestion, after, but Kakashi-san has introduced you to the modern marvels that is a toilet: a sterile, metal thing that you immediately place in the mental category of 'like', and he brings you water and food pills after to make up for it, and you think you'll put Kakashi-san in the 'like' category, too, even if he does force you to eat human food every other mission as if by his sheer bull-headedness he can tame your monstrous body into something more human.

Sometimes you see Danzo-sama above ground, by the Sandaime Hokage’s side. You bow respectfully to him every time, even as he turns his nose up at you. A part of you misses him, you realize now, like a part of you misses Orochimaru-sama. They were predictable masters, masters you knew how to please and how to disappoint.

The Sandaime Hokage is different. At once warmer, for his voice is warm and his body language is warm, but colder, for he never reaches out to touch you and he never teaches you jutsu. Most especially, he never ever asks to see your Mokuton. In fact, the Sandaime Hokage actively avoids looking at you entirely when you must perform it in his presence.

You are, you come to realize, an aberration to him.

You are his wayward student Orochimaru-sama’s creation, and his wayward friend Danzo-sama’s pet, and the corroded clone of his beloved Shodaime-sama, and there is not enough of you -- Jia or Kinoe or Tenzo or Cat -- to ever overshadow that for him. It is, you think, frustrating, and painful, because you very desperately want to please him, but this is a mission you cannot succeed at, that you are doomed to fail from the start.

You focus on pleasing your immediate superior, Hatake Kakashi-san, instead.

Kakashi-san meditates before his dead a lot. He prays to metal monoliths that symbolize his dead for hours and hours and hours.

You imitate him in that, too, but you don't have graves to meditate to. Instead, you close your eyes and pray to yourself, for you carry your dead inside you. Your mokuton emerges then, in differing shapes, contorting around you like a cocoon. You study shrines on missions and you imitate them, little miniature ones that you can pray to. It becomes a hobby: observing shrines and replicating them as you pray. Soon you're capable of replicating houses, and castles, and even more complicated architecture. It's a productive meditation.

Another quirk Kakashi-san has is that he is, despite all appearances to the contrary, extremely orderly. He in particular likes to be clean. He cleans his hands often and frequently, especially at home. You are reminded of Orochimaru-sama's laboratory, and Yi-san, and how she used to clean her hands a lot, too.

You take to cleaning your fingernails and scrubbing your body, sterilizing yourself as best you can. You strive to purge your body of all filth, though your jutsu often makes it difficult for it is inherently dirty, sprung from your body like a tumor or from the ground like rising rot. That's all right, you think to yourself. Kakashi-san's lightning jutsu makes it difficult, too, and he manages.

Slowly, you learn to be more human.

#naruto #danzo and kinoe #karaii fic #it deviates from anime-canon on certain events #like yukimi surviving and how tenzo leaves root #*noodle shrugs*#i just made shit up haha shit you get it SOB #*goes to lie down and die*#vore cw #scat cw #child abuse cw #gore cw

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inmydrcams · 7 years ago

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Amy is an avoider and has the tendency for recklessness and erratic behaviour. how is her avoiding Owen any different than her moving all the way to Seattle cause her former bf proposed? how is last night’s kid’s tumor any different from Herman’s? how is her throwing herself at work cause Meg is alive any different than her doing it after Derek died? Meredith was mia for a whole year after Derek died and no one called in a fucking tumor to “explain her behaviour” we all just accepted that’s Mer’s character so why is Amy getting this bs treatment?

#( ;; behind the writing pen )#ch; a. shepherd #tumor cw #tumour cw #I'm so pissed off about this whole storyline #pls don't talk to me #greys spoilers #if you think she was ooc then you have no idea who she is

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king-ennui · 1 year ago

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CW/ Medical/non cancerous tumour.

I'm gonna try and pluck up the courage to talk to my speclist this week. I want them to look at the little tumour on my scalp. While it's not causing any harm, it is getting bigger. I want to ask then to remove it. I don't think the surgery would be too invasive. It would deffinalty be easier to remove it now rather than later.

#neurofibromatosis #health #tumour #nf1

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punksarahreese · 3 years ago

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“ look, you need a break. okay? ” for oncologist!ava

Break | Carcinos

Oncologist!Ava; The hard cases are always the ones she tries to shoulder on her own

CW: cancer talk

***

“Did you want to talk about it?” Connor’s voice tore her attention away from the drink she had been mindlessly swirling in its glass. The furrow of her brow and questioning eyes told him he needed to elaborate more.

“Whatever is making you upset,” he continued, “You can tell me, Ava.”

“Nothing is making me upset. I’m fine,” her reply was probably meant to be delivered smoothly but the stiffness in her posture was easy to read.

“You asked me to go out for drinks without any prompting on my end and you haven’t said one sarcastic thing to me today. That doesn’t seem like you being fine.”

“Not everything is about you, Connor,” her snide remark lacked any playful venom, as if said just for the sake of it.

“I worry about you, Ava,” he sighed and nudged her hand to prompt her to look at him. The eye contact was fleeting on Ava’s end, broken almost as quickly as it was made. She just shrugged in reply, muttering something he didn’t quite pick up but knew it was probably dismissive.

He let the topic fall short, for his sake if not hers. The last thing he wanted was to annoy Ava while trying to comfort her, but it could be so frustrating. Something was clearly bothering her, why else would she want to go drinking on a Thursday evening? She trusted him, or at least he hoped she did, though it was beginning to feel like maybe Ava didn’t trust anyone.

A lull in conversation gave way to a stale silence, save for the chatter of the bar around them. Catching the tremor of Ava’s hand as she stirred her drink, Connor looked at her expectantly. She wanted to talk, that was clear, but getting the words out was too hard. A part of him was worried she was about to drop a bomb, like she was leaving Chicago or was cutting him off as a friend. Connor didn’t have a chance to run through every worst case scenario, though, because the woman finally spoke.

“It’s… just- it’s one of my patients,” her accented words were usually so eloquently said, yet she stumbled over these ones in a way that it couldn’t be good news.

“What about them?”

“Six year old Hispanic male, in and out of hospital for two years with the same diagnosis,” she recited the words like she was presenting to an attending, “Juvenile pilocytic astrocytoma.”

“Not good?” Connor inferred, sighed when she nodded.

“It’s low grade but I think it may be growing quicker. I’ve poured over these scans for hours, Connor, searching for a way to work around this. I had to tell his mother today that it’s inoperable; which makes me just another oncologist telling her there’s no hope.”

“Shit,” paediatric cases were the worst even for a doctor like Ava, “Why is it inoperable?”

“JPA commonly splits into more than one tumour, though it is localized in the brain. My problem is there’s a met almost directly on the optic nerve pathway, alongside another one taking up half his left hemisphere.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” Ava sighed, “The margins are so well defined but every neuro attending I’ve talked to said it’s too risky. We could blind him or he would bleed out before that. It’s just not possible, even though the damn tumours look like you could pluck them out without picking up a ten-blade.”

“I’m sorry, Ava. Telling a parent what they don’t want to hear is hard. Is there anything you can do?”

“Chemo and more chemo,” she spat the words out like they burnt her mouth, “He’s been through two rounds with only minimal shrinkage and nothing will cure this like resection would. If we miss one cell it will come back in months, if he even makes it off the table.”

Connor nodded, mulling over what she said. He didn’t really know how to comfort his friend yet he knew it’s what she was seeking. She usually had all the answers and wouldn’t turn to a cardio surgeon for medical advice. Ava was seeking out the promised support of their casual environment, indirect reassurance that she wasn’t fucking up a sick child’s life.

“If it’s inoperable it’s inoperable,” he agreed, “Chemo sounds like the best bet, yeah? You’ll just have to consult with your attendings; see what they think is the best course.”

“I know. It’s not even that it’s just-,” she paused to knock back the rest of the whisky in her glass and coughed a little before continuing, “He- Tomas is his name- said something.”

Her eyes locked with Connor’s for a moment and he had never seen her so worried. Her brow had been stuck in a furrowed position the whole night and her usually focused gaze was quite the opposite. He didn’t speak, worried it would distract her from what she wanted to say, but reached out towards her. Ava didn’t pull back from the gentle hand that covered her own, despite his skin being roughened by harsh sanitizers, the touch was a fleeting comfort she hadn’t had in a while.

“He just said ‘I have a brain tumour,’ but it hit me so hard. I don’t know why it’s just… no child should have to say that but he was so nonchalant. It’s a gross reality, I guess? This six year old has been sick for so long that he’s accepted it; even though his mom is far from doing the same.”

“Ouch. That’s definitely a hard thing to hear.”

“He’s so little…” she hated the way her voice shook, “I don’t know… why does this hurt me? I’ve seen it all before, I’ve seen worse; so why am I so upset because a child has a tumour?”

“It’s normal, Ava,” Connor promised her, “You may be a surgeon but you are still human, we’re programmed to want to protect kids. You want to be the doctor who saves them all, especially the bleak cases, so it’s understandable to be upset.”

“I hate that you’re right,” she surprised Connor by tightening her hold on his hand, linking their fingers like she needed a lifeline. In that moment it was the one thing keeping her from bursting into tears, though she would never tell him that.

“Ava, I think you need to step back.”

“I can’t-.”

“Don’t argue with me. Please,” normally she would have hated that tone from him but all she could do was listen.

“Look, you need a break, okay?” he continued, “It’s almost the weekend and I know you have PTO available. You’ve clocked full hours and an insane amount of overtime this month, I promise the oncology ward will be fine without you for a few days.”

“I hate you,” she huffed, “I hate this.”

“I know.”

“You’re not gonna let me out of this, huh?”

“Nope,” Connor squeezed her hand a little, “You’re asking for a few days off, doctor’s orders.”

“Ass,” there was no venom in her muttered word though because she knew he was right. She had been working her ass off in an attempt to secure her spot as the most reliable fellow in her program. She didn’t have much competition at Gaffney but Ava would never let her guard down. She was exhausted and her head wasn’t in it, which was clear by the way she was fighting back tears.

“Thanks, Connor. I’m glad you care about me, Connor,” his attempt at mocking Ava’s accent was horrible, which he clearly knew. It did get the desired effect though because he saw the frustration disappear from Ava’s face as a stifled laugh replaced it. She still glared at him but he would gladly take the playful annoyance over tears, for both of their sakes.

“Just for that, you’re going to buy me another drink.”

#platonic rhekker my beloveds #my aus #chicago med #ava bekker #connor rhodes #rhekker #carcinos #oncologist!ava #asks #zee tag

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