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aurumalatus · 2 months ago

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𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 [𝟒]

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 3.4k

genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff and angst, drabble collection, cursing, mentions of abuse/alcoholism, mentions of broken bones

summary.

in which kinich learns the value of all things: lives, friendship, and, of course, you. or, in which kinich realizes that you are the only priceless thing in this world.

author's note. i've been SO busy this week, but i hope this chapter still meets everyone's expectations ;-;. unedited for now, but please enjoy and pls pls lmk what you think! reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!

↢ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ↣

𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗬𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚'𝗦 𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗧 𝗣𝗔𝗖𝗘

Kinich breaks his arm when he’s eleven.

It had, admittedly, been stupid of him. He’s always been partial to extreme sports, as many members of his tribe are, but he’d gone a bit too far that day with his grappling, and it all came crashing down in an unceremonious heap. He more than anyone knows how unforgiving the ground can be, so it’d been a foolish endeavor in the first place.

Dizzy, he tries to push himself to his knees before crying out in pain—it’s his right arm. He can’t put any pressure on it all, at least unless he gets used to the shooting pain that overwhelms his senses. He leans on it again, testingly, before wincing.

No, there’s no getting used to a pain like that.

Surveying the land nearby, he notes the sharp, menacing rocks that dot the riverbed—he’d been lucky to land where he did. He decides he won’t fill you in on that detail. After all, you’ll be mad enough as it is.

As far as he knows, you’re still at home at this time, but you’ll be out delivering medicines later as a courier—the village apothecary trusts you with the work, and there are few others willing to do it. Plus, you learn a few things along the way. Kinich notices that you’re becoming quite skilled in certain remedies.

In general, the work the two of you participate in is rarely safe—safe work doesn’t make Mora, and it’s hard to feed two mouths without coin. Kinich himself usually takes jobs that see more combat, involving Saurians or any other odd tasks. So it’s not uncommon that he comes home with injuries, but it’s never been this bad. Something like this spells out a lack of work for at least several weeks, maybe more.

He sighs, briefly considering whether or not he should hide it.

But you seem to have a sixth sense for these things, and he’s truly lousy at lying when it comes to you, so he decides against it. Instead, he rises to his feet, groaning at the feeling of his pants sticking to his skin, still soaked.

The journey home feels three times as long.

He hadn’t risked grappling again with one arm, so he had walked, the hot sun beating down on his skin. When he thinks about it, he can’t really remember how he had put up with having to walk everywhere—grappling truly saves him so much time out of his day. The small building at the foot of the mountain enters his sight after what feels like an eternity, an even smaller form standing just outside of it.

“Kinich!”

As he grows closer, a certain affection seeps into his chest at the sight of your grin, toothy and bright. You’re carrying a wicker basket on your hip, filled to the brim with fruits and vegetables—dinner for tonight, most likely.

He never quite gets used to your excitement whenever he returns to the small house you share. It’s as if every day is your first day seeing him, or like he’s just returned home from a year-long journey. At most, he’d been gone a few hours.

“Hey,” he says, smiling faintly. For a moment, he almost forgets he has something to tell you, simply satisfied with your presence. It’s only when you scamper to his side that he becomes hyper-aware of his arm.

“Wait!” he hisses, just as you reach for him. You stop in your tracks, lips barely parted in an ‘o’ shape. He takes a cursory step away from you, blood freezing in his veins when your face drops at the distance.

“I broke my arm,” he quickly admits. Your brows knit together as you give him a once-over.

“What?!” you half-yell, nearly dropping the goods in your hands—Kinich has to catch the basket with his good hand, wincing at the volume.

“I was grappling, and I messed up, and I…I landed in the river.”

The whole thing sounds ridiculous as soon as it leaves his lips. You seem to think so too, based on the way you blankly look between him and his arm. You’re thinking, hard.

“And you’re sure it’s broken?” He nods, sighing. “I’m sure.”

Truly, he’s never experienced pain like that in his life—at least not the physical kind. His father’s beatings usually ended in bruises, but he was always able to escape out the door before they got to this point. But the way his arm hangs uselessly at his side is certainly unfamiliar.

Fingers pressed thoughtfully to your chin, you look toward the house.

“Well, I have the materials to make a splint, but that means you won’t be able to use that arm for a while.”

Kinich frowns. A while could be a long time, and time he isn’t working is time that Mora isn’t being made. The two of you could survive decently on your farming and hunting alone, but it would be hard labor for you. He’s unsure how much help he can be with only one usable arm.

“But—”

“—and I already know,” you interrupt smoothly, “that you’re not going to argue about that. Because that would make me really annoyed, right? Because your arm is clearly broken, right?”

Kinich presses his lips together tightly. It’s probably not the best idea to fight you on this. So he merely sighs, walking toward the front door.

“Fine.”

“Good!” you cheer, hoisting the basket to your side again, following closely in his wake. “Then I’ll make dinner for us, and you try not to make trouble for me!”

He rolls his eyes; he never makes trouble for you the way you do for him.

If there’s one thing that truly bothers Kinich, it’s being unproductive.

He’s not unreasonable about it, per say; after all, breaks can be productive too if they improve your work. But it’s to the point that there’s rarely moments where he truly isn’t doing anything. He’d grown up that way, always on the move, always doing something for the sake of survival.

That apparently includes moments when his arm is broken, set firmly at his side in a splint.

You’re preparing vegetables for dinner when Kinich plops into the chair at your side, quietly asking what he can help with.

You send him an incredulous look, still cautious about your fingers under the shadow of the knife.

“Your arm is broken, Kin.”

And you’re right, but the notion irritates him a bit—the idea of doing absolutely nothing while you prepare all the food. He folds his arms on the table, resting his chin atop with a scowl. His golden eyes passively watch each cut of the potato, the neat chunks gathering on one side of the cutting board.

“So? I can still help.”

A heated exchange occurs—you stare at him questioningly, and he stares right back, determined. Within the past few years, the two of you have reached the point of nonverbal communication. Sometimes, he truly feels like you can read his mind.

“Fine,” you relent, gently placing your knife down. You slide the basket of vegetables to him, gesturing towards it with your chin. “Pick out the good ones and give them to me.”

Kinich looks unamused, unsatisfied with the difficulty of his task, and his mouth opens like he’s about to say more when you shake your head.

“Please?”

And he really can’t take that look you give him, when your eyes widen and your lip juts out, so he merely sighs, pulling the basket closer to himself.

“Alright, alright.”

The room grows comfortably quiet, save for the even thuds of your knife against the cutting board. Kinich listens to your sonorous hum as you smile and sway to the sound of your own music. He takes his job seriously, too—he squeezes at each potato, feeling for the right ripeness.

“Is that a good one?” you ask, nodding toward the vegetable in his hand.

He frowns. “It’s okay.”

Kinich tends to be a bit strict about his vegetables—he gets it from his mother. Rarely is he ever truly satisfied with a harvest. Based on your impatient stare, you’re probably realizing this isn’t the best job for him after all.

“It’s probably good enough,” you say. Kinich looks at the potato thoughtfully for a moment before setting it down before you.

He still has trouble accepting the idea of being good enough.

You engage in a bit of small chatter, discussing your plans for the next few days and funny things that have occurred recently. Kinich enjoys these moments the most, the feeling of belonging, of caring—the way your eyes sparkle genuinely as he recounts his day, or the way you giggle hearing about the gossip overhead in the village.

“I’m gonna head to the market tomorrow, so let me know if you need anything.”

Your lip curls in disapproval, gaze drifting to his arm.

“I can go this time,” you say, concern written over your face. Then, you add teasingly, “since I know you hate having to get along with all those people in town.”

Kinich glares at you, sour.

“I know how to get along with people.”

You smile, and Kinich remembers when you told him that you like when he acts a bit childish, a bit more like you. It reminds you that you are the same age after all. It’s a bit difficult to realize in your daily life, when he’s always nagging and protecting and working.

“Is that why all the others run away at the sight of you? Ever since we went to school, they’ve been avoiding you.”

And Kinich can admit that he isn’t the easiest person to get along with, but the kids at the village school aren’t the kind of people he wants to get along with anyway—the one day he spent in class made that much clear. They don’t understand the realities of living the way he does, the way you do.

Really, he considers it a success that they seem to steer clear of him now.

“What about you?” he counters. “You’re not exactly a social butterfly, living out here in the woods. The most social interaction you get is in the market, just like me.”

It’s your turn to be offended, a pout crossing your lips.

“I’ll have you know they like me in the market.”

Kinich quirks a brow, handing you another potato.

“They like you because you take whatever price they offer,” he replies flatly. “I really need to teach you to barter.”

Everyone knows how notorious Kinich is in the market—he’s a menace with Mora in hand, even at your age. It’s one of the reasons that he’s so insistent that he be the one to do your shopping, besides the fact that he doesn’t like you traveling alone.

“I can barter,” you defend, pouting. “I just feel bad. What if they need that extra Mora?”

“You know we also need that Mora, right?”

Kinich flicks at your forehead with his good hand, faintly smirking when you sulk in response. Brushing off your hands, you lift the cutting board toward the pot on the stove. He lets his gaze follow you, curious.

“Enough about me,” you declare, glaring playfully. “If you want to eat, help me start cooking these.”

When Kinich eats that night, a simple meal of curry and rice, he thinks it might just be the most delicious food he’s ever had.

A few weeks later, Kinich finds himself lying side by side with you in your bed, staring at the ceiling.

You’d been telling him about something amusing you saw on one of your deliveries, and he makes a point to listen to all your stories, no matter how small they are. The moon is peeking over the horizon by the time that you finish, and Kinich glances over at his own bed across the room.

He’s not really sleepy yet, he reasons. You don’t seem to be either, based on the way you stare at his side profile.

“Your hair is getting long,” you murmur, taking a lock between your index and thumb. It’s a bit rough to touch—Kinich doesn’t tend to be gentle when he washes up. Neither of you really are, not when the river water is as chilly as it is.

He sighs, blowing his bangs out of his face. It’s a perpetual messiness that you think suits him, in a way.

“I know, it got in my eyes when I was grappling and I couldn’t see. That’s how I fell.” He glances at you, deadpan. “Should I just shave it off?”

The idea leaves you giggling—the image of it is certainly vivid.

“I don’t think you should go that far, but I do think we have to do something. Otherwise, you might snap all your bones at this rate.”

He huffs, immediately defensive. “I would not—”

“I’m joking,” you soothe, chuckling. You card your fingers through his hair absentmindedly, humming—Kinich has to keep himself from melting into your touch. The room grows a tad warmer by the time your voice echoes again, barely a squeak from your throat.

“Can I try something?”

Kinich snorts. “You’ll have to be more specific, because last time you said that, it didn’t end well.”

Sitting up, you scoff. “I mean with your hair. Just to see if we can get a bit of it out of your face.”

You pat at the space in front of you, urging him up—he moves begrudgingly, already comfortable in his spot. Clambering to your knees, you peek at him over the top of his head.

“Which part gives you trouble? This long part?”

Kinich hums thoughtfully, thumbing at some of the strands framing his face.

“Yeah, I guess. Some of the longer strands behind my bangs get annoying because they won’t stay.”

You nod. “Okay, let me try this then. Just sit still.”

Kinich follows along, hands neatly gathered in his lap. It’s a bit puppy-like, and you smile at the notion.

You don’t speak as you plait his hair, gently easing each strand between your fingers. It’s a certain kind of calm that tends toward the unfamiliar. Kinich feels a bit conflicted over the heat that spreads through the rest of his form at the contact.

He’s still trying to get used to a lot of things about you, despite how long he’s spent at your side—even now, the gentleness and kindness with which you treat him leaves him speechless sometimes.

“Your hair is pretty,” you state softly, looping a tie over the end of the braid. “So unique.”

He thinks that you’re the first person to have told him as much. There had been times when he caught his mother staring at the blond streaks of his hair, frowning—they likely reminded her too much of his father. A part of him is glad that he at least inherited the majority of his genes from her.

“Thanks,” is all he breathes, staring down at his hands.

Your fingers brush over his ear, and a blush crawls over his cheeks.

“You’re welcome,” you yawn, stretching, “I’ll try to figure out something else to keep your bangs out of your eyes.”

That night, listening to your soft snores, Kinich watches the moon just outside the window.

His hair doesn’t bother him anymore, he realizes.

A resounding crash rouses you from sleep.

When your eyelids split open, body pulsing with shock, the sun hits you first. Harsh rays slip through the curtains, pools of gold falling between your bedsheets. You’re quick to throw the blankets off, sitting up quickly.

In the opposite corner of the room, Kinich’s bed lies empty, cooling with the morning dew. But he shouldn’t be gone, at least not yet—with his arm out of commission, he’s been taking time off work.

Your heart drops.

In a panic, you cover the space from your bed to the door in a mere two steps, and then you’re throwing it open, chest heaving.

The sight that greets you leaves you frozen where you stand.

Kinich stands in the kitchen, equally as flabbergasted as you are, surrounded by a shower of crystalline shards. His good hand is still raised, evidence of his own shock.

“Sorry,” he utters, hasty. He looks more disturbed by the situation than you do.

You take a cursory step toward him. “W—what happened?”

He looks at the floor, then back at you.

“I was trying to wash the dishes,” he explains, sheepish. You peer over at the sink, bursting with soapy water. It would’ve been hard to do with one arm.

He’s still standing among the slivers of ceramic, sharp edges too close for comfort. You suck in a breath.

“Just…don’t move, okay?”

You snatch the broom from the closet—when you glance over your shoulder, Kinich is standing obediently still, a statue in your kitchen. Carefully, you sweep the shards away from his feet, before neatly depositing them in the trash.

Kinich lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He’d wanted to wake up early and clean up a bit so you could relax, but even that had ended in disaster.

He glares down at his arm.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

It takes a bit of arguing to get him to take a seat away from the sink—Kinich finds something ugly curling around his heart at the idea. He’s heard enough arguing in this kitchen, and the memories aren’t friendly. So he takes a seat at the table despite his hesitation, unwilling to meet your stare as you check the floor for stray fragments.

You don’t seem to be angry about the broken dish—in fact, you seem to be angrier that he woke up early to do any of this at all. He doesn’t really get it. Though he’s becoming familiar with your habits, he finds that he sometimes falls short in terms of truly understanding you.

The cupboard falls shut—Kinich flinches at the sound, and then you’re padding over to him with a cup of water.

“Drink.”

The order barely leaves your tongue by the time you’re back at the sink, starting to clean at the rest of the dishes. You’d been upset moments ago, but you’re already back to being concerned about his hydration.

He stares at the drink, too long. If you notice his unrest, you don’t comment on it.

A few minutes pass that way.

“Sorry that I broke my arm,” he finally mumbles, tracing the rim of his cup. A drop of condensation glides down the side, slow. He watches it pool on the table, seeping into the wood.

“Why are you sorry?” you wonder aloud, scrubbing at a plate. “Did you hit the ground on purpose?”

He eyes your back. You’re so happy in everything you do, Kinich notes. Even something as simple as washing dishes, you do with your best effort—it’s admirable. You glance back at him when he doesn’t answer, and your gazes meet momentarily. He’s first to break the contact.

“You’ve had to work way harder for weeks,” he replies, regret pouring from his words. “Because I fell from that stupid tree.”

A seed of fear plants itself in his heart. Despite your cheery disposition, he’s always wondered what you truly think of him. Typically, he’s satisfied with just being useful to you, being able to provide for the home that you share. But when he’s like this, he wonders if that standard will change.

Like this, he’s just a burden to you.

To his surprise, you merely shrug. “I had to work way harder than this when I was alone. And now, I get to work hard with someone by my side. I think that’s a better deal, isn’t it?”

Your words permeate the air, and Kinich sucks them in greedily—they fill his lungs, slow. He wonders if this house has ever seen such warmth before. Then, he wonders if you know the way your comment fills his heart, pulsing.

You crane your neck to look at him, another smile gracing your lips. Light pulls through the gauzy curtains over the kitchen window, a halo.

“Don’t you think that kind of relationship is priceless?”

At that moment, the blazing sun rises in Kinich’s chest.

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #kinich x reader #genshin impact #kinich #genshin impact imagines #kinich x you #adeptus ink

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g0dlyunsub · 6 months ago

Note

can u do Spencer x fem reader where he's away on a case and she is super sick but doesn't tell him bc she doesn't want him to worry and he ends up coming home early and surprises her but she is still soo sick and he feels so bad that she felt like she couldn't tell him and takes care of her and is just so sweet with her!

yess! i loved writing this one so much 😳

doctor's orders.

you fall sick and decide not to disturb spencer during his working hours. when he returns home, he demands that he takes care of you, and you realize how adept he is at fondling the soreness out of you.

pairing :: spencer x fem!reader

contents :: slightly suggestive :3 lots of fluff, spencer calls reader a good girl once

word count :: 2.5k

author’s note :: spencer would literally be so gentle when taking care of you, it actually makes me sick to the core just thinking about how his nimble fingers would brush back your hair when it sticks to your sweaty forehead arghhh

accompanying song :: sugar by unusual demont

you struggle to keep your balance as you attempt to walk from the couch to the fridge. everything’s a warped blur, and you flail your arms helplessly to catch yourself from leaning too far to one side. but your head’s pounding relentlessly while a faint high-pitched ringing echoes through your ears; a burning sensation’s spreading through your back like a wildfire and your throat’s clenching with a throbbing pain every time you swallow. soon you’re on the ground, your hands fully taking in the coldness of the bare floor. you take labored breaths as you try to compose yourself, mentally counting backwards from ten as you try to lift yourself up but to no avail.

you haven’t felt this sick in a while, and you curse your own body for the painful reminder. you wince as you rest your head on your arm briefly, finally gathering some strength to push yourself off the floor. a bead of sweat trickles down your forehead, and you sigh weakly as you try to stabilize yourself.

the muscle pain, fatigue, congestion, sore throat, and fever – they’re a handful, and you know the symptoms would eventually subside with some home remedies and time, but it barely helps when you can only move by half-crawling and resting your hand on the wall every other step.

and you don’t want to bother spencer about it. he left you early in the morning, but not without fixing you a cup of tea and some scrambled eggs. you were still in bed, blissfully unaware of the symptoms marinating as you slept. and while he’s always told you to text or call him even if it was for a minor inconvenience, you feel bad for taking his time away from something that would easily overtake priority on anyone else’s list – murders, kidnappings, and hostage situations, just to name a few. yet you feel like you’re really testing the waters this time, clearly overestimating your ability to deal with your troubles when you’re clearing the contents of your stomach in the bathroom.

you drag yourself to the kitchen to pour a glass of cold water and gulp it down with tylenol from spencer’s medicine cabinet. it quickly quenches your thirst, and you carelessly drop the glass on the table with a loud thud. you groan as you place a hand on your forehead to feel your temperature. it’s scorching hot, and combined with the sweat, you feel as if your body will give out any moment.

you wipe your hands on your sides and whisper a soft oh. right. you had attempted to surprise your boyfriend with a pretty outfit, wearing a dress with thick lines of lace and mesh sleeves. but the silky layers were insulating all the heat in you, stinging your delicate skin and suffocating you slowly. you can barely lift your arms to take it off, so you give up and lie on the couch. bringing your knees to your chest, you curl up and try to think of anything but your pain.

spencer opens the door with a large grin plastered on his face, eager to greet you back with a tight embrace. he’s carrying a small basket with cookies and heart-shaped packing peanuts scattered all around them, a purchase he scoured for hours at the local plaza after asking garcia what she thinks you would enjoy.

“y/n? guess what!” he walks into the living room with an energetic step, only to stop when he spots you groggily waking up on the couch, your face deeply red and hot puffs of air leaving your mouth in the form of short pants.

spencer drops everything to the ground and runs over to you, the heart-shaped foams rolling everywhere on the ground and ricocheting off the front skirt of the furniture.

“y/n – what happened?” your boyfriend squeezes his arms into the thin space underneath your body, repositioning you so your neck can lie on the padded cushions of the armrest. you whine in pain as you turn to face him, your half-closed eyelids twitching as you try to keep them open.

“hurts,” you wince, and your voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. you’re miserable that this is the state that you’re in, pain jolting through every inch of your body, leaving you a writhing mess in your man’s unwavering hands.

“shh, let me take care of you,” spencer murmurs with a gentle tone, one that’s higher-pitched and soothes you instantly like a massage. he stuffs a cushion under the nape of your neck and props each of your legs up on the other sidearm before wiping your forehead sweat with the back of his hand. his slightly musky and sudsy smell makes you lean into his touch, an intoxicating distraction from the torment of your numbing pain.

“did you dress up like this all for me?” he asks you, his fingers softly brushing back your hair as he examines your outfit. you let out an indecipherable string of words, discomfort flooding into the back of your throat as you attempt to speak.

spencer stands and heads to the medicine cabinet, where he pulls out a thermometer and makes quick strides back to the couch.

“open,” he demands lightly, and you slightly part your lips as he brings the thermometer to your tongue. you slowly close your mouth, feeling the cool tip turn warm under your muscle as you wait for the beep to ring.

when it does, spencer checks your temperature with a concentrated expression, which soon morphs into marked concern. you blink at him slowly, all the while his hands rake through your hair in a rhythmic motion.

he stands once again, disappearing into his room before coming back shortly with one of his t-shirts and a pair of your shorts hanging loosely from his arm.

“you need to change, y/n. as beautiful as you look with this dress, it’s interfering with your body’s ability to thermoregulate.”

you weakly sigh in response, slowly reaching for his shirt as you inhale his familiar scent. you hug his shirt for a little while longer, and spencer has to remind you to change with a soft tap of your hand.

with the help of your boyfriend’s arms, you sit up slowly and start to shrug the sleeves off of your shoulders, to which spencer instantly looks away. he clears his throat as you slip out of your dress and pull up your navy shorts, and he diverts his attention by deciding to pick up the fallen foams instead. after you hastily throw the shirt over your head, you sink back onto the couch and feel an instant sensation of relief as the heat radiating from your body meets the cool air.

spencer’s face is a deep red this time when he looks back to see that the edge of his shirt’s folded in on itself, thereby exposing your stomach in plain view. he hesitantly reaches for the hem and drags it down to cover you, and his hand hovers over your waist for a brief second.

“i’ll be back,” he briefly states before moving back into the kitchen, where he pours a cold glass of water for himself. he takes off his cardigan and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, before reaching his hands into the sink and splashing his face with water. he has no idea how you manage to capture his attention so effortlessly, leave him desperate for air as if he’s the one that’s sick. he bites the inside of his cheek as the image of your flushed face and exposed torso gnaws at his thoughts.

the things you do to him.

he returns to you with an electrolyte drink in his hand, which he uncaps and brings to the bottom of your lips. you take slow gulps as he lays his hand at the base of your neck and helps you to lean back for easier access. once you’re done, he wipes the wet corner of your lips before screwing the cap back on again.

“you didn’t take your acetaminophen, um, tylenol, with dayquil did you?” he asks as he sets the drink on an adjacent table and turns back to face you. you shake your head no and his shoulders relax as he comes down on his knees next to you.

“good girl,” he hums, and you worry your face is even redder than before -- if that’s even possible. your heart races when he utters those words, and you shift your gaze to the ceiling in unanticipated nervousness. you thank yourself for falling sick when you feel your cheeks turn a shade of pomegranate red, and it feels like your skin is singed from your own emotional response.

“are you hurting anywhere else?” he asks you, and you briefly close your eyes as you try to register a way to explain your pain to him. when your eyelids open, spencer’s tender gaze meets your tear-soaked orbs.

“everywhere,” you gasp. as soon as you speak, you feel an acidic taste bubble up your esophagus, causing you to gag.

“spence, i- i’m gonna vomit-” you barely manage to let out as you rush to the bathroom, bending over to throw up.

spencer’s right hand gathers your hair and lightly bundles them up in a makeshift ponytail, while his left picks up the stray strands of hair that manage to escape his large grip. you stretch your arm so your sweaty palm presses against the wall, and you grip tightly when illusory stars dizzy your vision.

when you finish, he helps you to slowly get up, one hand on your waist and the other holding your arm as he guides you back to the couch.

you soon feel the tears start to fall, leaving wet speckles on your boyfriend’s arm. he brushes them away as he cups your face, reassuring you with words of comfort.

“it’s okay, you can take all the time you need,” he whispers, worriedly pursing his lips as he surveys your rosy cheeks, tear-stained eyes, and irritated nose.

when you lay back, a layer of sweat presses against your back and his gauzy shirt sticks to your skin like hot glue. spencer's gentle hand rubs up and down your shoulder, before it drags halfway down the trail of your arm.

even more softly, your boyfriend suggests, “do you want to try some acupuncture? while we wait for your body to clear the infection, we can try to reduce your symptoms through natural techniques. there are various acupoints for exogenous fever, and it might help to apply some pressure there.”

you nod slowly. at this point, you’re willing to try anything to relieve even the smallest ounce of pain. spencer takes the opportunity to lift you in a sitting position once again, turning you to sit facing away from him.

he then lifts a thumb and approaches your back, finding the indentation just below the bump of the middle of your spine. when he lightly applies pressure, a whimper leaves your lips and you lightly grip the sides of the couch. he wordlessly repeats this three more times before moving up to the nape of your neck, where he applies pressure in a circular motion. a defeated groan escapes your throat as you’re weighed down with his intolerable tenderness. you try to withhold yourself, to lump your sounds in your lungs like they’re a clot, but it’s a feeble attempt, one that encourages spencer to keep going. but he knows. despite how unfiltered and raw your cries are, they are not desire, not in that sense.

“acupuncture… it’s an excellent way to promote blood circulation as it stimulates flow through the body. targeting certain acupoints could help to reduce congestion, as well as relieve headaches and neck pains that are often associated with fever," he muses as he moves further down your spine again, lightly applying force in areas that soon subside from burning pain into relief.

spencer feels that there's a sense of logic to the way you move underneath his touch; the way your chest heaves euphorically in and out, the way you gulp for air between the rubs, and the way you shudder quietly. all of it fascinates him.

“but,” your boyfriend breaks his short-lived silence, “that’s not what i want to talk about right now." spencer lightly grunts as he shifts his weight by kneeling on one knee, placing his hand on your forehead to check your temperature again.

“i want you to explain why you didn’t text or call me.” his tone is a cautionary one, and it makes you slightly nervous.

“I didn’t want to disturb you. and… i wanted to surprise you,” you truthfully reply, avoiding his gaze.

he lightly chuckles before playfully poking your cheek.

“forget about the surprise. any time you’re sick like this, i need you to tell me. okay?” he taps each of his fingers across your arm and your hand lightly twitches with the gentle contact.

when you don’t respond, he raises a brow at you.

“that’s an order, y/n.”

you dispiritedly return a yes before he nods in approval.

“you look beautiful regardless of what you wear, y/n.” he makes sure not to come too close to you when he speaks, aware his warm breath could make it uncomfortable for you.

“you don’t have to lie, i look terrible right now.” you try to look away, but his gaze follows you as you move.

“what are you saying?" he frowns. "you’re so strikingly beautiful, it hurts when i have to see you in pain. i hate seeing you sick like this because you smile less. and i love seeing you smile,” he speaks dreamily, his lovestruck eyes glazing over yours like the two of you are interchanging blessings.

“okay, doctor reid,” you say half-sarcastically, but you smile when his thumb grazes your cheek. spencer grins in response and buries his face into your neck, his soft hair tickling against your cheek. you burst out laughing, but your sudden movements cause your face to contort into pain as you cough.

spencer pulls back almost instantly, laying a hand on your shoulder and telling you to breathe. when you both recollect your breaths, he gets up and stretches his arms.

“tell me when you’re feeling ready for a bath, i’ll set it up for you.”

he stands beside you, watching as your chest rises up and down with your timed breaths. you smile contently before lightly pinching the side of his trousers.

“but i want to keep this shirt,” you say coyly, admiring the softness of the fabric as you trace the edges of the embroidered fbi logo.

you look up to see spencer blush as he scratches the back of his neck.

“i’ll have a new change of my clothes for you.”

he then stoops to take away your now lukewarm cup of water before disappearing into the kitchen.

the things you do to him.

#spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #mgg #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #matthew gray gubler

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kwikpainrelief · 4 months ago

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#home remedies #knee pain relief oil #instant joint pain relief spray #pain management gel #Ayurvedic oil #3.#Kwik Pain Relieving Gel

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ohtobeleah · 2 months ago

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Day Five: [Breathe For Me]

Summary: The love of Jake’s life is plagued with chronic migraines after an unfortunate work place accident. But when a migraine feels wrong? Does Jakes initial response cost him his most priceless wife?

Warnings: Reader Death. Mentions of brain Injury. Jake Seresin x F!reader. Overstimulation. Migraines

Word. Count: 1.1k

Whumptober Prompts Day Five: Overstimulation, migraines, “I can’t take this anymore.”

Author Note: Please make sure you read the warnings provided. Disclaimer: I do not condone nor endorse the actions that are written about during the month of October. These works of fiction are just that, fiction and should be treated as such. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for this year's prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

When we’re hurt, our bodies send signals to form blood clots directly at the injury, to help stop any bleeding. It’s our body’s system of checks and balances. It’s a system that’s supposed to save our lives. Or so we hope.

“Jake–” It started as a headache, the throbbing pressure in your temples was only a warning of what was to come. Next, the little black dots in your vision appeared. Again, another warning of the storm that was right around the corner. No amount of pharmaceuticals or home remedies could help aid you in expelling the all-consuming migraine that was inevitably pending inside your mind.

The full body aches, the sinus pressure, the sensitivity to light. The nausea, head spins, and intense head pain which made it feel like your brain was about to explode from your ears, made you want to die.

“I can’t take this anymore,” You groaned out in pain as Jake pressed a warm damp washcloth to your forehead as you hugged your knees in the bath. He sat just behind you, offering you only the comfort you wanted when you needed it the most. “Somethings wrong.”

“Dr. Snowdon said this would be a complication from the surgery honey,” Jake cooed as he felt you shift in the water. He watched and shifted as you let your back fall against his chest as you sat between his legs. Warm, soapy water lapped at your stomach as you stretched out your legs. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”

There had been an accident at work, one that no one saw coming. That’s the very definition of an accident though, isn’t it? Something you don’t see coming. Something that wasn’t intentional. Something that couldn't have been avoided.

You worked admin in the office department at Miramar, a usually safe office environment that makes your situation all the more accidental. Three people lost their lives, two people were injured. You were one of the two who lived to tell the tale of the office fire from hell. The fire that broke out after the old ass printer blew itself up. The office fire that caused an explosion that sent you flying across the building. The office fire that caused you to crack your skull on the corner of the wall you flew into.

The office fire that nearly took the love of Jake Seresin’s life.

“It’s not your fault Jake–” You nearly sobbed as you tried to focus on his gentle touch, instead of the overbearing, all-consuming pain of your head trying to tear itself apart. “It just sucks this is how my life is now.”

Jake pressed the washcloth a little harder against your forehead, hoping if anything, a little counterpressure would help alongside the warmth of the cloth.

“I know it’s not my fault, honey–” Jake cooed as he worked his magic, helping to soothe your pounding head the best he could. “But it’s so hard seeing you like this.”

Sometimes our body’s signals get messed up. And our failsafe goes haywire. Instead of making clots, our body destroys them. And the thing that’s supposed to help us? Only hurts us more.

Which means we start to bleed. And everything shuts down.

“You’re the love of my life Y/n, I hate seeing you in so much pain.” You didn’t respond, you simply laid there in the warm embrace of your husband’s touch. Your guiding light in life, and in the next.

It stayed like this for a while longer, the comfortable silence filled the bathroom as Jake worked to try and bring you some sort of comfort through your pain. He’d been with you every step of the way, so he wasn’t about to leave you now. But what Jake wasn’t expecting was for you to leave him.

“How are you feeling, honey?” Jake asked softly as he dipped the washcloth back into the warm water. At first when you didn’t respond, Jake assumed that you were just sleeping. He thought perhaps you’d found a moment of solace between the throbbing aches. “Y/n?” But when you didn’t respond when he gently tried to wake you? Jake’s heartbeat began to race with pure, unedited panic. “Hey, baby? Come on now you gotta wake up for me.”

“No, no, no, no, no–don’t you dare do this to me!” the poet Octavio Paz once wrote, ‘The Mexican is familiar with death. Jokes about it. Caresses it. Sleeps with it. Celebrates it.’ Jake Seresin was about to relate to those who had walked alongside death and his many unfortunate souls.

“Y/n, Honey open your eyes!” Jake cried as he dragged your lifeless body from the tub. In Jake’s eyes, death wasn't something to be celebrated. It’s avoided at all costs. You couldn’t die on him like this. You weren’t ever supposed to die before him at all. You promised him that. “Come on baby don’t do this, you’re alright,” Jake pleaded as he tried to bring you back, his compressions were hard enough to break your ribs. “No, no, no–I need you here,” Jake didn’t know it at the moment, but it would haunt him for the rest of his life. You had died in his arms, you had told him something was wrong. It would soon come to light that it had been an aneurysm that took you too soon. A complication from your brain injury.

“Wake up honey, please don’t you dare do this to me,” When death comes, it’s clinical, almost routine. But still with all the practice that doctors and nurses alike have under their scrubs, even surgeons are surprised by death. For Jake, he’d known for many years his career could lead him to an early, untimely grave. But he never expected you to be the first to leave. ��I need you,” It was a painful, all-consuming cry that escaped Jake as he realised his efforts were futile. He held you close as he cried and mourned your now soulless state. “Y/n, no–no don’t leave me, please–”

Every religion, every country, every culture, death means something different to all of us. We all have different ideas about how to honour the dead. Different ideas on how to greave. Different ways of moving on. Jake Seresin wasn’t an expert by any means, but now he had the unfortunate experience of losing the person he loved the most.

***~***~***~***~***~***~

#ailesswhumptober2024 #ailesswhumptober #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin fanfiction #jake hangman imagine #jake seresin whump #jake seresin angst

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damdaroil · 10 months ago

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Introduction:

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Reference:- https://www.damdaroil.com/blog/5-benefits-of-damdar-joint-pain-oil-and-knee-pain-oil.html

#knee pain treatment #knee pain remedy at home #joint pain treatment #at home remedies for back pain #pain oil #knee pain treatment at home #leg pain treatment at home #joint pain oil #knee pain relief #pain reliever for knee #ayurvedic tel #joint pain relief #ayurvedic oil for knee pain #ayurvedic pain killer #ayurvedic pain relief oil

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diremoone · 1 year ago

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tlc, baby | g. satoru

w — periods, mentions of severe cramps, concerned bf ‘toru who doesn’t like seeing his gf in pain, an author who wanted toji to win the poll but is gonna do all the boys anyway bc toji, and the fact that this is too short and crummy omg (don’t write while hungry haha), hopefully toji’s is longer and better :D

[ divider cred @/firefly-graphics ]

5:14 am

The wake up is sudden, abrupt and extremely painful. You know what’s going on, but the second you try and do something about it, you find yourself sinking to the floor beside the bed in misery.

You really don’t want to walk downstairs, that’s gonna be misery. But if you don’t get and remedy this soon, you fear it’s just going to become worse.

It also sucks because your boyfriend isn’t home. You’d really, really like him to be home. But he isn’t. He’s out looking for an elusive Special Grade curse that nearly took out Mei Mei a few weeks ago on behalf of the stupid elders.

You’d curse them more if you didn’t feel like shit.

You burrow your head into the mattress and focus. Gathering up a little bit of energy, you stand and make your way to the kitchen, only to end up sitting down by the cabinets. You groan, knees up close to your chest to try and relieve some of the pain. You’re tempted to bang your head into the cabinets a few times, but the rationality of not adding more pain to the mix won over.

You can barely think straight; one second there’s the thought of running a bath and the next it’s waves of pain. You think about what’s in the fridge, then you’re overwhelmed by the intense need to barf.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

And then a loud voice echoes through the large home from your bedroom.

“Baaaaaabbbeeee!”

You snicker at your boyfriend who teleported into the bedroom that doesn’t have you in it. You hide your laughter behind your hand until another wave of agony rolls over your uterus and up your spine.

Satoru eventually finds you in the kitchen (after looking in the bathroom and under the bed). His smile disappears the second he sees you, but you don’t take notice since your forehead is burrowed into the wood of the cabinet door. He frowns, not liking the expression on your face.

“Baby?”

Satoru crouches and lowers the black mask you’d gotten him for his birthday. His heavenly blue eyes flicker up and down with worry.

“Monthly,” you manage to get out, and he instantly knows what you mean. Your entire body shakes with a shudder, so much so that the giant man is easily lifting you onto his lap to cuddle, his back now the one that presses against the wall of the kitchen.

Satoru is a heater, nothing short of the furnace that you’ve been in need of. One large, hot hand is pressed against your back, the other tucked against your lower abdomen in just the right spot. And the relief you feel makes you literally dizzy.

Your massive boyfriend however, is even more concerned than ever. The amount of stress he’d felt release from your body was nothing short of insane to him. You’d always relax and let go of all your stress in his hold, yes, but the amount of tension to how limp you were in his big arms was borderline upsetting.

You’ve never been this tense, this stressed. How long had you been like this before he was home?

“I’ll be okay,” you speak to him breathlessly. “I just need something for the pain and something to eat.”

Satoru lists off some things in the pantry and fridge, all of which makes your stomach turn and just burrow your head into his shoulder more. It isn’t until he gets to the sweeter side of the food you do have does the nausea fade away.

He reluctantly pulls away and grabs a familiar looking container on top of the fridge with a mischievous smile, one of his hands still holding yours as he stretches his massive 6’3 body across the kitchen to nab the period painkillers you need.

You don’t see him shove them and a small water bottle in his pocket, but you see him wrap his giant hand around the white container right before he fucking lifts you up off of the counter with one fucking arm and carries you back to bed.

But you don’t complain. You’re way too lethargic and fatigued. And why would you anyway?

He places you back on your side of the bed and gently plops the white container on your lap before kicking off his shoes and whips off his jacket so dramatically that you laugh. You scream as he jumps on the bed, almost on top of you. Satoru does nothing but laugh like a lunatic in return while he turns on the TV across from the bed.

Like magnets, you two end up snuggled deep into the big, thick pillows your boyfriend has propped up behind you in an instant. One of his arms is wrapped around you as you nestle into his side. But the fun doesn’t last. Your brows furrow as another wave of searing pain washes over you from your uterus. You groan and dip your nose into his collar, sharply inhaling and shakily exhaling.

“Here’s the magic pills, baby. Take ‘em.” Satoru’s voice is not the same, high-pitched excitable one he normally has. It’s the deep voice, the one he uses when he’s diving into his emotions. It’s the voice that he uses when he’s sharing his love with you in bed, or when he’s simply just loving you and taking care of you. Just like he is now. The tone of his voice is calming, relaxing, reassuring; all of the above makes your brain go fuzzy.

You pop the pill-shaped-relief in and chug it down with water and ‘toru wraps his arm around you, tugging you to him sweetly. He pops open the large white container, revealing all the chocolate chip cookies inside of it.

You laugh. “Oh my god, Satoru! This is what this is?”

“What else could it possibly be?” he jokes.

Not even a few minutes later though, the agony returns. The tearing feeling from your uterus is almost too much, lasting almost all the way through the Disney castle intro and the first couple minutes of Big Hero 6 with your head tucked into your boyfriend’s collar.

Satoru presses a kiss to your head and puts his hands in the same spots from earlier, with just as much tension leaving your body. He exhales silently.

“Go to sleep, baby,” he tells you. “It’s not worth it.”

“Want to…” you mumble, then let out a heavy sigh as heavy cramps roll over you again. “You’ve been gone a week.” You aim for a cookie and eat it in two bites.

Just like the cookies, you’re sweet — too sweet and too good for him, and he swears by it. He presses another kiss to the top of your head and replies, “Spend time with me by getting some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up. And I’ll take care of you tomorrow, too. Whatever my girl wants.”

“…. Sure?”

“Positive.”

“…..Mmmmm’kay.”

Satoru knows you’re still awake and working through the pain even half an hour later. You may not be watching the movie, but you’re still listening, giggling when Fred screams, “CAR!” to Wasabi as the villain tries to kill them.

It’s not too long after that though, he feels your cursed energy finally relax. Your body is clearly slack against his own. He chuckles at feeling a little bit of drool soak through his shirt. You’re in a deep sleep, thank goodness. And he hopes it stays that way. The medicine worked. He wasn’t sure if his eyes could take the sight of your cursed energy bearing that much sufferance much longer before cracking himself.

Satoru closes his own heavenly blue eyes to sleep. Yeah, he’ll definitely be here tomorrow. Taking care of his woman was going to be his first priority. Mission be damned.

”G’night sweets. See you in the morning.”

@vagabond-umlaut — @heresan — @dellalyra — @torusmochi — @nayrring — @out-of-reach22

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #jjk gojo #gojou x reader #gojo satoru #gojo oneshot #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #jjk oneshot

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