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vincess-princess · 6 months ago

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we, the psychos

ch. 7

Word count: 2053 Warnings: - A/N: this one is a bit smaller than usual, but i don't wanna break the streak, so here you are. also i got back access to ao3 and will be posting existing chapters there too!

As Wharton approached, the patients next to Tommy fled, freeing up half the table. Only Mick stayed by his side, but even he moved away a bit, playing the “I’m just sitting here eating” part. Upsetting but understandable – Mick only knew Tommy for a couple hours and obviously wasn’t going to take a risk for him.

So Tommy would have to deal with Wharton alone. Well, fine.

Wharton came to the table with a plate of soup in his hands, and Tommy recoiled, thinking he was going to upend it on him, but Wharton just put it on the table. Then he sat down on the bench and flung his legs over it. His face changed for a second, but Tommy didn’t manage to distinguish the emotion. Then it returned to the same insolent, mocking half-smile that seemed to be stuck to his lips.

“Hello, handsome,” Wharton said.

Tommy expected an insult instead and, confused, didn’t come up with a reply soon enough. Wharton clearly liked the effect of his greeting.

“Wow, and that’s from a simple compliment? That’s sad. Did your mommy and daddy not love you at all? Though since you are here, they probably didn’t.”

That was a low blow, and Wharton knew it. For the first time Tommy regretted not having put on a hospital robe. His clothes really gave out his roots. A rich family wouldn’t send a beloved son to a public asylum. There still were private clinics, even though the government tried hard to dwindle their numbers. As a last resort, his parents could have sent him to their countryside mansion with some sort of a carer to remove him from public eye. But no. They chose to dump him in a poor, overloaded public asylum with all sorts of human garbage in it. Like the one talking to Tommy right now.

“And your parents should have paid you more attention,” Tommy finally said. “Because you’re clearly seeking it.”

Not the best he could come up with, but he had to say something.

“What’s so bad in attention-seeking?” Wharton said. “Especially from pretty guys like you.”

“I don’t go there,” Tommy said sharply, gripping his fork tightly. If Wharton makes a move, he’s getting a fork in the eye.

“That doesn’t matter.” Wharton smiled. A couple of his teeth were missing. “You’re in a “nobody gives a shit what you want” place. You either do things to others or have things done to you.”

“Or you leave everyone alone and just live your life. But that probably hasn’t occurred to you.”

Wharton stopped smiling and leaned forward, closer to Tommy. Tommy gripped his fork tighter.

“I spent more time in a padded cell than you spent inside your mother. I had time to think about everything.”

“Didn’t know you could do that,” Tommy said. The easiest, most primitive way to get back at someone – childish, even. But weren’t lunatics all mentally children? And wasn’t this just a quarrel over who’s gonna rule the playground?

“Many have this misconception,” Wharton agreed. He was either too stupid to understand the insult or too smart to get offended. And Tommy had a feeling it wasn’t the former. There was something in Wharton – in his movements, in his expressions, in the tone of his voice – that suggested there was more behind that deranged sex maniac mask. And that was even scarier.

“What do you want?” Tommy asked directly. “Are you still offended by the morning fight? We both have given each other a fair beating. You have a place to sit. What else is there to it?”

“True,” Wharton said. “We both beat each other’s asses. And I have a place to sit. But there’s another thing.”

Tommy exhaled, frustrated. “What is it.”

“Have you been to Dr. Duren’s?”

“I should’ve?”

“Well, you see, he doesn’t like when patients fight. Both sides get a good walloping for it. I have been given a punishment. And you?”

Tommy could lie. He could say he had been to Dr. Duren’s, had had his punishment assigned, whatever it could be – probably some extra work. But he knew that Wharton wouldn’t ask if he didn’t already know the truth.

“I haven’t.”

“And that-“ Wharton lowered his fist on the table, slowly and forcefully, “-is the problem I have with you.”

“That I haven’t been punished? You can go ask-“

“That you are Dr. Duren’s special princess.”

Special princess. Laughter bubbled in Tommy’s throat. Yeah, he could be called that. Special princess.

Wharton’s heavy, unfriendly stare was taking all the fun out of it – or rather, supposed to. Because Tommy laughed anyway. Laughter built up in his chest and spilled out of his mouth, and it wasn’t funny, it was never funny, but the laughter didn’t care, it came and go as it pleased, and always at the worst possible time.

Wharton was looking at him with a confused frown on his face. He was probably thinking, I haven’t said anything funny. And it was true, but Tommy couldn’t tell him that. Laughter blocked out everything else. He could barely catch a breath between the fits, let alone speak.

Tommy didn’t notice how he bent over and pressed his forehead to the table. He was trying to cover his mouth with his hand, but the laughter still got through. Someone came up to him, leaned forward, spoke in the familiar voice.

“Tommy, what’s going on?”

Mick.

“Now I see why he’s here.” Wharton said over Tommy’s head.

“Shut up and call the nurse.”

“No,” came a lazy refusal, “I’d rather watch.”

A pause, and then:

“Tommy? What’s happening?” – Duff.

“He’s having a fit.” – Mick.

“I told a really funny joke.” – Wharton.

“Shut up!” – Duff, Mick.

“Hey, Tommy.” – Warm hands over his shoulders. “C’mon, let’s take you to the doctor.”

***

Nikki had been missing since lunch, and Mick couldn’t sit still. And he had to, because he had been assigned mending work. Holes in socks, torn trousers, missing buttons on shirts, worn-out bedsheets… Few patients were allowed to do it – needles and scissors were not the best things to give to psychos, - and even fewer agreed to it, saying it was ‘womanly’. But Mick liked it. He didn’t have to move much, and his poor back was grateful for that. The work itself was quiet, meditative, calm. Also, there were no windows in the workroom and only one door which Mick faced while working. Good thing all around.

Except today it wasn’t calm. God knows where Nikki was and what he was doing right now. He was a very creative boy – he could make something to self-harm with practically out of thin air. And when he wasn’t cutting himself, he was in on a hair trigger for that. What if Wharton got him again? Their interaction lasted mere seconds, but he did say something to Nikki, something that made his face drop. That was enough for him to fly off the hook, especially since… recent events.

Mick didn’t know what the quarrel between Nikki and Wharton was about, but he supposed Wharton dumped him. Got tired of a new toy and discarded it. Though their… relationship did last longer than his other flings – Mick knew of four months, and there could be more.

It would have been better for them to hook up a couple times and leave it at that. Wharton was simply incapable of a reciprocating relationship, and Nikki got his hopes too high over those months. He couldn’t see through Wharton like Mick did – see a cruel, selfish, manipulative asshole who cared only about himself that he was. Nikki was a smart boy overall, but clearly lacked in reading people.

Mick pricked his finger with the needle for the third time and couldn’t just sit there anymore. He dropped the sock he was mending and rose from his chair.

“Where to?” Hudson, who was watching them today, asked.

“To take a piss.”

“Alright.” Hudson didn’t suspect a thing – mostly because Mick wasn’t known for anything deserving suspicion.

Mick walked out the door and down the hall, then turned around the corner, looked around and sped up. He didn’t have much time.

First he checked the lavatory. It was hard to hide in there – it was a rather popular place, and many patients were often accompanied by nurses who would have noticed him. And Nikki had the “in need of permanent surveillance” mark on his medical history, which meant he would have already been taken to his ward.

Hoping that it already happened, next Mick went exactly there – but it stood empty, with the door open. The cleaner did a shitty job, and there were still traces of blood on the floor. Mick winced and turned away.

Then he went to the kitchen – he was friendly with the cooks and could hope they wouldn’t rat him out.

“Hi, Bob,” Steve said when Mick entered. “Hungry?”

“Nah.” Mick shook his head and looked around. No Nikki in sight. Well, it was expectable – the cooks would have never let him in there, knowing his infatuation with sharp objects – but still worth a check. “You seen Feranna?”

“Here?” Steve raised an eyebrow. “You serious? I’d have kicked him out the moment he came.”

“And that’s right,” Mick said, reaching for the bread basket and pulling out a piece. All this worrying did make him a bit hungry. “What’s for dinner?”

“Fried fish and mashed potatoes.”

“M-m. Classic. Thanks. Don’t tell anyone I was here.”

“Of course.” Steve laughed. He believed Mick was just pulling his “I’m being watched” thing, and Mick wanted it to stay that way. Right now he was relatively safe and had other, bigger concerns.

Chewing on the piece of bread, Mick headed down the hall. The cracking of the crust on his teeth drowned out other sounds, and he heard nurses talking behind the corner at the last moment. He dashed into the closest open ward and pressed his back to the wall, waiting for the nurses to pass by.

While he waited, Mick cast a quick glance around the ward. It didn’t look like it was lived in at all. The sheets were barely wrinkled, as if nobody slept on them, but it’s been over two weeks since the last change of bedding. It couldn’t be unoccupied: the asylum was full. Besides, there were restraints attached on the bedframe, and they were not leather, like usual, but metal. Interesting. The resident must be one of the aggressive ones.

The nurses left, and Mick continued his journey. He peeped into the common room – it wasn’t evening yet, so there were only a couple patients cleaning it, and old John Paul was quietly playing the even older piano. It was basically all he still could do – and did.

Mick went along the hall, looking into the empty wards. Nikki could easily hide in one of them, and would be found only at bedtime, and god knows what he could do to himself by then. But Nikki wasn’t inside any of the wards.

Maybe washing room? Mick headed in that direction. But just before rounding a corner he heard familiar voices.

“What were you doing there?” Whose else could that booming, angry voice be but Simmons’s?

“Wanted some fresh air.”

Mick made a loud sigh of relief. It was Nikki.

“Yeah? Fresh air? In October? Barefoot?”

Mick sighed again – now with disappointment. Of course, with Nikki nothing could go smoothly.

“I wanted to feel the earth.”

“Yeah, sure. You get pneumonia, that’s your fault.” Then a sound of someone stumbling.

“Hey! I can walk on my own! You don’t need to drag me!”

“I don’t think so.”

Mick crept after them until they reached Nikki’s ward. Simmons pushed him in and locked it.

“Sit here and think about your behavior. You don’t wanna go to Dr. Duren again, do you?”

And with that, he left.

Mick badly wanted to talk to Nikki, but he knew his time was out. Hudson was probably already looking all over the asylum for him. He needed to get to the lavatory and pretend he just had the worst diarrhea of his life, or the nurse wouldn’t believe that he spent so long there.

Mick turned around and ran back as fast as his back allowed him to.

#motley crue #motley crue fanfiction #motley crue slash fanfiction #motley crue fanfic #motley crue au #asylum au #we the psychos #nikki sixx #vince neil #tommy lee #mick mars #vinikki #(mentioned)#and in this one mick goes on a little adventure!#also just so you don't get confused: tommy has laughing syndrome that makes him laugh when he doesn't want to #check out the post that inspired the fic (linked in the masterlist) for details #don't much like this one but whatever. hopy yall like it #my writing

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silvokrent · 1 month ago

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Nobody asked, but here's a snippet from an Elden Ring fic that I've been working on.

On one of their return visits to Leyndell, an idea occurred to Vyke. The dragons were the first Elden Lords. It’s their power that governed this world at its inception. Perhaps the Order has forgotten their absence. Tendrils of electricity crackled at the spear tip, as he stood before the thorns. Let us reacquaint them. Only later, as Vyke perched on the dais steps, a searing pain climbing up his arm, did he have his answer. “Witless, insolent martyr,” Morgott hissed. There was a familiar comfort in the litany of insults muttered under his breath, in between snippets of incantation. “Bereft of anything approximating sense. What madness compelled thee?” “A theory,” Vyke said, because desperation didn’t capture the same air of scholarly rigor. “I didn't think it would rebuff me as it did.” Morgott chose not to dignify that with an answer, although his brow furrowed—in concentration, or annoyance. Perhaps some quantity of both. More golden motes suffused the empty chamber as he spoke them into existence, giving the Erdtree Sanctuary a luminous aura. Like stray embers, drifting from a fire, before winking out one by one. Vyke’s teeth clenched as the magic washed over him, and in spite of himself, he found it difficult to look away. Under the pulse of amber light, skin knitted itself back together along the interstice. Blisters scabbing at unnatural speeds. The fractal burns lost some of the intensity in their color, but didn’t fully fade, as the sensation ebbed. Abruptly, the grip that had been steadying his arm released him. “There. For all the good it will do thee.” His shoulders hunched as he scowled down at his handiwork. “That scar is beyond my mending. Thou willst bear it in perpetuity.” Vyke inspected the raised lines branching across his skin. The residual pain had faded to a dull ache, and he exhaled silently. “Thank you for tending to—” “Of course, it would have been avoided altogether, hadst thou a shred of reason.” Vyke jerked back as the glowering face was thrust nearly into his. The sudden proximity, and the impropriety of it, were either ignored or beyond his care at the moment. Not all that surprising, since he was preoccupied with his own self-righteousness. “The thorns repel all manner of attack in equal measure. What didst thou think would happen when thou blasted it with lightning?” “I thought I might die and be spared another one of your lectures.” It was an irreverent thing to say to a demigod, let alone a scion of the Golden Lineage. But the aftereffects of the incantation had left him feeling lightheaded. His eyes drifted to the curtain of vines overhead, cascading in verdant arabesques, so that he didn’t have to meet his ornery stare. “At least we now know it doesn’t work.” Something about the absurd matter-of-factness appeared to mollify him. That, or the dissonance of Vyke's answer, with the precipitating event, had convinced him that lecturing was pointless. Which was why it startled Vyke when a calloused hand shot forward, and roughly seized his chin—and suddenly, he was forced to meet his gaze. Under the clinical scrutiny, he felt dissected. An insect with its wings pulled off. Whatever Morgott had been searching for, he either didn’t find it, or he was disappointed by what he did. The viselike fingers didn’t relent as he turned toward the woman observing nearby, arms folded over each other with practiced indifference. “Didst thou counsel him toward this lunacy, maiden?” She peered out from beneath the ornate fillet, the lacework rendering her a portrait framed in powdered snow. “I take credit for his achievements, not his follies,” she said. The faintest amusement crept into her voice. Then, more soberly, she continued. “I neither advised nor discouraged him, my lord. With the battery of tests we’ve already run, it seemed inevitable. What harm was there in trying?” The single, golden eye turned downward, toward the fractal pattern radiating across Vyke's skin. "What harm indeed."

His momentary inattention had loosened his grip, and Vyke extricated himself from it. He reclined a little against the steps, grateful for the support of the marble. “There’s not much point in proceeding with caution,” Vyke said. Not when resurrection had already turned his body into a thanatotic constellation of scars. If Vyke wanted, he could unfasten his other vambrace and show him the countless pale lines crisscrossing his skin. The physical memory of lacerations. Or shed the hauberk under his armor—the steel ringlets a pale imitation of the Great Runes humming below his chest—and reveal the shallow pits in his abdomen left by crossbolts. It was difficult to say if there was any part of him not marred, not touched in some way, by the endless cycle. His flesh was a mosaic of death. A small wonder, that self-preservation now felt antithetical. Vyke had hoped the pragmatism would appeal to Morgott. Reassure him, maybe. He didn’t intend for Morgott’s expression to darken. His eye closed, and he breathed out a noise like loose parchment. “Maiden, kindly fetch him some water. There’s an ewer in my study.” She didn’t contest the dismissal. With a polite bow, she departed, her robes scattering erdleaves across the hallowed floor.

The fic this was taken from, Far Beyond the Sundown, is my interpretation of Vyke after he was brought back Tarnished. I'm a huge fan of @redzombie's headcanon that Vyke and Morgott knew each other. (And that Vyke was the only Tarnished that Morgott endorsed to become Elden Lord, way back when. Their alliance was kept a secret—especially after The Incident.)

#elden ring #elden ring thought dump #elden ring fics #wip #my posts #i speak #far beyond the sundown #morgott the omen king #vyke the dragonspear #once they realized that having great runes wasn't enough to get past the thorns #they spent quite some time workshopping solutions #i like the idea that vyke has at least one lichtenberg scar

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theamityelf · 4 months ago

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i am at all times asking you for danganronpa yandere content, my hands cupped and held out to you like an orphan child, maybe some mikan perhaps? some yandere mikan for a poor victorian orphan child?

Oooh, thank you! I haven't written a lot of Mikan, so this will be fun practice.

For lack of any instruction to the contrary, I think I want to use a canon character instead of x Reader. Let's see...

----

Most people probably wouldn't think of the overexposed fluorescent lights of a high school clinic as the most romantic lighting, but in this moment, Mikan couldn't imagine how candlelight or fireworks could be better, or could even compare. She wondered if maybe people enjoyed that kind of dim lighting because they really didn't want to see each other. Whereas she wanted to see Akane perfectly, for every spot and scratch and scar, for every shade of color in her eyes. She wondered if Akane maybe liked to see her like this, too.

Well, no, that was a bit much. For as forgiving and wonderful as Akane was, it wasn't safe to imagine she liked seeing Mikan in detail like this. After all, when other people looked at Mikan's body, Akane didn't look very long at all. It was clear that she didn't like Mikan's appearance, even when her skirt was askew or her legs were open.

Even if Akane often took the time to say hi to her, and even defend her from bullies...It was dangerous to let herself reach the conclusion that anyone liked her. If she let herself think that, she might get too reckless and ruin everything!

Mikan was just glad she sometimes had the opportunity to take care of Akane like this.

"Man, this sucks," Akane sighed.

"I-It does?" Mikan said, almost dropping a whole roll of bandages, at the feedback. Was Akane saying that she was doing a bad job, or just that she was in pain? If she was in pain, would she accept a few heavy drugs to help? Well. In Mikan's professional experience, the real question was how much pain Akane would have to be in to accept the heavy drugs. Or how likely she was to notice, if she was given something she hadn't asked for.

Akane could be very forgiving. So ready to trust Mikan's expertise, even over her own sense...

"I've just never made a mistake like that before," Akane griped. "Even when I was first learnin', I never lost my footing that bad. I don't know how it even happened."

Mikan smiled sympathetically, laying a tentative hand on Akane's thigh, just above where she'd just tied off the bandage around her knee. Akane forgave the touch. In fact, she didn't seem bothered by it at all. "I-I'm sorry you couldn't go to the festival with the others, but...I'm glad to take care of you as long as you need it."

When Akane didn't say that she was fine or that she didn't need any help, Mikan's smile brightened even more. She couldn't help it. Clearly, breaking into Akane's shoe locker had paid off.

At first, it had seemed like cruel irony, that she should fall so deeply in love with someone who never thought she needed medical care, but now she knew better.

Akane would only accept help when she really, really needed it, and that was Mikan's favorite kind of help to give.

As an added bonus, Akane was never suspicious when her shoes were unusually slippery or sticky, or when something uncomfortable found its way under her insoles, not to be noticed until she was running or jumping and it poked the bottom of her foot.

They were perfect for each other.

"Hey, you haven't been wearin' gloves," Akane noted, as Mikan smeared ointment on a nasty scrape on the shin opposite her broken knee. Her blood and the greasy ointment stained Mikan's fingertips wonderfully. "Did they change the doctor rules or somethin'?"

Mikan giggled. Another extra-special thing about Akane was that she asked good questions in funny ways. "I told you, I'm not a doctor. I'm a nurse. How does that feel?" she added, as she moved on down to Akane's sprained ankle.

"It hurts," Akane answered, not in the broken, defeated voice she'd used when Mikan had started on her knee– which had been more amazing than she'd imagined in any of her most stimulating 'Help me, Mikan!' dreams; she'd never heard Akane whine like that before! –but in a tone of recovered composure that made Mikan pout her lips a little.

But that was okay! Akane was just as cute when she was trying to be tough. Her tough side was what told bullies to "lay off Mikan," and just thinking about that made Mikan's heart palpitate.

She just needed to help Akane stop bringing her tough side into the clinic. (It was like bringing one's prudish side into the bedroom!)

"Oh, i-it's just as I thought," Mikan said nervously, fidgeting with her fingers. The sight of Akane's blood on them and the memory of how Akane had spoken her name while she'd set her knee gave her some peace about what she was about to do, but the maelstrom of eager anticipation and horrible guilt turned her stomach. She framed Akane's sprained ankle with her hands. "It's broken."

"Really? My ankle too?" Akane bemoaned.

"Y-Yes, but...that's actually...not the worst part." Mikan flinched, fighting back the tide of anxieties telling her that in a school of Ultimates, someone was bound to find out and everyone would be so mad at her! "The p-problem is, i-it already started to set itself unevenly. In order for it to heal correctly, I..." Her gaze, which had been fixed on the sprained ankle, darted up to Akane's face. Akane was listening, with no sign of suspicion or distrust. Accepting every word Mikan said. "I-I'll have to...re-break it. And set it correctly."

Mikan was prepared to fall to the floor and beg for forgiveness, but Akane just said, "You gotta break it again? Or it won't heal right?"

Blushing, Mikan could only nod.

"Okay," Akane said. "Let's hurry up and do it, okay?"

The relief and delight that flooded Mikan in that moment could have sent her to her knees for a whole different reason, but she fought back a smile and nodded her head quickly.

Oh, she could barely breathe.

She went to wash her hands first. To violate a patient's trust like this, to feel such pleasure in doing it...It felt like she was losing a kind of virginity she hadn't even conceived of before. Her first malpractice, and she was getting to share it with her very favorite person! "Re-breaking" a bone that wasn't broken in the first place, all so she could make Akane need her a little more. She could barely hold herself back from giggling again.

Mikan returned to the examination table where Akane was waiting. Where Akane was holding an ice pack to the scrape on her head. (No injury to her skull or brain! Mikan had realized earlier how badly things could have gone. She would be leaving Akane's shoes alone, from now on.)

When she saw Mikan coming, Akane nodded to show that she was ready, and gritted her teeth.

Mikan knew she didn't look strong. It always made her smile, that Akane knew she was anyway.

She took Akane's swollen ankle in hand. Trailed her fingers over it for a second. The sprain was already her handiwork, in a way. But it wasn't something she'd done as a nurse, in the clinic, and it wasn't something she'd done with her own two hands.

There was a band-aid on the bottom of Akane's foot. Mikan could have kissed it.

She took a deep breath, steeled her nerve, and broke the ankle.

At Akane's yell of pain, she actually did fall to the floor.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please forgive me!" she squeaked out, cowering on the tiles for several seconds before she was able to get past the panic response and stand back up.

Akane had one arm thrown over her eyes, and she was taking deep breaths.

"I-I'm sorry," Mikan babbled frantically. "I promise I'll fix it. I promise I'll fix it!" And it wasn't like Mikan was a sadist or anything. It didn't make her happy that Akane was hurt. The sight of the injury did excite her a little, as she looked to the roll of bandages she would use on it first, but Akane was so brave and kind, and outside of their special clinic time, she wanted Akane to be as happy as she made her.

"S'alright," Akane finally said, lowering her arm and wiping tears from her eyes. "It's not your fault you had to do it."

Mikan's vision blurred immediately, as tears streaked down her face. She was forgiven. Her first malpractice was forgiven. She wasn't even conscious of her movements before she found she'd wrapped her arms around Akane's torso and buried her face in her neck. "Thank you for forgiving me! Thank you, thank you-!"

"Whoa, hey." Akane stroked her hair, as if she weren't the painfully-injured one. "Man, you're really shaken up, huh?"

Mikan sniffled and eventually straightened up. "I-I'm sorry..."

"It's fine. You don't gotta be sorry about everything, ya know?"

A giggle bubbled out of Mikan's gross, tear-stained face. "Y-You're...so nice to me," she said. "I-I promise, I'll make you feel all better, s-so please never hate me, okay? I'll take care of you, I'll help you with everything you need, even if you need help taking a bath or using the bathroom, I don't mind! You can use me as a footrest, or as a crutch, and I promise I'll never, ever stop helping. So please don't hate me, okay?"

"Okay, jeez!" Akane half-laughed, with a bewildered look. "Why would I hate you? You're, like, one of the nicest people I know."

...Mikan was in love, and she was running out of lines she was certain she wouldn't cross to keep Akane around her.

#danganronpa #mikan tsumiki #yandere mikan tsumiki #akane owari #mikane #yandere mikane #my fanfic #yandere

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strugglinguist · 1 year ago

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I’m really doing some mental gymnastics right now because I think it’s safer for me to walk with crutches on bad pain days. The majority of my pain focuses on my lower back, knees, feet, and ankles. There are times like right now when my heel hurts SO BADLY I can’t put weight on it. Or it feels like my feet are cracking in half, so I need to pause and wait for the pain to subside. Add in horrific balance and burning lower back pain. It becomes a lot. And crutches would help a lot of that and I’d be able to get around better. I have hEDS, a chronic degenerative disease. This is just how we cope.

But also… this is a big level like using the cane was for me a year ago. I’m outwardly showing progression. I’m “giving in” or “just not working enough at strength exercises.” Like I should somehow fight through horrific pain. And I know doctor’s would believe me or even listen at all if I were an entire person size smaller. And I’ve lost weight “successfully” before but it was so disordered in my head! Now it’s different, I can’t stand or sit still very long without pain, and I need to be able to function!

And my ADHD, Autism, and OCD are OFFFFFF the charts right now. I think my meds must have stopped working or something. So I need to find a psychiatrist. Yeeeeesh.

I hate that there are moral values often assigned to physical and mental ability. I hate that women are often not believed about their pain and misdiagnosed as a result. I also know I’m fat and obviously queer, and that doesn’t help either. But I rant, smoke some weed, and make shit happen.

I just got some slippers so I can use my orthotic insoles at home without needing to wear full on shoes. And I’m trying to get into an EDS Clinic!

#hypermobilty syndrome #heds #disability #crutches #mobility aid #rant

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ihatesocialmedia45 · 2 months ago

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Chapter 9: Hey Jude

Summary:

Go Go Seven Therapy Session!!

Notes:

it's not filler!! It's a character study!! Shut up!!

The Seven sat in a circle on the floor facing each other, the therapist of the session sitting in a chair behind them, notepad in hand. She looked around, ensuring that they were all present. Deep was picking at a scab on the back of his hand, while A-Train was staring longingly out the window, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of a blimp that flew by, his face plastered on the side. Maeve sat with her knees up, looking sourly at Sage, while Sage stared coolly back, eyes betraying nothing. Noir sat silently, a notepad of his own in his hand. Starlight sat, prim and proper, legs folded neatly and her hands in her lap, the picture of compliance. Firecracker placed a hand on Deep's arm, tutting at him to stop picking. Homelander (and the woman, A-Train noted with an eyeroll) sat at eye-level with the therapist, Homelander floating above the the rest with her settled in his lap. She'd cooed when he'd done it, as if she was impressed, A-Train thought in disgust. So they were letting groupies into the Tower now... this place had gone downhill, in a major way.

The therapist peered down at the group from beneath her bifocals and cleared her throat. "Alright, everyone. Thank you for all making the effort to attend this session. I understand that it isn't easy to take this first step, but you're all here - and I'm grateful for the time you're giving me. It's not just that I'm giving you my time, to listen - but that you're giving me yours, to be heard." The Seven shifted, uncomfortable with the sentiment. Deep looked around, a mischievous smile lighting up his face. "No problem, Ma'am. I woke up, totally prepared to bail on this, but then I thought," he snarked, putting on an expression of mock thoughtfulness, clenching a fist, "Stan is forcing me to be here. I can't miss it."

Instantly, the group erupted into mocking laughter, even Homelander, Deep noted with pride, the quiet sound of their derision filling up the room. The therapist nodded, nonplussed, though her eyes now carried a faint sharpness that wasn't there before. "Thank you, Kevin. I notice that you often keep to yourself, unless there's an opportunity to play the comedian. Do you think that this act of defiance endears you to the group, or serves to boost your self-esteem in some way? Your friends laugh now... but does that ever stop them from making light of your bond with your octopus friend?"

Instantly, the room hushed. Deep sputtered, face growing red. "That's - that - I..." The therapist looked him over, eyebrow raised faintly, before writing something in her notepad and looking the group over once more. "I'd like for us all to treat this session with the seriousness it deserves - the seriousness you all deserve. I get paid either way. Whether or not you show up genuinely doesn't impact me... it only hurts you." That being said, the group looked around, vaguely unsettled at the therapist's stand, almost chagrined. The therapist sat up straighter. "With that being said, I'd like for us all to go around the circle, introducing ourselves. My name... is Dr. Therese Rangel. I'm a double board certified clinical psychologist, and my scope of work includes those who struggle with complex trauma, psychological disorders, drug dependency, and especially the unique struggles of the Super Abled grappling with fame. In short, I was specifically chosen to work this case due to this skillset - and I'd like to let you all know that there is nothing you can tell me that will shock me, or disgust me, or frighten me. I've worked with Supes for a very, very long time." She gestured to the rest of the group, giving them the floor.

Starlight looked around, sensing the direction this meeting would go. They'd tried insolence - but Rangel had shut that down right away. It was clear what they were planning next - waiting her out until the 45 minutes were over, then leaving victorious. But as she caught the conspiratorial looks in her teammates' eyes, she couldn't help the wave of frustration that overtook her. The Seven was a mess; they were nothing like the heroes she'd fantasized about fighting alongside in Des Moines... it had been three months since she made that fateful walk into the Tower - and they'd instantly disappointed. On her first day, she recalled bitterly, Deep had snuck an anglerfish in her tub, A-Train had snagged her order from the café three times before she could grab it, and Firecracker had snuck up behind her, snapping and scaring her with the loud pop of fire in her ears. Sage had talked down to her for thirty minutes about her itinerary, cutting her off when she'd tried to explain that she knew what it was, and when she'd finally broken down in the bathroom, Maeve had offered her a wadded up ball of tissue, before telling her that this soft attitude would only have her back on the first plane to Iowa before she could say press junket. And Homelander... the thought made her lower her head. Homelander had ignored her all week, until she'd managed to complete her first real save, to which he gave her a curt, "Good work, newbie," smirking when she lit up at the first positive attention she'd received since arriving. She took a deep breath, ignoring A-Train's eye roll.

"My name... is Annie January. I'm from Des Moines, Iowa, and I joined the Seven three months ago... because I wanted... I wanted..." she stopped then, feeling the judgmental looks of her teammates. Dr. Rangel waved her on gently. "You wanted..." Starlight felt herself shrink under the Seven's scrutiny, but she nodded and pressed on.

"I wanted... to help people," she said, voice stronger now. From the corner of her eye, she watched Maeve stiffen. "I wanted... to do something about the state of the city, the world. Before The Seven... all I could do was stop drunk drivers in Des Moines, and practice my lines for those stupid pageants... but I couldn't even stop a cop from beating up on a homeless person, or save a girl who I knew was being trafficked. I felt this... disgust, for myself, for other Supes, for just watching, and doing nothing. And so, when I got the chance... I was actually grateful to be here. To be able to make a difference. But now..." she sighed, eyes downcast. Maeve broke into a slow round of applause, eyes venomous.

"Everyone, give Annie a hand! Even in therapy, she finds a way to make her intro about how shitty we all are..." the rest of the Seven joined in, A-Train clapping Deep on the back and snickering as Starlight's face fell. Dr. Rangel leaned in, eyes hawkish under her impassive gaze.

"And why does that upset you, Maeve? That Annie came to The Seven with the goal of changing things for the better? I didn't hear her say that she thought less of any of you - just that her goal was to help."

Maeve froze slightly, eyes trained on Dr. Rangel. "She didn't need to say she looked down on us - we can all feel it, all the time. Going on saves with her is miserable. She won't just go by the script; she has to pull some wild card move, like when she held up traffic for an hour giving some boy CPR, or making us stay late at the opening of that animal shelter until twenty dogs had been adopted." Maeve turned to face Starlight with a withering look. "That was a kill shelter, by the way. You held us up for two hours, and 100 dogs got put down, anyway."

A-Train spoke up now, eyes somber. "Yeah... and she's always trying to preach at us when we do follow the script, like she knows something we don't. I've been in the Seven for five years - the shit that makes her cry herself to sleep? Isn't even a blip on the radar. And the thing that really pisses me off is, if you really wanted to be hero, you wouldn't have come to work here. You'd be in Congress, making the laws we have to follow. She's just as fame-hungry as the rest of us, but she won't admit it. No, not even that - she tries to shame us for it."

The Seven nodded their agreement, murmuring their distaste for Annie, until Dr. Rangel held up a hand. "Thank you, A-Train. I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge what was just said: that if Annie genuinely wanted to make a change, she'd take up a seat in Congress. And certainly, the thought has its merits. Lawmakers have the ultimate power in the land, to shape our standards for what is right in the eyes of the law, and to correct those who step outside of its bounds." Annie hung her head; so even Dr. Rangel was against her, now. She thought about flying back home before the next meeting, and avoiding her.

"But... I'd like to introduce this point to the group. Annie could have worked her way into Congress - but she chose to train, and temper herself, into someone who could fight alongside those she deemed real heroes. I'd like to ask.. is your discontent with her truly out of anger for her sanctimonious attitude... or are you punishing her for believing in you?"

The group fell into a moody silence now, all avoiding each others' gazes. Dr. Rangel wrote in her notepad, the scratch of the pen soft in the tense room. The Seven shared bitter looks, some aimed at Annie, others aimed at each other. Finally, Deep raised his hand, avoiding their gazes, and looking at Rangel. He cleared his throat.

"My name... is Kevin Moskowitz. I'm from Long Beach, California, I've been in the Seven for five years...and... I talk to fish," he finished quietly, ducking his head. Dr. Rangel wrote for a second, then clicked her pen. "What kind of fish?" she asked him. The group snorted - but she held up her hand, gesturing for Deep to continue.

"Well... all of them. Angelfish, sugar fish, flounders, guppies.. sharks. Sharks are my favorite," Deep said bashfully. Firecracker gave him an encouraging smile and squeezed his hand. "I'm actually really good friends with the ranchu goldfish at the front downstairs, even though they're a little stuck up." Rangel gave him a soft smile, and Deep answered with a shy one of his own. Then, she looked towards the rest of the group.

"You all find it very easy to bully Kevin, because his powers differ from yours. He doesn't have super-speed, he isn't the smartest person in the world..." Sage snorted. Dr. Rangel let the sound carry, and watched as the Seven turned their gaze on her, until she cleared her throat and looked away, uncomfortable at being put on the spot.

"But, I see something deeper, if you'll mind the pun, in your collective disdain for him, something that I believe is symptomatic of an underlying issue. Could it be possible that you all treat Kevin with the same derision as you do Annie... because his powers suggest a certain empathy for living creatures? Kevin talks to these fish, forms bonds with them - something you all seem to struggle with, even with humans. Could it be... that you turn him into the butt of your jokes, because you resent his ability to care for life forms you deem to be beneath you?"

Suddenly, the group heard the scratching of another pen - Noir's. Everyone watched in quiet surprise as he wrote painstakingly, the movements of his pen slow and deliberate. The room seemed to hold its breath as he made his debut to the therapy session, and Deep's face flushed as he held up his pad. He'd drawn a school of fish, seven of them, childish smiles on their faces, and underneath, he'd written a short message:

Deep makes me feel heard.

Starlight let out a small murmur, touched. Dr. Rangel nodded.

"I'm glad to hear that, Noir. I noticed that, though you are present in the events the Seven hosts, or are called to... you don't often have the opportunity to express yourself, or get your opinions across," she started. Sage gave her a dismissive look. "He can't talk," she said, deadpan. This time, though, nobody laughed. Deep bristled.

"That's not his fault," he interjected hotly. Starlight nodded, narrowing her eyes. Dr. Rangel turned to Sage now; Sage felt her stomach drop. She was too smart for therapy, she'd argued with Stan when he'd insisted that she join the rest of the Seven. It wouldn't work. And maybe that was the case... but Rangel wasn't going to let her sit on the sidelines, making her snarky little comments. No, she thought, annoyed, that was her job, wasn't it?

"I noticed that you've been quiet as well, Sage. I understand that you are the smartest human in the world - and so it would make sense that, to you, therapy would be as useless as... Deep, buying a snorkel, or A-Train taking a bus. You can solve your own issues by virtue of your own mind - and so why bother attending? But I have to say... this session offers you an opportunity to have something you might not otherwise get in normal circumstances."

"And what is that?" Sage asked dryly. Dr. Rangel smiled.

"The undivided attention of your teammates. I notice that you often feel the need to assert your position as smartest in the room... but this isn't new information to anyone in the Seven. Is this repetition a means of solidifying this idea in their heads... or yours?"

The room watched Sage grapple with this veiled barb, her face working as she tried to come up with a retort that would undercut the way Rangel had pierced her. Who the hell did she think she was? Sage narrowed her eyes, turning her attention onto the therapist.

"I think... that you are playing a dangerous game, trying to crack open the minds of people who could turn you into ground beef. Nobody cares that you're double board certified. Nobody cares about how many Supes you've worked with. We all know this is a just a mind game from Stan, trying to mold us into the perfect heroes, even though he's the reason most of us are the way we are." She couldn't help the outburst; the way this doctor was picking at her insides... it was like her brain was on red alert, instantly shutting down. This therapy session was for them - for Homelander, really, who was playing with the woman's hair, whispering in her ear and watching her giggle - not her.

The therapist nodded. "Again... there's the need to undermine my practice, my time working with other heroes. And I hope you'll forgive the observation... but you'd said that these heroes here could end my life violently, if they so choose. I won't disagree with you - but I will point out... you can't 'turn me into ground beef', as you'd said. There's a focus here, on the behaviors and supposed knowledge of the rest of the Seven, which implicitly ties you to them... while neglecting to examine yourself under that same critical lens. I wonder... could it be that you're intellectualizing this session in an attempt to subtly align yourself with your teammates, without actually having to state this goal directly?"

Sage stewed, watching as the Seven witnessed Rangel dig into her, blood boiling. She crossed her arms and held her peace, though she planned to go directly to Stan after this meeting and demand a new therapist. There was a hum of static energy in the room, everyone's eyes on her - and she broke the silence with a petulant, "Fuck you," under her breath, to which Homelander responded with a hearty laugh, breaking the tension. Dr. Rangel shifted her gaze to him. Homelander fixed her with a dark glare.

"No," he said, a note of finality in his voice. Dr. Rangel raised her brows and opened her mouth, as though to press him anyway - but Maeve, seeing the tightening of his jaw, shot her hand into the air, stopping the train wreck before it could happen.

"My name is Maggie Shaw!" she exclaimed, slowly lowering her hand. The Seven turned to face her.

"I'm... Maggie Shaw...I'm from Modesto, California. I joined the Seven five years ago, like everyone else. Skill set... super strength, durability, hearing, tolerance - and shut up," she interjected, glaring at Homelander's teasing look. "That's low-hanging fruit." She steadied herself, before continuing.

"My name is Maggie Shaw, and I..."

But the words wouldn't come; Maeve wrestled with her brain, trying to find something that would cut to the heart of them, but avoid exposing herself - something that would affect them the way Noir had, with that stupid drawing... she felt a pang of envy for the mute Supe then; he could be as open and mushy as he wanted, and nobody ever gave him shit. Maybe it was because he just didn't care what they thought. Maybe it was his silent aura of menace. Maeve grimaced, sighed, and lifted her head, staring Dr. Rangel in the eye.

"I think therapy is a waste of the taxpayer's money."

Homelander laughed again. "Hear, hear!" he saluted her.

Dr. Rangel let his teasing go on uninterrupted, Maeve noted gratefully. As much as the therapist annoyed her, she really would hate to clean her off the ceiling after she'd pushed Homelander one time too many. Dr. Rangel paused, and wrote for a long while, letting Maggie's words reverberate. Maeve shifted, uncomfortable, the sound crawling under her skin. Finally, Rangel stopped writing and looked up, a smile on her face.

"And what would you have the taxpayers' money be delegated to?"

Ooh, get her ass, A-Train thought, leaning in. But before Maeve could answer, a buzzer rang out above them, the red light hung over the door blaring brightly. Dr. Rangel stood, and gave the Seven a polite bow. "Well... that's our time, I suppose," she said, gathering her bag. "Our next session will be next week, at the same time, same location. I'd like to thank you all, for attending, and I hope to see you again."

Slowly, the Seven rose to their feet and filed out the door. Starlight lingered behind, watching them go; A-Train was there - and then he wasn't. Noir slipped through a vent in the ceiling, just as quickly. Deep slunk toward the door, the hint of a smile on his face as he talked to Firecracker; Maeve walked stiffly, shoulder-checking Sage, who absorbed the blow with her chin high, and Homelander ghosted out of the room, still cross-legged, the woman hanging onto him by the neck, letting out a peal of laughter.

Starlight looked into Dr. Rangel's face; her eyes were piercing, but not unkind. The silver spectacles that hung from her delicate chain glinted, even in the fluorescent lighting, and Starlight saw a vision of Stan then, that same silver bite in his glasses.

"I just want to thank you, for this," she started tentatively. "It was nice to, even for a moment, talk about why I joined... and to not be mocked across the board for once." Dr. Rangel smiled at her, this time a current of warmth gracing her features.

"I think it was very brave of you to say, Annie. I watched the opening of that shelter you'd hosted on the news. It was refreshing."

Starlight felt the urge to throw her arms around the woman, the hot prick of tears sudden in her eyes. She sniffled, embarrassed.

"Thank you. I... I really did mean to save every animal in that shelter." She sighed, feeling a bit lighter. "Thank you," she said again, making her way to the door.

#homelander #the boys amazon #the boys tv #diabolica writes #don't save her #the seven #my oc!#Dr. Rangel said “I'm not playing with you”

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justbeingnamaste · 5 months ago

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...........After watching the Trump verdicts this last week, there were some folks who were obviously as upset as I was, but I also saw and heard others who were cheering like this was some kind of sporting event and they were jumping off coffee tables, high fiving and rejoicing. The endless memes shared on social media condemning the orange man and celebrating his conviction. It made me think what I now already knew; that the Democrat party base, the loyalists lack empathy. Their entire party reeks of a lack of empathy, which is what clinical diagnosticians would refer to as either one of three probabilities: 1) Sociopathy 2) Psychopathology or 3) Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD).

The danger here is that they don’t connect the dots, that this is really an attack on them. They don’t see it because they have an empathy deficit. They don’t see themselves in the shoes of a man who has been relentlessly attacked, slandered, harassed, and sued for absolutely no legal or sane reason and without justification. They also don’t seem bothered much by the fact that those same creatures that used lawfare against their political opponents 1) Could also use it against them and 2) That it is destroying both jurisprudence as well as the entire judicial system. Now we could also conclude that this celebratory body we call the Democrat party base is also just dumb (they are) rather than emotionally unstable or deranged, but it really is one and the same. There is not much distinction between being insolent and dumb or having a form of mind sickness. They work in concert together......

But what we can conclude is that the entire Democrat party relies on this army of emotionally damaged and unstable individuals as their reliable constituents. They are a party of psychopaths. A party who wants the destruction of this society. A party that wants to radically and fundamentally transform our nation into something resembling Haiti or the Congo. A society where might makes right, where life is brutish and short and where tempers that flare the most are rewarded. The Democrat party is a party of violence and force. It is fascistic and now has infected the entire election process itself and turned it into a stone mill for dictators. And one thing is for sure; dictators are definitely not empathetic. Not to anyone.

#June 3 #2024 #Empathy and the Trump verdict #By Andrew Solomon

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qwertyfingers · 3 months ago

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3, 12, 20

3) 3 films you could watch for the rest of your life and not get bored of?

i'm really bad at watching films so I don't know if there are any films where this would be 100% true but off the top of my head Spirited Away, Robin Hood: Men in Tights and Galaxy Quest are the main ones that have never lost their shine despite being repeatedly rewatched throughout my lifetime

12) what’s some good advice you want to share?

if you have Any amount of pain in your feet, knees, hips or back during or after walking, there is probably a type of insoles that would help you out a lot. go to one of those orthopedic shoe shops (even better, a podiatrist clinic) and ask for advice, they can often give you pointers without needing a full assessment. you would not believe how much relief you can get purely from slightly better arch support. I stopped needing to use a cane after paying for proper orthotic insoles!

20) favourite things about the night?

not to be a basic bitch but i jus really love when it's dark. i have stupidly sensitive eyes bc of the migraine stuff and i just really appreciate when there's very little light and i don't have to be wearing sunglasses and squinting all the time <3

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insoleclinic · 1 year ago

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Relieve Metatarsal Pain with Top-Quality Metatarsal Pads UK from Insole Clinic! Walk with Ease and Comfort. Shop Now!

#foot care products #foot products #insole clinic #Metatarsal Gel Pads

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podiatry-pedicure · 4 months ago

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Foot care in middle east region;

Hyperhidrosis of the feet is one of the most common problems of our society.

Closed shoes and sneakers aggravate the hyperhidrosis disease.

A humid environment is a source of fungal and bacterial pathogens and, as a result, leads to the appearance of foot disorder.

Hygiene and wearing socks and medical shoes made from natural materials can somewhat reduce its sewerity.

You can make pedicure with a decoction of medicinal herbs, antiseptics, which have a drying, antibacterial effect.

Gait analysis and diagnosis, foot biomechanic evaluation.

To block the sweat glands and prevent hypersweating, you can use antiperspirants in the form of sprays, rollers, creams, powders, lotions and medications.

Establishing first Iranian E-Clinic for foot and Podiatry in Mashhad.

how foot pressure measurements can be used in real clinical settings for podiatry?

Diabetic offload shoes and CNC insoles.

Sport medicine & rehabilitation.

Pre and post-treatment examinations.

Orthotic & Prosthetic prescriptions. Please messege me in Telegram @ortho_teb_clinic if you need more informatio about Orthotic and Prosthetic.

PUBLISHED BY

Ali Karimi

Bsc CPO, Member of Iranian medical council, OP-127, former member of O&P Scientific board of Iran-East branch ( Khorasan Razavi -North Khorasan - South Khorasan - Sistan Baluchistan ) - Graduated from medical school Aug 2008.

#orthotics #prosthetics #podiatry #pedicure #medicine #footcare #rehabilitation #physiotherapy #chiropractic care

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eggcompany · 7 months ago

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Maybe It's All 50/50 Part 1

Jaskier's always been a poorly omega, often need the Omegan Services to send someone out to help him. Geralt's known the omega for a bit, through Yennefer, but had been the only one to offer to work in the omega's neighborhood. He's gotten to know the omega much better since. However when he gets called out and Jaskier's and the younger man is sick? Well Geralt's always been a bit of a service alpha anyway. He'll chalk the way his heart flutters and his mind get all those good alphan hormones to that. But not for long.

“OES” rang out in the silence of the night and Jaskier already melted into a pout.

Omegan Emergency Services.

That voice.

“Geralt. Isn’t anyone else up?” Jaskier whined as he opened the door letting the larger man into his home.

“I’m sorry Jaskier, you know I’m the only one working this part of town. C’mon, it’ll be alright. Let’s get you settled.” Geralt said gently as he sat his bag down on the couch. He pulled out what he needed and slipped on his blue gloves.

Jaskier whined and locked the door, standing insolently a few feet from Geralt. The nurse opened a sterile package, a disposable ‘slick gland stimulator’. Flimsy squishy vibrator that’s got two bumps on it that dig into sick glands. Piece of garbage that feels weird and slimy and doesn’t work, as Jaskier called it.

“I hate it when it’s you, Geralt. I just hate it. I hate everything.” Jaskier lamented dramatically and wrapped his arms around himself. He rubbed his feet over the cotton rug that covered the center of the living room. He pouted, bottom lip poking out nearly comically, and looked at the nurse with big sad eyes.

Geralt let out a sigh and nodded, Jaskier was Yennefer's friend. They usually hung out together with their other friends. Geralt had been called to the Pankratz residence more than once, usually being the only nurse willing to go into this part of the city at night.

Jaskier was a poorly omega. Often suffering from spasms, cramps, bruises, and bleeds. Often kicking out anyone who was too soft with him. He needed firm and hefty hands to get settled. He needed someone to not let him shoo them away or fuss his way out of going to the clinic when he needed to or fuss his way into sleeping aids and being left alone. Jaskier was… pushy and bratty.

Geralt felt… a certain way when he was in the small apartment in the dark neighborhood. He felt a certain way on and off the clock when he was around the flamboyant omega. He felt a certain way when he saw the other man dancing or singing or laughing loudly over bad jokes or drooling in his sleep or when he pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth and whined when he couldn’t quite get a toy to sit right inside himself.

But he pushed that certain feeling down. Especially now, he was working. Patient, not Jaskier, Patient.

“I know Jask. C’mon, let me see what’s happening.” Geralt said in a calm commanding way and opened his arms. He waited patiently before giving Jaskier a look that had the patient whining and falling into his lap, straddling one thick, warm, supportive thigh.

“I hate it. I hate it so much.” Jaskier complained and shoved his face into Geralt's neck.

Geralt always smelled nice. Nice and musky, not too much. Jaskier hated very scent-y alphas, he loved Geralt’s scent though. The burnt aluminum foil and smoke and a touch of something like fresh rain on concrete scent was just enough Jaskier could take nice big breaths without choking on it.

“I know. Do you want to take your underwear off or just push them to the side?” Geralt asked as his fingers traced the edge of Jaskier’s blue and black striped briefs. They were soft and cottony and worn out, small holes speckling all over them.

“Ugh… can you pull them down any? I hate this it makes me feel like a fucking teenager again.” Jaskier said in an angrily sad way. He was shirtless already, hairy torso and arms out. He still had on a pair of white socks but they did little to help with the fact he had to be naked.

“I know Jaskier. But you also know getting them off will make this easier.” Geralt said and tried to pull the underwear to either side which only caused some pinching and too-tight-in-wrong-spots-ness. Jaskier let out a sad whiney sigh and agreed.

“Fine,” Jaskier said and stood up, eyes welling up from pure humiliation. He pushed his underwear down and kicked them away. He was kicking them away and stumbled, knees deciding to give way. Geralt caught him and easily slid him back into his lap.

“Alright. Good job. You knew I was coming, why didn’t you put a modesty skirt on or something? Doesn’t matter now, it’s okay.” Geralt asked but covered up quickly as Jaskier hugged his neck tightly.

He was quick to place a steadying hand on the omega’s back, knowing the weight and warmth on his tailbone would help. He made a hushed shushing sound as his other hand found the omega’s slick hole. He carefully let two of his fingers slip inside, Jaskier letting out a shaky breath as he did.

“I hate it,” Jaskier said quietly into the thick blue fabric of Geralt’s uniform. It was kinda scratchy but it felt grounding against the soft skin of his lips.

“I know,” Geralt said and started a slow light rhythm of pushing and pulling his fingers, Jaskier was soaked, as he usually was, so the slide of his gloved hand was easy and smooth. Jaskier seemed stretched out, the ring of muscle already relaxed and ready for more than a few fingers.

“I hate it. I hate heats I hate everything. I need… Geralt my medicine, it makes me feel all antsy and nervous and and-” Jaskier started to say and got a bit riled up, pushing against the hand on his back to sit up. Geralt kept him down, his fingers splaying wide to cover his lower back, keeping him in place.

“I know Jaskier. You’re upset. I know trying to take suppressants when your heat already started can cause panic attacks. Do you think sitting here for a minute before we start could help?” Geralt said calmly. Jaskier always did it. He always panicked and took his suppressants when he started getting pre-heat symptoms. It was always too late, and always made him feel all jittery.

“I hate it Geralt, I hate it when you come here,” Jaskier said through quickening breaths. Geralt halted his fingers and rubbed his clean hand up and down Jaskier’s back.

Geralt knew it. He knew how humiliating it was for Jaskier to have to ask for help in the first place, but having to get help from his friend made it that much worse. But the omega also walked all over all the other alpha’s who came to this side of town.

“I know, pup, I know. Just take nice big breaths. You’re alright.” Geralt said lowly and rubbed up and down from Jaskier’s broad shoulders down to his soft ass, applying reassuring pressure. Jaskier struggled for a moment, his mind fighting with his body. He took in a big choppy breath and nodded, matching Geralt's strong breaths.

“Fingers or the toy, Jask” Geralt asked finally, whispering it into the side of Jaskier’s head. The omega sighed, defeated.

“Just use the t-toy,” Jaskier said sadly and Geralt mumbled a quick okay before grabbing the toy and rubbing the rigid tip against Jaskier’s hole.

Jaskier always got loose-lipped about his issues when he was having a bad heat. He always let go of his problems with anyone who was near. And he seemed to have a lot to dump.

“And- and- and then he said- he said- he told me I was a- a wannabe bimbo and that if I was any worse an omega I shouldn’t even qualify to get married and- and then he shoved me to the floor and he left and took his stuff and he took my games for my ps4 and- and- and he- he- he was telling everyone I cheated and I didn’t he did I- I just wanted to be a good boyfriend!” Jaskier ranted as he shifted and rolled his hips over the toy that was being lightly thrust in and out of him.

He was thankful for the absorbent pad Geralt had put on the floor. He knew he was dripping everywhere but he just felt frustrated and unhappy.

“He didn’t deserve you, Jaskier, you’re a good omega. Such a sweet omega, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m sorry he hurt you Jask” Geralt comforted the best he could while trying to keep Jaskier from throwing himself to the floor. He was trying to keep the omega calm but Jaskier wound himself up easily. Especially when he couldn’t get settled over a toy. And he was not settled.

“I know and- and then- and then he came back for his stuff and he totally wrecked my nest and- and all that I had in- in there that was his was a single pair of boxers cause he wouldn’t let me have anything else and he- he tore my nest up and- and it’s hard for me to nest. It’s a wreck Geralt! Just a wreck and I’ve been having such a hard time finding gigs and- and oh it’s just awful! Unbearable!” Jaskier said in a squawking rant that ended with him looking at Geralt’s focused face. His bottom lip was shaking as he stared into Geralt’s honey eyes.

“I’m sorry Jaskier, you just need to forget all about him. Try to focus on this okay? You’re getting riled up again and it’s making you tighten up.” Geralt said, keeping eye contact with the omega who let his forehead conk against Geralt’s own, eyes slipping shut as he let out a long sigh, body trembling around it.

“I’m so sorry, I just- I just it’s so awful and I hate these stupid toys and mine are all too big to be able to stay in me cause I only have like triple XLs to fill me up and I have like two that are smaller but they’re not knotters and it hurts and I feel like my uterus is gonna fucking explode and my hips hurt and I’m hungry and I hate this! I just hate it so much and it’s uncomfortable and this isn’t helping!” Jaskier said in a final fit of frustration and slowly lifted himself up, only to get a cramp and have to be supported by Geralt’s warm grasp on his hip. Geralt made a quick shushing sound again, he had to hold Jaskier firmly but tried not to squeeze too tight.

“Okay. Okay, pup, okay. We’re okay, you’re okay, we’re gonna take this out and I’m just gonna get my fingers in you until you get all these frustrations out, alright?” Geralt explained gently in a low rolling kinda voice that made Jaskier melt a bit. He slowly eased the toy out, discarding it to the floor, on the sterile pad. He slipped his fingers back inside the twitching, clenching, heat of Jaskier’s soaked hole once he had gotten comfortable straddling Geralt’s lap, head laying heavily on the nurse’s shoulder.

“Geralt…. I’m awful.” Jaskier said in a quiet, sad little voice. It was said like an apology. Like a sure and sorrowful apology.

“You’re not awful, you’re okay.” Geralt comforted and used his cleaner hand to rub up and down Jaskier’s side. He made sure to let his hands linger over his hips, the warmth helped with the pains.

“I’m so awful and you had to get up and come get me and I’m not even being good, I’m awful. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry alpha.” Jaskier said as his voice got all squeaky and tight like it always did when he started to cry.

“Jaskier listen to me, you’re not awful” Geralt started but was cut off by a dramatic ‘ wah ’. Jaskier continued to cry, making loud sad noises as he sobbed, his body jerking both away and toward Geralt’s hands as he tried to get the omega settled again.

“Omega listen to me” Geralt finally said softly and pulled Jaskier to be face to face. He was sobbing, a wrecked expression on his face, all red and splotchy. Jaskier just sobbed, rubbing his tears away with his hands, doing little to help the fact his face was soaked.

“Jaskier, pup, listen.” Geralt tried again but Jaskier was sobbing, broken, and sick with heat. Geralt took a long breath in, Jaskier was sick enough for him to smell it. Geralt could never pick up on scents very easily, Jaskier usually smelling like baking bread, faintly, but now Geralt was getting the sickly strong scent similar to burning Teflon.

“Omega listen to daddy, he knows best,” Geralt said in a low rolling growling way that had Jaskier’s eyes flying open and his breaths going from sobs to easy wet pants. His eyes met Geralt’s and his hole loosened around the nurse’s still fingers. The omega’s eyes spaced out, drifting cross for a moment before he let out a breathy sigh.

“Daddy?” Jaskier asked as he stared down the alpha. Geralt cupped his jaw with his clean hand, letting the omega nuzzle and rub against it. Jaskier was about to suck the older man's thumb into his mouth but was cut short by a long moan and grabbing that gloved hand in his own. Geralt had let his fingers slowly roll over the soft tender bump of Jaskier’s cervix, gently. He knew Jaskier was overly sensitive there, that if he was too rough the omega would bruise or bleed.

He gently let his fingers press against it slightly in rolling waves as the boy started to moan, holding onto Geralt’s gloved hand tightly. Jaskier pulled Geralt’s hand up to rub his cheek and face against the warmth. Geralt smiled and cradled the omega’s face, thumb running across his cheekbone lightly.

“That’s a good omega, good boy. You just need to listen to Daddy and do what he says. Such a good omega, you just need a nice mate. You’ll find a nice mate to take care of you and it’ll all be okay. You deserve a nice happy relationship. Right now you need to relax and let’s get over your heat.” Geralt said and kept his fingers moving smoothly inside the other. He pulled away from the boy’s cervix to start thrusting into him in longer, strong movements of his hand.

“Daddy’s gonna help,” Jaskier said and looked down at where Geralt’s hand disappeared between his legs, his small cock hung uselessly soft over his swollen balls that made his cock look that much smaller. Too big, those were too big. Ugly. Jaskier started to cry again, looking down at himself in disdain.

“Daddy’s going to help. Your cervix is soft, Jask, does it feel nice when I rub on it? Such a pretty omega, inside and out.” Geralt said comfortingly and let his fingers roll around and around the slightly softened opening. He just needed to pull Jaskier away from himself. He had learned Jaskier’s self-deprecating habits, his cock was idealistic to omega’s but he had larger balls than most.

Geralt just rubbed at his cervix, knowing it would drag Jaskier away from his own body. And Jaskier threw his head back, a high whine clawing its way from his throat before he looked back at Geralt’s eyes.

“It feels okay, it's tender” Jaskier answered and was careful to hold still, a bad move and it would hurt so bad he’d puke. He just stayed very still and held onto Geralt’s hand, it was hurting deep in his hips and he felt ugly and gross and hungry and gross and desperate and and- Geralt was so helpful but he couldn’t even be good at getting help.

“I know it’s tender, do you want to see if a heating pad would help?” Geralt asked, keeping his fingertips light and gentle over the sensitive tissue as he pulled his fingers out to rub at the sensitive nerves just inside Jaskier’s hole.

“I want your cock” Jaskier cried out and gently tried to fuck himself up and down. It felt so good and Jaskier just wanted to be good. Geralt stared at him for a moment as Jaskier lightly thrust and rolled his hips, luxuriating in the little sparks he was getting from Geralt’s fingers being just inside. He then stopped as a single word made him realize what just came out of his mouth.

“Oh?” Geralt asked, a little surprised but not much. He’d heard worse, of course, but Jaskier usually just cried and cried and ranted and vented and asked for a heating pad. He’d never asked for cock. Especially not Geralt’s own cock.

Jaskier jerked back, looking shocked at his own slip-up before backtracking messily.

“Oh no, I mean- I’m- I mean not your cock! Of course not your cock but a cock, any cock, but a hot cock would make me feel better! Not that you don’t have a nice cock! I’m sure you do and I’m sure it could make me better not that I’m asking I just- just” Jaskier rambled on backing off Geralt’s fingers, making himself let out a small gasp before he was empty.

He stood on trembling thighs, face flaming in embarrassment, hands shaking as they covered his cock and sticky inner thighs. He took a step back from Geralt, turning to the side, eyes downcast in shame.

The older man cocked his head to the side, looking at the younger omega with kindness in his eyes. Jaskier couldn’t even look at the tip of Geralt’s boot, too ashamed that he’d asked a-a friend , no an acquaintance for a fucking.

“Jaskier, do you want to sit on my cock?” Geralt asked, eyes not straying from the omega’s own shifting blue ones. He kept his eyes on Jaskier’s face even when a rush of slick went sliding down between his legs to make a small puddle below him.

“So badly right now” Jaskier confessed, something in his belly dropping at the way Geralt was looking at him. Jaskier looked him over, his warm honey eyes, solid warm body, strong talented hands… Geralt was just so… perfectly alphan . Strong, caring, handsome, knowledgeable about omega bodies, warm, and he smelled so good. And Jaskier fucking needed his cock. Needed Geralt in whole but his cock and his attention would be just enough for now. Just enough to hold him over.

“That’s okay,” Geralt reassured Jaskier, keeping their eye contact until the omega let his hands fall from covering his body. Jaskier stepped forward, his chest heaving with heavier pants, his hands going to rub across his belly, right where he hurt.

“That’s good. That’s a good boy.” Geralt said and reached for his bag that was sat on the side table. Jaskier moved forward again, letting his hand graze Geralt’s wrist, just skimming the sensitive inner patch where Geralt’s scent gland was.

“Omega” Geralt said sternly, his voice getting much rougher than it usually was. And it killed Jaskier to hear it.

“Daddy~,” Jaskier said and fell to his knees, his stomach churned and slick flooded him, his brain felt all fuzzy like it didn’t matter that he got dumped or that he was broke and couldn’t turn the lights on. Alpha was happy. Alpha was taking care of him. Alpha was gonna give him what he needed.

“Let me get a condom and take my medicine, give me a minute,” Geralt said and leaned forward to tuck a strand of hair behind Jaskier’s ear, taking a moment to rub gently over it, knowing Jaskier had sensitive ears, and down to run his fingers over Jaskier’s jaw.

When he pulled away the younger man let out a whine and pushed himself on his knees, trying to chase the warm callused hand. He huffed when Geralt pulled his hand away fully to dig into his bag.

“Why medicine?” Jaskier asked, sitting back on his haunches, uncaring of the puddle leaking under himself. He was staring straight at Geralt’s crotch pondering if he was really packing or if the slacks did him favors. Jaskier’s hands found the laces of Geralt’s non-slip shoes, fiddling with them. His brain was slow and slushy, finally deciding he didn’t need to be alert, he could sink into his heated hot sweet space.

He just felt happy. And wet.

“I don’t get hard, Jask, the medicine helps,” Geralt answered and took a small blue pill from his bag and a gold-wrapped condom from a roll. Jaskier crept closer until his head was on the cushion beside Geralt's thigh, nose grazing the rough fabric of his uniform slacks.

Geralt looked down at him, at his trembling hips where the omega was barely holding back from rubbing up on his shoe. And at his blue eyes that were still staring at his cock like he would be able to see through the fabric if he just tried hard enough. Jaskier licked his lips, the hot breath he released making its way to tickle at the alpha’s leg.

“Oh… is it because you got hurt or what?” Jaskier asked and let his hand travel up from his shoelaces up to his inner thigh, thick dense warm muscle smelling faintly of laundry starch. He felt up and down the long line of inner thigh, tracing the seam.

“Pup,” Geralt said warningly, the medication made him hard, unbelievably so, but also made his nerves thin a bit. He picked the boy’s hand up and laid it on the couch beside them. Jaskier looked confused between his hand and Geralt’s face before he gasped at himself.

“’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude” Jaskier apologized and pouted. He just wanted dick and he wanted daddy’s voice. But not upset daddy or disappointed daddy. He was just feeling a certain way thinking about Geralt and his dick. Hard dick.

“Don’t float off puppy” Geralt said sweetly with a hand in Jaskier’s hair. The omega whined, that was the voice.

Jaskier liked Geralt's voice. Jaskier liked certain voices. And Geralt’s was so gruff and deep and wonderful. And his daddy voice was even better, like hot honey on Jaskier’s very soul, deep and rolling like great thunder. And it made him float so far away.

But Geralt knew that so he tried to bring the boy back down to earth.

“It’s okay pup, no I didn’t get hurt. I just can’t get hard. It’s not your fault.” Geralt explained and undid his belt and slowly slid it from its loops. The medication worked fast, but Geralt was always a little hot under the collar when he had to help Jaskier. Especially when he was looking up at Geralt with big red-rimmed eyes, hands itching to touch, hips begging to find friction against his alpha’s boot, body begging to take but the need to be good holding it back.

“I’m still doing okay? I know I- I don’t- I don’t-” Jaskier started to apologize self-consciously but was held back by Geralt’s hand grasping his chin.

“You’re a good boy, you’re a good omega. Come here, come to daddy, you can sit right here.” Geralt persuaded and using his grasp on Jaskier’s chin, pulled the omega up to be beside him on the couch. Jaskier knelt on the couch facing the alpha. He could see the front of Geralt’s slacks starting to bulge indecently.

“Daddy’s gonna help me,” Jaskier said more to himself as he shakily covered himself, he didn’t want Geralt to look at him the way he was looking at Geralt. Jaskier felt… indecent under his honey gaze. Unsightly in the alpha’s eyes.

Geralt saw the way Jaskier curled back in on himself, the way his eyes started to tear again. His heart-grabbing, he was getting too fuzzy-minded to do this professionally but… well he couldn’t pull away.

“Sh sh sh, daddy’s gonna help you. You want something nice inside, right? You need something to help your tummy?” Geralt asked as he undid his pants, pulling the zipper down slowly.

The sound of the metal dragging down, inching the alpha’s cock closer to where he wanted it caused Jaskier’s hips to buck and shiver. He couldn’t help as his body rocked, desperate to take the alpha. His nice big strong sweet handsome alpha… with a big cock. Jaskier looked down at the barred underwear peeking from Geralt’s slacks, he just knew his hole was gonna be aching and full. He just knew he’d be satisfied.

“I-I dunno,” Jaskier said, brain too fogged, too far, to be able to even understand the question the alpha asked. His throat felt tight again and tears pricked his eyes. He felt a strange panic as tears started again, his hands rubbing nervously across his belly. Geralt was turned away, grabbing the lube and condom from the side table.

His mind started questioning himself, stoking the panic in his chest. Why wasn’t he in Daddy lap? Why wasn’t Daddy naked? Sex? They were gonna have sex? Jaskier just wanted to be good, how can he be good when it’s not happening? Why did he hurt? Why was Daddy not helping him? Why was daddy here and not helping him or touching or fucking or using-

Geralt looked back at the omega who was rubbing across his stomach, he knew that was the way the omega self-soothed. He made a shushing sound and rubbed Jaskier's side. The omega let out another wrecked sob and fell forward, face in Geralt's thigh, ass up, knees spread. His back dipped, hips tilting in just the perfect way. He was so perfectly presenting as he grabbed at the now loose fabric of Geralt’s slacks, holding on tightly.

“Pl-please. I ‘anna be go-od” Jaskier sobbed out, tears and drool wetting the burning warm lap supporting him. Geralt shushed him and rubbed from the omega's neck, his mating gland, down to skim his fingers over the omega’s soaked, finger-fucked open hole.

“Good baby, good omega, I need you to sit up okay? Daddy needs to fill you up so you feel better. You want something warm and big inside. You want something to rub on your soft spots inside.” Geralt told Jaskier as he pushed and pulled his warm lax body around so they were front to back.

Jaskier settled straddling Geralt’s thick warm thighs, facing away from his- the alpha. He could lean back against his muscular chest, feeling each breath, feeling each word the alpha spoke. He could feel Geralt’s breath on the sensitive patch on the back of his neck, the even breaths of hot air making him wanna beg.

The alpha was quick to pull his compressive boxer briefs down enough for his cock to be free, laying against his thigh as it finally was free to get completely hard. Geralt let out a sigh of relief, hands going to Jaskier’s hips just to rub up and down, from his thighs up to his rib cage as it fluttered around each breath and begging word.

“Yes, daddy. Ye- yes. Please I’ll- I’ll be good, I promise I can take it. Don’t- don’t be mad. Don’t be upset, daddy” Jaskier sobbed and tried to reach back for the burning cock he could feel the heat of right under where he really needed it. Geralt made a quiet ‘ ah ah ah’ and caught both of the omega’s wrists in one hand, pinning them in front of his soft belly.

With a high whine, Jaskier shoved his hips down, rubbing slick across Geralt’s lap, struggling to try and get something to slip into his needy hole. Geralt used his free hand to grab Jaskier’s hip roughly, making him hold still.

“I’m not upset, baby, you’re doing so well. Daddy’s happy with you. Alpha likes you, alpha’s happy with you. Sweet omega, good omega.” Geralt reassured against the soft skin of Jaskier’s shoulder. He carefully and slowly guided his cock to Jaskier’s soft slick hole, just letting his tip graze over the tender flesh. He bit the inside of his lip to keep from moaning out as a drop of slick rolled down his shaft.

“Daddy- please” Jaskier whimpered pitifully as his back curled forward, the knobs of his spine bulging. He let out a wrecked sob and a whining, high, pleading noise. It was just right there and he was more than desperate.

Geralt leaned in and lightly kissed the top of his spine, just below where Jaskier’s mate gland was. He pulled a condom over himself, making sure it was on correctly before grasping Jaskier’s hips.

“Good omega, good, slow, slow omega, Jaskier, Sh sh sh” Geralt whispered warmly as he slowly pulled the omega back and down onto his cock.

Jaskier was sobbing, crying out as each inch filled him up. It was so much more than what he’d been given in the past weeks, so much better. He wanted to shove down but Geralt had a strong hold on his hips and was easing him down until he was fully seated on Geralt's lap, head lolled back on a meaty shoulder.

He was panting. He felt filthy, being bared and begging for a fucking from a man who was still fully dressed. However, that thought would come later because Jaskier was swimming, lips peeking up into a smile, in this moment.

“Daddy” he breathed out and felt himself relaxing, the hormones he needed, just from being skin to skin in the slightest, the way he was being filled properly. It was making him feel… oh so much better. His mind calming, body finally sated.

“What a good omega. So pretty. Good job Jaskier. Good job. Stay still now, I’m gonna put some cream on your belly, you know what it is.” Geralt explained as he reached, careful to make sure not to jostle the purring body on him. Jaskier hummed, completely out of it. The alpha grabbed the hormone-balancing cream from where he’d set it out and squeezed the packet onto his gloved fingers.

“It’s gonna be cold. It’s not hurting you, it’s cold.” Geralt said to unhearing ears. Jaskier was staring off at the ceiling, hands laying over his own lower stomach.

Jaskier was always crying for pups, always smelling a bit like a pregnant omega when he was heating. His hands nearly always found their way to sit on his lower stomach when he finally got a knot, or really whatever he wanted shoved into himself. He’d be a purring mess, knotter sat firmly on all his good spots, fever burning through him, sleep dragging him out of his own head, thanking Geralt for the pups. However now he was just quietly cradling his own stomach, purrs rumbling through him in waves.

Geralt applied the cream, rubbing it into Jaskier's soft skin with his fingers. He jerked his own hand back when he felt something that had him… rather warm under the collar. He put his hand back on Jaskier’s lower stomach, just above his weeping cock, and pressed a bit more firmly than before. It was strange to be able to feel himself through the omega’s warm clutching body, being able to feel the pressure on his own cockhead from his hand pressing down on Jaskier’s stomach.

Jaskier didn’t seem to register that Geralt was doing anything. The way he purred, dopey grin on his face never faltering, it was like seeing the perfect picture of a content omega.

“Good boy, good omega, sweet omega, Jaskier’s a good omega,” Geralt said and the omega was smiling, omegan part of his brain happy and shooting off all kinds of good chemicals. Each rumbling compliment, each time a big warm hand came up to rub at his stomach or across his chest, each time his alpha nuzzled against his hair or breathed against his heated skin, it was like drugs shot straight into him. He was high off it, off being full, off being touched, off being needed and loved.

Jaskier was only human. He couldn’t help his body melting away around him, his mind turning to goo in the Alpha’s warm embrace. He didn’t try to fight, couldn’t if he really tried, the instinct to let his eyes shut and he let himself relax against the warm strong chest behind him.

They sat there, warm and comfortable in Jaskier’s living room, for hours. Geralt just let himself enjoy the rise and fall of the omega’s breathing, never getting to spend time like this with an omega who actually liked him. He let himself indulge, as guilty as it made him feel. He peeled his gloves off, making sure to not get anything on the couch, and touched Jaskier with his bare hands. He felt the soft supple skin on the inside of Jaskier’s thighs, the fuzzy plush flesh of his stomach and chest, the callused pads of his palms and fingers, and he allowed himself just a slight gaze to the omega’s soft lips and softer hair.

It was when Geralt was grinning to himself as he traced patterns on the tops of Jaskier’s hips as the omega rested back against him and began to snore, erection having been lost an hour or so earlier and tucked back into his slacks, that he decided to put the omega back to bed. He laid the omega in a heartbreakingly horrible nest, clothes and blankets thrown around, pillows and few stuffed animals kicked under the bed and shoved into closets.

He fixed it a bit, throwing a few blankets over Jaskier and making up the walls a bit better. He dug out the pillows from under the bed and the stuffed animals from the closet, gently setting them in a stack beside the bed in arm’s reach. He only stood for a minute or two looking at Jaskier’s content face before going back to the living room to clean up and get his bag.

He left a few packets of hormone-balancing cream on top of a stack of pamphlets about getting through abusive breakups and a few about omegan support groups in the area. And one with different way to sensory seek during heat.

Geralt had to pinch himself as he left, as he just hesitated at the door when the thought of I could just stay flashed through his mind. It was late, he’d had a long day, it was normal, at least that’s what he told himself.

~-~-~-~-~

“OES” Geralt said as he stood in front of Jaskier’s place. He hadn’t seen the omega outside of Yennefer's parties in… a very long time. And even then Jaskier had skipped many of them. And he hadn’t heard much about him. He’d not forgotten about his frien- acquaintance but had just been busy so not seeing Jaskier much had slipped his mind to be concerned. He’d assumedJaskier was pulling back since one of their dear friends had just had a baby and sometimes omega’s got touchy around each other after babies and such.

Geralt was thinking about how nice the baby was though, how cute, when the door creaked open.

“Geralt, I-I-I-I-I need the clinic.” A shaking, sweating, nauseating smelling Jaskier said as he pulled open the door. He was pale, red in the wrong places, and smelled… bad. Wrong. It made Geralt need to puke but once he swallowed that feeling down and turned on his professional brain, he was taking in the omega’s state. The way Jaskier held onto the door jam for support, the way his black jeans were rumpled like he’d struggled with them, the way his skin was pricked with sweat in the cool air of the apartment, his shaking hands and greasy hair.

“Okay, do you have a bag? Just in case.” Geralt said and threw his own bag over his shoulder. Getting his hands free to take anything Jaskier needed. He knew Jaskier always had a bag. A purse, a backpack, a duffle bag, the boy never left the house without something .

“Ye-yeah, it’s somewhere…” Jaskier said and limped back into his home. He was looking at his living and kitchen, gait disturbed in a way Geralt had never seen before. When the omega finally found the bag he looked through it, a folder sticking out the top of the small backpack.

“I haven’t had a heat” He said and slipped on a pair of slippers, a pair of fuzzy blue sandals really. It was when he turned to slip on his coat Geralt noticed he had… discolored slick staining the back of his jeans. He was quick to grab the bag from the omega and begin trying to figure out why Jaskier was so bad.

The apartment was a disaster, messy and dark. It smelled awful, not like burnt teflon, not like Jaskier usually smelt when he was upset or having a bad or hard time. It smelled… almost overly sweet but rotten. Something forgotten in the back of the fridge, something else too. Something Geralt could only attach to the smell kids had when they got broken bones, something that kept reminding him of that.

“How many weeks?” Geralt asked as they made their way back to the door, Jaskier huffing and holding onto Geralt’s arm for support. Jaskier’s eyes were watering, bottom lip trembling.

“Four months,” Jaskier answered and looked like he was going to start crying. He caught his trembling lip between his teeth, he was mad at himself, mad at everything but also sad and sore and hurting and he just wanted to crawl back to bed. Just wanted to be done but… Here Geralt was dragging him toward the door with big warm hands and a grumbling voice that made Jaskier wanna be good.

“Do you think you could be-“ Geralt began to ask quietly when Jaskier had to stop for a second, his free hand going to grab and rub at his side. The omega shook his head, teeth gritted together.

“I'm on the pill but not suppressants. It fuckin hurts.” Jaskier said as a few tears started to slip from his eyes. He looked up at Geralt, eyes pleading for something. Geralt felt like he’d been punched, a feeling so helpless, unknowing how to take the hurt from the poor omega, from his friend.

“Alrighty baby, do I need to bring a wheelchair?” Geralt asked seriously as he kept Jaskier upright as he struggled with his keys to lock the door behind them. Once the lock finally clicked Jaskier leaned against the door, breathing deeply, steeling himself.

“I-I can walk it.” Jaskier announced, almost like he was telling himself that he could walk the length of the hall down the rickety elevator and through to the parking lot. He looked over at Geralt, almost like he was asking the alpha if he could walk it.

“Let’s get going” Geralt said and started their way to the company van out in the parking lot. He was mad at himself as he drove though, Jaskier was shaking and sweating in the passenger side. He should have done something, even if he did everything he could. He let himself stay in the waiting room after the doctors took Jaskier back at the emergency room. He made sure they had his papers, made sure he had an emergency contact which just happened to be Yennefer. He let himself ask one too many questions before leaving because ‘Mr. Rivia you know we can’t tell you anything right now. We’ll be contacting his emergency contact when we have any news. We already left a message. You did the right thing, go home and get some rest.’

And when he got home he let himself pace up and down his own hallway. He let himself call Yennefer, he let himself worry, he- he realized he wasn’t letting himself do anything. He was pacing, he was worrying, he was asking who would be in contact with Jaskier. He stayed up all night switching between glaring at walls and cleaning and worrying.

And the next day he glared at far too many walls and got mad at himself for not doing enough work but then circling back to thinking about Jaskier laying sick in bed somewhere alone. He stepped out to make too many calls to Yennefer who just kept telling him that Jaskier won’t talk to anyone but he’s had surgery. And even she didn’t know anything else.

And for days after that, Geralt kept calling Yennefer, calling the hospital, and most of all calling Jaskier’s own cell which would ring once, twice, and he’d deny the call but at least Geralt knew he was lucid enough to reject him.

Next Chapter ->

#egg_company #fanfic #smut tag #fanfiction #alpha/beta/omega au #jaskier #omegaverse fic #omegaverse #omega jaskier #alpha geralt #witcher geralt #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier fanfic #geraskier smut #geraskier #bottom Jaskier #Top Geralt

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theluckywizard · 1 year ago

Note

DADWC prompt:

As requested 😁 For Hawke/An'da “it’s not my fault you’re so comfortable to lay on!”

Woohooo my first OC OC nonsense piece! @dadrunkwriting

Here we have an injured Garrett Hawke staggering to Darktown to Anders' Clinic where An'da is working as a healer. First he's suffering from blood loss and later is under the influence of a sedative as An'da works on him. Shenanigans all around!

WC: 2399

CW: Blood and stab wound

Rating: Teen

Hawke can feel his pulse in the wound made by three maybe four inches of dirty steel. It had been a boy, eleven at most, though it’s hard to tell with the malnourished. He sheathed the little blade in his side, his saucers of fear for eyes catching Hawke’s before dashing away and merging with the crawl of people in Lowtown. A message from the Coterie. Or the Carta maybe.

Hawke staggers down to darktown clutching his side, brushing aside the fuzz that enters his mind at the edges as he parses through the possible takeaways. The message.

First, one should never be lazy about armor in Lowtown. It may be home, but even the kids will cut you for a couple silvers.

Second, cutting into the profits of either group of malodorous ne’er-do-wells is asking for it.

Third— well, there might be a third but his thoughts meander, a little bit like the crowd around him, anyone who notices the deep crimson wicking widely in his tunic stumbling back, recoiling from the preamble to death like it isn’t a daily fixture in this cursed swathe of Kirkwall.

He knows the route well enough to stagger there in this state, his mind swimming like there’s a half a bottle of Corff’s potato grog inside of him. He stumbles his way into the alleys that sink low under the city, into the stagnant air of Darktown, smearing his very essence on the tuff walls. Nonsensically impertinent thoughts invaded his mind as he bled his way to Anders’ clinic. The one who carved this tuff passage so long ago. Did they imagine the way it would smell dozens of ages hence? Did they secretly enjoy the break from the insolence of Kirkwall’s sun or did the humidity kicking up from the bay make them more miserable under the surface?

Darktown opens up to the harbor and the scent of mildew and human waste gives way to stagnant aromas of decaying seaweed and sloshing mystery flotsam. He’s close, he can tell by his nose, but his senses are getting rather unreliable and he’s beginning to think this is all some manner of mild inconvenience, something he could probably patch up himself given the right instruments and materials.

A healing draught to perk him up perhaps. Clean linen. Corff’s potato grog. A bent needle and some waxed thread.

He shoulders his way through the flimsy door to the clinic, a few workers startling to attention as he staggers into the space like a wayward drunk. He raises a hand, a little meekly and tries a few casual looking poses before leaning against a support timber, summoning his best winning grin.

“I— uh— heard I could get some supplies here. For minor lacerations and the like. I’ll be no trouble— just— ask Anders. Patch up my own stuff all the time,” he says, his head lolling to one side slightly before he rights it. He lifts his unfastened doublet from his tunic and stares at the blooming bloodstain laughing, the jerking of his diaphragm sending fresh surges of deep red through the fabric. He looks up and scans the room for what he needs, ignoring the baffled, questioning looks of the clinic workers. “Ah— there they are!” Hawke makes for a table laid with instruments beside a wooden operating table with a bloody trough down the center that makes him recoil slightly.

He’d rather not lie on one of those death slabs. He’ll patch himself up good as new, troubling no one.

“Hawke, is it?” come a lyrical voice, floating in pleasantly like it might be a dream as he picks up a needle that looks the right shape and a wad of clean cloth. He answers without looking up. “I’ve— seen you here before. Usually moments before Anders vanishes on some harrowing adventure.”

“I don’t know why he insists on tagging along, but I certainly can’t complain,” mumbles Hawke, collecting a handful. “The man could reattach a severed head in a pinch.”

“That’s a fair bit of blood, Serah Hawke,” she says gently, her hand creeping in to cover the hand he’s loaded with the needed supplies. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather let me have a look?”

“No, no— I couldn’t— possibly inconvenience you. You’re all so busy— and this is just a—“ he looks down again, the blood having spread into his trousers. “Flesh wound,” he breathes in a faint falsetto.

“Easy there, da’len. Easy…” she says softly. Hawke turns to see her, his vision growing fuzzy around the edges. Rosy cheeks, a delicately branching vallaslin and serpentstone eyes meet him. Hawke blinks languidly, admiring her shock of ashen white hair managed in tidy plaits and the elegant length of her elven ears. Lovely, he thinks as his head nods. Really lovely. She motions for assistance but it’s not soon enough.

Hawke lists, his consciousness dissolving into jelly as assuredly as his legs and he slowly pitches forward. The worker slips between him and the bench, pushing on his chest, desperately trying to hold him up to organize him around her shoulders in the most stable position but instead she melts under his floppy, hulking mass until they’re a heap on the floor.

“Looks like you’ve got quite a wound there, big fella,” she squeaks under his mass. But Hawke finds this position irresistible, his wits, his failing body melting into her. Into the ground.

“Actually this— is— really, rather comfortable. Perhaps I’ll just— stay— here.”

“Creators,” she mutters. “A little assistance please?” Her voice is the adorable squeak of a pantry mouse, he thinks, neverminding that the octave is at least in part because of squashing her languidly. He waves off those who come for him, his arms thrashing lightly wanting to keep the sweet little pillow beneath him. Perhaps she might just keep talking until he’s slipped into this delicious nap that’s calling him.

But hands circle each ankle and then his arms by his shoulders and he’s first gently lifted off the small woman and then arms find their way under his chest and hips and he’s heaved onto the death slab he’d dreaded, his mind practically circling the drain.

Emerald eyes hover over him solicitously, and it’s nearly all he can focus on, two little jewels suspended under a cloud and that voice.

oOo

Hawke comes to, at least partially anyway, because there’s a mushiness to it all that he finds unbelievably pleasant, the sharp edges of full awareness beyond his grasp still. Figures mill about him and he can’t tell if they’re there for him or someone else, but they might as well be there for him.

“Didja fixmeup?” he asks the first face to venture into his line of sight, his words dribbling out like molasses spilling off a spoon. But he’s smiling at least and the world feels as light as spun sugar and he can’t keep the rapture inside.

Green eyes peer over him, lifting up the hem of his tunic to check his wound.

“You.”

“An’da,” she corrects him, smiling, and he’s too hopped up on sedative herbs to catch the amusement behind her expression.

“Annnnn’daaaaa. Annnnderrrssss. You two planned it this way, din’tyou?” Hawke laughs to himself, his grin wide and languorous, practically spilling off his face. An’da is unmoved by his tumbling words, having heard it all before.

“A little longer and you would have been taking tea with Falon’Din,” she notes. She presses gently around the side of his abdomen.

“Owwwww,” he says flatly, his head falling back, hair spilling away from his face.

“You’ll need to take it easy for at least a week, da’len,” she says, ducking down to take a closer look. “But I’m guessing you’ll be testing your limits tomorrow.”

“If I ripmy sitches can I come back?” he slurs dreamily.

“You’re going to stay in bed like the darling man that you are so that you are good as new,” she says, reaching over him for a pot of salve that she dabs on the tidy stitches above his hipbone.

“But I wanna come back,” he says, his expression dulcet with sedative fueled-longing. “I would have died. You’re— you’re the bess.”

“I’ll add you to my collection of partially sedated beaus, sweet thing,” she smiles, two little rosy balls of warmth in her cheeks that Hawke thinks must have been pinched by the Maker himself. He reaches to touch one but his hand bobs heavily and he giggles at it as it lolls sideways away from its intended destination.

“But they don’t love you like I do,” he mutters to her with glazed eyes, his grin rather dashing for someone dashed out of his mind on a tincture of black lotus and ghoul’s beard.

“You’re right, da’len. Nobody’s ever loved me like you,” she replies sweetly. She slides along the bed and leans over to pat his cheek gently, and it would wipe his wits clean away if he had any to begin with. Anders sidles up alongside her, his hands on his hips, eyebrows arched high as he regards Hawke pityingly. Hawke lets his eyes slip closed.

“Anders,” he intones softly, as high as his name implies. “You have the mose beautful sister.”

“I know,” Anders replies gamely, giving An’da a quick squeeze around her shoulders. “I greatly look forward to your wedding.” If Hawke was more lucid he might notice the roll of An’da’s eyes in Anders’ direction or the way she elbows him lightly. He might notice the hushed conversation they have about the likelihood that he’ll tear his stitches back open unless he’s under strict bed rest.

“Hawke, have you been a difficult patient?”

“I’ve been a perfeck gennleman.”

“That’s a separate question. An’da here kept you from bleeding out and I think we’d all like to see you live to fight another day. But if you’re going to ignore our recommendations and bash about Lowtown looking for the people responsible…”

“Gotta find the little sprog and have a word,” he says. “Probly hungry”

“I’ll pay you a home visit if you agree to stay in bed,” she offers. “Someone will have to come check to make sure you behave.”

“Never been one t’behave,” Hawke sighs. “Bud I’d be good for you.”

“Shocking no one,” says Anders. “If he gets fresh, hit him with another dose of sedative. Or just— hit him.”

“I could never hit such a puppy,” says An’da, giving his big hand an affectionate pat. Even miles from his right mind, Hawke musters a smug grin for his favorite battle medic.

“Maker, don’t encourage him. He’ll never leave you alone,” pokes Anders. “The wound looks good, another dose of healing and we can give him the antidote for the sedative.”

“You really don’t though,” muddles Hawke. “I could juss. Stay like this. Here. With Annnn’daaaa.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve seen the way you live,” quips Anders. “Can’t have my clinic looking like that.”

An’da drags a small stool alongside the clinic bed so she can reach the wound with her hands which he finds to be unbearably darling, abundant as he is in stature. She leans forward and places both hands over the wound, her Elvish words bouncing like a pebble across placid waters as she summons her mana and pushes the blue luminescence deep into his abdomen.

“Maker, you’re wonderful,” he sighs at the ceiling.

“I— um. As much as I’ve enjoyed your sweet nothings,” she begins, wandering over to a bench of bottles and mixtures and mortars and pestles, “It’s time to set your mind to rights.” She arrives with a precious vial of liquid and kicking her stool over a few feet, climbs atop to lift his head and press the vial to his lips.

“Drink up,” she encourages him. “That’s right, da’len.” Hawke submits to her instructions like her very nearness enchants him, his eyes filled with stars as he blinks at her blushing cheeks and kind eyes.

The antidote for the sedative works quickly, replacing the haze with a headache that outstrips the worst of his hangovers.

“Andraste’s smoldering arse,” he groans, clutching at his entire face like it might banish the pulsating behind his eyes if he claws at it enough. At least the wound seems to be behaving in this regard.

“Sorry,” she squeaks and his attention alights again on the sweet pantry mouse. He squeezes his eyes shut, nodding as he recollects his antics.

“I— believe I owe you an apology. Or at the very least a drink at the Hanged Man,” he says, in a shameless pivot.

“Careful, An’da or he’ll add you to his collection of beguiled healers,” says Anders, returning. He gives Hawke a clinical look and checks the stitches closely. “Pain on a scale of one to ten?”

“Stab wound? Two. Head? Eight.”

“I— um— I think I could be talked into a visit to the tavern,” she says softly, sheepishly, her chin tucked low like his gaze is some manner of threat. Anders just shakes his head, his grin wide and knowing. “But— only after you’re healed up fully.”

“Lovely! Maker knows if Corff’s special mead is ready there’s a solid chance I’ll need a comfortable pillow on the tavern floor. You’ll do nicely.”

“Oh— I—“ she fumbles, her entire face blazing, but she seems to catch on. “That was a joke, wasn’t it?”

“Have you and Merrill been trading notes?” Hawke asks and then calls after Anders. “Have they been trading notes?” He turns back to her again, fixing one of his usual brazen looks upon her. “It was a joke. Unless you’re secretly a pillow after all. In which case it very much wasn’t.”

“I— um— I’ll—just be over there,“ she stammers and blushes and stammers some more and Hawke thinks she looks as beautiful as a Fereldan sunrise. She turns and hurries away and Hawke mulls over another chance he’s dashed with his cursed trap flapping and misguided flirting.

“Hawke,” says Anders, “you always do this to my staff. I’m going to have to hang a picture of you on the wall with appropriate warnings. Yes he will profess his love to you under sedation. Yes he will attempt to enchant you with a sky blue smolder. *Do not engage*.”

“Please do,” replies Hawke. “And make me a copy. I’ll give it to Varric to hang on his wall.”

#Hawke & Anders #Garrett Hawke #Dragon Age 2 #Anders Clinic #An'da #theluckywizard #OC & OC Fic #Gift Fic #Kids will stab you in lowtown #Hawke is a terrible patient #And very large #An'da makes a good pillow

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