#ive been struggling so much for so long its exhausting living like this but every time i try to get out of it sometging knocks me down again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

terminallybisexual · 1 year ago

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tw // suicide mention

i fucking hate the saying “happiness is a choice” especially when i heard it as a 12 year old struggling with depression for (what i believed to be) no reason

but now that i’m older i hate it for a completely different reason. i think i understand the message behind it now but it is so poorly worded and places so much blame on the person struggling with depression that when my 12 year old self heard it, it made me completely reject any ideas that emphasize how much your perspective and attitude affect your quality of life

like i would hear people talk about changing your attitude or whatever and be like “that’s fucking stupid. i have depression i can’t help the way i think.” but like. i could. but i didn’t understand that because the way it was always framed was “you are choosing to be depressed. just stop being depressed.”

every time i have a self deprecating thought now, i immediately counter it with the opposite even if i don’t believe it. (ex: “i hate myself. no, i love myself.”) and it can be incredibly exhausting to argue with yourself all the time, especially when these types of thoughts are so constant and persistent. it’s not easy. but this has improved my life so fucking much its not even funny. it’s gotten to the point where sometimes when i’m in situations that are embarrassing or otherwise would trigger self deprecating thoughts, my immediate reaction is self love.

i did not even understand the extent to which my self deprecating thoughts were diminishing my quality of life. i did not understand how much my own thoughts were negatively affecting my life because it was just so normal to me. i used to have suicidal thoughts more times than i could count on a daily basis and even though they weren’t “serious” (as in i was not going to immediately act on them like 99% of the time), countering these thoughts has brought me so much peace. i can go a full day without any suicidal thoughts now. hell, i’ve probably gone at least a few days in a row without suicidal thoughts. that idea was truly incomprehensible to me a year ago.

i genuinely did not believe it was possible for me to be this mentally healthy. like i still have a lot of fucking work to do but it’s insane how much my life has improved. i can’t even put it into fucking words and it might seem stupid to other people but i’ve had an extremely low self esteem for as long as i can remember. i didn’t even think it was possible for me to change my self deprecating thoughts because i just viewed them as objectively true.

like, throughout middle school and high school, i would have full blown mental breakdowns almost every single day. hysterically sobbing and telling myself that i can’t handle life and i should just die, just to take a deep breath 20 min to a few hours later and pull myself together again. recently i legitimately believed that i had a mood disorder because i had absolutely no emotional regulation skills and i was basically living with my worst bully 24/7.

and i mean it took me years to get to this point. i’ve been arguing with my negative thoughts for a long time now but i didn’t always do it in a healthy way (ex. telling myself that my feelings are irrational and invalid and that i’m crazy for having emotions bc thats what i was told my entire life, essentially gaslighting myself). but since i started therapy again i started countering my negative thoughts more consistently and in more productive/healthy ways. and there’s a lot of other things i did to improve my mental health too but i truly believe that changing my thought patterns is possibly the most important/impactful change ive made.

there’s a lot in my life to be stressed about at the moment and i truly believe that if i didn’t implement these tactics into my life i would legitimately be in an inpatient program right now because i just wouldn’t be able to handle everything going on. but now, at least for the majority of the time, i am at peace. i’m not necessarily happy, i am just okay. possibly for the first time ever. and i know sometimes i still have my moments where i talk about wanting to die but everything is just so much easier now. those moments are more fleeting and i’m more capable of reeling those thoughts in early and preventing myself from completely spiraling. it’s just so fucking insane to me how much better i’m doing and i don’t think anyone i know will understand the extent of it because i don’t think anyone truly understood how bad it was in the first place. but it’s okay, i don’t need anyone else to be proud of me. i am so fucking proud of myself.

#suicide tw #suicide ment #personal #vent #wow i wrote a lot lol oops #maybe del later #long post #mine

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kyoomiii · 4 years ago

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♡ Kiss and makeup [hcs]

- ➣. . . ❝ Hey bby ~ ive got a request if its alright! A scenario for making up after a fight with Oikawa please! Tysm! 🤍🤍 ❞

― 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢: @ anonie ―

- ✎ 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 ❝ oikawa, atsumu, and sakusa ❞

- [ 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐(𝚜): heavy mentions of fighting/arguing ]

- ⚘ 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 ❝ fluff, angst ❞

❝ hi everyone, i’m not dead- c: ❞

-yoomi ♡

Reconciling with Oikawa takes time

He has a lot of pride and often refuses to admit he’s wrong

Hates apologizing first, but will begrudgingly do it if he has to

It may take time but when he does come to you, he comes to you completely raw and vulnerable

He’s someone emotional and speaks with his heart when it really matters to him

Overall, he’s stubborn and prideful, but at the end of the day he recognizes that none of it is worth losing you.

After making up he’s very clingy and wants to spend as much time with you as he can.

Expect lots of love and tears because he will cry if you cry, and even if you don’t he will still cry

.·:·.☽✧☾.·:·.

The little tap that comes from the window pane is the only thing that draws your attention at this time of night. Turning your head to look at the clear glass, you’re thoroughly surprised to see Oikawa’s face, his cheeks slightly puffed out as he struggles to hold himself up against the window sill.

You’re quick to hop up from your bed, rushing to open your window as you hurriedly wipe away the trail of tears that have stained your face for the past 2 weeks. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss him or that you weren’t happy to see him. However, while that may be so you were still mad at him.

“What are you doing here Tooru.” You huff, arms crossed over your chest as you try to uphold your stern exterior.

“I came to apologize-” He freezes, eyes squinting as he scans your appearance with nothing but the small glimmer of the moon, “Have you been crying?”

Eyes wide and mouth almost agap you frantically shake your head, “No.”

Oikawa feels his chest tighten, guilt consuming his entire being as he takes in your exhausted appearance. It’s pure instinct, but he feels himself reach out to brush your cheeks, the slight tenderness left after so many spilled tears only breaks him further.

“I’m sorry y/n… You’re sad because of me and I promised myself I’d be the reason why you smile.” He scoffs, disappointment in himself evident in the way his eyes stare into your own. Crystal like tears welling up in pools of chocolate.

Sighing you offer him the best smile you can muster, “I will always be worried about you Tooru. You push and push until you can’t take anymore and it scares me. I know volleyball is something you love, and I support you in your goals. But you have to know your limits.”

His tears finally spill, painting his cheeks in clear streaks, “I’m sorry…”He chokes out, the longing and desperation seeping into every word.

“It’s okay.” You hum pressing a kiss to his forehead, “I forgive you.”

...

“-Now that you guys are finished can you please get off my shoulders Shittyawa.”

Through grateful tears and a snotty nose Oikawa glances down at his best friend who is currently supporting said setter on his shoulders.

“Way to ruin the mood Iwa-chan you brute.”

“Shut up.”

Atsumu is childish to say the least. He has pride, and much like Oikawa he doesn’t like admitting he’s wrong

Arguments are one thing, but when Atsumu fights he fights with his whole being saying what he thinks only to feel guilty later

Him and Osamu argue and fight a lot, and when they apologize it’s always indirect or silent

He’s use to quickly sweeping things under the rug because of that

At first he kind of expects it to be the same with you, until he realizes that simply isn’t the case

Nevertheless it’s still pretty easy to make up with him because he’s not one to hold grudges. Plus he’s clingy and would probably die without constant affection

.·:·.☽✧☾.·:·.

Atsumu can’t help but wonder exactly how he had gotten into this position. Perhaps it’s his knack for being an asshole, or maybe it’s the jealousy he feels towards other guys despite the fact that he has fangirls trailing after him like lost puppies. Nevertheless, he finds himself missing your presence, craving your touch and attention.

“What do ya mean?”

“I said no Atsumu.”

He’s confused to say the least, why won’t you hold him? Are you still mad? It’s been awhile hasn’t it?

“y/n… Are ya really still mad?”

“Yes I’m still mad Atsumu, what you said really hurt me.” You can feel it bubble within you. The frustration and the hurt that has lingered, harbored in your mind for days on end, “I don’t care much for your jealousy. But it's the fact that you think our issues can just be pushed aside. You always ignore the problem, and I’m tired Tsumu… I’m tired.”

Your words set his body ablaze. Atsumu feels breathless as he hears the slight choke of your voice. He reaches out to you, uncertain in his touch as the pads of his fingers meet your uniform. His fingers grasp the fabric, desperate in the way that they curl so tightly around your shirt.

You miss him, you really do. His touch, his smile, his antics. Miya Atsumu’s presence is addicting and you find yourself craving him everyday, even more so now that you’ve spent so much time pushing him away.

“I’m real sorry y/n- I really am. I pulled a shitty ass move and I shouldn’t have treated you that way. I just-” He inhales tilting his head back to hide away the tears that build in his eyes, “I’m an ass and I know that so If you’re done with me, I’ll respect your choices...”

Fighting with Atsumu isn’t an entirely rare occurrence but you always find a way to reconcile. However, this time feels different. A blooming fear settles itself in his chest. The thought of you leaving terrifies him, but for once he lets go of his ego, his pride. If it’s what you want he’ll live with it. Just as long as you’re happy.

Sighing, you turn to look at him, “I’ve missed you Tsumu.” You hum softly as you gently place your hand on his cheek.

Atsumu leans into your touch, basking in your warmth, as he feels a rush of relief flood through his body, “I’ve missed ya too baby…”He feels like he can breathe again, his body slumping against your own in his moment of shock.

“You’re such a jerk you know?”

“Only yer jerk- I really do love ya y/n.”

“I love you too Atsumu.”

Much like Oikawa and Atsumu, apologies take time with Sakusa

Not because he refuses to admit he’s wrong, but simply because sometimes he doesn’t know nor does he realize that he’s being a bit much

It takes time for him to register that he’s being an ass, because while he can be a bit dense he’s not completely oblivious

Reconciling is a quiet, long, and slow process, neither one of you knowing how to approach the other

But nevertheless, both of you are still there quietly mending things as you go

Though it’s a frustrating process. You don’t know where either of you are standing. It’s one big mystery that lingers in the form of tension as you sleep with your backs to one another

Touches filled with longing and days of silence grow tiring. One of you has to crack before things return to how they were

.·:·.☽✧☾.·:·.

Sakusa knows he’s not the easiest person to be around, and that only makes him that much more grateful that you love him so willingly, so easily. It makes him feel full, filled to the brim with the warmth that you give him.

So at first, he doesn’t understand why you turn your back to him, why you won’t look at him, why you don’t speak to him properly. You’re there but you're not, and he admits he’s the same. It’s straining. Both of you are physically there, but it feels so empty and lonely, like falling into a void of nothing.

He misses you, more than he knows how to say. Especially now as he watches you get ready for another night of silence.

And he’s right, the room falls into a daunting quiet. The tension in the air is so thick it’s almost suffocating. His body aches to hold you close against him- the only person he feels comfortable embracing so dearly.

“Do you plan on staying so far away?” The sudden break of silence is almost startling. It leaves your body tense, even Sakusa himself is shocked.

“I don’t know Kiyoomi…” And you really don’t. Granted even if you are upset with him you can’t bring yourself to resent him, you know you would be lying to yourself if you said you did. However, at the same time you don’t know if you could let yourself cave so easily.

Sakusa acts faster than he can think, shifting to face your back. Hesitantly, he reaches for you. Fingers delicately brushing against the fabric of your shirt, “I’m sorry.”

It’s overwhelming, all the emotions that flood through your very being. Your body begins to shake as you’re racked with tears, quickly turning to bury yourself in his much needed embrace, “I’m sorry too Omi.” You sob, soaking his shirt much to his distaste- though he can’t bring himself to comment.

And you stay like that for the rest of the night. Basking in the warmth of one another. Holding on so tightly as if to make up for lost time.

He wonders how he was lucky enough to find someone like you.

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awkwxrdapple · 4 years ago

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Fallen Angel (Part 2) - Peter Parker x reader

PART 1

Request reminder: Hi! I love your writing! I was hoping you could do a peter x reader where the reader gets badly hurt and captured and it takes a long time for the avengers and peter to find her and once they do, she is scared half to death, jumpy, nervous, and stays by Peter’s side during pretty much everything. They are living in the avengers tower with everyone and since they are the youngest, Peter is particularly protective of her during her recovery. Thank you!

Word count: 1.5k

WARNINGS: mentions of anxiety, light torture, injury, trauma (after reading if you think I should include any others please let me know thank you)

Part 2

The hours that had passed felt like months. Soon you had lost track of how long you thought you had been strapped to a chair in that room, and with every physical injury you felt your resolve falter more and more.

You would never give them what they wanted - that you were sure of. So unfortunately for you, whoever was holding you was getting more impatient and frustrated, taking it out on you even more to try and get what they wanted. You hoped maybe they would give up after it was obvious you wouldn't crack, but they didn't seem to think so.

They could see they were breaking you on the outside. Little did they know you were not utterly terrified. Every sound in the room made you jump, and every touch made you flinch so hard the ropes holding you cut into your skin. You were a mess, both inside and out. But you still wouldn't give them what they wanted.

Dropping down in front of you like he had done before the beating began, the first man who spoke to you sighed and held your chin to force you to look at him.

"Y/N I hate to keep asking but you really give me no choice."

He used the back of his hand to slap you harshly across the cheek. Any other day that wouldn't have phased you that much, but due to the already existing wounds put there by either him or one of his other men, it stung and brought more tears to your eyes.

"N-no." You wept. You were now openly crying but you didn't care. All that mattered is that they didn't get what they wanted. You wouldn't give them any information about the Avengers.

The man's annoyance was growing even more that before. It terrified you. You knew they needed you alive but they could still do many things to you before you died.

You thought about Peter, about your best friend, and somehow that gave you more strength to hang on. Would he be out there looking for you? Would they even have any way to find you? You hoped with every fibre of your broken body that Peter was on his way to help you. You even hated being apart from him for this long.

"I really do hate doing this to you Y/N…"

You hated that he kept using your first name like you were old friends.

No you don't. You thought, before a punch was directed at your gut.

+ + +

Once Peter had suited up he paced nervously waiting for Tony to get into the Iron Man armour. Nat had caught onto the situation and was joining the both of them on your rescue mission. Nobody knew why or who had wanted to kidnap you. They hadn't received a message requesting a ransom for your return, so it was clear a more sinister plot was at play.

Upon arriving at the old warehouse that your phone signal was coming from, the trio split up to try and cover more ground. If you were inside the building, it would then be a faster process to find you and get you out. Alive.

Peter was the one to find you.

You became worried when you heard shouting and loud thumps from outside the door. The noises started to make you shake with fear and soon you were crying softly again.

There was a few moments of complete silence before the door was kicked in, flying completely off its hinges and into the room narrowly missing you.

It was almost as if your luck had completely changed and you sobbed audibly upon seeing him.

There was one other man in the room with you who went for his gun as soon as he spotted the red and blue, but Peter was quicker. He disarmed the man swiftly and carefully and sent an elbow to his face cleanly knocking him out.

"Y/N!" Peter's astonishment at your appearance was coupled with relief and something else you couldn't quite place. For a moment you thought it was anger. Was he angry at you? Had you caused so much disruption that he was angry at you?

"Tony, Nat!" Peter also called out through his comms unit and soon the two Avengers ran into the room too.

Tony cut and removed your bonds and let Peter move in closer to you so your body could fall into his. He used a spare hand to rip his mask off so you could look at him properly. His soft brown eyes were full of concern. You sagged into him further as you had no more energy left to hold yourself up.

"Hey Y/N stay with me, ok baby. Stay with me."

Baby.

The endearment was lost on you as you were falling in and out of consciousness. The darkness of the room wasn't helping your extreme fatigue and shock. Even though you were being rescued, you were still terrified.

In the corner of your eye you could see another man in black come into the room but Nat dealt with him. For a second you felt a shriek of fear nearly come out of you but as you saw his limp body fall to the ground it was lost.

Peter's strong but gentle arms were wrapped around your body as he lifted to you up swiftly to his chest. You could hear sobs, which after a few seconds you realised were your own. Hearing these, Peter hugged you even closer to him and you instinctively moved closer into his embrace. This was the closest feeling to being safe that you had felt since you had been taken.

He was warm, and smelt of home. Quickly your sobs turned from fear to relief.

"Ok, let's get her out of here." Peter commanded.

Tony and Nat went in front of Peter and led the way through the also dimly lit corridors. When you reached the door that let into outside, you had to squint from the brightness and turn your face further into Peter. There was noise outside too, too much of it. Cars were bustling up and down the street.

"Did you find out anything about them?" Nat asked Tony, slightly out of breath from running.

"No, all of their software was encrypted so well that even I couldn't hack it."

Nat sighed. Your safety and wellbeing was a bigger concern at the moment though. They needed to get you back to the Tower as soon as they could and get you checked over. Just one quick glance at you would make any one aware of your fragile state.

Peter was still whispering encouragement to you as you gripped onto him.

“You're safe now Y/N."

"I've got you."

"Stay with me, we're going home."

"You are so strong Y/N."

Soon though, you couldn't hold onto consciousness, and you fell asleep exhausted in Peter's arms.

+ + +

A steady beeping woke you up.

You could tell you were back in the Tower, everything was cleaner, whiter, lighter. Your head hurt, everywhere hurt if you thought about it long enough, but you also felt strangely numb. There was an IV drip linked to your left arm, and two other nodes tapped into your chest to measure your heart rate.

Even though you knew you were safe, there was still that lingering adrenaline. Something that still had you on edge. You knew you weren't held captive for very long, regardless of however long it felt, but it didn't matter. The damage had been done.

Starting to feel yourself panicking again, remembering all of the physical abuse you had been put through, the beeping quickly became closer together, seeming louder. This in turn created more panic as the noise fed your anxiety.

In the next moment Tony and Peter rushed into the room. In your panic you were struggling to breathe. You were having a panic attack.

You tried to sit up and reach for Peter who had moved to you. This movement pulled the IV from your arm.

"Help me!" You managed to get out. You couldn't even tell him what you needed physical help from. You were safe now. But you couldn't get out of your head everything that had happened to you.

"Y/N, I promise you that you are safe." Peter took hold of your hands and let you squeeze as hard as you needed to.

Peter and Tony shared a look because of your distress. There was no way Tony would be able to get the IV back into you as you were now shaking uncontrollably.

"Don't worry Y/N this will allow you to sleep." Tony said gently.

You felt yourself nodding, before once again, drifting off.

Tag list: @unmistakablyunknown @oxodianaoxo @tazishereforu @lovely-blackinnon @bibliophilewednesday @fuckingalohomora-bitch

If you would like to be in the tag list for part 3 or any of my other Peter Parker imagines please let me know!

Masterlist

#fallen angel #peter parker #peter parker imagines #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker x y/n #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland oneshot #tom holland x y/n #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel x reader #storyofavengers

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whump-a-la-mode · 3 years ago

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Hi! Sorry to be annoying but its been a worm in my brain about what's going to happen to the nauseous villain. Whats going to be their reaction with the villains? Are they going to just insist that they want to go home and the villains won't understand that they want to go to the facility they were trained into nauseousness in? Again sorry for being annoying!

Sorry this took so long! I tried a little bit of a new storytelling device in here-- a frame story. I really hope you enjoy! This series is so so fun, and so very whumpy.

Continued from here, first part can be found here.

CW//Emetophobia, restraints, sedation, insults and swearing, mentions of poisoning, muzzles

“They’re sleeping.”

Doctor’s tone was quiet enough to nearly be described as a whisper, words barely audible above the background noise of the base’s medical wing. Based simply upon their facial expression, it seemed as though they, too, would very much like to be asleep as well-- lines of fatigue were carved deep under their eyes, showing that they’d been awake for far, far too long.

The bandage wrapped tightly about their forearm displayed an entirely different issue, but it seemed to be one that they were far too exhausted to pay much mind to.

“They’re sleeping?” Supervillain echoed. Fatigue crept, too, at their bones, yet it was not an exhaustion wrought by work. Rather, it had been brought on by worry.

“Mhm.” The doctor spoke with a nod. “For now.”

“They’re... They’re okay, then?”

“They’re...” They bit their lower lip. “They’ve calmed down.”

“Are they themself again?” Supervillain’s voice turned to the epitome of eagerness, almost childish in their excitement. “Are they acting- They’re acting normal?”

A moment of tense, sorrowful silence.

“No.” Doctor shook their head after a long pause. “No, they aren’t. I’m sorry. We had to sedate them.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.” They repeated. “They were getting worse.”

“It’s okay. I trust your judgement. You did what you had to.” The supervillain murmured in a low voice. “Can I see them? Is... Is that okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

Supervillain couldn’t ignore the way that sickness threatened to boil within their chest at the words. They could see them. They could see their friend, their ward, their kid. And, now that they were asleep, they couldn’t be terrified.

They couldn’t be terrified of their own friend. Not while they were unconscious.

There was a horribly sorrowful air to the way that Doctor moved, turning back towards the hospital room door, as though they were leading their boss to a morgue. The knob clicked as it was turned, and the room beyond was unveiled.

Villain was sleeping. At long last, their eyes were closed-- the slightest peace visible there, even as it was buried beneath tension and twitching eyelids.

And, yet, the remnants of their terror could be seen clear as day. The restraints made sure of that. There was almost more leather, metal, and fabric upon their body than there was skin.

The muzzle was what drew their attention the quickest. A contraption of black mesh, held in place by leather straps-- straps that danced in tandem with those holding an oversized pair of headphones to their skull. Similar lines of leather criss-crossed the rest of their body in an elaborate pattern, holding down their wrists, their ankles, their midsection, their limbs, and even their head, eliminating all by the slightest of movements. Odd, leather pieces had been fastened over their hands: Mitt cuffs, keeping their fingers curled and hands useless.

A particularly odd restraint had been placed upon their upper arm and wrist-- a sort of flat, plastic, white-stained board, with straps to hold their wrist and elbow in place. Between the straps, an IV line ran, fastened down with all manner of surgical tape.

“I’m sorry.” It seemed as though Doctor couldn’t stop themself from repeating the phrase. “I’m so sorry. I know they’re- They’re our friend. I didn’t want to have to tie them down like this...”

Supervillain understood. They did, really, even as they felt as though their heartstrings were being played with a violin’s bow. Villain was their friend, they saw them as almost their child, in some ways, even as they would never admit to. They had once been the kindest, the youngest among them, and now...

“I trust your judgement.” They spoke, voice nearly quivering with a whimper. “I know you would only do what you have to.”

Doctor nodded somberly.

“They... They were really scared. We don’t know what was wrong with them. We still don’t.”

“Are you they going to be okay?” Supervillain couldn’t help themself from wandering nearer to the bedside. Staring down at their friend, shackled like a wild beast. “They look...” They trailed off.

“We’re doing everything we can.” Of course they were, but would it be enough? “We don’t know what’s wrong. I’m really sorry.”

“You did what you had to.” They truly wished that the medic would cease their apologies. They had only helped. They had spent so long in their own quarters, worrying and pacing until they wore through their socks.

“Do you know what happened? Before we arrived? No one has had a clear story.”

“Well...”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“They’re going to be scared.” Supervillain’s voice was marked by the slightest of nervous prickles as they moved around their vehicle, from driver’s seat to rear doors. It was a van of considerable size and white bulk. They had taken it for a reason, had intended for Villain to ride in the back, since the beginning. For their own safety. So they wouldn’t be seen. As it had turned out, however, there was another benefit to that fact.

So it seemed, every villain in the base had gathered in the underground garage. Some of them, they noted, didn’t even live within its walls-- someone had invited friends for this occasion. They had specifically been told not to do that.

But, they were here, now, and there was little to be done about that fact. A crowd of twenty-five, bustling with excitement like grade schoolers.

“Everybody back up!” The supervillain called, order ringing out in concrete walls. With just how uncommon their use of commands was, those they spoke to followed their words in an instant, spreading out into a sort of semi-circle formation. “Villain is terrified, right now. Give them space. They’re going right to the medical wing.”

Words in a half-dozen languages buzzed through the gathered crowd.

“Do you get that? Are you guys going to be chill?”

Twenty-five pairs of eyes shot to them, and twenty-five heads nodded.

“Okay. Try to- Just try not to scare them, okay? Please.”

With a nervous gait, Supervillain turned towards their vehicle. Why were they so frightened? This was their friend, after all. Their teammate. They weren’t dangerous-- of course they weren’t, even though the bar holding the van’s rear doors closed may have indicated otherwise to some. It was only for safety reasons, that was all.

They knocked on the doors once, then twice, then slowly, ever so slowly, slid the bar away.

From the back of the van, Villain erupted, as though a wild animal. Had they been waiting at the doors? Struggling at them? Fighting? Certainly they had been, or there would have been no way that they could have leapt with such speed.

The villain crashed to the ground, onto their knees. In an instant, every single person under Supervillain’s orders immediately violated everything they had told them.

‘Swarming’ was the only verb that would be accurate to what occurred in that moment. Nearly every single member of the crowd rushed forth. Some kept at least a foot or two of distance, while more than one crashed right into their toppled-over comrade.

“Villain!”

“You’re okay!”

“I missed you so much!”

“What happened?”

“Where were you?”

“What did they do to you?”

“Are you alright?”

All the concerns, the joys, and the cries raised in volume until they could be described only as a cacophony, a cluster of noise.

The voices were broken only by a scream. A pained scream, and a flash of red. Villain moved nigh-impossibly quickly, teeth gripping around the arm of one who had once been their friend. They tore, leaving great, bloody marks in their wake, as they reared back their head to scream:

“You fucking pieces of shit! Scum! I hate you all! Get away from me, get away from me! I’ll kill you all, I hate-”

Their tirade was ceased only as their body heaved forward, a dribble of bile exploding from their lips, dripping to the floor.

In an instant, the excitement of the scene was gone. The heaving continued, dry gagging spitting out less and less green each time Villain’s body was wracked. By the end, they could only expel air.

When at last they ceased, once more they struck out, teeth hardly missing the neck of another target who seemed to have been selected at random.

“Hold them down. Hold them down!” The cry came from someone in the crowd, someone Supervillain couldn’t identify in their panic. Yet, it was echoed, rippling through those who seemed as though they had been stricken by an odd sort of grief.

“Hold them down!”

And such was done. Four villains moved to hold their hands against Villain’s back, keeping them against the floor, even as they writhed and spat like a beast.

It was then that the medical team arrived. It was then that Supervillain watched their friend, their ward, dragged away, all the while spitting their name as though it was an obscenity.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“We thought they were sick.” Doctor admitted with a bowed head. “Their behavior seemed consistent with delirium, or some kind of hallucinogen. Between vomiting and confused behavior...”

“Did you find it?” Somehow, the words brought a burgeoning hope to Supervillain’s chest, replacing, in some capacity, the dread that their own story had brought on. “The drug? The- The poison? Or is it a disease? A fever?”

The silence that hung between the two was heavier than lead. At last, the doctor shook their head.

“We don’t know what’s wrong. We did everything we could. The symptoms were consistent with poisoning, and there was no time to test for that, so we acted as though it was.”

“Did you ask them?”

“We did but... They seemed a lot more intent on insulting us than answering any questions.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. We pumped their stomach, and flushed it with charcoal, just for good measure. But... It didn’t help.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if it was a poison, it wasn’t one that was ingested by mouth.”

“But it was a poison?”

“We don’t know that. I’m sorry. A certain time after ingestion, it’s hard to tell. We- We drew some blood. It tested negative for all common narcotics and poisons, but it could be something less common. It’s in the lab, now.”

“When will we know? A few hours?”

“A few weeks.”

“Weeks?”

“I’m sorry. It’s slow, I’m so sorry. Until then...”

“What?”

“Until then we’ll manage them, as best as we can. It was like a game of cat and mouse, Supervillain. I’m really sorry. We had to muzzle them. They bit me.” The doctor raised a hand, showing off the bandage they now wore.

“But what if they wanted to talk?”

“It’s only mesh. Stops biting, but not talking. Then, they tried to scratch at us, so we cuffed them. That made them scratch at themself, so, the mitts.”

“And you had to strap them down?”

“When we put in the IV, yes. There was no other way. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s just... Weird.”

“To see them tied up like this?”

“Yeah.”

“It is for me, too. I know. But it’s not them.” Doctor looked up, meeting the eyes of their commander. “You need to remember that, yeah? We all do. It’s not really Villain. Whatever is doing this to them, it’s not them.”

“I know. I- I just need to convince myself that that’s true.” Supervillain straightened themself, standing up taller. “What do you recommend? For their care going forward?”

The doctor seemed to sense the change in professionalism, and assumed a similar stance.

“We’ll continue to look into what’s causing their sickness. Until we can find a source, I’m advising nothing ingested by mouth, except for moderate amounts of water.”

“But- What if they get hungry?” And there went all that posturing, gone in an instant. “Won’t they get hungry?”

“We’re already giving them fluids and nutrients by IV. They’ll have all they need to survive.”

“But what if they get hungry?”

“We can give appetite suppressants if needed.” Doctor conceded. “Alongside fluids, I’m advising a constant drip of anti-nausea medication. With how much they were vomiting, choking is a real risk.”

“Okay. Granted, for both. What about... You said they were sedated?”

“That’s your choice, Sir. We sedated them in order to take samples. It’s less distressing for them, to take blood and the like while they’re asleep. The current dosage should wear off in four or so hours, giving them at least some sleep.”

“They need it.”

“They do. They may be unable to fall asleep at night on their own, and we may need to use sedatives to allow them to rest. As for during the day... That’s up to you.”

“What are my options?”

“We can forgo sedation altogether. It isn’t necessary medically, especially now that they have an IV placed. But in that case, they’re likely to be aggressive, and I can’t guarantee that they won’t present harm to themself or to others.

Or, we can provide a small, consistent level of sedative through an IV drip. Enough to keep them calm, and hopefully to quell any aggression. But that may also cause them some distress.”

“I don’t want to sedate them.” Supervillain admitted, after a terribly long pause. “No sedatives. Please.”

“Okay.”

They moved to the bedside, gripping the bedrails with their hands until their knuckles turned white. They were crying, oh, god, they were crying in front of their own medical staff.

“Villain.” They whispered. “Villain, I’m so, so sorry.”

And, in their sleep, Villain begun to dry heave.

#nausea villain #i need to find a tag for this #villain whumpee #whumpblr #supervillain caretaker #doctor caretaker #whumpee #whumper #caretaker #whump community #whump words #hero x villain #hero villain whump

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mari-beau · 3 years ago

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GIVE ME A REASON: PART SIX - A Rogue One Fanfiction

This is a shorter installment, and maybe pointless… maybe I’m dragging this out too long… But also, who cares, I’m doing this for fun. I just love playing with them!

Read on AO3

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Title: Give Me A Reason: Part Six

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Characters: Jyn Erso POV, Cassian Andor

Pairing: Cassian/Jyn (mostly pre-ship?)

Spoilers: Rogue One; Episode IV A New Hope

Setting: Post-Rogue One AU (Cassian & Jyn live); Also during/post A New Hope

Warnings: Some coarse language. References to wounds. And… Cuddling?

Words: 1,720

Story Summary: Jyn’s entire universe has been turned on its head, so maybe she’s clinging a little too hard to the one thing she feels certain of (strangely enough) as she tries to figure out her place in the galaxy. And maybe she’s being a little overprotective of a wounded captain.

Also can be found on AO3.

The Death Star had come for them.

Again.

But Jyn couldn’t bring herself to care. It did seem a little strange to have been spared the last time only to probably be destroyed this time, barely a week later. But either way, it was the end to her life she now knew to be her fate, or whatever. It just felt right. It just was. Not the Death Star specifically, but,

Jyn Erso would die in Cassian Andor’s arms.

Whether it should’ve been on Scarif. Or it was here on Yavin 4. Or the next day. Or thousands of days in the future.

And there was a sort of peace in knowing that. One that allowed her to climb into his bed, slide her arms around him, and bury her face in his shoulder. He stirred and her heart skipped a beat. It was easier when he was unconscious, to consider how she felt about him, how she’d been attracted to men before, even had something akin to a relationship with one or two, but it had never felt like this.

“Jyn…?”

“Yes, it’s me. We’re on the base on Yavin 4. Safe. In your quarters.” It was easier to preempt any confusion or alarm Cassian experienced when he woke from his heavy, partially drugged, mostly just exhausted from his body’s healing, sleep.

“How long?” he asked, then realized there were static-laden voices broadcasting over the basewide intercom. “What’s going on?”

“You’ve been asleep for 12 hours,” Jyn said, moving closer and partially on top of him to prevent him from trying to get up in a rush and falling flat on his face. Also, she was admittedly afraid on some level, afraid to be alone and facing death. When he was near her, when they were physically entwined in some way, she felt like everything would be okay. Even if she died, if it was in Cassian’s arms, then everything would be okay. Irrational, yes. But that didn’t make it any less her truth.

“The Death Star is here,” she said, once she could tell he was awake enough to understand, not muddled by pain meds. “The Alliance is scrambling their forces to engage. They’re leaving the comms open, since you know…”

“We’re all dead if they fail.”

His arms wrapped around her and engulfed her in his warm embrace. Cassian Andor, a man who, she didn’t think she was wrong to guess, hadn’t received much at all in the way of affection in his life, somehow was so good at holding a person he made the pain of the universe go away, made the entire universe fade away except for his hands on her body, gentle and undemanding but also firm and reassuring, his breath hot on her neck, sending shivers down her spine, and his body beneath hers, so strong despite his injuries.

“Are you okay?” she asked, remembering the physical state of him.

“Mmm… Yes.” His hands tightened their grip on her side and shoulder, reflexively, a gentle squeeze as he murmured into her neck. “Feels good.”

He probably meant he felt fine, but oh, yes, it did feel good. Or maybe he was still quite medicated?

“My weight isn’t putting pressure on your injuries?” Jyn asked. “Maybe I should…”

“No.” Somehow he managed to pull her further into him, her breasts flattening against his chest, her hip practically fusing to his, her breath hitching momentarily and then joining the rhythm of his own breaths...in and out… in and out… in and out...

Cassian sighed, made a frustrated, growling sound.

“I need to use the ‘fresher,” he said, loosening his grip on her.

Jyn rolled off from him, swung her legs around to sit on the side of the cot and waited to see if Cassian could manage to stand. He slid to sit on the edge of the bed next to her and took a moment. She didn’t press him, though an instinct inside of her wanted to offer assistance, wanted to take care of him, wanted to ease the pain and struggle his recovery was.

He stood, again pausing for a moment, then walked slowly across the small room to his private refresher facilities. Apparently, it was one of very few benefits to his officer’s rank, for the small quarters were nothing more than a glorified closet. But she supposed it spared him from having to sleep in a large barracks with a bunch of others, not that it would’ve deterred Jyn in the least from crawling into his bed.

Part of her felt like she shouldn’t watch his laborious movements, out of respect, but she couldn’t look away. What if he needed her?

Force, what if he didn’t need her? Not like she needed him? Aw, fuck. She needed him.

She watched the muscles in his naked back twitch, stiff from inactivity and injury. But her eyes were inevitably drawn to the perfectly uniform lines of small circular marks running down his spine. She knew there was a matching sort of trail along his ribs. Injections of some sort of bacta cocktail meant to speed the fusing of the fractures in his vertebrae and ribs, injections straight into the bone. How painful would that have been if he’d been conscious, she couldn’t help but wonder, couldn’t help but want to wrap her smaller body around as much of Cassian as she could, run her hands gently over his scars, old and new, make sure his wounds were healing and his bruises fading, hear him sigh contentedly against her skin, hold him forever.

As he disappeared into the ‘fresher, Jyn realized she was hopeless.

Cassian Andor had taught her about hope. And had made her absolutely hopeless at the same time.

But why fret about it? What did it matter?

Jyn was used to dealing with life moment by moment, day by day. And she might not have many more moments, anyway.

The loud, static-laden voices crackling over the basewide intercom announced the launch of yet another squadron of fighters, then abruptly switched over to some ship’s communication officer announcing visual confirmation of the target. The Death Star.

Looming on the horizon like a moon, a harbinger of death, bringer of eternal night. Cold, austere, which made it somehow more terrifying, somehow worse than staring down an angry brute about to put a knife in you. It was just so inevitable, indomitable. Made her feel so small, insignificant, so alone.

“Do you mind if I turn this off?”

Jyn startled. How had she not noticed Cassian reappear in the small room? He pointed at the comm, which was broadcasting the prelims of a battle to determine all their fates.

She didn’t want to listen to it either.

“Please do,” she said, already feeling less… alone.

She watched Cassian lean over to switch the speaker off, wincing in sympathy with him as he straightened again, taking a deep breath that expanded his chest and shifted the muscles beneath his skin, mesmerizing her more than a little. His mostly naked body preoccupied far too many of her thoughts.

But what else had she been supposed to do? She’d woken up drenched in sweat that first night in his quarters, had to strip out of the heavy infirmary clothes, found Cassian tossing in his sleep, nearly feverish, removed the sweltering clothes from his body, as well. Little did she know, how enthralling she’d find his lean muscles, the shape of his body, the feel of his bare skin, his-

His hands cupped her face and Jyn looked up at Cassian Andor, his kriffing gorgeous dark eyes fixed on her. His fingers swept some stray hair from her forehead, tucked it behind her ear, returned to swipe gently over the nearly-healed scar above her eyebrow, in her hairline.

“Are you okay?” A knot formed in her throat. Cassian was a good man, despite every questionable thing he’d done and tortured himself over. Of course he would care about her wellbeing. It didn’t mean-

“Ow!”

“Your blaster wound still hurts?” His fingers feathered over her shoulder, not touching the freshly healed injury this time.

“It does when you jab your finger in it.” She grabbed his wrist and tugged his hand away, throwing him off balance so that he fell into her and she managed to catch him and ease him onto the bed, right where she wanted him.

A chuckle escaped him and he smiled, making something flutter inside of her. And then he was reaching for her, pulling her close.

His embrace was everything she’d never known she’d wanted. His hands stroked her back and he buried his face in her neck, nuzzling a sensitive spot just behind and below her ear.

She sighed, wrapping an arm around his middle and burying the fingers of her other hand in his messy, soft hair. She pressed gently as she massaged his scalp down to his nape, eliciting a hum of pleasure from him that vibrated against her bare skin and into her flesh.

If this was to be her last moment, Jyn held no regrets. It was a good moment.

“Jyn?” His voice had a lethargic but happy edge to it, thick and low and sleepy. She could sympathize.

“Yes?” She twisted her finger in a lock of hair curling about his neck.

“Please don’t let me sleep so long this time.” His whisper tickled her ear. “No more than 10 hours. Okay? Please?”

He wanted her to wake him up in 10 hours… Like there wasn’t a battle raging in space nearby… Like he didn’t believe they were quite probably going to die soon, incinerated by a weapon her own father helped design. Like he didn’t believe they were going to lose, after all. Somehow, he believed they would be there, together, ten hours from this moment.

Hope.

Such a man as Cassian… The most unexpected thing she’d discovered about him was his belief in hope. That he possessed any at all after all he had done, all he had seen. And then he’d given it to her.

And again, it warmed her, deep inside, that small seed of hope. She snuggled closer to the man, hoping for something she couldn’t even begin to conceive of. But yearned for it, with every fiber of her being.

#fic: Give Me A Reason #Rogue One #fanfiction #rebelcaptain #my fic #Cassian Andor #Jyn Erso #Cassian x Jyn

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perhapsthanatos · 4 years ago

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10:32 pm with yuta ♡

nct’s yuta x fem!reader (got inspired by a dream of mine & found the idea really cute)

alternate title: be the james dean to my audrey hepburn

genre: fluff. a pinch of angst. non idol au. badboy!yuta au.

word count: 1400~

playlist: chinatown by wild nothing, lover’s rock by tv girl & work this time by king gizzard and the lizard wizard.

warnings: featuring johnny (not a warning though). smoking cigarettes. cursing. lowercase intended. not proofread.

a/n: hi i was supposed to post a vampire!haechan fic but i really wasnt happy w it in general :( the plot or overall idea of the fic was really good, but i just felt as if i didnt do it justice so here we are :( but ngl, i kind of like this concept more? maybe bc i can see it more vividly? idk, i feel like my writings r getting repetitive & its getting on my nerves lmaoo this is getting long im sorry do u guys even read this part anyway? i would also like to apologize abt the amount of projecting im doing lmao ive been having some rough days & i love my sister but hate being compared to her so often so this is a way for me to rant abt it ig? also so sorry its coming out a little later bc i woke up late today (& procrastinated for the rest of it so here i am posting really late at night) & decided to go to the convenience store to get ice cream (& a ton of other bad shit pls dont do this its rlly unhealthy) for breakfast bc i can :) any who, enjoy lovelies <3

“oh my, y/n! you’ve grown up so well! just like your sister!”

“oh! i’m sorry i’ve almost mistaken you for your sister! y/n is your name, correct?”

“y/n, darling, you are looking so dashing! you really do resemble your sister, don’t you?”

“ah, you must be y/n! i’ve heard all about you and your sister from your father!”

you swear that your reddening cheeks are threatening to fall off any moment now from all the fake smiling. the hundreds of superficial compliments, the insincere flattery and the need for these people to constantly compare you to your godforsaken sister makes you feel even weaker than you are. it gets harder and harder to keep up with a big persona that isn’t at all you. as lucky as you are to live such a lavish lifestyle, you can’t help but hate how your family has to be so perfect. you hate how you have never fit in with them, even if you are so good at faking it. you hate how you have always been stuck in your sister’s shadow, constantly haunted with the reminder that you yourself aren’t good enough. you hate how you now have to entertain the rich and brainless guests at your parent’s gala because she’s gone for some stupid prodigy competition and everyone is only talking about her in front of your face. so what if she’s better the better sister? you still have the right to earn respect, right?

you’re exhausted from all the small talk. your facade gets more brittle by the second under all the pressure. your body feels as if it's gonna give out due to your brain shutting down after all that interacting. you try to keep on going with the night as it unravels itself by being the perfectly poised poster child, trying to make your parents proud. but alive yet almost completely devoid, you decide enough was enough. what if you left right now? no one would notice, would they?

after pulling up your phone discreetly to send a few text messages, you pass through lots of people dressed in gold and finery in a way that wouldn’t have you noticed right away. keep your head down and don’t you dare make eye contact with anyone. nearing the end of the room, grabbing the first glass of whatever alcohol you see and downing it in one gulp, you start walking away as quickly as possible from the ballroom. “ignorant privileged fucks,” you angrily whisper to no one in particular, setting the now empty glass on whatever surface and begin to head to the main exit where no one could spot you running away.

“and what do you think you’re doing here, miss?”

a voice interrupts you, looking up you see that it is your father’s head butler; johnny. he is dressed in a simple black suit that makes him appear taller than he is. his long brown hair is slicked back and his bowtie seems brand new. you have known the man since he started working in your household less than ten years back. you were a reckless child, often trying to find ways to sneak out, finding a way to escape from this life and he sympathized with you. after all, he could barely imagine living your life, never catching a break for yourself and always pretending to be someone you weren’t. he often helped planning when you would sneak out into the night, scheduling things like what time you should leave and what time you should be back, more specifically a time when no one would notice. he would take care of your form of transportation and have your location on at all times, just to be extra safe. as much as he wants you to have fun and have a bit of freedom, he still worries that something might happen to you. because of all this, you two have grown to have a very strong bond. you could confidently say that he is most definitely a parental figure in your life since your parents (and even your sister) are often overseas for work.

“what do you think i’m doing? you think i wanna be in a room with those half-baked bipeds? fuck no!”

“i know, i was just joking. you looked like you were about to explode in there, i wish i could help.” he laughs, pulling out his phone preparing what you might need. “so what will it be for today? the driver? we just need to pay him to keep his mouth shut. a taxi? it’s cheaper than paying the driver, but you still need to pay… not like that’s a problem for you though. maybe an uber would be good enough—“

“actually, i got myself covered. thanks.”

his jaw slightly drops and his eyebrows furrow. he looks straight at you in shock. “what do you mean you got yourself covered?”

you look down at your feet, a nervous habit. “i got myself a ride, you don’t need to help me. i’ll be back as soon as dawn comes.”

he raises his eyebrow. “who’s your ride?”

“doesn’t matter,” you glance down at your phone seeing a notification and wave a goodbye, leaving rather suddenly. “i gotta go, i’ll text you when you need to open the gates!”

“y/n! wait! who’s your ride— and she’s gone.” johnny sighs, watching as you run towards the front gates, tossing your stiletto heels away on the grass while you’re at it. he heads back inside, silently hoping you’ll be fine.

knocking the window of the old black mustang parked outside behind the big bushes, the driver rolls down his window and sends the most charming smile.

yuta in his black beanie, long blonde hair, worn out doc martens, signature leather jacket and black skinny jeans. it almost makes you laugh on how he wears the same thing almost everyday but still manages to look so good.

he is most notable for having a big bad boy reputation and you knew that he was the breath of fresh air you needed in your life. a person who can understand having the pressure of having to be or to fulfill your persona. a person you can completely be yourself around. a person who is full of warmth no matter how cold he may seem on the outside.

“get in, princess.”

and that was all you needed. you tiredly walked to the other door and sat yourself in the car. rolling his window back up, he looks at you. you are wearing a simple yet stunning black dress along with silver jewelry adorned on your neck and wrists. your makeup is perfectly done but still struggles to hide the fog in your eyes. he has the sudden urge to clear them away. he softens at the sight of you. no one is perfect, but he finds you being perfect enough without ever having to dress up.

“where to?” he asks as gently as he could. he knows that you are most vulnerable during these moments and that it is hard to finally break down your walls after a day full of stress, so he doesn’t pry immediately. all he wants to do is to keep you here, safe and away from your burdens and for you to stay comfortable with him, even if it couldn't be for long. but is that too selfish of him to ask? he hates how you hate your life and it is taking every bone in his body to not run away with you. but who is he to tell you what to do or what to change anyway? all he can do for now is try to find a way to make you genuinely smile.

“take me anywhere,” you whisper to the latter. “i just want to be as far from myself and my life as possible. miles away or the nearest convenience store, just take the long way home before dawn.”

you look down at the cup holders, spotting an open cigarette box. you tug one out of the nineteen and light it with the lighter you kept in your pocket. you lean back and close your eyes. he only admires as you bring the cigarette to your lips, exhaling a cloud of smoke afterwards. letting the radio play quietly, he starts the car and begins to drive away from the mansion. he can’t help but wonder how you (an elegant daughter) and him (a bad boy) are millions of worlds apart, but more similar than you think.

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thesaltyoncologist · 4 years ago

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Trigger warning: suicide

This NEJM Perspective piece addresses an incredibly important problem during medical training. If you’re in medicine, take a minute to read this. And if you’re struggling yourself with mental health, especially during training, PLEASE feel free to reach out to me personally. We want to help. You are not alone in this. Click the keep reading link to view the article in its entirety.

My Intern - R.E. Leiter

Bobby hasn’t come in yet today,” one of my chief residents told me. “He isn’t picking up his phone or answering his pager. Could you go and check on him?”

I was in my final year of my internal medicine residency and was on a 6-week rotation as the assistant chief resident. In this role, I organized educational sessions for the residents and medical students and helped with administrative tasks. Most important, I learned how to support other residents and respond to their needs, which is what much of my job as chief resident would entail the next year.

Bobby was an intern in our program, and he and I had worked on a team together in early July. Bobby became my intern, and I was his senior resident. It was a role I cherished, and I tried to teach him all I could about caring for multiple sick patients simultaneously and navigating the systems, personalities, and politics of a large Manhattan hospital. We stayed late as we struggled to place an ultrasound-guided IV into the arm of a patient whose veins were shot from years of dialysis. Perched side by side on a windowsill, we nearly missed morning rounds as we listened to a dying patient recount his journey from India to the United States. By the end of our long, busy month together, I was proud of the doctor Bobby had already become.

Bobby lived in a building across the street from the hospital. New York prices being what they are, most teaching hospitals provide their residents with subsidized housing in the neighborhood. It’s a strange, almost dormlike environment, with residents working and living together in close quarters.

It was a cloudless yet cool August day when one of the other chief residents and I stepped out the side door of the hospital. When Bobby didn’t answer our knock, we explained the situation to the building’s staff and they sent a maintenance worker back up with us. We soon discovered the incomprehensible reality: Bobby had jumped out his window. The usual din of the Manhattan street below was eerily quiet. Cecil’s Internal Medicine lay open on his tiny kitchen table, the pages gently flapping in the breeze from the open window.

Somehow, we ended up in the emergency department and witnessed a compassionate but ultimately hopeless resuscitation attempt. While our program director broke the news to the other residents, we returned to the apartment and gave our statements to the police.

The sudden death of a colleague would shake any workplace; in a medical training program where the boundary between the personal and the professional blurred into near nonexistence, its effect was seismic. When Bobby died, we asked the same questions of ourselves that others do when a close friend dies by suicide: What could we have done to prevent it? What had we missed? But we also had a different set of questions: Had something happened to our colleague in the hospital the night before he died? We knew he had been on a particularly brutal rotation. Had he made a mistake? Our uncertainty precipitated the fear that we could be next.

A few days after Bobby died, my program director, one of the chiefs, and I flew to his small, Midwestern hometown to represent the residency program at his visitation. As I gave my condolences to Bobby’s sister, she enveloped me in an unexpected hug. “Bobby told me you were the perfect resident; he wanted to be just like you.” Though she meant it as high praise, her comment left me rattled. I couldn’t escape thoughts that my expectations were too high or that I should have picked up on something wrong while I was working so closely with him.

Residency leaves little time for self-reflection, though, and even less time for personal grief. The wards were as full as ever, and our patients and their families needed care. Because there was no one to replace us, we went back to work and processed the loss as well as we could. In the days and weeks that followed Bobby’s death, the program directors, chief residents, and I worked to rearrange staffing, but the hospital’s needs limited the changes we could make. Even when we did have flexibility, we nonetheless made scheduling mistakes as we tried to triage which residents and teams required the most support. We could all adapt to one or two residents taking time off for family, health, or personal reasons, but managing our collective trauma was entirely different, and our blind spots added to everyone’s emotional and physical exhaustion.

I threw myself deeper and deeper into my job, hoping that working to heal my patients’ suffering would shield me from my own. I kept my head down on my way into the hospital each morning, lest I catch a glimpse of Bobby’s window. Predictably, this strategy was unsustainable. Evaluating a new patient in the ED, I found myself in the same corner where I had watched my colleagues work on Bobby. I couldn’t muster the wherewithal to inhabit my role as a physician while also containing my terrifying memories. After rounds, I sobbed in my chief resident’s office. I saw Bobby’s death as a sign of my failure. I had failed as a resident. I had failed as a teacher. Bobby was my intern and I had failed him. I was terrified of working with another intern, let alone of serving as a chief to nearly 150 of them, many of whom would struggle with their own mental illness.

Each year, approximately 300 physicians in the United States die by suicide.1 Medical students and residents are particularly at risk, facing new professional responsibilities with the highest possible stakes, deep uncertainty about their own abilities, constant sleep deprivation, and isolation from family and friends. When I had a few seconds in residency to scroll through my social media feeds, I would see pictures of a world from which I felt completely removed. On Saturday nights, other people my age discovered new bands and ate at trendy new restaurants; I fought with the electronic medical record to input orders for laxatives and stood in line to perform chest compressions on a dying mother of two young children. These stressors form a dangerous and potentially toxic mix, particularly for trainees with preexisting or emerging mental illness.

Thankfully, I received the psychiatric services I so desperately needed. I still have a scar, but it’s well healed. I wonder, though, how many residents in our program remained isolated in their suffering. Bobby wasn’t only my intern; he was our colleague and friend. In the aftermath of his death, how many of us should have been working at all?

Six years after he died, I no longer worry about having failed Bobby. But I do think the system of medical training failed him and continues to fail every trainee it puts in harm’s way. Although there will be no easy solutions to this crisis, we cannot accept the status quo. We are losing too many young physicians to suicide for the current system to remain morally defensible. Seeking to improve the lives of others shouldn’t cost our trainees their own.

If you or someone you know is having thoughts of suicide, a prevention hotline can help. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is available 24 hours per day at 800-273-8255. During a crisis, people who are hard of hearing can call 800-799-4889.

Disclosure forms provided by the author are available at NEJM.org.

The intern’s name has been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

This article was published on March 13, 2021, at NEJM.org.

#medblr #nursblr #medical school #fellowship #residency #life outside the hospital #please let me know if this is behind a paywall and I’ll find a way to post it #mental health #suicide

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fuchsiagrasshopper · 4 years ago

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Contending the Flame IV

Author’s Note: Hope everyone had a safe and fun Halloween! Not much else to say here as we start to delve deeper into Ivar and the Nuns new relationship and the two different worlds they come from. Thanks as always for being so awesome!

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word Count: 2217

Warnings: Language, Master/Servant dynamic

His brothers had kept a close eye on Ivar since acquiring his new thrall. He still played at the leader of their army, but he had refrained from shutting them out of power entirely. Any chance they had at lending a commanding voice they took. Hvitserk's strategy of giving their little brother a distraction was paying off.

The changes in Ivar's behavior were minuscule. Only Ubbe and Hvitserk took notice. It was the same when they were children when someone would give a new gift to Ivar. It would be a stretch to say he was happy, but his vengeance had quelled. For the moment it was enough, and they could focus on securing lands for their people while Ivar was preoccupied.

It was strange for a thrall not to be seen waiting over their master's every whim, but it seemed Ivar wouldn't permit you to leave his quarters. The other slaves they had acquired tended to him during meals, and when he walked the streets with his guards, you were always absent. Ubbe walked alongside Hvitserk contemplating this.

"What do you think he has her do for him?" Ubbe wondered aloud.

Hvitserk's brows puckered in thought. "Don't know. I can't imagine they have much to talk about, and I know the one thing they aren't doing."

"What do you mean?"

"C'mon, think about it," Hvitserk jested with a smirk. "I suppose that must make him a good fit for her. She'll remain a virgin after all."

Ubbe latched onto Hvitserk's arm, pulling him to a stop as he gave him a harsh look. "Those are dangerous words, brother. Remember Sigurd. I don't want to see another brother dead because of Ivar's fragile grasp of his anger. He has poor sensibilities when it comes to that matter. It's unfair, but it's not his fault."

Hvitserk shook off Ubbe's grasp and rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. "Right, that was stupid. I do pity him, though I don't think he'd want it. Who knows how he'll be when we start having families of our own."

Ubbe grunted. "He'll probably resent us, more than he does already. I think I understand why he keeps her away from everyone. Besides our mother, no one has ever taken to Ivar's company outside of obligation or familial bond. He's lonely."

"And it's not as if she can refuse," said Hvitserk. "But she's a Christian. That's got to account for some strife between them."

They continued on their way towards the center of the city. Food was beginning to run scarce, and it seemed the Saxons were holding steadfast on starving them out. While Ivar was willing to take their army to its limits to play Aethelwulf's game, Ubbe and Hvitserk were devising their own plan to negotiate land. They just needed a little more time. Many things rested in the hands of the nun, as unaware as you were.

"I just hope he hasn't harmed her," Ubbe said while they passed through the market.

Hvitserk looked grim, a heaviness settling on him that had replaced his usual cheer. "Ivar did always break toys. We have to hope that Christian isn't as weak as she looks."

ooOOoo

You were growing accustomed to your new station. As a woman, it was your lot in life to suffer, and you took your new situation as a test from God. The heathen, Ivar, he had made no bid to harm you. That wasn't to say he was good company to keep. He had taken to trying to instruct you in a handful of words and phrases of his language. Some of the words were difficult to form with your accent, and when you mispronounced things, he would grow irritated and throw things at you. Uttering dark curses in his tongue, you were certain he had insulted you as well, but it was better than a flogging.

At night you continued to pray, your back to your master, and the words spoken only in your head. You were sure they reached God, even without a rosary in your grasp or the piety to kneel. In your heart, you struggled to keep hope alive. If this test was to be your final judgment from God, its purpose remained clouded to you.

It was late when Ivar returned, and you had remained awake for his arrival. You now slept when he did, short and inconsistent hours of the night, only to be woken before the dawn. He did not rest well. Be it from his duties or pain you could not say, but he never faltered from exhaustion. This pattern must have been his usual routine, life at war.

Ivar's eyes sought you out the moment he came through the door, and you returned the stare. He had only just started walking in his new contraptions, a set of iron braces that he had created from pride. His determination to walk was admirable. You had never witnessed such a fighting spirit before, and you were certain it was a blessing from God.

"Something you wish to say?" Ivar interrupted your thought, a scowl on his face from your lingering gaze on his legs.

"It is a good thing," You said while rising from your corner of the floor. "I believe God has blessed you."

Ivar snorted, blue eyes rolling at your absurdity to insinuate such a thing. He took a slow seat on his pallet of furs and started to remove the braces. "Really, and why would that be?"

"You are not the first cripple I have met, but you are the most assiduous."

You could see him test out the word for himself, a lack of understanding passing over his face. "I'm not sure what that means, but I like how it sounds."

"You have an unrelenting heart. Strong-willed and resolute in your goals. I find you impressive."

He halted what he was doing, and took a long, considering look at you. "I've been this way for as long as I can remember. It is the way if I am to be seen as a true Viking to my people."

"So there are others like you?" You asked as you approached him with careful steps.

"There are not many cripples among my people, no. A child born with a deformity such as mine is left to die. I would have been if not for my mother. She was softhearted, and couldn't bear my loss."

You didn't want to have any strong sort of feelings towards your captor, but to learn that he had been left to die as a helpless babe engulfed you in sorrow. "It isn't wrong for a mother to feel pity for her child," You murmured, showing how distraught you were by such a story. "You don't sound grateful for her mercy."

Ivar's face hardened at your sentiment. "Mercy is for Christians. I would have done the same as my father. I loved my mother, but there are days I resent her for her choice. Her gifts failed to foretell the agony I would endure at the hands of compassion."

"What gifts?"

"She was a Vülva, a woman seeress of our people who has visions of the future."

You frowned at such a concept. "That sounds like sorcery to me."

"I forgot your people fear magic and witchcraft," Ivar said in a teasing tone. "My mother would have hated you. She was too steeped in the beliefs of our own people to have care about your sensitive notions of God. My father would have liked you though."

You blushed at the idea of such a great man holding you in favor. Though you didn't hail from Wessex you had heard the stories of the Viking King who fought for Mercia and befriended King Ecbert. "King Ragnar? Why do you think that?"

"He was often amused and curious about your God. Maybe you would have reminded him of Æthelstan, his Christian monk." Ivar resumed the task of taking off his braces, wincing in pain whenever a particular part pinched or pulled at his legs. "Here, come help me with this."

Startled by such a request, you moved with haste and uncertainty. Ivar showed you which parts to unclasp, and you would mimic his actions with a gentler touch, stopping entirely when he would let out any sound of discomfort. You were certainly slower at the task than if he completed it himself, but he seemed to enjoy watching you work over him, and you were grateful for the distraction.

"What about your family? Where are your mother and father?" Ivar asked while leaning back on the strength of his arms.

"They're both dead," You said, pausing only a moment to collect yourself before continuing on his braces. "I was born in Rendlesham, in East Angles. My mother was a whore, and I never knew who my father was as a result of that. When she died, I was orphaned to the streets until the church took me in. Being of such low birth standing, I turned to the church as my ray of hope."

You could feel Ivar frowning at you, but you did not waver. "Did you not want to be something more than a nun?"

You breathed a laugh. "Such as what? Saxon women are not allowed to be warriors."

"Yes, but isn't there a way you could have improved your situation?"

"No," You said bluntly. "Blood is everything. Those who are of Royal standing will always be in power, and through marriage, their line continues. The best I could have hoped for was a marriage to a farmer, and he would have to have been a poor one. I would have raised his children, and likely died young from childbirth."

"I see now why you're a nun," said Ivar. When you chanced a look up at him, he appeared troubled by your story. "Those Saxons in power are greedy. They keep all for themselves and give nothing back. What chance is there of an honorable death for those forced to live a life of poverty?"

"If you die without sin, you go to Heaven. We have no need for honor."

"A life without sin," Ivar hummed. "As if any man is capable of such purity."

"A Priest is," You argued back. "It takes a nobleman to obtain such a pious position in the church."

"Is it noble for these men to keep silver and gold in their churches while children run through the streets, no better than dogs?" Ivar had sat forward, his eyes emboldened with the wrath of a demon. "I have seen your noblemen of the cloth, and they died screaming the same as any sinning heathen of mine."

You lost your balance, falling flat on your bottom as you gazed up at Ivar in terror. "What did you do to them?"

"The things I've done to your priests," Ivar paused, a calm washing over him. "It would make Loki grin."

The suffering of your people seemed to fall down on you like a star collapsing from the night sky. When he spoke, you could almost forget that Ivar was your enemy, but he had now made it clearer than ever where the line in the sand was drawn. You were just a slave, a Christian slave, and how soon would it be before he tired of you? You did not wish the same fate to befall you as it had for the priests, whatever it had been.

"I have not dismissed you," Ivar tutted when you began to walk away to your corner, unaware yourself that you had begun to do so. You craved distance from him, even if it was only a few feet away.

At first, he tried to manage his composure, calling you back with his voice deliberately even. When it became clear that no amount of coaxing on his part would work, he started yelling in his language. That word came up again, 'Ólaug'. It had been peppered into a number of your one-sided conversations. If he had tried to brand you with a new name, you would refuse. He would not take who you were.

Your fight ended with him throwing one of his crutches at you. It landed just before you, and you were able to contain your flinch. Ivar scoffed at your non-reaction and threw himself back onto the furs. He had finished disrobing and gave you the courtesy of his back, which appeared to be covered in a new etched design each time you saw him. Matched against your own untainted skin, it was a reminder of how different the worlds you came from were.

When you were sure Ivar had fallen asleep, you moved to get under your own thin pile of wool blankets. They were scratchy and held none of the warmth of the furs, but it was not the worst sleeping conditions you had ever weathered. That night you prayed for the lost Priests, and for God to take away your suffering. You didn't see a way out of your situation, but if God acted through you, you were certain to find your answer. Content to keep faith in your heart, Sister Mary Catharine slept, ignorant to the matter that Ivar was awake and watching you.

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#ivar x reader #ivar x you #ivar the boneless #vikings #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar ragnarsson #history vikings #vikings ivar #ivar lothbrok #ivar ragnarsson imagine #ivar the king #ivar imagine #vikings imagine

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honeyhan-123 · 5 years ago

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Doctor Doctor

Summary: With a bullet in his arm, Bucky seeks medical attention and a certain surgeon catches his eye.

Warnings: non-con, gun play (gun fucking), biker!Bucky, minor descriptions of blood and bullet wounds.

Word Count: 3k

AN: This was written for the incredible and lovely @the-soulofdevil and her 500 follower writing challenge. Congrats gurl, I’m so proud. My prompt was a doctor au. Also, I’ve been watching wayyyyy to much Grey’s Anatomy, pls help me.

Squares Filled: Biker!AU & Knife/Gun play

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Exhaustion held your body captive as you dragged your feet, your eyes fluttering shut every few steps. Your entire body was sore, your neck cricked from looking down at the body on your operating table for so long and your hands were slightly cramping. The CABG surgery had taken far longer than you had expected, and now nothing was sounding better than going home, opening a bottle of sauvignon blanc and taking a long hot bath.

You eyes the door for the stairs disdainfully. Deep down you knew you should take them. The attendings lounge was only two floors up but you were dead tired so instead, you plodded along to the elevator, jabbing the up button. Looking back on it you really should have taken the stairs.

The elevator finally dinged on your floor, the doors opening slowly and without even looking, you jumped inside. You only noticed the other occupant after the doors had slid closed. He was tall, impressively built, and his eyes were a stunning shade of cerulean blue. You hated yourself for wondering briefly if he was here visiting a girlfriend.

However you could tell there was something off about him but, maybe that’s what attracted you. You had always had terrible taste in men. You could feel his body come closer, invading your personal space. A hand reached out to your name tag, his eyes flickering over it.

‘A surgeon huh? So I guess you know your way around the body.’

‘Excuse me?’ The words were barely out of your mouth before he reached into the waist bands of his jeans, pulling a gun from it with one hand, his other pressing the shutdown button on the elevator panel.

‘I need you to do me a favour Doc. I need you to get this bullet out of my arm.’ You stared down the barrel of his glock, your mouth going dry as he continued to speak. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to press the start button and then the elevator doors will open. You’ll take me somewhere private and you’ll quietly and stealthily get whatever you need to get the fuckin’ bullet out of me. If you even think about calling for help I will blow the brains out of whoever is around. Clear?’ Your heart thudded like a hummingbird’s wings and the turtleneck underneath your scrubs felt far too tight around your throat.

‘I said. Are we clear?’ He pressed the gun directly between your eyes, forcing the cool metal against your heated skin and you nodded.

‘Yes.’ You barely managed to squeak out your assent.

‘Sir.’ He added for emphasis.

‘Yes Sir. I understand.’

‘Good girl. Are you ready? And remember, if anyone dies, it’s your fault.’ You nodded once more and watched as he pressed the green start button, the elevator coming back to life. He stowed his gun back into the waistband of his jeans, sending you a look that clearly said he could whip it back out faster than you could scream. But his look was unneeded. You weren’t going to call for help. The people that worked at this hospital were like your family. There was no way you were going to risk any of their lives.

You lead him through various hallways, picking up an abandoned supply trolley as you went until you came across an empty patient room. You gestured for him to sit on the bed as you pulled on a gown and gloves before wheeling the stool over and sitting in front of him.

He grunted in pain as he pulled his leather jacket off, his t-shirt following soon after. Under normal circumstances you would have cut the material away but seeing him in pain gave you a sick sense of glee. But as you stared at his now bare chest, any sense of joy quickly seeped from you, dread taking its place. It shouldn’t have been as much of a shock as it was to see the pitch black ink staring back at you. He had waved a gun in your face for crying out loud. But still, seeing the dark outline of a wolf on his chest sent a chill through you. Of course this man was a White Wolf.

‘Scared of a little ink doc?’ The man before you teased a smirk taking over his plush pink lips.

‘Of course not Sir.’ You quipped back. It was only half a lie. You weren’t afraid of the tattoo itself, more of what it represented. You had seen far too many victims of the White Wolves over your time working at Seattle Grace Hospital. ‘I’m going to have to go in blind, I hope that’s okay as I assume you don’t want to be checked in?’ You asked even though you knew the answer you would get.

‘Obviously.’ His voice was a monotone as he rolled his eyes, your hands sweeping over the blood surrounding the torn skin. The bullet didn’t seem to be too deep which was lucky for him. It would make extraction a lot easier. Once the site was clean you pulled over the IV kit, standing to attach the morphine to the drip before picking up the needle and making for his other arm. ‘No.’ He yanked his arm out of your grip with such force that you stumbled.

‘Excuse me?’ You were confused as you sat back on the stool, the needle still in your hand.

‘No drugs. Just get it out now.’ He pulled the needle from you, chucking it across the room as he did so.

‘I’m sorry sir but I have to insist. The drugs will help you stay still through the pain as I extract the bullet.’ No matter how much his pain earlier had helped ease your own you weren’t a sadist.

‘I said no. I don’t want any drugs, I can handle the pain. Just get the fucking bullet out now.’ He growled and you submitted, scared that the commotion might attract unwanted visitors. Quickly you organised your tray and held the tweezers up to the bullet hole.

To your surprise, the man barely flinched as you pressed the metal against the tender flesh, searching for the bronze bullet that you could barely make out. You had expected him to yield, allowing you to administer the painkillers but he barely reacted, the occasional hiss or grunt escaping his lips was the only sign he felt anything.

Finally the bullet came free and there was a clink as you disposed of it in one of the metal bowls. Next you started working on patching him up. Some more blood had spilled from the wound as you had worked and he would definitely need stitches. As you worked you heard your parents voices echo around in your head, telling you horror stories of the White Wolves.

The gang had been haunting Seattle since the early forties and were often used as bedtime stories told to young children to make sure they didn’t stay out too late. While you had taken your parents warnings seriously growing up, you had always thought they exaggerated the cruelty of the gang. Working in the hospital had changed your mind. Their cruelty was unparalleled and perhaps if you weren’t so afraid of what they would do to your family you might have thought about “accidentally” clipping his axillary artery. He would be dead within minutes but you knew the other Wolves would come around sniffing for answers.

You struggled to keep your hands steady as you worked but finally you did the last stitch and bandaged his arm. ‘You’re going to have to wear a sling for next 4-6 weeks to make sure it heals properly and isn’t jolted around because you don’t want to be pulling your stitches. Also no strenuous exercise for at least two weeks and after then only light exercise such as going for a walk.’

‘What about fucking?’ Your lips parted involuntarily, shocked at how blatantly he had asked the question.

‘Erm, well that would count as strenuous exercise but after the two week mark perhaps depending on umm… on how you… on your chosen, erm, position then it should be okay.’ You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment. You talked about sex and other embarrassing topics all the time in post-care but something about the way his cerulean blue eyes were staring at you so intently had you stumbling over your words like a school girl.

‘Hmmm… that’s a shame. If I had known this morning was going to be the last time for a while I would have made it something special.’ He mused to himself, his eyes drifting over your dark blue scrubs as you pulled off the gloves and gown. ‘But since I’m here, you could always fix me back up if something happened. Couldn’t you doc?’

‘Excuse me?’ You asked in confusion, blood draining from your face as he got off the bed and began stalking towards you. You backed away quickly, your hands fumbling with the door as you tried to pull it open only to have his uninjured arm slam it back shut. He twisted your body around so your back was pressed against the wood, both his arms pinning you against the wall as he leaned in.

‘I think you heard me doc. The same warnings apply. Scream and I’ll kill anyone who walks through that door.’ His breath tasted like cigarettes and his body was hot and hard against you. When you gulped and finally managed a nod, he pulled you from the door, bringing you back over to the bed, forcing you to lean over it.

He pressed his growing bulge against your ass as he pulled your scrub top over your head, the pale blue turtleneck and your bra following soon after. You squirmed in his arms but despite his injury his grip was steel tight. He groaned against the shell of your ear as he palmed your breasts, kneading them until your nipples began to harden. His breath was hot and heavy against the skin of your neck as his hands moved lower, down to the waistband of your scrubs. He slipped one hand in underneath your panties and groaned out.

‘Oh Doc, you’re already so wet for me.’ He breathed out and you shuddered against him, trying to squeeze your legs together as tightly as you could. He tutted you, pinching your ass through the scrubs. ‘Behave. You don’t want to know what happens to bad girls.’ You choked back your sob as you nodded and allowed him to push you back against the bed, Your chest resting on the cold sheets. He slipped your scrubs down your legs and continued to play with your clit, rubbing it harshly as you tried to force your body not to react. One hand grabbed both your wrists, pinning them both at the small of your back as he moved.

‘One thing I’ve learnt from girls like you is that you always need something inside of you to feel full don’t you?’ You felt him shift behind you and then suddenly something very cold brushed against your thigh. You struggled in his hold even harder, thrashing your body around the cool metal brushed against your heated lips. You didn’t have to see it to know what it was.

He swirled the barrel around, coating it in the slick that had involuntarily pooled along your lips. ‘No. No! Stop it! Get off of me.’ You tried to buck him off but his grip remained like iron, holding you down against the mattress with one hand as the other eased the barrel inside of you. You thrashed wildly as the cool metal juxtaposed the heat between your legs causing an odd sensation to form.

You hated the way the edges of the gun moved against your walls, making you feel every tiny ridge in the metal. You hated the way your body was responding to it even more.

You barely managed to hold back your moans as his pace picked up, becoming unrelenting. The urge to roll your hips back onto him had you shuddering with disgust. Your body shouldn’t be responding like this, it shouldn’t be enjoying it as much as it was. But you couldn’t help it anymore, not when he called you his good girl. Praising you for taking his gun so well.

The moans started tumbling from your lips and soon enough the coil in your belly had snapped and you pulsated in his arms. Your body convulsed as he slowly edged you down from your high.

‘See? That wasn’t so bad. I’ve always wanted to have a cunt on the end of my gun.’ You shivered at his words, your senses slowly coming back to you. ‘Here, taste yourself.’ He forced the metal by your face and you wanted to shrink away in disgust, yet the tone of his voice told you that wasn’t an option. Hesitantly, you moved your head towards it, licking a small stripe along the side, praying that was enough to satisfy him. ‘Not like that. Suck it like it's my cock.’ You shuddered and cringing inside, you angled your head to take it like he wanted, terrified that his finger would slip on the trigger.

You forced yourself to slowly bob your head going up and down the gun’s length, his groans echoing in the room as he rubbed himself against you in time with your movements. Suddenly, the gun was gone and you heard the tell-tale clink of his buckle, the fly of his zipper following.

‘Please you don’t have to do this. I won’t tell anyone, please.’ You could no longer hold back the tears and they fell onto the mattress beneath you, darkening the white sheets.

‘I’m sorry Sweetheart, but that’s just not how the White Wolves work. You see, when we see something we want... ’ his face dipped down next to your ear as he whispered into it, ‘we take it.’ And with that he entered you with one long thrust. You cried out at the intrusion. Although you were shamefully wet, you hadn’t been prepared for the sheer size of him. ‘Oh fuck doc. Your pussy’s so fuckin’ tight.’

There was no gradual build up. Just straight hard fucking. His balls slapped against your ass as he rutted into you, his pace unforgiving. You screamed out underneath him as you felt one hand wrap around your thigh, circling your already sensitive clit. ‘That’s it sweetheart. That’s such a good girl.’ You moaned as his deep sensual voice penetrated your ears.

You felt his grip on your hands loosen before it wrapped around your throat, pulling you up against his chest. He felt even deeper like this and your tears ran down your cheeks freely. You hated how every stroke of his cock made you shudder in the best way possible.

Your hands clutched at his around your throat as black dots started to appear in your vision. Between how breathless you were from the fucking and the crying, it was no surprise that you were struggling to breathe.

‘C'mon sweetheart. Scream my name for me. Let everyone know who’s fucking this pussy so right.’ He didn’t seem to care that you could barely breathe or that he hadn’t even bothered to give you his name so you choked a meager Sir. He seemed to realise his mistake as he grunted his name into your ear.

‘Bucky….’ Your voice was hoarse.

‘Louder.’ He growled and you repeated yourself. ‘Louder baby, louder.’

With air you didn’t know you had, you screamed his name for him, the waves of pleasure crashing inside of you reaching their peaks as you did. He groaned into your ear as he kept rutting, riding you out through your orgasm as your body collapsed back on the bed. He thrusted a few more times before hastily pulling out, his seed dripping down onto your ass as he moaned unashamedly.

‘Well fuck doc. How was that for strenuous activity?’ You couldn’t respond as he laughed, fabric rustling in the background as he dressed. ‘Didn’t even pull any stitches either.’ He mused to himself and you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Shame washed over you like a tidal wave, pinning you in place.

You saw him walk around the bed, kneeling down as he came into view. ‘Get dressed.’ His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument, but still, you didn't move. ‘Fine. Stay like that and let the next guy who walks in see your wrecked cunt. Like I give a shit.’ It was only at his brusque words and the reminder that this is in fact your workplace that you finally stood sorely. Your hands reached up to brush away the tears on your cheeks and you see him fiddling with your phone that had been in your pants pockets as you dress.

‘What are you doing?’ You barely manage to get the words out.

‘Just getting your number. You never know when having a doctor on call will be handy in my line of work.’ You tried to hide your scoff and failed.

‘Your line of work? You mean terrorising the streets of Seattle.’ You have no idea where this fire has come from and if you knew better you would have definitely kept your mouth shut.

‘No, I mean running a multi-million dollar enterprise.’ You gulp, swallowing thicky as he stands his chest nearly touching yours.

‘Running?’ You question, even though you’re not sure you quite want his answer.

‘Yeah sweetheart. Running.’ His hands lift up and he slides your phone back into your chest pocket. And with a wink sent your way he slips out from the room, leaving you with a sense of dread for the next time your phone will ring.

Tags will be added in a reblog

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#thesoulofdevilchallenge #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #the winter soldier #bucky x you #bucky/reader #biker!bucky #gang!bucky #hospital au

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qwertyfingers · 3 years ago

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suicide tw i guess sorry i just need to. say things and not have a real conversation but how the fuck am i supposed to get out of this state of mind rn when im in thjs much pain literally nothing is helping at all. even if i wasnt also strugglign mentally for other reasons this would be insane to deal with. its been 10 fucking years of just eternal decline the pain gets worse and worse im developing increasingly dangerous symptoms i literally *physically* on a chemical level can't get anywhere close to a healthy amount of sleep because everything is so fucked up in my brain. 3-5 nights a week i cant even lie down all the way because the pain gets worse because the pressures so bad and no one can help me no one can improve any of this even a little bit. maybe i get lucky and in 6-9 months time the new injection reduces the symptoms enough to get back to my previous level of disability where i [checks notes] uh 'still cant function in a basic way but at least get more than 2-3 hours of lucidity per day' and thats maybe 60% likely. 40% chance it has little-no effect and the nhs refuses to fund it long term and my literal last hope for any relief from this hell is lost. and i cant even bring myself to be hopeful about the medication working because i have lost all sense of optimism or belief in my own body and dont know that ill ever get it back. given the symptoms and my dad getting diagnosed with the same thing theres close to 100% certainty my migraines are literally just a result of spinal instability in my neck that could be fixed surgically but its literally impossible to get in the uk and the sums of money needed even just to get assessed are so astronomical it will literally never happen. i cant do this for the rest of my life! i cant spend 30-40-50-however many years exhausted and distraught and in agony with absolutely no reprieve or hope or change. whats the point! what do i have to live for? media consumption? i cant even hold a conversation online about things i like anymore. when was the last time i managed to reply more than 2-3 times before the conversation fizzled out or i got too sick to be online or i forgot i was talking at all and just disappeared. i will never be able to go back to school i will never have any kind of work that fulfils me in any way. ill probably never regain my ability to read even close to as well as before. my drawing ability will keep deteriorating and ive already lost all patience and affection for the process of making art in any form. ill never be able to regularly do the things i used to love like hike and play team sports and act on stage. ill never get back my mathematical ability ill never get to study physics like i wanted ill keep losing parts of myself by inches and miles every time something in my body deteriorates. i lost everything i cared about at 16 and the only thing that kept me alive was my hope that i could recover some semblance of it, and then i almost died a few dozen times and my hope wavered but at least i had my fucking stubbornness and now i dont rven have that. i have no spite or rage or tenacity or ferocious desire to prove myself against all the odds anymore im just tired. physically mentally spiritually its all just over and done i got nothing left to give to this fight now. what is the point of suffering through it all if the struggle is so utterly painfully meaningless.

#suicide tw and discussions of medical shit this is a deepky depressing post lol. bye

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

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Whumptober Day 13: Chemical Pneumonia

CW: Medical whump, sick whumpee, intimate whumpers, pet whump, dehumanization

Giovanni Rossi belongs to @slaintetowhump, and Ridley Lordin belongs to @moose-teeth. Both are used with permission.

“Vanni…” Ridley’s voice held an edge of something Connor had never heard before, and he struggled to focus on it, to define it, to give it a name. His hand on Connor’s forehead was cool and dry, and Connor’s skin was soaked in sweat where he lay on a cot in a room somewhere back behind the kitchen.

“I know,” Rossi said, sitting in a chair, staring off out a window, flicking at his thumbnail with his finger. Connor’s eyes moved that way, went unfocused, struggled to see Rossi with any clarity. The mob boss sat leaning forward, his suit rumbled and wrinkled, and something about that meant something. There was something in his face that Connor didn’t understand, either. Something new.

“Vanni, they thought he was you.”

“I know, Ridley!” Rossi never snapped at Ridley, but here it was, and Connor forced in a hitching, shaky inhale around the tremendous, inescapable weight pressing down on him, determined to keep breathing long enough to understand. “I know they did.”

“And they fucking poisoned him and then dumped him to fucking die-”

“I know!” The two men went silent for a second, Ridley staring with shock at Rossi and Rossi glaring furious towards the window without looking back.

Connor’s breath, rattling in his struggling lungs, was the only sound in the room beyond the soft beeping of a machine that Connor thought might be tracking… something. There were numbers on the machine, and it connected to something clipped onto his finger. The number went up, sometimes, or down, sometimes. There was an IV line with two bags dripping something into his arm, too. He couldn’t see the numbers, but they could. When the bags were low, or the numbers on the machine went down, they brought back the medic.

“Did they think he was you when they poisoned him? Were they trying to kill you?” Ridley’s voice was low, but it wasn’t angry, and Connor couldn’t understand why. Ridley’s fury should be burning through him, a wildfire that could kill Connor and Demetri if they weren’t careful. A cheerful destruction that would tame Ridley’s temper only by damaging whatever happened to be in his way. But… that wasn’t what Connor heard in his voice, the voice he loved most in the world.

Because he had to. Because he was trained to.

“I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Rossi’s eyes narrowed a little, then he seemed to force himself to relax, all at once. His hair was mussed from running his hands back through it, a bit flopping over his forehead. “I’d guess-... more likely they meant to kill him for not being me.”

Connor had never seen Rossi look so… off before. He whined and pushed his head up into Ridley’s hand, his sweaty black hair against the cool dry palm of his master, and swallowed just to feel the safety of his collar around his throat. The straps of the clear mask currently covering his nose and mouth felt like the straps of a muzzle, for a second, and he almost welcomed the feeling.

I wouldn’t punish you with the muzzle if I didn’t want you to not have to wear it one day, kitten.

“Please-” Connor’s voice was weak, barely a hoarse whisper. Both men looked at him, at once, and Connor’s eyes traveled lazily from one to the other and back again.

“Sssshhh.” Ridley Lordin’s voice held tenderness, and nothing else, as he stroked over Connor’s hair, let his fingers run soothingly through it. It was terrifying, the lack of anger, that he was devoid of the maliciousness that Connor associated with being protected. “Sssshhh, kitten, you’re okay. It’ll be okay. The medic said we’ll know if you’re out of the woods soon, yeah? Just hold on for me and try to get some rest.”

I’m only supposed to rest when you say-

Connor tried to form new words, but his voice wouldn’t cooperate with his brain’s need to speak. All he could manage was a whistle.

The medic had been the one to listen to Connor’s lungs first, while Ridley and Rossi had stood to the side, after he’d been located dumped in front of Ridley’s company’s skyscraper. Connor didn’t remember that part. He’d woken up fighting for every hint of oxygen, already in a car speeding back to the house in the country, with Ridley’s hand in the center of his back, between his shoulder blades.

Then there had been nothing, again, for a while. Then something - the house, the little room they put Connor and Demetri in when they were too injured to go to the basement or in their masters’ bed.

He’d woken up, more or less. Connor’s eyes had managed to focus long enough to notice that Rossi stood in the doorway while Ridley and the medic looked him over. Rossi held the little bell that was normally hooked on Connor’s collar, rolling it between thumb and forefinger over and over again, muffling its gentle chime. Then Connor had had to close his eyes - keeping them open was too much work, too much effort.

The medic had listened to Connor’s breathing with the cool of the stethoscope against his front, and his back, and then they’d looked up at their employers, expression cool and carefully devoid of feeling. Have you ever heard a death rattle before?

No, Ridley said at the same time Rossi said, Couple of times.

Well, you’re hearing it now.

Ridley had reacted with something like surprise - Rossi hadn’t. Rossi, after all, knew what the sound meant before the medic ever said it out loud.

Connor’s bell had dropped to the floor, and Rossi stepped on it, swearing softly in Italian. The crunch of the metal being flattened under the weight of Rossi’s boot and his anger had been enough to make Connor flinch, and begin to cough and cough, forcing out air when he couldn’t breathe in.

The machine they’d already hooked up to him began to beep, high-pitched and fast, and there was swearing and movement, and Connor’s eyes didn’t open for a while. When they did, he had something strapped over his nose and mouth, and breathing was a little easier - and the machine was beeping softly, far more calmly, somewhere behind and to the left.

He’d come back to the medic saying, softly, someone stays in the room with him until he’s out of the woods, if you want him to live.

He’s mine, Ridley said, but there was a tremor to his usual certainty. I fucking want him to fucking live, Cain.

My husband’s pet isn’t going to die from this. Rossi’s accent was thicker, intruding into his usual unmoved cool.

Then I suggest you assign someone to sit here with him until he stops needing help to breathe. The medic never betrayed even the slightest tremble of anxiety in their calm, even voice.

How long is that going to take?

He’s coughing up blood and his lips are blue. I’ll do my best, but-

He better fucking live, Cain, if you want to fucking live. Ridley’s voice had been vicious, his rage threaded through with that strange feeling Connor couldn’t name.

Now the two of them both sat in the room with him, and Connor didn’t understand the looks on their faces. He didn’t understand the edge that came with their conversation. He couldn’t seem to get a hold on how they kept looking at him. Had he done something wrong? He couldn’t remember - he’d been going with Rossi to the fighting rings, and they’d stopped somewhere for breakfast, and someone had come up to Connor…

Most of that part was gone, a blur.

They’d worn masks, but one, who had torn his off when he realized it wasn’t Giovanni Rossi he’d kidnapped at all.

He’d been dumped in front of Ridley’s building shortly after, but not until they’d made him… what? Breathe something? Drink something? That part was lost, so much of it was lost, so much…

Connor must have dropped back out again. He opened his eyes and Ridley and Rossi were sitting together, not apart. Bleary black eyes traveled up over their faces. His breaths felt less like labor, and more natural. The mask was still strapped to his face, hissing cool oxygen into his throat, down into his lungs, to be soaked up and spread through his bloodstream. His heart had stopped pounding with desperate effort to spread what little breath he had.

His fingers twitched, and Connor moved on hand to grip into Ridley’s pants, thumb moving over the soft, expensive pinstripe.

Ridley looked up, and Connor stared, sure he must be hallucinating.

Were there shadows under Ridley’s eyes? Had he not been sleeping?

“Hey, kitten,” Ridley said, gently, and his hand was back in Connor’s hair. He relaxed into the touch, eyes fluttering closed and then open again. “You sound a little better, huh?”

“He does,” Rossi confirmed. He looked tired, too, and Connor’s eyebrows knitted together. There was a sense of golden light, pinkish-tinged, and he turned his head enough to see the window.

“M-morning…?” He managed, muffled by the oxygen mask, lips moving slowly.

“Yeah, buddy.” Ridley gave a little laugh. “Yeah, it’s morning. But Cain says you’re over the worst of it, so it’s uphill from here on out, kitten.”

“You… awake all night?” His voice was a whispery, raspy nothing-sound, and how they could hear him over the machine beep and the hiss of oxygen was beyond him, but they did.

Rossi snorted, but a slight smile played at the corners of his mouth. “We were.”

“... both of you?”

“Both of us.” Rossi sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, and then he laid his hand over Ridley’s, on Connor’s hair. Connor found himself trying, and failing, to purr. All he managed was a weak, broken rumble. “There he is. You’re going to feel better in no time, precious boy.”

“Then we’re going to figure out who did this, and we’ll fucking kill them,” Ridley said, and Connor saw a reassuring flare of his anger behind his comforting smile, and relaxed a little. If Ridley was angry at someone else, that was good. That was what… that was good.

“Why… up?”

Rossi laughed, but it was a dry, exhausted sound. “Because we were worried about you, Connor.”

Connor frowned, but their expressions, their conversations, Rossi’s boot crushing Connor’s bell under his heel, Ridley’s hand on his forehead and the sensation-memory of a kiss pressed between Connor’s eyes…

What he hadn’t understood was that they were worried about him.

They collared him, and kept him, and that collar - being owned - meant he was safe. Meant they would kill for him, because only they were allowed to hurt him. And after this… they would kill for him. To keep him safe.

To keep him safe, to be hurt only by them.

Connor breathed out, and his eyes closed again.

Safe.

As close to safe as he would ever be again… until they were tired of him.

@burtlederp @astrobly @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @whumpiary

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mistdrinkersblade · 3 years ago

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Culmination

It’s time.

The heavy winds of Zadnor’s plains whipped his hair back harshly. Sand and dirt and ash beat against his clothes, but it didn’t bother him for a moment. Syla was ready. Nothing and no one could deny him this moment.

In the past few weeks, Syla had spent what time he had to spare amongst the members of Bozja’s resistance. Though at first it seemed like a far fetched dream, their movement had gone from a torch in the night to a roaring blaze. Fighters and supporters from nations all around rose up to aid their cause: stopping the Garlean Empire’s defected IVth Legion. Everything, every single moment, had led up to this. To this fruition.

The heavy leather armor he sported, a gift from “Bajsaljen Ulgasch, was designed to mimic the look of Bozjan aesthetics. And though it wasn’t his homeland, Syla proudly wore them. The large gunblade clipped to his back was another, but this one carried far more significance. It was a symbol of freedom and liberation to be driven directly into the IV Legion’s heart.

Syla stopped approach, turning his head for just a brief moment to see his allies. A small menagerie of fighters, of all creeds and races, had banded together behind him. As their goal loomed in the distance: the Dalriada. The IV Legion’s gargantuan airship, now permanently grounded thanks in part to the resistance’s clever plot. The hulking behemoth smoking from their attack as its crew could be seen scrambling like ants. Clearly preparing for a fight. And one was certainly on the horizon. Just as he was about to give the order to march, Syla’s ears picked up something. Footsteps. Armored ones. And all stepping in rhythmic unison.

He knew what was coming. It was him. He was here.

Without a second thought, Syla quickly drew his gunblade as several of his fighters prepared their weapons as well. The wind storm had kicked up so much dust it was obscuring their view of the path ahead. Only the sound of boots marching in unison growing louder face any indication. So in turn, he decided to make the first move.

“GABRANTH!”

His voice carried as hard as he could make it, throat straining from the volume of his shout. He wanted to be heard. He had to be heard. To shout above the raging wind for all to hear and to convince himself he was ready. It all came down to this moment. “COME OUT, YOU COWARD! FIGHT ME!”

It was now. This was the culmination of four summers. Four summers since that night.

“So. You’re the one causing all of this noise. And for what?”

The man’s voice almost rattled from inside of his helmet as he stared the pair of viera down. The halls of Castrum Valnaini were empty, save for the three men in the armory. Syla Mistdrinker, one of the Dalmascan resistance fighters who had made a name for himself recently. Vali, one of his companions, a tall and slender black mage with flowing silvery hair.

And Legatus of the IVth Legion, Noah van Gabranth.

Having been fed up with Lente's Tears’s indirect tactics as of late, Syla and a few of the more impatient members had concocted a scheme of sorts. Rather than starve the beast from their homeland, they preferred to cut the head off. An assassination of the sitting ruler, Grabanth. Even though it had been in violence of direct orders from their superior, they took matters into their own hands. Fran might have been furious when they returned, but that might be cushioned if they presented the Legatus’ helmet.

But things were different now. Face to face with the man who held the entire country by iron grip, and the two men of twenty summers could do naught but almost quake in their boots. His sleek, intimidating armor deterred them for only a moment before Syla spoke up. “Noah van Gabranth, we are here. To make you pay. For everything you’ve done to Dalmasca, you must answer with your life!”

And with that, the young viera charged at Gabranth, wildly swinging his axe at him in an almost supernatural frenzy. But it was short lived, as Gabranth’s quick swordplay quickly and easily deflected the oncoming axe to the floor. A few chunks of stone leaping into the air as Syla’s axe smashed into them, only to be swung back around. His companion, Vali, gripping his staff tight to unleash a rain of fire on the armored man, but almost seemed to have no impact. It was going to be a long, long night.

“Come now, is that truly the best you have to offer? I had thought you wanted to kill me.”

Gabranth stood poised and elegant, pointing one of his twin swords at the pair of viera. Mere moments of combat with someone so skilled had felt like entire eons.. “I will admit, boys. You show promise, you show skill. And most importantly, you show potential.” The echo of his voice from inside of his helmet drove Syla mad, but he could do nothing but guard himself as he panted. He had exhausted almost all of his strength trying to kill him, again and again. But he had only done so much as dent the Legatus’ armor.

Blood dripping from his face as he cupped it, one of Gabranth’s sword strikes had cut deep into his left cheek. “B...bastard…” Syla huffed, trying to take one more swing, which was deflected yet again. “But no discipline! You charge in alone, with little allies to cause distraction. And for what? To kill me? You should know better. You should know your limits. And you now will pay the price for such steep arrogance.”

The clanking of armor echoing as the Legatus moved in closer, weapons poised for one final strike down. That was, until, a brilliant flash of light filled the room. Vali, having fished out a small, makeshift bomb he had concocted earlier, smashed it on the ground. A loud, high pitched boom and a flash of light filled the room as the black mage grabbed Syla by his arm. “Move. Now!” He nearly screamed at him as he scrambled to his feet.

Half leaning on his friend, Syla grunted as he hoisted to his feet. He could only turn his head to see Gabranth growing smaller in the distance, attempting to recover from the blinding bomb. The redheaded viera could do nothing but try to keep up and shudder. He was bloodied. He was worn. He was fighting back tears and anger and unbridled rage. The Mistdrinker had failed.

“Now, that’s not a very nice thing to say, lad. Say, where’s your manners?”

Syla’s memories shattered in an instant. He had gotten distracted, but no more. The viera’s head shot up once he heard that voice. No. No, no no. It couldn’t be.

As the opposing group finally marched out of the storm, the viera’s eyes settled on the front figure. His leather gloves gripped to the handle of his weapon so tight they both sounded like they threatened to break. Syla gritted his teeth to the point for a moment he feared he might break one. His anger and fear swelled up for a moment and then sank along with his heart all in an instant.

Standing where the IVth Legion’s Legatus should have been standing was the older hyur man. Lyon rem Helsos.

“Expecting someone else? Sorry to piss in your tea, lad.” Lyon spoke up, the Pilus prior cocking his head to one side and then the other. His hand on his hip as if he were having casual conversation. And with two dozen imperial soldiers standing behind him, weapons at the ready. Syla took an instinctive step forward, which caused a number of Lyon’s soldiers to almost spring into action. And they might have, were it not for the Beast King’s hand jutting outward as if to say “Stay where you are. Or else.”

“Where is he? Where’s Grabanth, Helsos?” Syla barked at the older man, he couldn’t hide the anger in his face. His demand causing a laugh from Lyon as he casually picked at his teeth for a moment. Was he taking any of this seriously?!

The hyur picked his head back up with a smug look as he gestured back towards Syla standing opposite. “You see, our dear Noah is a very busy man. So busy in fact, that he couldn’t even make it. Had to oversee something back allll the way in Dalmasca.”

“LIAR!” Syla wailed, almost lurching forward for a moment as he interrupted Lyon’s speech. The fire burning in his eyes only focused on the older man instead. His outburst only earned a sneer from the Beast King, who in turn laughed heartily. “Oh, full of rage today, are we? Don’t worry, lil’ rabbit. I’ll still play with you!” With a hefty grunt, Lyon swung his axe over his shoulder and loudly cracked his neck as he jerked his head side to side. “After all, I do still owe you for Lacus Litore. And what you did to my precious beasts.” He stared at Lyon in long, angered silence for what felt like days. Gabranth...isn’t here? He’s not here? No, that’s. That’s impossible. He’s lying. He’s lying…

“E-Even if he’s not….” Syla grunted, stammering on his words at first as he tried to compose himself. He couldn’t show weakness, not to anyone. “We have a goal to accomplish today. You can either surrender yourself to us. Or…” He grunted, pointing his gunblade towards the hyur in front of him. “I can beat you to bloody consciousness and drag your senile old body back to put your arse on trial! And that’s if I don’t feel like cutting an old man down where he stands right now!”

The hatred and acid in Syla’s words fell on Lyon’s ears, making the old man grin wicked. This was what he was waiting for. Not some skirmish against a few untrained men. But a worthy, challenging opponent. This was what the Beast King craved. Waving his axe in return, Lyon clicked his tongue and shifted his stance. No more playing around, from either of them. Without a moment’s passing, Syla sprung forth off of one heel, launching himself like a bullet towards the hyur.

Lyon, in return, mimicked his movements and the two clashed. Metal against metal, gunblade against axe, as their weapons met and the two men poured their strength into the struggle. The groups behind each of them took that as a signal and began their attack, a skirmish breaking out around the Beast King and the Mistdrinker.

The assault on the Dalriada was about to begin. Bozja’s fate hung by a single thread. And a new chapter in history would soon have its bloody start.

#Syla Mistdrinker #Syla Drabbles #(i'm emo after Zadnor okay)#(this whole scenario has been on my mind literally since day 1 of Bozja and i'm FERAL)#(also I just wanted to write out some of Syla's feelings and anger)#(I will now proceed to die of embarrassment in my hole!#(also excuse any typos i'll probably re-re-edit it i get into a writing frenzy sometimes)

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