#medic resident evil

[missin-you-already]

Liz May Brice as the medic, Olga Danilova || Resident Evil (2002)

[nshtn]

Doctor Wesker has run plenty of experiments on his patients for the sake of science. You, once his patient and now his charge, are caught in the maelstrom of an intense obsession and Progenitor's effect on his finer palate of emotions.

The latest experiment is just how far he can take you when he calculates your interests and collaborates your desires.

You're such a good, good subject, prime for research, aren't you?

1.9k, tags: medical - medplay;gloves;labcoat;dubious science experiments;medsker - xreader oneshot;crack, nsft - blood;biting/marking;dom wesker sub reader;edging;facefucking;light sadomasochism;overstim;praise;restraints, PWP/gn reader. i think im ovulating help

You moan, arching pathetically as Wesker’s tongue licks an experimental stripe across your sex. You’re tied and leaking onto his tongue, humiliated by your eager reaction after so many months without stimulation. It had taken so little to get you to this state.

Wesker found you such a fascinating subject. He knew you were attracted to him – he knew the way your gaze dragged down his features when you thought he wasn’t looking, how you’d privately admire his body when his eyes swept with preoccupation across paperwork. You’d flexed your fingers when they wrapped around his forearm when he helped you up days ago. You averted your gaze when his face was too close to yours when you’d nearly bumped into him, once, and he smelled the tide of your pheromones wash over him.

He could read you like a book, but could he draw the prize of your ultimate affections across his face?

It had taken due effort on Wesker’s part to learn about what it was you prized in sex. You were quiet and reserved even if you couldn’t hide your body’s microexpressions. Your physiology revealed things you had no idea it did, things he’d never admit he could read – like how, when your hands found his face early in your relationship and you let your thumbs find their place in the hollows of his cheeks to stare into his red-rimmed eyes, thick with unspoken emotion, your breath caught and your thighs went taut. But it wasn’t the if – he’d solidified that – it was the how that was the forensic mystery.

Admittedly, you were also terribly cute. A devil, really.

A languid, slower stroke rolls across the tip of you, slick with your own juices, before he curls his tongue around it harshly, flicking, tugging. You let out a whimper and roll your hips a little. He tightens his gloved fingers in response, calculated, and you feel his well-trimmed nails dig into the meat of them even through the black nitrile. It’s so deliberate it’s a different kind of sin than aimless lust; this was aimed, pinprick and target-locked.

That was alright – the mystery was part of the fun, the chase for something he never thought he’d find a curiosity in. When he finally walked in on you one night he was given all the information he needed to attempt his experiment: he supposed it should’ve been obvious – if you were attracted to him, and you associated him with playing the role of the doctor, that’s what you’d want, right?

Because that’s what you’d been watching.

He offered you the real thing. You looked at him like he offered you Narnia and tore the stars down all in one. The look in your eyes – a savory, delicious mixture of surprise, lust and shame – made even him stir. He had to consciously bite back the clearing of his throat, the flare of his nostrils. How inappropriate of him – trite. Control.

“Curious how you make me lack it,” he waxes silkily from his position between your thighs, one hand moving to your wrists – which were ziptied together with two tangled admission bracelets he’d perfected and printed off as set dressing – to tug them down, to muffle himself on his own terms, nose jutting against you. He pressed the flat of his tongue down and drenched it in you before returning to lap at you a little faster.

You corkscrew on him, trying to restrain your movement. “What?” You sound dazed, drunk off the high of it all, and he finds it intoxicating. It’s one thing to read about these things or hear them in isolation – it’s another altogether to wring them from such a pliant patient.

You don’t know what he means, do you? Too deep beneath the waves that swell in the center of you to catch the rocks, he guesses. The hand on your wrists leaves to press itself flat on the underside of your ass, grasping and squeezing and pushing you up a little and off him. He drinks in both the sight of your slick stringed against his tongue and a breath. “Control. You make me lose control,” he finalizes, and then he takes you into his mouth and sucks a little too hard and a little too fast to punctuate his cause: you.

You yelp and try to wriggle away from the sudden overstimulation, but he doesn’t let you. Suddenly, you feel the extent of his strength bearing down on you, keeping you close as you flounder and gasp, sharp tip of his nose bumping up against the tuft of fur at the base of you as his tongue purrs.

You swear, then, that it’s not just his tongue; you swear with all of you that it’s his entire body, emanating from the core of him. But you have no time to figure it out as he takes and takes and drinks his fill of you, the sinful echo of his adoration drowned out by the drone of your blood pumping loud in your ears.

Even without the wanton ambiance, you can’t help how you buck against him feverishly, now, seeking further contact, your muscles roiling against your will to keep them still. He chuckles low and reverentlessly between you, and you can’t help but let a string of expletives drool from you as you fight against the tide of pleasure that threatens to consume you.

Or maybe it’s him who’s consuming you, all around you, his deft, exploratory tongue far too rough and quick to contend with against the boiling, claiming heat in your abdomen. “F-Fuck, Wesker, I—” you groan, muscles tightening. It’d be painful if you weren’t so preoccupied.

Wesker pulls away, then, leaves you stranded. You curse even more. His tongue retracts, clicks against his perfect teeth. You can’t find the shame in you, buried alive in the need for stimulation as he cages your hips with his hands again to force you still. You growl a little. “I’ve been nothing but giving, haven’t I?” His voice, though deep and reverberating through your ligaments from the lean of his cheek into your leg, is playful.

“Can’t I take a little?”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement, and you know it, even in your haze. “Please?” you beg, trying your hand. You have none to bear. In your frustration, you pout.

“Poor little fly,” Wesker says, slow, breath hot and settling against your twitching sex. You swallow your placation as he continues, “regretting the spider’s parlor, hm?” The chuckle he gives is darker than the last as if he truly savors having you trapped like this. Maybe he does. Maybe it’s not some kind of roleplay anymore. As your sex adjusts to the lack of stimulation, your cheeks flood with crimson embarrassment, no less red than the strong bathe of it out of his lidded eyes.

Each blink envelops your thighs in darkness when they torpidly drift shut – before you steep in it again as they snap open. You can tell what direction he’s looking, whether he’s focused on you or not, by the way the light falls on your naked body.

His labcoat is ruined.

You moan a little again, despite yourself, and you follow it up with a piteous, stirring whimper, incredulous at your own reaction to something so godforsaken and filthy. “N-No, I don’t regret it,” you say, testing the water. “—you,” you correct, then stumble over your vulnerability.

“A—ah!” Whatever you were going to add is stolen in the nitrile glove that rubs up and down, suddenly, stroking you and making you shake a little, abruptly very, very perceptive to the sensitivity. Protest dies in your throat when he presses his thumb flat in soothing little circles that pop with pleasure, your hips leaning into the contact tentatively.

“I should really write a paper on you,” he says, flaring his nostrils. You smell amazing like this… you’re starting to get to him. “like I said I would.” You hear his tongue flit out and your gaze curiously drifts down in your stupor. “Eyes away. It’s no surprise if you’re peeking,” he chides, and as if robotic, you snap your chin up, mumbling incoherently. He hums at that, a satisfactory sound that thrums deep where you need it to.

God, Wesker needs to commemorate this. He can’t help it anymore. He wishes he could keep you suspended like this… but eventually you’ll both need water and food. How piteous, the human body; how piteous, his mind, for letting him get so carried away.

This was bad science.

This must be against the oath, and it’s certainly against doctrine, but he can’t stop himself.

Without warning, you feel his teeth sink into the inside of your right thigh and you careen away from the wickedness of it even though it makes you dizzy with lust. You don’t expect the sensation: almost every tooth but six at the front are sharp, like canines, and he’s not gentle or sparing, sucking his claim of you in your supple flesh like a brand until he feels hot red drip from his lips and mar his chin. Only then does he pull away, admiring his work. You hear his breath: it runs ragged and deep, affected unmistakeably. This has turned him on.

He’s a bit of a sadist, then, isn’t he? But right now, with all the hormones pumping through you, you’re masochistic enough. You can handle it. You’re a good little patient. You taste so good, so sweet, a forbidden fruit. A sudden, heavy, sex-drunk thought hits him: what is love, if not taking a bite out of something, feeling the weight of it in your mouth and the copper of it sliding down your throat?

You pulse with the pain of it, a feeling distorted into pleasure by the natural opiate he’s dragged to your receptors. You manage to find purchase and grind down on his face, finally, and he doesn’t stop you. Instead, he lets a mangled groan tear free and his forearms wrap around your thighs, forcing you down on his face while he sucks and licks and swirls, head bobbing, utilizing what he’s learned from the entire experiment to bring you to a boiling crescendo.

You cum crying Wesker’s name in stuttered, puffing, swollen gasps as you buck against his face and cover him in you. It’s such a beautiful sight and he doesn’t want it to end, filling the void in him with ego at how he makes you keen and cry for him. You are so beautiful that it burns his skin; he’s flushed, cheeks rosy in your name, so uncharacteristically affected by your display that the contrast sustains both of you. He sinks his mouth onto you and forces the last vestiges of your orgasm from you with no mercy, and you writhe in his unrelenting grasp.

You stop slowly, then, aftershocks rolling over you as he, too, ceases the brutal assault, though he lets you up off him only fractionally as if in warning of what brews beneath a surface cohesion.

Your breathing slows down as you catch yourself, slowly fading back into reality, body drooping a little. You feel a fuzz caress the edges of your vision. “T-Thank you,” you say, sheepishly, as your faculties return to you. Did he enjoy it? Did you do well enough? It swims through you, suddenly conscious.

There’s a thoughtful, impolite hum from him, as if considering something, which interrupts your mounting train of thought. You cock your head a little, sighing, hair damp… why hasn’t he moved away yet?

He sounds deeply phased and disorderly when he speaks again, breath hot and heavy and a head full of excuses primed to crumble any semblance of your resolve. “I think… I think I’ll need more data than that.”

[robinzombiezz]

Some more Luis doodles, he won’t leave my mind

He’s like my version of brain rot, like, I genuinely tweak out of anything even remotely close is mentioned, I can’t stop drawing him to the point I forgot how to draw Leon and then tried to draw him again then ended up just drawing Luis…

[i-wanna-perish]

th3ze f0rtn1te s3rverz r gett!ng out of h4nd bru...

[rhymeswithfart]

Important info below, please read and share.

Taken from this list. More info under cut.

This is a vetted campaign. Low on funds, £6,004/20,000

"Hazem Mohammed Al-Bardaweel: Hazem has lost his wife and children in a bombing that injured him badly. He needs help starting anew while grieving the loss of his family to genocide."

El Shab Hussein is a trusted vetter. More info about vetting here

Campaign description:

"I am Hazem Mohammed Albardawill. I am 29 years old. I used to live with my small family. My wife is pregnant and my children are Imad and Jad. We are very happy in our lives. On the evening of the black day, October 11, at eight o’clock in the evening, our house was bombed. I did not feel anything. I was taken to the hospital where my injury occurred and I stayed in intensive care for several days. Then after... It was during my coma that I first began to ask about my children and my wife, and when I learned of their martyrdom, and after that I did not feel alive, for my soul had left me. I mean, then, without shelter, without treatment, without work, or family, I felt that I had nothing. Everything was gone with the bombing, even my dreams. Yesterday, my family and neighbors needed to work in order to provide myself with a shelter to help me from the heat and cold of winter, and I need the required treatment in order to return to how I was before the damned war Which left a fire in my heart that will never be extinguished. I do not want the impossible. All I want is for you to provide me with money so that I can provide myself with shelter and treatment. To live a decent life"

[the-bar-sinister]

The former STARS captain turned bio-terrorist had a sadistic smirk twisted on his lips, his black glasses reflecting Chris’ bound form, his hands tied behind him in the chair he was strapped to.

AO3 link

posted previously to old blog

[silvercap]

Medwhump May 01 -Under Anesthesia-

The first thing Leon becomes aware of is a faint pressure in his side, confusion filtering sluggishly through him as he struggles to remember why that might be a problem. His eyes won't open, his body relaxed and unwilling to obey his attempts to move, and Leon decides he must be trapped in some sort of dream. He feels like it---everything is a few layers removed from reality, like every sensation has been dulled. It's only when the pressure suddenly increases harshly, the smallest pinch of pain drawing him further out of the haze, that he begins to feel anxious.

He thinks he can hear voices. They refuse to make sense when he tries to listen in, babbling words that sound like jargon he can't understand, distant clinking and beeping soon rising above. Leon would frown if he could. Where the hell is he? The last thing he remembers, he was with Piers, a gunshot wound bleeding him dry from where it had been opened in his abdomen.

Leon's eyelids finally open with a flutter, fear pushing him past the cobweb barrier of sleep that holds him hostage. Bright lights immediately blind him, all sterile steel and clean white ceiling above. It looks like a hospital, but... Leon doesn't feel like he's in a hospital bed. He can't feel much of anything, actually, except for another flare of faint pain that prompts him to try and look downwards without moving his head.

He shouldn't have.

Fear trickles down his spine as Leon takes in the forms hovering over him, a cold sweat prickling the back of his neck. He's not breathing on his own---the tubes leading down his throat make sure of that---but he swears he can feel it catch, panic making it difficult to focus. He's about to start trying to scream when a sudden voice cuts through it all, nervous.

"Mr. Kennedy?" A young-looking woman meets his gaze when he rolls his eyes back to centre, face covered in a medical mask and hair swept up under a fabric cap. "Can you hear me?"

Leon blinks, unable to do much else. The woman's eyes widen further, and the entire room explodes into chaos. People move above him too quickly for him to follow, the young woman disappearing for a moment. Someone hovers over his arm with a syringe. Leon tries to swallow and panics when he can't, the pressure in his side suddenly overwhelming. He doesn't like this, not one bit.

The young woman appears again in the corner of his eye. "Go back to sleep," she says softly, reaching to adjust the tubes snaking around his face. "You're alright. We're going to get you back under, again."

Heaviness washes through Leon's system as she speaks, even the fear not enough to keep his eyelids from closing. He's never been more grateful to fall asleep.

[silvercap-art]

The comic from glasshouse ! (ch 4)

[desired-misery]

So we all know Luis has a scar from Las Plagas, which implies he needed surgery to get it out... but who did the surgery? Did he do it on himself? Did this man perform a major surgery on himself to remove the parasite pieces after he killed it (I assume that he needed to remove the parts that died, as Leon and Ashley seemed to only need the laser machine to do kill it in the game)? Or was his not at an advanced stage yet so he only needed to stun it/mostly kill it before going in a removing it? How long did it take him? Did he have to break because he was worried he was going to pass out/actually pass out from the freakiness of it all/his hands were shaking so bad/he got bloody and didn't want to drop his tools?

[loverboyplural]

— Leon Kennedy inspired stimboard for @luvjospeh's fortnite problem ! /j

x . x . x x . x . x x . x . x

[coyotecoining]

 Albert Wesker Personality Disorder (AWPD)

 Albert Wesker Personality Disorder is an MUD where you have the exact same personality as Albert Wesker from Resident Evil.

To be diagnosed with Albert Wesker Personality Disorder, an individual must exhibit the following symptoms consistently over time:

Grandiosity: A grandiose sense of self-importance and superiority, with beliefs of being special or unique like a superior being.

Manipulativeness: Engaging in manipulative behaviors to exploit others for personal gain, often without guilt or remorse.

Deceitfulness: Habitual lying, conning, or tricking others for personal benefit.

Lack of Empathy: Showing a lack of empathy or concern for the feelings and needs of others.

Callousness: Displaying a callous disregard for the rights and well-being of others.

Power-Seeking Behavior: Persistent efforts to achieve power, control, or dominance over others in various contexts.

Charismatic and Charming Exterior: Often presenting a charming and charismatic demeanor to manipulate and influence others.

-Tord

[nshtn]

thank you very much! @destinationtrekk

wesker handles the hard cases. wesker handles the cases least likely to make it. he handles the very young cases in very bad conditions, and the old cases that nobody has time for, and the people who come in with makeup-applied bruises seeking attention.

do you know how hard it is to do your job with everything boiling and foaming under the pot lid? did you know it all builds like a natural geyser, and then it builds pressure and blows that lid off, all hydrogen peroxide and potassium iodide of it?

he has to keep the person who activates these feelings in him so incomprehensibly close to feel secure about his attachment that he'd do better to just consume them whole. now, he comes home from work sullen, pouting until he sticks his head into your chest, and moves his arms around your back, and with an ease very becoming of a man with Progenitor, he lifts you into his arms, making you wrap your legs around his waist as he silently buries himself in you and inhales greedily. when he finally lets his breath escape him it's almost a whimper, and you can tell he needs this like he needs air. he presses his nose next into the space between your cheek and eye, pushing his lips into the gap and leaving a trail to your forehead so soft with his pale, thin lips you could cry. "you are a necessary evil," he whispers, and you flush at his attentions as his hands seek refuge in your tousled hair.

in this moment, you are just faintly aware that you are the red string attaching him to empathy and sympathy and love and lust and interest, such a damnable, incalculable thing, you. so organic. so fallible... so beautifully fallible. but that's what he loves about you: you're not made to last, packed with preservatives in a laboratory for later dissection - the only thing he can do to pick apart your mind and label his findings is psychologically vivisect you to understand himself.

[skelletonscloset]

Ok- I have a request for a small RE fic. It’s been burning a hole in my brain: something where Leon comes back from a mission or something with some serious injuries and the reader (who maybe has some kind of medical background or smth??) has to like- convince him to let them take care of him.

Idk I’m honestly not super picky I just think it would such an interesting idea for like- angst but also comfort yk? Literally go wild

OMGGGG thank you soooo much for this Resident Evil request!! i lovedddd writing it!! i hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Mild language and depiction of wounds.

Angst/comfort

1.3k words

~ ☠️

𝔹𝕀𝕋𝔼 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝔹𝕌𝕃𝕃𝔼𝕋

You were called into work on your day off. of course you were. USSTRATCOM wasn’t good at respecting time off or vacation, always pulling people into a big mess that takes weeks to clear up.

It was late, roughly one in the morning when you got the call from Hunnigan, her worried voice over the phone begging you—almost commanding you to come in. Her words were so panicked, so fast you barely had time to make out the words “Leon” and “injured” but that was enough for you to realize why you needed to come in.

The drive to HQ felt longer than usual, maybe it was the fact your sleep was interrupted, or maybe it was the context, the fear. The building was almost completely empty when you got there, save for a few people finishing up reports and agents being sent out on other missions.

“There you are! come on, he’s in the infirmary,” Hunnigan instructed.

You were one of the few medics that had the skill level to treat whatever injuries he had and one of the only ones who was easily available and not out on their own missions. Hunnigan nodded towards the closed door, saying a few final words about what to expect and then walking away.

With a deep sigh you readied yourself. It was never easy dealing with injuries, and the way Hunnigan made it sound these had to be some pretty serious ones.

The light in the room was bright and harsh with multiple cabinets and drawers filled with medical equipment. Leon was on the bed, a grimace on his face and his eyes squeezed shut.

His honey blonde hair was messy and beads of sweat still hadn’t dried on his face. As you approached him you analyzed the injuries you could see. Scratches and cuts littered his face, a gash in his right arm and thick red blood seeped through his shirt.

“Leon what the hell happened!?” You urged as you got closer to him.

“The hell do you think?” His voice was dry and strained, one of his blue eyes opening to peer at your worry stricken face. “It’s alright.”

Your jaw tightened as you reached over for some cleaning supplies, “I think you pushed yourself too hard and did something stupid. and now you’re suffering the consequences. So no, It’s not alright.”

“Yeah well what am I supposed to do? Civilians needed help. I couldn't just leave them there.”

You dabbed a cloth with ointment around the slash on his arm, he hissed in pain. Sometimes you hated how righteous he was, how unwilling to give up he was. But it was something you’d always admired of him anyway. “Listen to me, I know you like to help people, Leon but you need to be more careful. The spain incident and Los Illuminados should’ve been a wake up call that you aren’t invincible.” You hoped that despite your lecturing him, he could understand it was out of concern

He only scoffed, “I know that.” And then he went back to being silent.

You gave him a look before taking out a roll of bandages. “You’re lucky this wasn’t too deep. what caused this?”

“A knife,” he said, rolling his head over to study your movements, eyes fixated on the way your hands carefully wrapped up his bicep in medical gauze.

You shook your head and gently grabbed the hem of his shirt. “I need you to try and sit up, I need this off so I can check the wound.”

He muttered a few incoherent grumbles of disapproval but ultimately subjected to your care. He heaved a deep groan as he sat up with your help. You slowly peeled off the shirt from around his frame and grimaced at the sight of a deep wound, either a stab or bullet entry on the side of his torso. Based on the diameters it looked as though a knife was pushed in and twisted before ripping out.

“Goddammit leon..” you muttered, immediately grabbing another cloth to clean around the wound. “You'll need stitches and I don't have access to anesthesia or lidocaine. so it looks like you’ll be biting down on a belt or something.” It was your attempt at a joke to help ease the tension.

He rolled his eyes, lips pulled into a thin line. He looked so exhausted, dark bags under his eyes. “do what you need to do.”

You walked towards one of the cabinets and pulled out some gloves, thread, and needles. In the corner of the room there was a fridge and freezer used to cool down medicine or preserve it. You grabbed a piece of ice and walked back over to him. “Here bite this.” you handed him a large medical bite wafer. “I'll make this quick.”

You eased the pain in the wound by rubbing the ice carefully around the cleaned edges before slipping the needle into his skin. Your eyes shot up to monitor his reaction in case it became too much. His jaw was set and his eyes shut.

You continued to stitch him shut, a few groans of pain escaped past the wafer as you finished up. After cutting the string and bandaging him up you sighed “all done.” He spit out the wafer into the trash and rubbed his jaw.

He opened his eyes and gave you a weary look. more sweat accumulated on his face and his breathing was more rugged and uneven. His face was still littered in bruises and cuts.

You grabbed a third cloth and dampened it, “Last thing, let me just clean you up then i’ll get you painkillers and give you instructions for what i need you to do following this.” You gently cupped his cheek, turning his face towards you. Tired blue eyes gazed up at you, thick brows furrowed in discomfort.

You dabbed the cloth against some of the cuts and wiped away some of the dirt. Your voice was shaky no matter how much you tried to relax it. “What happens when you get hurt you don’t make it home Leon… what happens when you don’t even realize you got hurt til it kills you. What if-“

“It's not going to happen,” He grabbed your wrist and raised a brow. His voice wasn’t angry or tired. It was gentle and smooth. “I know what I'm doing out there, I promise.”

You closed your eyes and sighed again, “Okay.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Of course I don't, but it doesn’t change anything.” You bit, pulling your hand from his hold and continuing to clean his face.

Once again his voice was soft and quiet, “Trust me, okay? Or maybe I just need to start having you assigned to my missions too.” Towards the end his tone was more snarky.

“Maybe. If it stops you from being so damn stubborn.” you scoffed out a laugh and set the cloth down.

You gave him a once over as you cleaned up your supplies and disposed of what wasn’t necessary. “Okay you need to be on bed rest for three weeks. And no you cannot get out of this sooner.”

Leon only rolled his eyes again but nodded, knowing all too well that arguing with you clearly wasn’t worth it. “alright alright..”

You patted down your clothes and brushed off your hands. “I'll send Hunnigan in with your medicine and I'll visit you tomorrow.” And with that you turned around.

You halted in surprise when you felt his grip around you wrist, “wait.”

You looked over your shoulder, “Yes, Leon?”

“Thank you. Seriously. Probably would’ve been worse off if it weren’t for the many times you’ve had to take care of me… so.. thanks for worrying. Even if it’s stupid.”

You almost argued back on that last point but held your tongue. “Of course leon. Any time.”

[awkward-tension-art]

Test Results

This is more or less self-indulgent to the time I had to fight tooth and nail to get a proper diagnosis for my fatigue issues. My heart goes out to everyone battling the healthcare system to get proper care for chronic diseases. My heart is with you, and I hope you find a doctor who can help get answers.

Pronouns: Gender-neutral, but I wrote this with AFAB!reader in mind.

Tw: Medical procedures, chronic illness, medical gaslighting, swearing, this has a lot of feelings put into it

Minors, get out of here. My writing isn’t for you.

“Your blood test results came back clear”

Those words would have most people feeling relief. Nothing was wrong. They were healthy.

But those words to you brought you to tears.

You sobbed in the driver seat of your car. What doctor was this? The 5th? 6th? How long did you wait to see this latest doctor? How many copays have you been charged? How much blood has been taken?

All of that, you still didn’t have answers!

You were sick. And no one seemed to care enough to find out why.

It’s all in your head.

It’s your period.

You need to lose weight.

You’re stressed.

You sobbed again. And again. Hot tears streamed down your face as you drove home. You had to pull over into a grocery store parking lot just to weep again. Getting home took twice as long.

You didn’t feel much better once you were sitting on your bed. Your tear-filled eyes kept looking at the paper in your hands.

Within range.

Negative.

All clear.

Nothings wrong.

Why were you sick?! You knew your body shouldn’t feel this way. This wasn’t normal.

Your breath hitched and you crumbled up the blood test results. They’ll be added to the ever growing file of other useless results that told you nothing.

Your face was in your hands as you broke down in frustration.

You were so tired.

Your thoughts were so overwhelming, you didn’t hear the door to your bedroom open.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” Leon, your ever sweet boyfriend, knelt in front of you, “take a breath. What’s wrong? What did the doctor say?”

“Nothing!” You wept, “still nothing! They didn’t even bother to talk to me about other referrals!” Your finger pointed to the crumbled up papers with your results.

Leon straightened out the paper to look at it, “another CBC?”

Complete blood count. The most standard of blood tests. The one that all doctors seemed to default to. The test that wasn’t helping you at all.

“They didn’t want to test for anything else.” You whimpered, shoulders shaking, “Why won’t anyone listen to me?”

His strong arms wrapped around you. Leon knew was it was like to scream for answers and only be left with silence in return. He rubbed your back, just letting you cry out your feelings.

By the end of it you were exhausted.

“I’m so tired…” you sniffled. There really wasn’t any other word for it. You were just so damn tired.

“I know.” He murmured, planting a kiss on your head. He held you so tightly. So protectively, “Want me to come with you to the next appointment?”

You debated. Your words and concerns weren’t being taken seriously. Would they listen to Leon? Would they finally do more tests than the standard ones? Would they dig deeper, and try and find the source of your misery?

“Please?” You asked softly, “I don’t…maybe they’ll listen to you.”

He scoffed, “they should be listening to you.”

“They aren’t.”

“I know.” Leon whispered, “I know. And it’s not fair.”

You largely calm down now. Still, you dreaded the idea of making another appointment just to get referred to someone else. You’ve been ping-ponged around the medical specialists in your community so many times you could probably get an Olympic medal for it.

“Next time a doctor tries to brush you off, I can go all asshole and demand for more tests.” Your boyfriend said suddenly.

You couldn’t help but snort. Maybe that could work. At least he’d be able to hold your hand while you got your blood taken again.

“I think I’d like that.” You rested your head on his shoulder.

“We’ll figure this out.” He wrapped an arm around your shoulder, “I’ll help fight for you.”

“Thanks Leon.” You mumbled, giving him a small smile.

At least he believed you. Even if no one else did.

[brew-berry-a-trash-artist]

A character bingo I was insane enough to draw

Has sat unfinished for a bit I lost motivation for this one and I’m hoping it comes back soon

[wolfboyleonsblog]

Thinking bout Leon having a medical kink...