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vrystalius · 2 months ago

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Hi. I know you're super busy and stuff with school and the events and all so no rush or anything (and we did kinda pm about it), but you recently did "Injured, but hiding" with Giyu and I was wonder if (when you have the time) you would be up for doing a Sanemi or Muzan version of that. I just find the concept intriguing. (I'm so not nice to these boys.) Anyway, it really isn't pressing but just if/when you have the time. Hope all is well and you are taking care of yourself. *hugs from afar*

Hiding an injury

You’re injured greatly after being foolishly attacked by some lower rank demon. In order to not appear like a helpless and weak human in front of your husband, you decided to hide it.

Pairing: Muzan x gn!reader

(Muzan sewing your wound)

Muzan knew the moment you stepped into his laboratory that you were injured. He needed just a small glance to know everything that needed to be known. You looked clean but your posture was hunched over, a small speck of blood on your shirt just right next to your collar. The sweet smell of blood surrounded you like a veil, urging and seducing Muzan to move closer and just ravage you all over. Despite being wounded. He smirked to himself and turned back to his experiments, waiting for you whine and tell him about your wound to please treat it for you. Since he was across the room, the severity of your wound wasn’t known to him yet.

Yet, you didn’t come to him. Instead, you dragged yourself to the bathroom and locked the door behind you. Curious, he thinks. Why not come to him first? Muzan’ll happily clean your wound and maybe take some blood samples to check on your general health as well while he’s at it. But no, you’re seemingly content taking care of yourself. Fine then. Already, his brows furrowed and a scowl tool over his face.

Meanwhile, you removed your shirt and inspected yourself in the mirror. The wound was done by a recently turned lower rank aggressively pouncing you. Its master’s smell was all over you but it attacked anyway, causing a rather large and still bleeding wound on your right shoulder. You hissed as you tried to disinfect it, but given its location it proved rather difficult. You didn’t want to go to your husband and whine about your little human pains. You knew that he hates the weak and you’re not sure if he’ll be too happy seeing the spouse he chose being so defenceless against a demon like that. Also, he’a probably busy.

But you are really struggling here, your wound refused to stop bleeding and the amount of towels you were using to try and stop it is already suspicious enough. Who knows if you’re ever going to get the colour and smell out of them? Your reflection in the mirror stared back in disappointment as you threw the bloody towels and shirt aside, opening the bathroom door. You stared at Muzan’s back and how neatly he is dressed, just like always; a black, beautifully patterned west, white button-up shirt, a black tie, his neatly ironed dress pants and shiny leather shoes. You slowly stepped forward, awkwardly fighting with your fingers behind him to wait until he’s finished with whatever he’s doing.

“You smell awfully bloody, darling. What happened?”

He never moved his gaze away from his vials, checking how the colour changed from red to a dark brown. You saw his neck tense by your silence wich made you quickly speak up.

“I-I need your help. Can you help me.. patch.. up?”

The last few words almost sounded forced as your words grew quieter and quieter. Muzan slowly turned to you, standing there, upper body bare. He saw some dried patches of blood reaching over your shoulder and simply raised an eyebrow. His hands slipped the vials back into their holders before turning around and paying his full attention to you now. His finger lifted and made a small spin, silently ordering you to turn around. You lowered your eyes in shame and spun your body slowly, exposing your wound to him. You heard his hands start to go through his desk and a lid of a vial popping off.

Muzan didn’t warn you before applying clean alcohol onto your wound. You suddenly reached behind you to grip onto his dress pangs so you can hold onto something while tanking the pain. You felt his anger brooding inside his body while cleansing your flesh-wound.

“I smell some lowly demon on you. Were you attacked?”

You nodded silently. He hummed before removing the alcohol-drenched cloth and placed it aside, now preparing a needle and a thread. Again, he didn’t warn you before sticking the needle into your skin, sewing your wound together. You cringed at the feeling. One of his hand was stretching the skin a little to make the puncturing of your skin easier. His thumb was softly caressing your shoulder, trying to comfort you silently.

“I’ll deal with whoever injured you, do not worry. Your wound is taken care off, I’ll just need to put some bandages in place.”

You knew his pride was hurt for not telling him sooner, but yet you’re thankful for his help. You nodded your head silently before being turned around by Muzan again. The bloody sewing needle was placed down onto the desk again, his hands resting on your shoulders. His face was awfully close to yours, wich would be romantic or comforting in other moments, but not in this one. In this moment, you felt his eyes ready to burn holes through you. You sensed his hurt pride and anger.

“Tell me in the future right away. I do not wish to see my wife perish so soon. Understood?”

Muzan’s eyes did not leave yours as his hands moved from your collarbone to your cheeks, giving them a small squish.

“I love you.”

You couldn’t help but grin a little.

“Love you too. Sorry for not coming to you right away, I didn’t want to bother you.”

He scoffed and placed a kiss on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. His voice was much more hushed and affectionate now.

“Nonsense, you are no disturbance. Come to me whenever, dear. I’ll always welcome you. Now, be a good wife for me, will you? A kiss, on my lips. Please.”

Even if that magic word “please” was practically pressed out by forcing himself to say it, you happily obliged. One kiss on his lips, one kiss on his nose and one on both of his cheeks will do for now.

🎃

Whumptober prompt: Injured, but hiding

Hello hello! I was planning on writing this anyway since you asked for it while were messaging (or at least expressed the wish to see a version of Injured but hiding with Sanemi or Muzan). I hoped you like it! I’m always super happy seeing you around so I really hope this made your request justice. Big, large bear hugs from afar! You’re one of the first people who began following my blog, so again, thank you for everything!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <3

My October event masterlist 🎃

#💠 house of vry 💠#💠vry’s events💠#demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #kny x reader #fluff #muzan #muzan x you #kibutsuji muzan x reader #muzan x reader #muzan x y/n #demon slayer muzan #kny muzan #muzan kibutsuji #kimetsu no yaiba muzan #yandere muzan #demon slayer x y/n #demon slayer x you

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bettsfic · 7 months ago

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dads have it right. reading the newspaper first thing in the morning is the shit. i subscribed to my local newspaper recently and i, a neurodivergent person who cannot for the life of me develop habits, immediately took to reading the newspaper with my coffee each morning. like it's some kind of evolutionary instinct: fight, flight, freeze, read the obits and sip on some lukewarm folgers at 9am. is the news depressing as hell? yeah. but now i know the local arby's failed its health inspection. i know that all those sirens i heard last night were for a domestic dispute two streets down from my apartment. i know there's a new food truck a town over. i know the middle school principal has been on administrative leave because he refused to punish a boy who stole clothes from the girls' locker room. i found out two dudes were fired from the state teachers' retirement treasury for mismanagement of funds and i called my grandma like, "hey have you heard about this?" because that's her primary income and of course she has because she watches the news 3 times a day, and we gossiped about state teachers' retirement fund embezzlement. i wake up and i don't even think about looking at my phone. i turn on the coffee pot, step outside, and grab the paper. touching grass first thing in the morning: life changing.

#my goal this year was to unsubscribe from streaming services #and use that money to subscribe to things i want to support #local news is important!#zero regrets

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normal-thoughts-official · 5 months ago

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In the remote recesses of the world, north even to the great Maghreb, live a people with a weird and offputting cousine.

The French, as they're called, partake in the consumption of unique, and oftentimes alarming, ingredients, such as snails, frogs, fish eggs, and, on occasion, juice made of rotten grapes.

The most surprising part of this appalling cultural norm is that it is not, as no doubt thought our readers, the result of famine or lack of resources. Although mainly known for their violent culture, in which it is widely accepted to burn other people's cars, (and, before modern civilization made its way to the region, even take off helpless people's heads with a giant cleaver called the guillotine), the French also have access to rich resources often not exploited by the modern world. One such place is the Landes forest, home to the adorable rabbit, which recently has become a choice of pet for those leaning towards the exotic.

No, the French don't eat such slimy, questionable items out of necessity; it is by choice. As appalling as it may sound, they actually consider the foods derived from such ingredients to be high cuisine, and dishes containing them can be particularly expensive in the small region's economy.

With the blessing of my editor, and the guarantee that a medical team specializing in gastroenterology would be at the ready in case of an emergency, I agreed to travel to the faraway region to sample some of the so-called "delicacies". They were prepared by real, native Frenchs, although inspected by a health expert to make sure the hygienization was adequate. I've always been an adventurous eater, but even I must admit that the prospect filled me with aprehension. Would I be able to stomach the foreign dishes without getting sick, or worse, offending our arson-happy hosts?

My anxieties were initially heightened by the conversation with the French who hosted me; as is typical in their culture, he was offputting and rude, often commenting on the mistakes I made on the weird, twisting tongue I was doing my best to emulate. Still, in the spirit of cultural acceptance and not getting my head cut off, I accepted his socially inapt behavior with grace.

I must admit that the rotten grapes were what I was most curious about. The juice derived from them, known as wine, is considered a delicacy, and there are hundreds of different types of it. In French culture, there are even people whose entire job is to appoint the correct choice of wine to go with any given food; such men and women are caled sommeliers and held in high regard by French society.

I quickly learned that the making of wine is something of an art to the native Frenchs. As my self-important host dizzied me with endless descriptions of different wine varieties, I realized I may have gotten too deep into the turbulent waters of the unique region's palate. Out of the exhausting and oftentimes confusing technical detail, however, I was able to extract an important piece of information: the extent of the rot is important in the making of wine.

That's right, dear reader: they actually prefer it when the grapes are more rotten! Spanning not only decades, but sometimes whole centuries, the French's grapes are left to rot in humid wooden barrels - a tradition that's been kept alive since the Middle Ages -, becoming thoroughly ruined so that their juice may be extracted for the making of wine. And the longer they have been left decomposing with their local fungus, the more valuable the juice is.

I was simply too curious to wait. And even more delighted to find out about yet another culinary tradition I didn't know about: the social gatherings known as wine and cheese, in which wine is paired with a variety of solid, yellow, rubber-like wheels derived from fat extracted from cows' milk - the cheese.

Such unique, foul-smelling dishes are a frequent part of the everyman French's life, being consumed by rich and poor alike in a variety of different recipes from all sorts of French subregions. Among them, I found yet another that would delight my intellect and terrify my stomach: gorgonzola. To the reader not quite as deep in diving into the intricacies of French culture, I shall explain: gorgonzola is but a piece of the aforementioned cheese, left to mold.

I could not believe my ears. These people drank rotten grapes and paired them with rotten cow fat, and they enjoyed it. What to us would be a nightmare scenario in a case of extreme poverty, and a surefire way to earn a trip to the hospital, to them was a quite enjoyable meal.

I later learned that gorgonzola is actually from a neighboring nation close to the French - the Italians. Although officially considered a different tribe, Italians share much in common with the French, including the love for wine and cheese, a quite long border, and a language derived from the same roots - the long-dead Latin, ancient language in which their holy book, the "Bible", was once written.

I am happy to report that my experimentation did not lead to hospital trips, and the most I got was an unusually long carsickness. But I have taken with me much more than the curious experience: traveling to France has helped me expand my horizons, meet new people, and connect with cultures other than my own. Although violent and offputting, the French can be quite amorous, and I was even gifted a piece of cheese from a little girl. It is not an experience I would like to repeat anytime soon, but it's made for an interesting story that helped me grow as a writer, investigative journalist, and, most of all, eater.

I can only hope my stomach has taken some good lessons out of the experience, too.

Cremilda Castanho is a writer, cat-lover, and known foodie, with a knack for finding unexplored depths of cuisine across the world. Her book, What Weirdos Eat, was a Folha de São Paulo best seller, and paved the way for culinary exploration in journalism, earning her a Pulitzer prize.

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auras-moonstone · 6 months ago

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Hi!! So the Canucks just lost to the oilers 😔 could we get some more Ethan or Jack x Hockey??

Or sm cowboy Jack related yk bc of his most recent ig post🤭

Anywayyy hope you are having a great start of The Weekend, love your writing 🫶🏼💋

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ sparking up my darkest night — ethan landry

ᡣ𐭩 word count: 3k

ᡣ𐭩 pairing: cowboy!ethan landry x pop star!fem!reader

ᡣ𐭩 summary: y/n goes to her grandparents’ hometown to hide from the drama, and she meets ethan, a cowboy who helps her through the darkness as they fall in love with each other.

ᡣ𐭩 warnings: fluff. cheesiness.

after long, exhausting hours of driving, y/n arrived to the minuscule town where she was going to hide for undefined amount of time. according to her publicist, disappearing from the public eye was the best choice, primarily for her mental health.

the two grammy award winner fell victim to the manipulation of another famous singer who, using his power as a big figure in the industry, twisted a story and went as far as editing conversations and calls to paint y/n as a villain.

and it had worked like a charm. at the moment, y/n’s name was trend on every platform and the hateful comments outlawed the positive ones, that were practically non-existent. people who already disliked her took the situation as an opportunity to unleash their hatred and some of their fans even turned their backs on her.

the castle y/n had built crumbled overnight, and so she decided to hide in the town her grandparents grew up in and try to pretend she was a normal person and her career and future weren’t slipping through her fingers like sand.

y/n stood right next to the car as her eyes inspected the house from outside. the flowers on the front garden were very much alive, the grass was perfectly cut, the windows were practically glowing. there was no aspect of the house that indicated it had been uninhabited for the last five years, and it sent y/n in a spiral because why was the place in such good conditions?

“y/n?” a boyish voice pulled her out of thoughts.

the girl went stiff and adjusted her sunglasses. “um, no?” she turned around to find a boy her age and a brown and white horse by his side.

amusement filled his eyes. “you are not sure if you’re y/n?” he asked, evidently trying to hold his laugh. “what’s with the big glasses and the bandeau?”

the pop-star instinctively ran her hand over the silk cloth. “i’m undercover.”

“in a vuitton bandeau and driving a benz? hate to break it to you, but that’s not how you go undercover. does your team hate you or something?”

“wouldn’t be surprised.” she muttered under her breath. “anyways, how do you know my name, smartass?”

“i’m ethan landry, nice to meet you.” he extended his hand for a shake and his calloused fingers met hers. to his surprise, they were calloused as well, and then he remembered that y/n played way too many instruments so it made sense. “my parents are friends of yours, they asked me to check if you’d arrived safely and to help you settle.”

“oh, that’s nice of you. thank you.” y/n smiled gently.

“no problem at all. at your service, ma’am.” he jokingly tipped his cowboy hat.

y/n laughed. “nice hat, want to exchange?”

ethan scoffed. “get that overpriced thing away from me, i’d rather stay true to my roots.”

“whatever, cowboy. are you going to introduce me to this gorgeous creature?” she eyed the horse with soft eyes.

“i already told you, my name’s ethan.” he winked, making her roll her eyes. but the boy was charming, there was not denying that. “this is my horse, pegasus, and his favourite song of yours is white horse.”

her shoulders shook with laughter and ethan’s heart skipped a beat. that sound was as angelic as her voice. but he quickly locked those thoughts away, he could not go there. she was not only here for a short period of time, she was also beyond untouchable.

“hi, pegasus. aren’t you the cutest horse ever? yes, you are.” she baby-talked the gigantic animal while petting him. “i love your name.” the horse made a sound and the next thing she knew, he licked the side of her face. “aww! it’s nice to meet you too. you’re as charming as your owner, huh?”

“thanks for the compliment but i’m not going to lick your face.” ethan joked, but he was screaming from the inside.

y/n sighed, feigning disappointment. “well, i tried.”

they got to know each other a bit more as ethan helped her get settled in the house, which he knew like the back of his hand because he was the reason why the house looked good as new. her parents payed him to clean the house and take care of the garden.

“well, i’ll leave you to start getting familiar with your new home for the time being. i wrote down my number and sticked it to the fridge. you can call me or text me any time, i live five minutes away so it’s no inconvenience for me. don’t hesitate to reach out, okay? whether you need help with something or if you need a friend to talk to.”

a friend. that sounded so nice. her so called friends from the city let go of her hand as soon as the drama unfolded, not giving her a chance to explain. they didn’t even ask what happened, they just disappeared. they discarded her once her reputation went down the drain.

“hey…” he said softly. she met his gaze and the look in her eyes splitter his heart. he lived in a small town and even though he wasn’t on the phone that much, he didn’t live under a rock. ethan knew the reason behind her escapade, and because of his parents’ friendship with y/n’s family, he knew all those things the singer said about her were fabricated and far from real. “the truth will come out. it always does. you’re allowed to feel sad, and angry, and whatever you’re feeling, but don’t let them bring you down.”

“they already did. my career might be over, everyone hates me, the record is thinking about letting me go because i don’t bring them a good image anymore, i have no friends left. they made me ran away from my home, ethan. i can’t even defend myself because they’re so filled of hatred that they won’t hear my side of the story.”

“so you don’t play the part of the victim, even though you are one. you gather all the awful things they’re saying about you and laugh it off. make it your brand. they can’t use it against you if you embrace the hate.” he said all of those things, and he truly believed it. but at the same time, he had the urge to bring him into his arms and secure her from the outside world.

she pressed her lips in a thin line “that sounds great, ethan. but i don’t know if i can do that.”

he nodded in understanding “and that’s normal. the wounds are still raw, but you’ll get there eventually, because you cannot let them win.”

“you’re kinda wise, cowboy.” she finally smiled.

“thank you, super star. maybe in your next album you can mention a hot cowboy who helped you see reason.”

“oh, do you know any hot cowboys? introduce me please.” she teased him.

ethan gritted his teeth. he did not like the image of her with someone else at all. he had met her two hours ago and he was already having possessive thoughts. ethan was definitely not going to survive y/n. he feared she already had him under her spell. after all, her funny comebacks and soft heart were impossible to resist.

“nah. you already have the best combo in town, the hottest, most charming cowboy—me—, and his sweet sidekick—pegasus.”

y/n shook her head in amusement “you’re so full of yourself.” but she couldn’t deny that she agreed with him.

“more like aware of myself.”

“i don’t know how that hat fits in that big head of yours.”

“it’s custom made, darling.” he winked.

“and pretty ugly, too. here, let me help.” she took off her bandeau and wrapped it around his hat. “now you’re a fancy cowboy.”

“i’m going to be the town’s biggest disappointment.” yet, he didn’t take it off. “i really have to go, but let’s do something tomorrow, okay? maybe i can show you around town.”

she smiled like the cheshire cat. “can i ride a horse?”

“sure, we can borrow my sisters’”

“yay! can’t wait. see you tomorrow, ethan.”

“it’s fancy cowboy for you, super star.” he winked and then left the house.

as she watched both pegasus and ethan disappear from her sight, she realized it had been months since the last time she had smiled so genuinely. and even though she had been in this town for a couple of hours, she already decided it was the best decision she could’ve made.

as soon as ethan caught sight of y/n standing in the porch, he smiled like a little kid. she was adorable, with a basket in hand, short overalls and cowboy boots and excitement lighting up her face.

“dressed for the occasion, i see.” ethan said.

“like it?” she asked, doing a little turn.

“you look gorgeous, y/n.” he answered softly making the singer blush. “though, there’s something missing to complete the outfit.” her curious eyes met his, and he simply smiled as he took a cowboy hat from his bag. he put it on y/n’s head and hummed in content. “now we’re talking.”

“i love it! thank you so much!” y/n didn’t even think before jumping and throwing her arms around his slim waist.

“you’re very welcome.” he murmured, hugging her back. her figure felt so perfect against his, like puzzle pieces. “what’s on the basket?”

“i made cupcakes, a cheesecake and sandwiches. i was thinking we could stop to have a little picnic.”

“that sounds very nice. i know a spot by the lake.“

y/n admired her surroundings. the sun reflecting on the lake, the green grass, the quietness, the tall trees, the animals living so freely. she felt so at ease, not needing to be in high alert for invasive paparazzis or overstepping fans.

“a penny for your thoughts?” ethan asked, curious about what thoughts had her smiling so big.

“it feels so good not being under scrutiny. no hunters with cellphones at sight, i feel so fucking light.”

“you don’t miss the city?” he asked curiously.

“not even a bit.” she answered truthfully. “when the drama began, i realized i have nothing there.“

“what about your friends? boyfriend? girlfriend?”

“no boyfriend or girlfriend.” thank god, ethan screamed internally. “and all my supposed friends turned into smoke. being friends with a liar is not good for their image, and that’s the whole reason why they hung out with me i now realize.”

“fuckers.” he spat angrily. “when your next album breaks all the records they’re going to came back with their tails between their legs and you’re going to laugh at their faces.”

how could someone she had met less than a day ago make her feel so much? “you’re setting the bar too high for my next album. what if it ends up sucking and you have to eat your words?”

he shrugged “easy, you just have to work your ass off so my ego isn’t hurt by not being right.”

“working hard is the way of making a good album? damn, i would’ve never thought of doing that!” they exclaimed sarcastically.

“lucky you met me, then.”

jokes aside, y/n really was lucky. the soft spot on her heart was slowly becoming reserved for him. feelings were already blooming and there’s nothing she could do to stop it.

she really liked how funny he was and god, she was part of hollywood yet she had never encountered someone more breathtakingly beautiful than ethan landry. but the way he constantly made her believe that she could truly get her reputation back? the way he truly had faith in her? that’s what made her certain he was the best of the best.

“would you…” he started the question, then hesitated. y/n raised her eyebrows, urging him to keep going. “would you consider leaving the city to move here?”

“right now? i would say yes, i’d really consider it. but that’s because in l.a everyone is going to shove a camera in my face and ask questions and i wouldn’t be able to go out without hate being thrown at me.”

ethan nodded. “yeah, that makes sense.”

“i guess time will tell.”

“maybe i’ll have to make sure to give you endless reason to stay.”

she had a feeling it wouldn’t take too much work. besides, him living there was enough reason to make her stay.

six months had gone by. everyone wondered where y/n was, if she was going to drop new music, if she was going to show her face, activate her social media again, if she was going to address the drama and explain her side of the story in detail. everyone speculated that she was drowning in her own misery—which they agreed she deserved for being a liar and manipulator—, they had no idea she was going better than she ever had. or that she had just finished writing her comeback album.

“this is amazing, y/n.” ethan said when he finished reading one of the songs. “everyone’s going to love it.”

they were currently sitting in y/n’s living room, just right by the fireplace. they had brought down her mattress and made a fort with the covers and pillows. ethan had begged her to show some of the songs, and she accepted. she was not showing him the ones she had written about him, though.

“i don’t know about that.” she shook her head. “anyways, i’m not doing it to be liked again. i guess the only reason i’m dropping this album is because i don’t want to keep my side of the story to myself. if i want to close this chapter of my life, everything needs to be let out. and i also want my remaining fans to know.”

“you don’t want your career back? you deserve it. you’ve worked so hard to get the spot you had before that jealous prick ruined it.” ethan spat with hatred. honestly, at this point he was more angered by the whole thing than her. it made her heart melt, the way he cared about her.

“i do want my career back, but i don’t want it to be the center of my world anymore. i’ve found other things that brings me joy, too. i don’t want to let go of them.”

ethan pushed himself up on one elbow and looked down at her. “and… what are those things?” he asked hope invading his chest.

“picnics next to the lake, taking care of farm animals, riding horses while watching the sunset, just… enjoying my life with no pressure.“ she spoke, then shoot her gaze up, meeting his. “but mostly, i enjoy doing those things with you. having you in this house, making dinner with you, baking, making forts, dancing around the kitchen… you make me want to leave my old life behind.”

ethan smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “there’s nothing i’d love more than for you to stay here with me, but i’d never ask you to give your career up.”

“i know. i know you wouldn’t, and that’s why i like you so much. you’ve been supportive since the beginning. you’re the main reason this album is going to exist. not only because you were my muse, but also because you gave me the strength to want to get my career back.”

“y-your muse? what are you talking about?”

“i only showed you two songs, the album is going to have around sixteen songs. those i showed you are about the drama, but… the concept is going to be about how finding love got me through the drama.”

“finding love? you…?” he would’ve been embarrassed of his high pitched voice if he weren’t so shocked by her choice of word.

she nodded softly, and eyed him hesitantly, trying to figure out if she’d read the signs wrong. next thing y/n knew was ethan rolling on top of her and his soft lips pressing against hers. “i love you. i love you. i love you.”

“i love you, too.” she kissed him back. “eth?” he hummed. “what do you think about the basement?” she asked, making him blink in confusion.

“the basement?”

“yeah, do you think it would be a cool place to build my little recording room?”

his jaw fell open. “what are you saying?”

she traces his face features with her fingertips “i’m saying that i’m moving here. and there’s no way i’m driving to L.A everyday to record the album, i would get too tired and i’d miss you too much.”

“we could move to your apartment until you finish.” he suggested.

“you would move to the city for me?” she asked, getting a bit emotional.

his eyes sparkled. “i would do anything for you.”

“you’re so fucking sweet, but you don’t need to move. i really want to move here, for good. i would probably have to drive a few times a month for important meetings or for interviews, but this is my home. both you and this town.”

he had no words, he simply kissed her softly and then hid his warm face on the crook of her neck. after a long, peaceful silence, he finally asked. “can i read those love songs?”

y/n smiled. “why don’t i play them for you?”

“this is the best day of my fucking life. don’t move, i’ll get your guitar.” he quickly got off her and ran up the stairs like an over-excited puppy.

y/n couldn’t believe what a turn her life has done. a couple of months ago she wished to have a time machine to avoid that call that turned her life into hell. now, she found herself feeling grateful that happened. not only she felt stronger but it also showed her the fake world she had blindly been living in. and most importantly, it brought her to ethan, and she would go through hell thousands of times for him.

#ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry scream #jack champion #ethan landry smut #scream smut #jack champion x reader #ethan landry fluff #ethan landry x y/n #ethan landry oneshot #ethan landry fic #scream au

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daistea · 7 months ago

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If you ever have the time, would you ever feel like taking a request with mithrun x an elf reader who's been taking care of him for a while? I've been thinking that they'd know of each other pre-demon, but weren't well acquainted (different circles, and reader is more introverted (like misril)) at the time until post-demon where they help nurse him to health and mayhaps join the canaries as a healer/support for the group.

If that's too specific, that's fine! You can take liberties.

If youre like "yeah that plain just won't happen with mithrun/hes not like that", that's fine! You don't need to write it if you don't want to

I don't want to force you or anything; it's just something that's been floating in my mind, recently!

Of course my friend! You asked so nicely <3

I think I’ll use she/her pronouns for the reader with this one if that’s cool!

Sooooo I’m assuming Mithrun was one of the Wardens in his squad. I don’t recall if it ever mentioned if he was in the first squad or the second. If it’s the second, then Milsiril might’ve been the Vice-Captain of his specific squad at the time, and Mithrun was her second in command like Pattadol is to him now. Cus u know Pattadol is second in command because she’s nobility, and Mithrun is nobility.. Yadda yadda. Let’s just go with that for simplicity’s sake. And since there’s only two Wardens to a squad, I’ve taken the liberty of making the reader a criminal, but it’s for something stupid like… jaywalking lol. Jaywalking using black magic. Or uh maybe using black magic to heal. Both? Two criminal charges, you rebel you

anywho..

tw suicide, mental illness, self harm, blood

Dungeon Meshi Spoilers ahead!

4500ish words

"Vignettes of a 40 Year Old Desire" - Mithrun x elf/healer female reader

●・○・●・○・●

Getting started was the hardest part.

You took a deep breath, your hands hovering over the wound. The slice in Mithrun’s arm was clean, with no brutal ridges. It would scar, but it would be a straight, neat white line on his skin when it was over. Even Mithrun’s wounds were perfect.

“Are you okay?” He asked. His voice was soft, and it reminded you of warm blankets on winter days. Your eyes flickered up to meet his and he offered a smile.

“Yeah,” you said. You sat beside him with your legs curled up beneath you. He sat with his legs criss-crossed, casual as if his bicep hadn’t just been nearly sliced open by the sword of a living armor. He had to be in pain, it was a deep wound. You’d managed to stop the excessive bleeding, but the paleness of his cheeks betrayed that he was feeling weak.

Still, starting was the hardest part.

You summoned your stores of mana, connecting to the spirits that made up the world. They were all around you, willing to obey, willing to lay upon Mithrun’s wound and graft his skin back together. A soft light glowed from beneath your palm as you ran your fingers around the edges of the wound. You weren’t sure why getting started was difficult for you, perhaps it was the feeling of magic pulsing through your veins that startled you, or the very fact that you had the ability to defy nature in this way. And there was that little bell that rang in the back of your mind, that urge to go further, deeper, darker.

That damn bell and its ringing had gotten your ears clipped.

You pulled back from Mithrun, letting your hands drop into your lap. “Done,” was all you said.

He blinked in surprise, then lifted his arm to inspect the spot where he’d been sliced. There was a faint scar, but it would probably fade if he got some sun. His lips twitched into a frown at the sight, but that expression immediately died, pushed aside and replaced with a smile. Mithrun didn’t need the sun, actually, he carried enough shine in his smiles…. Is what someone stupid would say.

“Thank you,” his voice was soft, polite. He pushed down the sleeve of his canary uniform and rolled his shoulders. Nearby, the rest of the team was setting up camp for the night. They laughed and passed around a wineskin. There was a spot on the ground between two of your peers, saved for Mithrun. Milsiril was a distance away with her back pressed against the wall and her knees pulled up to her chest. She had a sewing needle that she meticulously threaded through the body of a ragdoll.

You expected Mithrun to stand up and cross the room to join the others. Yet, he didn’t. He stared at you, two silver eyes filled with curiosity. You returned the look and raised a brow as if to silently ask what he needed.

Finally, Mithrun offered a slightly bashful smile, “You don’t really socialize much, do you? Oh,” he perked up, eyes widening, “I don’t mean that in a bad way, of course. I mean, you’re shy, right? I just don’t know that much about you.”

And that drove him mad.

You were entirely too aware of Mithrun’s true nature. The others were too busy basking in his light, caught up in his orbit, trapped in his web. Even Milsiril deigned to notice. She could’ve if she wanted, she simply didn’t want to— it would be like looking in the sun, and once you got past the blinding light and actually looked, you would already be burnt.

You saw the looks on his face when nobody was looking. You didn’t mean to see them, you didn’t mean to stare, but it had become a habit to watch his reactions. There was a flicker of irritation in his eyes sometimes, the hint of a frown when someone didn’t play his game exactly how he planned. There were moments when his shoulders would tense and his smile would turn tight. There were moments he’d avoid answering questions about himself and turn the subject around on the inquirer to keep his history and feelings and thoughts hidden behind a very sturdy, well-guarded wall.

You were more interested in him than you’d like to admit. You’d drawn several conclusions: Mithrun genuinely enjoyed the company of others, but he couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t help but scowl when they weren’t looking and judge their decisions and look down on everything they said and did. He even did it to you.

Which was precisely why you avoided him for the most part. You didn’t want him to know more about you, to provide more ammunition so he could reload his weapon and fire it straight into your back.

So, all you had to say was, “Yeah, we don’t really talk much.” And you smiled as innocently as you could before standing up and wandering to a corner near Milsiril.

Mithrun’s eyes lingered on your back. He was probably making that face he made when displeased that his charm didn’t work; analytical, a hint of darkness, one could practically see the red-inked assumptions scribbling onto parchment in his head, destined to be filed under a wildly critical and exaggerated category and kept there until the end of time.

You only wished you understood why he was like that.

Mithrun disappeared without warning. The squad had been dispatched to the Central Observation Tower because yet another person had disappeared in the area. Mithrun offered to take his friend’s scouting duty into a dark tunnel because she was afraid of spiders and was convinced that there were millions of them in that specific dark tunnel. Milsiril offered to send you along with him, but at that time you were trying to heal a sprained ankle of another squad member. Mithrun waved a dismissive hand and smiled, “It’s no problem. I’ll be fine on my own, but thanks!”

That was the last you saw of him.

Milsiril had someone slumped on her arm. She held them up, breathing heavily and covered in dirt and blood and dirty blood. You rushed toward the scene. The person had silver hair caked with quickly drying streaks of red. His head lolled. But he was breathing. Thank goodness, he was breathing.

Milsiril gently laid Mithrun on the ground. Immediately, you sat beside him, your hands on his cheeks and forcing open his eyes— eye. Singular. The right one was a mess. There was no time to question that, though. You summoned a light spell and opened his eyelid and black irises greeted you. Weren’t his eyes silver before? It was dim, too. Yet, his chest moved up and down and his heart was still beating. You let go of his face and he closed his eyes again, head lolling to the side as he let out a soft exhale.

“So, this is where he’s been?” You asked Milsiril.

She nodded, “He became the dungeon lord. This place…” she glanced up at the twisted walls and long corridors that led to nowhere. There were monster corpses nearby. So many monsters, strong ones, weird ones with horrific teeth and eyes. “It’s a representation of him. I never knew…”

You knew, sort of. You just didn’t think it would get to this level. You didn’t think he’d fall to the demon. You didn’t think—

There was no time for thinking. You had to get started on healing him. For once, getting started wasn’t so hard, not when your heart raced, not when you were desperate for someone to live.

When Mithrun was conscious again, you offered your hand to help him stand.

He didn’t take it.

Of one thing you were certain: Mithrun of the house of Kerensil had no desire to live.

“You should’ve let me die.”

You perked up at the sound of his voice. It was the first time Mithrun had spoken in perhaps a month, and his vocal cords betrayed that fact. His voice was scratchy with disuse, and it was a struggle for him to speak. As you glanced over your shoulder to look at him, he didn’t bother meeting your eyes. His gaze was on the window near his bed, but he wasn’t looking at anything, not really.

“I should’ve let you die?” You echoed. You could hear the anger in your own voice. Mithrun didn’t care, you knew.

He simply nodded. A lock of silver fell over his bony shoulder. His collarbones were too pronounced. The sight made a fire start in your chest.

“Mithrun?” You asked.

He turned his head to look at you. One eye, as black as an endless pit, landed on your face. The other was covered by bandages.

And he waited. He didn’t actually care about what you had to say, you knew. But you had to say it.

“Don’t ever say those words to me again.”

Mithrun only stared, “Alright.”

Then he returned his attention to the window that he was not looking out of.

You don’t know when or why you started to care so much.

You’d always cared about people. You’d always wanted to help. But you didn’t even really like Mithrun before the dungeon incident. Now, his recovery was all you could focus on. And you were absolutely obsessed with the state of things.

“I don’t know what to do,” his brother whispered, desperate, “I’ve hired so many caretakers but they just don’t do anything for him. I mean, they do things, but he’s not getting any better.”

Someone had to break the news to him. “I don’t think anything we do is going to make him any better.”

“I want him to be better,” his brother furrowed his brows and took a deep breath.

You wanted the same. But for now, all you could do was keep Mithrun alive. As long as he ate and slept and breathed, that was good enough for now. That was all he could manage.

You visited the Kerensil family home more often these days. You weren’t sure why, but you cared. When he screamed at night and scratched himself to the point of bleeding, you healed him without a word. When he got ahold of a kitchen knife and put it to his throat, you wrestled it away from him, then helped his brother install locks on all the cabinets and drawers. When Mithrun snuck out at night to go slaughter every goat within a 50 mile radius, you cleaned the blood from his hair and hands.

You’d basically moved in. The captain had given you permission to dedicate time to Mithrun’s healing, since they would’ve liked to have him join again once he was better. To the other Canaries, this was part of your sentence. To you, this was part of your purpose.

You and Mithrun talked a lot. You talked the most. He stayed quiet, so you weren’t sure if you could consider it as actually holding a conversation. You weren’t sure if he was even listening. But once, when you were softly explaining the importance of getting rune shapes exactly right, you stopped and stared at your hands. You’d begun to enter dark territory, the study of black magic that had brought you to this place in life.

The silence stretched on for a minute or two before Mithrun tilted his head. His hair was splayed out on his pillow and his good eye was open, blinking, slightly alert.

“Continue,” he said.

So you continued. And he stared at the ceiling. And you knew that he was listening. He didn’t care, of course, but he was listening.

One night, Mithrun nearly hit a vital organ with a piece of glass from the bathroom mirror that he’d shattered.

You healed it, the light from your hands growing brighter than usual. Your shoulders were tense and you couldn’t help but scowl and growl and mutter.

Mithrun just looked at you, “You know this isn’t what I want.”

“I don’t care,” you answered immediately.

He grit his teeth, “I don’t want to live.”

“I want you to live!” You exploded. He flinched backward, but no emotion passed over his face. He simply stared. You gulped down your feelings and continued healing him.

Maybe that was selfish of you. You didn’t care.

Milsiril was a mother. Milsiril was a caretaker. Milsiril was a toymaker and she knew how to wind them up and set them on the path again.

“I’m ready to go back into the dungeon,” Mithrun said. His voice was still scratchy, but he was sitting up on his bed for once. He’d gained a few pounds and his shoulders weren’t sharp as knives anymore.

Milsiril only shook her head, “Not yet, I’m sorry.”

Mithrun looked at you as if he expected you to ally with him. You knew him the best, you knew what he wanted in life. You even knew what his secret desire was, the one he couldn’t admit to himself.

You shook your head as well, “You’re still underweight and you haven’t quite gotten the hang of taking care of yourself yet.”

Mithrun’s expression only darkened, “Then let’s keep practicing.”

Where Milsiril was more concerned with making Mithrun socially acceptable enough to rejoin society, you were much more concerned about his living conditions, health, and dignity. It was a relief that he’d stopped trying to pick the locks on the knife drawer. It was not a relief that Mithrun was planning for his inevitable death against the demon— not that he’d admit that.

He wanted different things now. No longer was his goal to die from withering away, but rather to die at the hands of the god who once served him. Still, it involved him dying. There was this feeling you had inside, comparable to the feeling you had when you were first being hunted by the Canaries. You knew it was inevitable that they would find you and jail you or make you join them. Anticipation rose in your chest until it finally burst when they tied up your wrists and clipped your ears.

Now, anticipation was rising again. It had been rising for the last twenty or so years that you’d spent at Mithrun’s side. You could only wonder when it would burst, and when you’d end up as scraps on the floor like the shreds of a popped balloon. You could only wonder.

When Mithrun rejoined the Canaries, you went with him. He said nothing about that. You were the one who cut his hair shorter for functionality reasons. You were the one who delivered his new uniform and made sure it fit. You were the one who sat on his back as he did push ups for training— which was actually the most fun with him you’d had in the last twenty years. It was kind of silly, but it was good to see him willing to do things like exercise and challenge himself, even if his end goal was just to reach the demon.

There was a lot of teasing involved when you two returned to the Canaries.

“Are you in love with him or something?” Helki asked behind his hand. He cast a glance at Mithrun, who was sitting nearby and silently staring out the window.

You made a face, “With Mithrun? No. I love him, but not like that.”

“Are you sure?” He snorted, “You’ve been like his little wife for the last few decades.”

“I don’t think I would consider all that as wife-like,” you retorted.

“Why do you do it, then?”

Was it truly so impossible for someone to comprehend caring for another individual without expecting something in return? Or not having a motive? You supposed there was a motive, but it wasn’t romance. You just… cared. You wanted him to stay alive and get better. And he was relatively better, now. Relatively.

You patted Helki’s shoulder, “Because he’s my friend. Nothing more.”

You didn’t notice, but Mithrun’s head tilted. He always listened to you, even when you didn’t think so.

“Can you help her?” Flamela jutted a thumb toward where you and Mithrun sat. Her voice, louder than everybody else’s in the Canary’s headquarters, caught your attention. Mithrun kept his arms crossed and his gaze on the recruits training outside.

Cithis blinked in surprise. Her eyes landed on you and you returned the look with a hesitant smile.

“It’s a lot to explain,” Flamela continued, “but Captain Mithrun needs help and [name] needs a break.”

Your brows furrowed. You hadn’t expressed needing a break before. You were fine. You liked taking care of Mithrun. Yet before you could protest, Flamela was already walking away. And Cithis stood there with her hands folded and her eyes curious, analyzing.

Dread settled into your chest.

“You’re not some helpless baby, Mithrun,” you didn’t mean to yell, nor pace, nor gesture so wildly with your hands, but you couldn’t help it. “You’re not a dog, not a slave, not someone who can be exploited for entertainment! You’re a person and you deserve respect!”

Mithrun only raised a brow, “So, you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you,” you snapped, sounding quite mad at him. Yet you pulled yourself together and took a deep breath, “No, Mithrun, I’m not mad at you. It’s not your fault. I just wish people saw you as more than what you’re going through. You’re the damn Captain of the Canaries now, you’ve risen above some really tough shit and you’re capable and strong and—”

Lord.

The realization hit you like a slap to the face.

You froze, mouth hanging open, eyes on Mithrun. He only stared, as he tended to do, waiting for you to say something. But you couldn’t. You’d been slapped in the face by reality and now everything ached.

“I’ve got to go,” you managed to squeak out before running toward the door. You left his bedroom behind and darted down the hallway of the Canaries Headquarters. You shared a room with a few other criminals, but they weren’t there when you burst inside and collapsed onto your bed. You were in your late 100’s yet there you were, screaming into your pillow like a 60 year old.

You’re in love.

“I’m in love,” you said out loud, which you immediately regretted because that made things real.

You’re in love. You’re in love. You’re in love and it hurts so much because Mithrun could never love you back. Were you a masochist? Probably. Your heart hurt. You suddenly understood the concept of heartbreak, it felt as if your heart was about to physically fall apart. Realizing that you’re in love should be a happy moment. It shouldn’t hurt so much.

Alright, you decided. You’re going to ignore it like an adult. You’re going to take this secret to the grave.

Captain Mithrun’s team was a mess.

But they were fun.

“Hey,” Lycion elbowed you one night at the dinner table. He leaned down to whisper while you were mid-bite of a piece of chicken. “Do you think the Captain would let me check out the fighting scene on that island? Like, we could put off the whole negotiations thing for a day so I can go see it?”

Mithrun personally wouldn’t care, you knew, but he would refuse Lycion’s request for the sake of getting into the dungeon faster. You swallowed your food and sent him a glance, “Why’re you asking me? Pattadol’s the one that does all the decision stuff with Mithru— the Captain.”

“But you know him best.”

True enough. Still, you were just the healer, still a criminal sentenced to another 40 or so years of Canary service. You sent Lycion an apologetic smile, “Sorry. I don’t think he would.”

“Can you ask him?” Lycion used that purring voice he always utilized on certain targets unwilling to obey.

You remained unaffected, “I don’t see why you think me asking him would make a difference.”

“The Captain would do anything you asked!” He explained, “Within reason, of course. You’re his girl.”

Your heart skipped a beat and you forced the satisfaction down. “I’m not his girl. And he pretty much does whatever anyone tells him to do as long as it doesn’t interfere with his goals, so I’m not any different.”

“You’re blind,” Lycion muttered, “so blind.”

Mithrun had been pulled into the stupid pit thing or whatever with that stupid Kabru guy. You were going to pull your hair out.

When he reunited with the Canaries, he actually looked rather well-taken care of. You begrudgingly admitted that Kabru may not be as stupid as you thought, but you couldn’t let go of your anger at the entire situation. You still wanted to pull your hair out, mostly because you were resisting the urge to wrap your arms around the Captain and squeeze until your bodies melted together.

Mithrun noticed your stress and slowly approached you. He patted your head, “I’m fine,” he said.

He could be shot in the chest and he’d still claim to be fine.

“When this is all over,” you managed to say through the fog of anger and worry and adoration and fury, “we’re taking a holiday. We’ll go to the Eastern Archipelago and we’re sitting on the beach and we’re going to do very safe things like build sandcastles or take naps.”

Mithrun looked down at you. He stared, as was his tendency. Then he raised both brows and you thought that just for a second, there was a hint of a smile on his lips. An affectionate smile. Perhaps it was hopeful thinking, an illusion brought forth by stress. You weren’t sure.

His hand that was on your head slowly ran down the side of your cheek and to your chin, lifting your face so you’d look at him. He didn’t hold you for long, though, letting his arm drop to his side when he had your attention. “When we have time, I will go where you go,” he said.

You wanted to smack him in his stupid beautiful face for being so sweet. What was wrong with him? Was he in a good mood? You could only narrow your eyes in suspicion.

Of course, Mithrun walked away after that, back to the mission at hand. Yet his words echoed. I will go where you go.

That was more like something you would say to him. You’ve made the decision to be at his side for the last 40 years. You would follow him to the ends of the earth.

Surely, he didn’t mean it.

But then again, Mithrun wasn’t in the habit of lying unless it served his purpose. And he wouldn’t lie to you, of all people. Surely not.

The demon was gone and Mithrun had lost his purpose in life.

How scary, you thought. How terrifying to lose your one reason for living. You’d most likely be on the ground, slumped up against a tree and expecting to wither away just like him. But unlike you, Mithrun had people who cared for him, who wouldn’t accept that fate for him, who loved him.

Senshi and Kabru said their pieces. The Canaries all agreed with a chorus of encouragement and opinions and friendship.

You offered your hand, like you always did, like you’d been doing for the last four decades.

He took it.

Mithrun placed his hand in yours. And the anticipation bubble that had been building in your chest for so long finally popped. But you were okay. It was okay. He was okay.

Mithrun pardoned you, surprisingly. You told him that wasn’t necessary and that he should use his pardon on someone else who had a longer sentence. There were only 40 years left for you. Surely they wouldn’t be as long as the last 40 years had been.

“No, it's you I want,” Mithrun said rather casually, “you’re staying with me in Melini.”

He wanted something. He wanted you.

You forced yourself to stay upright, “Alright. If you insist.”

Living with Mithrun in this state was very different. It was fun, heartbreaking, difficult, easy, calm, chaotic. Some days, he laid in bed and stared at the wall. Other days, he made noodles and walked through the forest and sat on the beach with you, doing very safe things like building sandcastles and taking naps. Many people in town assumed you two were married. You always corrected them, Mithrun never did.

He observed monsters and would need healing sometimes. You would push up the sleeve of his tunic and trace your fingers along old scars, none of them perfect. Then, heal him, as you tend to do.

“Are you sure you want this?” Mithrun asked one day.

You looked up to meet his eyes. Ink black, your favorite color. “What?”

“You can spend your life any way you want now,” he explained, his voice flat, “you’re free. I’m not your burden anymore.”

Your heart clenched in your chest. “You have never been a burden to me.”

“I used to hate you for keeping me alive.”

“I know.”

“And you never hated me?”

“I sometimes did,” you admitted softly, fingers tracing over his skin. You recalled this certain scar, from a pair of scissors you wrestled out of his hands at two in the morning years ago. “But it was the kind of hate that only stems from love.”

“You have always treated me like a human,” Mithrun murmured. His free hand went to your chin and lifted your face, “Like someone that deserves to live. You loved me despite my inability to give you anything in return. But I’m able now,” he leaned closer, “so allow me this.”

Damn. That had to be the first time you’d ever heard Mithrun say anything like tha—

He was kissing you.

It took you a moment to realize what was happening. His lips were on yours and your heart felt as if it might explode. Your hands shook as you raised them, eventually finding their way to his hair. That felt right. This was right. He deepened the kiss, slowly pushing forward. It was slow and careful and calm. It held so many words that neither of you were able to say. As he gently ran his hand up your thigh and to your hips, you couldn’t help but shiver.

40 years of longing accumulated into this moment. In a dark house in a new kingdom in a demon-free world, you started something new, and for once it wasn’t difficult at all.

287 notes · View notes

seat-safety-switch · 29 days ago

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How did you spend your Tuesday evening? For me it was the usual same ol' routine. Getting fucked up on 3D-printed recreational elephant tranquilizer, and watching the out-of-work circus acrobats at the flea market kick the shit out of each other behind the dumpster with Devil Sticks.

I love the flea market, and not just for the freak battle. It's got a great cross-section of humanity, all coming there to argue that a $25 wood plane should be a $20 wood plane. In recent years, though, this proletarian appeal has started to wane. A lot of the booths have been replaced with expensive handmade art, and the food court now has received – and passed! – a health inspection. All this means that there's less opportunity for deals on cool old junk, which is my entire reason for existence.

In the time we have left before the flea market is completely converted to luxury condominiums sitting atop a "farmer's market" selling $35 jars of honey, I must be sure to make the most out of its unique social appeal. Hence the circus acrobats, which to their credit are not out of work because they were fired.

Timmy and Tommy were in fact abandoned by the circus, because their ringmaster is notoriously conflict-averse and simply did not want to tell them that they were flagged as "unwanted" by the carnival investment group. This does not lessen their aggression towards one another in any way. It does, however, make them about as unemployable as yours truly, which means we can be great friends. They're there all day, and sometimes they give me a call when Old Man Johanssen puts out a fresh batch of slightly dented hubcaps at his table. For this vigilance, their only price is the occasional food-court churro, which is now guaranteed by the municipal government to contain less e.coli than you would expect.

What will happen to them when the flea market fades? I asked them this last Tuesday, and through the haze of pachyderm pacification prescriptions, they told me that by then they plan to have started their own circus. Get revenge on those who ditched them, and all that. If the plan doesn't work out, though, they can always go back to their first love: investment banking.

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aonungslvr · 1 year ago

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like mother like daughter

pairing ; mama! neytiri te tskaha mo’at’ite x baby!daughter! reader

taggings ; 🪽🍄

summary ; neytiri recently gave birth to her first daughter, and she has never been happier.

2.5k words

the omatikayan people did not have the same tools that humans did during pregnancy. the mother would receive monthly check-ups from the tsahìk herself to ensure her and baby were strong. when the day came, the mother would be brought to the tsahìk and her top healers to help guide her through the birth and bring her baby into the world.

the navi get no information on their babies before they are born, so when mo’at had placed you in neytiris arms for the first time with her words,

“the great mother has blessed you with a baby girl.”

your mother cried, as did jake. she had already welcomed a son into this world and the news of being able to raise a daughter brought her such joy.

neytiri held you against her chest letting her tears sink into your bloodied hair. all she could do was stare at you, though you were unable to do the same as your eyes hadn’t opened yet.

she rocked you against her chest, expecting your cries to ring throughout the room. when they didn’t, your mother worried and in turn asked her own mother if you were okay.

“sa’nok she isn’t crying. why isn’t she crying?”

mo’at picked you up from your mothers arms and investigated your small body, checking for anything that could be wrong.

the other healers rushed over to their tsahìk offering their aid, blocking view from your mother.

“what’s wrong with her? is she okay? please tell me she’s okay.” neytiri expressed, her lips quivering.

she tried to push herself off the hammock but fell back down due to her weak body after birth. a younger girl in the tsahìks tent lended her aid to your mother, doing her best to calm her.

after a through inspection of your external and internal health, mo’at smiled and placed you back into your moms arms. she gladly took you back and rocked you again, looking at your scrunched up face.

“nothing is wrong. she is just a happy baby.” your grandmother spoke, brushing neytiris hair out of her face.

your mother lightly laughed as she held you even closer. neteyam was such a loud baby when he was born, this was a shock to her.

you let out baby babbles and reached your tiny arms out towards your mothers face. neytiri put her index finger infront of your small hands, and you grasped on. you were only a few minutes old, but you let out a smile to the contact.

“have you and jake decided on a name?”

“(y/n) te suli neytiri’ite.” neytiri said with a smile.

you were presented to the clan by your father, the olo’keytan. everyone was there, young, old, healer, hunter, even some of the humans.

your father held you high and proud, with your mother by his side. neytiri couldn’t speak due to the overflux of joy she was experiencing. after neteyams presentation, she thought the next wouldn’t be as emotional. that was far from the truth.

“(y/n)!” your father spoke sternly, raising you in the sky.

“(y/n)!” the clan repeated after him.

everyone around felt blessed as they welcomed the tsakarems newest child into the omatikayan clan.

when night fell, it was time for the moment your mother had been waiting for since she first held you. your first connection to eywa was beautiful and full of emotions.

your mother held you this time, jake by her side. she guided your small queue towards eywa’s as you made tsaheylu with the tree of souls. when you and your mother made this bond directly after your birth, you felt neytiris joy and she felt your curiosity. connecting to eywa was different, the feeling was indescribable.

when the bond was made, both of your pupils widen in response. your face was blank a moment, until your broke out into a smile. the only way to describe it was like a hug from the great mother, feeling her warm embrace as she welcomed you into her great creation.

the bond first felt like a feeling, until you blinked and opened your eyes in a meadow within the forest. you saw everything in what seemed to be third person, not truely being there, just observing.

the first thing you saw was a female navi running into the middle of your view. she looked like your mother, though slightly older. she gasped in joy and scooped up what had to be you, as once she did you suddenly were aware of your surroundings and saw the world in first person once more.

“aw, tsu’tey look! she’s so pretty!”

a navi male then entered the scene, coming up behind the female.

“sylwanin, be calm. she is just a baby, you will spook her.”

your mind wasn’t old enough to comprehend what these people were saying, you didn’t understand your language yet.

“ok ok, i’m aunty syl! your sa’nus sister! your such a gorgeous little girl!” the girl who had introduced herself as sylwanin yipped, as she motioned to herself.

she bumped the males shoulder encouraging him to speak up.

“she can’t not even understand m-“ a quick shove to the leg shut him up. “sweet eywa, i am tsu’tey. your..uncle?”

sylwanin, your mothers sister, and tsu’tey, your aunts lover. they rested eternally with eywa now, though you didn’t know it at the time.

“sempul!” your aunt spoke, referencing the much older man now approaching you.

“look at her! isn’t she gorgeous? neytiri makes such cute children.” sylwanin held you up to the elder navi.

“she possesses your beauty as well.” he replied.

“this is your grandpa! eyuktan! he is your mother and i’s sempul.” syl spoke again. “look! everyone is here (y/n)!”

your moms sister held you up and let you see around the forest. there were countless navi surrounding the area, spread throughout the floor and trees. they were all focused on one thing, you. you had been presented to the living memebers of your clan, and now the dead admired you through the great mother.

sylwanin handed you to tsu’tey, speaking to him,

“it is better if you do it.”

tsu’tey held you tight and then to the sky as your father had once done.

“(y/n)!”

the fallen navi spoke loudly,

“(y/n)!”

outside of eywa, at the tree of souls, you were smiling with your eyes closed. once neytiri saw your emotion, she knew you had seen what the great mother intended you to see, and broke the bond.

“sit neteyam.” your father announced.

your mother sat on the floor of your families kelku, holding you gently in her arms. neteyam sat infront of his mother and put his hands out, wanting to hold his little sister.

“now you have to be gentle, understand? (y/n) is a baby. you can not handle her roughly.” neytiri explained.

“i will! i will! i’ll be super careful sa’nu!” your older brother pleaded his case.

neytiri began to pass you onto neteyam, placing you in his 3 fingered hands,

“support her head.”

your brother held you softly with one hand on your hand and another on your back. he stared into your eyes then back to his mother and smiled,

“she looks like you mama!”

he moved his head and faced towards you again and leaned in,

“i’m ne-te-yam. i’m your tsmukan, and i’m gonna be here forever and ever.”

your mother smiled at her two children, there was nothing in life she would ever desire more then the moments like these.

“sa’nuuu when will she talk?”

not everything was all sunshine. nights with you were restless. you hadn’t cried during birth, so your mother expected you to be quiet at night, she was wrong.

“shh, ma (y/n) you are okay. there is nothing to cry about.” your mother rocked you and softly tried to put you back to sleep.

your crying didn’t halt and you sobbed. neytiri had done everything to make you comfortable, you were simply being a baby.

at this point you had woken your father and brother. your crying had upset neteyam, and while he was older than you, he was still just a toddler who cried too. jake held his son and tried to calm him.

“what is the mighty warrior crying about? you’re not a baby like (y/n) why do you cry?”

neteyam shook his head and cried harsher which made you cry even louder. his sister waking him up during the night and not being quiet annoyed him so much, there was nothing else he knew how to do but cry.

neytiri was exhausted. with her daughter and son both crying in the middle of night she didn’t know what to do. she rocked and rocked you but nothing seemed to help. she was trying to hold herself together but you paired with your brother made an extremely loud combination.

“jake, i can not. i can not do this. i cant calm her, i am such a bad mother i cant even console my children.” neytiri ranted to her husband, doubting her skills.

her father sat neteyam down despite his protests and embraced his wife as well as you.

“you are doing great love. (y/n) is a baby, babies cry. she will stop eventually, this is not your fault.”

neteyam clung onto his leg sniffling, wanting to be held again.

“sempu!! make it stop!”

you continued crying and weeping, seeming even louder than before now.

jake sighed, “give her to me neytiri.”

your mother reluctantly handed over her daughter to her mate, and picked up neteyam, having an easier time calming him.

jake shook you from side to side, rather than up and down; a trick he learned on earth.

as your cries softened, neytiri stared with wide eyes, mostly thankful but with a hint of jealousy.

“w-wha- how - how did you do that?” she stammered over her words.

“if up and down doesn’t work, try side to side. all babies are different.”

you quickly fell back asleep and jake placed you in your smaller hammock. neteyam sighed in relief and returned to his sleeping quarters as well. now it was neytiris turn to cry.

“i don’t understand, i am her mother. i should know what is best for my baby. i am just failing her ma jake.” she exclaimed, falling back onto her and your fathers shared hammock.

“woah, woah slow it down baby.” jake approached and sat next to her.

“you are a wonderful mother neytiri. i wouldn’t want anyone else raising my babies. you have bore me two strong children, and you will learn their way as they learn ours. doubting yourself will get us nowhere as parents.”

neytiri looked up at him through watery eyes and squeezed him, letting her tears fade away.

“come to mama (y/n)! use those arms, i know you can do it yawntutsyìp!” neytiri sat shortly away from you, encouraging you to crawl towards her.

your father stood in the kitchen, preparing lunch, as your brother played with his wooden toys; most likely annoying his dad.

you babbled a little and got onto your knees and started crawling, wanting to feel your mother.

“yes ma (y/n) come! you are doing so good!”

you continued with help of your mothers encouragement, wanting to be held even more. you had a big smile on your face as you approached her. once you had made it neytiri swooped you up and hug you as tight as she could without hurting you.

“i am so proud of you my little nantang! you did so good!” she happily spoke

you stared up at your mother and giggled.

“yes that’s right! sa’nu is so proud of you! sa’nu loves you so much!”

your noises started to form something clearer, “saa- sa’nnnu!” you laughed and reached towards your mama.

jake dropped his knife in the kitchen and neteyam had started staring at you.

“you said what? what did you say (y/n)?” your mother spoke in shock and doubt, looking at you intently. “did you say sa’nu? sa’nu?” she asked more questions as jake approached and sat aside you and neytiri.

“sa’nuuu!” you dragged on the word into a weird baby noise and clapped your hands.

“she just- right?” your mother stared at her mate in shock as they both smiled.

your father hugged your mother and smirked while speaking, “sa’nu! your so smart (y/n), so smart! that’s her first word yeah?” he looked towards your mom with the biggest smile.

“yeah! oh- yes (y/n)! sa’nu! your so amazing my little syulang, oh your so great!” she finally spoke, breaking out of her confused silence.

neteyam ran up to the 3 of you at the family celebration, “she can talk to me now right?!”

your mother let out one more sigh of shock and hugged her son and and husband with you still on her chest.

several weeks later, you had been working on crawling and speaking. you could crawl longer distances and knew a few little words. you and your mother had been alone this time, playing with wooden ikrans.

“whoosh! catch it (y/n)!” neytiri was moving the ikran around in the air, making noises to indicate it flying around.

“you can do it ma yawne!”

you pouted and sat on your knees reaching up, it took a while but you stood up as well, which you had learnt a few weeks ago. neytiri taunted you, raising the toy higher.

“sa’nu! sa’nu!” after you were able to speak a word or two, you never stopped.

“no (y/n) you have to come get it!”

“sa’nu! ikrab! sa’nu!” your pronunciation wasnt the best, but ikran was one of your favorite words.

your mother started backing up on her knees to tease you further, “it’s getting away!”

you started to whine at your mom leaving you behind and would’ve broken out into full sobs if the flap to your home didn’t open.

your father walked in with neteyam behind him, holding a fish in his hands.

“look what this fisherman caught!”

neteyam spoke up, “all by myself dad!”

jake repeated what his son had said, “yes all by himself!”

neytiri clapped for her son, allowing his ego to quickly grow as he puffed his chest out.

“sempu! sem!” you used some of the furniture to assist you in turning around and slowly waddled over to where your dad stood.

at this sight, jake got down on his knees as neytiri gasped.

“hi baby! come on (y/n) keep going!” he motioned his hands towards himself.

your mother teared up behind you, and once you made your way to your father he grabbed you up into the air with a tight hug.

“i’ve got two mighty kids! (y/n) the great walker!”

neytiri rised up from her spot and ran over to her daughter, taking you from jakes arms.

“oh my baby! your getting so big!”

neteyam wasn’t having it with the attention being placed onto someone else.

“mama i walk everyday! i’m the mighty walker!”

both of your parents laughed as your dad picked up your brother, then initiating a family hug.

neytiri wouldn’t have her family any other way.

#neytiri #neytiri te tskaha mo'at'ite #neytiri x reader #neytiri x daughter!reader #neytiri x baby!reader #daughter!reader #platonic neytiri x reader #platonic #platonic fanfiction #neytiri fanfiction #avatar #avatar the way of water #co writes !!

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fieriframes · 1 month ago

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[I made a reservation at the restaurant of love. Where they only have tables for two. Instead of taking my order, the waiter gave me a kiss. Instead of food, I ate perfume. The love restaurant failed its recent health inspection. Because the kitchen is infested with rats. I'm not talking love rats; these are regular rats. And they're biting all the customers and staff. I got food poisoning at the love restaurant. Pretty sure it was caused by the rats. I posted a one-heart review on Yelp.com/love. Then the business owner contacted me privately. He said, 'Why'd you give my restaurant a one-heart review?' I said, 'Because it was full of rats.' He said, 'This is a small business, and this review could ruin me.' He cried over the phone and said he was trying his best.]

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ahaura · 1 year ago

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(Oct. 26) The White House is deliberately smearing the Gazan Ministry of Health's reports of the death toll in Gaza as means of genocidal denial, saying that the "'so-called' Ministry of Health is [...] not reliable." But the Biden Administration has cited the Ministry of Health as recently as last year.

This is not the first time the United States has engaged in genocide denial on behalf of an ally.

Highlighted on Twitter, from The Representation of the Holocaust in the Soviet Press, 1941–1945 by Corinne Ducey (pub. 2008) [Link] (Sci-Hub)

The American and British press also shared a widespread mistrust of Jewish eye- witnesses. Although the Anglophone press reported on stories released by the Soviets or smuggled reports from Jews trapped in Eastern Europe, these stories were ‘not worthy of complete trust because Jews were “interested parties”’. The press tended to believe non-Jewish sources over Jewish sources and ‘generally during these years, whenever the Pope or other leading Christian religious leaders spoke out on the Jews’ behalf [. . .] their comments garnered more attention than a similar story coming from a Jewish [. . .] source’. As late as January 1945 an official from the Refugee Department of the British Foreign Office wrote, ‘Sources of information are nearly always Jewish whose accounts are only sometimes reliable and not seldom highly coloured. One notable tendency in Jewish reports on this problem is to exaggerate the numbers of deportations and deaths’.

In November 1943, W. H. Lawrence of the New York Times travelled to Kiev for an inspection of Babi Yar after the Soviets had retaken the city, and filed a sceptical story about the massacre. The article includes phrases such as ‘it is the contention of the authorities’ and, when referring to eyewitnesses, ‘who said they participated’ or ‘the story was told by’. Lawrence visited the ravine personally, but still found it difficult to accept the Soviet version of events. He states that he saw only a bone or two, a handbag, some hair and ‘that there is little evidence in the ravine to prove or disprove the story’. He therefore concludes that ‘On the basis of what we saw, it is impossible for this correspondent to judge the truth or falsity of the story told to us’. Alexander Werth notes in his book about his experiences with the Red Army, Russia at War, that the BBC turned down his report on Majdanek because they could not believe that Nazi Germany had taken its racial policies so far. Werth also quotes the response of the New York Herald Tribune to the report on Majdanek: ‘Maybe we should wait for further corroboration of the horror story that comes from Lublin. Even on top of all we have been taught of maniacal Nazi ruthlessness, this example sounds inconceivable.’

The Ministry of Health has published the names of over 7,000 Palestinians, including almost 3,000 children, killed in Gaza. The full report can be found here.

#palestine #geopol #uspol #📁.zip

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etherealevangeline · 20 days ago

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Midnight Morgue—The Flower Shop

summary: reader finds simon in a flower shop—cute moment ig? If simon wasn’t being dickish lol.

notes: this story deals with explicit themes such as smut, gore, horror, alcoholism, mental health, delusions, surgical themes/terms. minors do not interact! just love the look of 2009 simon riley in this morgue AU. morgue may or may not be haunted :) ritualistic themes/cult like behavior. random sketchy ass town. Price is the supervisor. Mactavish & Garrick are small town police officers. slow burn simon x reader, enemies to lovers, simon has a huge chip on his shoulder. reader is questioning her belief in the spirit realm. feminine pronouns are used

The next hours are filled with dread as you wait. This morning you had a doctor's appointment—bloody blood work. You despised hospitals and doctors offices. The smell of antiseptic was enough to put you to sleep, considering their slow pace of calling peoples names.

But eventually you made it out in one piece. Your shift started at around 7pm, so what did you find yourself doing before it all? As you walked down the clammy, and rainy streets of Jim Thorpe, the windows were stained with fog. It concealed shadowed figures moving inside. Neon signs blinked pathetically out in the distance, blurred by the fog which left it hazy.

Nevertheless, you caught wind of gossip that a new flower shop opened recently. This one happened to be closer to the cemetery you visited, saving you gas money. You found yourself gravitating towards it, your usual frown decorating your face like rainbows.

You walked in, hearing the ominous jingle that provided no joy—just a reminder of your position in life. A tall hunky figure stood behind the wooden lattice counter, as pots of eucalyptus, vine-like, caressed the edges. It smelled of rose water and musky cologne, as your eyes shifted to him. His hands grappled carefully at the stem bundles he held, inspecting them.

He hissed and muttered something—-or what sounded like a curse, “Bloody hell.” He wiped his finger with a rag quickly that he grabbed off the side. He then shoved it into his back pocket of his motel jeans. It was a wash out style, and dark.

You’d recognized that voice. The thick Manchester accent resonated deep in your core, like a sinking weight.

You strode forward hastily on your wet boots that squelched, announcing your presence once more. He turned around to reveal a sharp set of features, his usual balaclava mask hiding his face. The light from the fogged windows revealed his eyes, and his nose bridge, highlighting the curve of his lids.

“I need a set of flowers.” You muttered.

“What kind?” He asked, although sounding indifferent.

“Don’ matter.” You murmured. Your finger tapped at the chipped wood to which his languid eyes glanced at, then up at your avoidant gaze. You appeared far away in thought, like something beckoned your attention. The pinch in your brow didn’t help to hide it either.

He didn’t comment on it, but turned away and got to work. Your eyes then darted over to his back. Maybe it was the sense of privacy you had when he turned, finally able to look. You couldn’t shake it, something was unnerving about his stare. All these military men and their stares were like punches to the gut. You figured he was ex military, since Price briefly hung up a picture unframed, on his desk.

If you remembered, there stood Price in the middle. He was clad in his khaki military pants, a hat covering his features slightly. Simon was to the left, hunky and geared up, holding his assault rifle, with no obvious smile. Just ominous eyes bleeding behind the mask. Mactavish was off to the right, daringly smirking, arms crossed. And Garrick, he held a service dog, grinning and crouched down in front of the team.

As his gruff calloused hands gathered some babies' breath, lilies and a few red roses, the wind outside howled demandingly. A sharp contrast top the delicacy of the flowers. It ached, almost resembling the sound of a pained cry to be held, to be nurtured.

You clutched your leather jacket closer, hoping he’d finish soon enough. The jacket was dark and distressed from years of use, taking on less of a shine and more of a matte look. It hung heavily on your shoulders like the weight of grief.

Meanwhile his ratted hoodie was rolled up at the sleeves, unzipped and revealing a dark undershirt, which hid his tattoos. The hood was pulled up, giving him an overbearing look despite the flowery essence of the shop. All bright and ditzy and yet he was all hunk, poison, and death met you in his stare.

“Why are you even working here?” You found yourself asking, amidst the silence, a brow cocking. This was the last place you expected Simon to be.

“I’ll be done with you soon.” His gruff reply came. You scoffed—actually grinning at the jackasses reply. Was it that hard to answer such a simple question? Somehow, it amused you, his nonchalant attitude.

Also, add pissy to the list.

“Just askin'. This is the last place I’d expect you to be.” You continued, eyeing his back as the hoodie stretched and pulled this way and that. He gathered a crinkling white plastic to wrap the flowers—large hands folding it neatly.

For a war criminal, he sure had patience with this.

“And this is the last place I’d expect you, f'someone who dips her hands in body cavities.” He returned, his bitter gaze meeting yours. It was hypocritical, how he deemed you as odd for showing up, when he himself, stained with blood of those long gone wrapped flowers. Maybe we had more in common, you thought.

Your eye then twitched, maybe it was the way you couldn’t get much of a read on him. What was lurking underneath those eyes, in his mind. What those fingers itched to really do—instead of sitting here wrapping pretty flowers all day long.

“Can’t a woman buy her flowers in peace?” You said. Yet you knew, there was no peace to be had. It came off as a bitter reply.

Simon silently taped the bouquet carefully and then raised the bundle. His eyes traced over the curve of the petals, the flowers. The way it fell, the way it was organized carefully. You watched, as his pale scarred hand came up to tilt the flower. He seemed pleased with his work, and then turned fully to hand you the bouquet.

If he wasn’t so pissy the sight would’ve been welcomed. But you snatched the bouquet and looked down at it, before slapping down the cash on the cold wood.

“Got a lad?” The Brit had the nerve to ask. Why was he concerned? You picked up on a slight condescending tone to it, as if he didn’t expect someone as raggly as you to have one. His eye twitched, as if the muscle were celebrating your annoyance.

God, I mean—

Besides your hair falling out the clumsy braid it was in, strands brushing your cheeks—the way your eyes were baggy with fatigue—

He wasn’t wrong. You shut off all kinds of intimacy eons ago. But him, something about him irked you and lit a flame of irritation. It was small yet, having room to grow and fan out. You weren’t sure if you should shut the windows and let the flame starve. Deprive it of oxygen.

It wasn’t an affectionate flame either. It wasn’t the kind to wax and wane, leaning in for a lover's caress.

It was the kind that would grow gnarly and burn everything in its path, driven to consume. Combusting. Touching skin and traveling up like a stiff line. You recognized it.

“None of your business.” You then simply stated and turned around, leaving. Time to shut the windows.

Simon tipped his chin up slightly at your form, as you opened the door and disappeared into the thick fog. He could see just a little of your form walking down the pavement from the window, flowers gripped tightly in one hand.

You were heading to the cemetery, he figured it was up that way.

When he counted the cash you’d given to him, the bills moving with ease in his larger hands, he noticed you left two dollars extra. He shrugged and took them. He grappled for his worn out leather wallet, thick with cards and wads of unnecessary singles sticking out. He placed your bills in there, cashing the rest in the register.

He couldn’t bring himself to ask why you left for the cemetery. Instead, he found it appealing to spin stories. Lord knows, maybe that was your only getaway to eat lunch with the dead. He bit back a sleazy grin behind the mask.

His eyes then floated up from the chipped wood, gliding to the hooks. His apron, unworn and unused, hung uselessly at the hook by the door. His eyes bore holes into the fabric as if willing it to burn. The Brit was often confused for not working there since he never wore it—to which the store manager rang his ears a few times about it.

But he never listened. One cigarette and the manager found himself shutting up about the damned apron. Easy.

“You’d ave to let me kill you if you wanted to see that.” Simon muttered roughly before pushing off the counter and fixing his next order from the POS.

—-

As evening rolled in, you found yourself sipping a cinnamon latte. Both MacTavish and Garrick brought in batches of coffees and donuts, to which you took gladly. Your appetite was a mess which needed your attention. But for now, you focused on sipping the warmth, as you held it with both hands.

Price was sitting across on a stool, his form hunched and biting into a powdery donut.

Both of you were in the break room, downstairs in the morgue when you spoke, sighing as the liquid washed down.

“Morgue life.”

Price glanced up as if not expecting you to have talked. The furrow of his brow eased and he relaxed his eyes, before dusting off his hands. “Got anything better to say?”

You felt an itch at your lips but concealed it by lifting the rim to your lips, where you sipped. Your eyes darted away from his shifting form, a hand curling around his knee, shoulders angled to gaze at you.

“Was it bad?” Cringe.

“What?” Price muttered, a slight cock of his head conveying confusion. “You gonna speak up, or gonna keep hiding behind your cup?”

You shifted in your spot. There it was. The way he did this. All of the time. The old crank just loved pointing out the obvious. You weren’t as stealthy as you thought you were around him.

You lowered the cup before straightening your shoulders, squaring them.

“The military.” You clarified, your voice clearer and bolder.

Price rubbed at his scruffy jaw with the hand that was free, glancing away for a moment. He then looked at you, admittedly a little too casually, a brow raised, as if he’d been down this course many times. His forearms were decorated with long scarring, jagged and rising upon the flesh.

“It’s over now. What’s it to you?” Price asked, jerking a chin at you. Your fingers curled around the cup to seek more warmth under his cold, prodding stare. It felt like ice chafing against your skin, rubbing and melting. That's what he did to you.

And you realized he knew a heck of a ton more than he let on. It intrigued you. What kind of military tactics did he learn?

“Realized I don’t know much about you.” You conceded, and then stood up from your own stool. Your scarf suddenly hooked onto the drawer from behind, threatening to strangle you. You made a noise of shock and confusion, your free hand flying up to your neck.

Suddenly, a rush of tobacco consumed your nose and nicotine. The smell of aftershave was faint. When you processed it all—Price had gotten up, and in a swift move yanked the piece out from the drawer. He towered over you.

“Watch your six, you might be the cause of your own death.” Price said dryly. You rubbed at the tightened fabric around your throat, eyes glancing behind you to the ajar drawer, the red scarf flowing down.

You then met his darkened eyes.

“MacTavish wouldn’t stop teasing your dead body.” He breathed out, the sir hitting your cheeks.

Your heart was pounding at your own clumsiness. Was it the coffee? The lack of sleep? So many things.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.” You whispered, to which he seemed to find amusement in. His eyes crinkled, his resolve weakening slightly. Even so, there was still something unnerving about the way his instincts moved like a feather. You didn’t even register the sound of his footsteps towards you. You couldn’t imagine how efficient he must’ve been in the military.

“Get goin’. You’re working with Simon tonight.” Price ordered gruffly, stepping back on his old boots.

This time, you almost threw your latte into his face. But your resolve held on, and you glanced away.

You then responded curtly, “Thanks for the warning.”

Price watched—-slightly amused and questioning your reply as you hurried off. No doubt probably needing to cool off. He scoffed, shaking his head and rubbed at his nose bridge as if stressed by trying to figure you out.

“One day it’s the bloody drink rumor, the other it’s this.” He sighed, knowing he also had questions himself for you, before putting both your stools aside. He didn't really understand your sudden interest in him. He was an old, retired military man who cracked beers on the weekend. Alone. Staring at the cresting sunset.

The break room lights flickered to which he then looked up. His small eyes narrowed at the yellow, dingy light boxes, stained by years of dirt and grime.

“Damned wiring.”

Down the hallway in the morgue, you were met face to face with Simon. The Brit leaned on the empty metal table, burly arms crossed. Tired pale eyes dragged from your distressed boots, to your jean clad thighs, and then your scarf that hung limply from when price yanked it free. You cleared your throat, setting the cup down on the nearby shelf to unravel it.

“You’re late.”

“You’re not the first to have said that.” You quipped, then hung your scarf inside the closet. You heard the fellow footsteps of Price, and then Simon went about scrubbing his hands in the sink.

You joined beside his taller form, begrudgingly. Price opened the doors and he sighed, drawing on the chalkboard.

Simon spared you no look or glance, just focused on each of the thick jagged scars marring his flesh. It no longer hurt to touch, but the man knew each and every story of them all. His tattoos now showed as he rode up the dark undershirt, his hoodie hung on the hook beside your scarf.

“Where’d you get those done?” You quipped, brow cocking as you scrubbed your palms red. You needed a hair tie, because your hair was in the way and distracted you from leaning down. Every brush of the strands irritated you.

He was quiet, until he spoke.

“Must be a reason why the drinking rumors started.” Simon spoke roughly, low enough so you could hear. Over the agonizing pound of your heart, the way your breath froze, Price worked the board. Most likely drawing the human body.

“Good. So don’t ask questions.” He said after your stunned silence. You didn’t dare raise your head, eyes casted low as a frown pulled at your lips.

If it was possible you scrubbed harder as he walked behind you to grab some gloves. You could hear him snapping them on, as if nothing ensued. The snap even had your blood boiling. Festering like welts.

That flame was beginning to breathe again.

You avoided him until it was time to bring in the body. Simon angled the overhead lighting, as MacTavish rolled in, his hands on his vest whilst Garrick swiftly rolled the gurney to you both.

Price and Garrick lifted the body onto the table, whilst you stood aside. Simon looked over MacTavish with a nod of approval. a sense of familiarity.

“Unknown female. Found by a church, locals say they called it in after praying in the night. Priest was almost certain this was a sign from the Lord.” Garrick muttered.

“Ain’t that a wake up call.” Price grumbled from beside Simon.

MacTavish grinned, although less from what Price said and more so to you. His eyes strayed to your form as you hassled to tie your hair up, fingers working fast, head tipped low. You managed to get it in a ponytail.

“Aye, don’ stress it. Looked pretty down.” MacTavish just had to comment.

Before you could respond, Price cut in gruffly, “That’ll be.”

MacTavish winked at you and waved a little “bye bye,” at a certain Simon. Simon stared void of any emotion whatsoever, like he had gotten long used to the Scotsman's behavior.

You wondered how he didn’t at least bother to crack at him, the way he did with you.

That was because maybe a part of him trusted MacTavish. Which he didn’t with you.

Your stomach shriveled and you turned your head away, as Price unzipped the body. You felt similar to being homesick. Like you didn’t fit in. Too new. Shiny enough to stick out. And yet broken, the cracks in you dried up and became more of a wound that didn’t fully heal. It didn’t bleed anymore, as it was a drought.

“Assisting John Price, are two coroners Simon Riley, and…” He added your name as he spoke in the voice recorder. Contrary to the feeling you just had, you felt a twinge of belonging as he said it. It happened before. And now it keeps repeating.

Almost like, it became a sort of sappy moment in the goddamn morgue. You shoved it away harshly, biting at any sort of feeling to belong. You were perplexed by your inner monologue.

If I don’t want to fit in, why does it bother me to see he trusted MacTavish more?

And why did the mention of my name make me feel present?

As if Price—the way he so firmly said your name had you realizing you were alive. That you existed behind the foggy chaos of your life. That when he said it, when he affirmed it, you felt a part of life itself. Risen from the dead itself.

You were torn out your thoughts as Simon moved to begin inspecting the body. He leaned over, blonde lashes brushing the curve of his cheek, barely concealed by the mask he wore. The light made his skin translucent and angelic almost. You found yourself staring a bit too long, this time.

“Unidentified female. Long black hair. Caucasian, looks to be mid twenties.” Simon described efficiently, his thick Manchester accent rolling out smoothly. Price wrote on the board, arm jostling.

You found yourself intrigued by the way the words slipped confidently off his tongue like he’d done this a million times. What perplexed you was how his hands worked so patiently and tenderly in the flower shop, and now he handled a dead corpse. It only made you even compelled to unveil him. This part of you to figure him out, to eye him like a hawk. But you knew you’d get nowhere considering how private he was.

You stepped forward and looked at her limbs. You reached a gloved hand out to check her ankle joints, finding them broken. The skin was bruised and mottled. The area was severely swollen, puffing up. “Both ankles are broken like the last, Price.”

Price writes it down, circling the ankles. He cocked his brow at the observation, two in one week? He tapped the chalk, pondering.

Simons’ eyes glanced up at you, before flashing to Price, “Certainly can’t be good.” He muttered. The Brit wasn’t here for the last exam, but surely MacTavish must’ve filled him in.

You flexed her ankle, seeing as the rotation was hyperextending from the break. You trailed your eyes up to her hands which you noticed dirt under her fingernails.

Before you realized it—Simon already handed you a scraper and a petri dish.

You glanced at his pale void eyes, and then scraped the substance off. He watched you like a hawk, your smaller hands moving efficiently. His hands would probably drop the scraper easily.

“Found something. Looks like dried blood.” You said.

“Use the microscope.” Price spoke gruffly. He continued his writings, and Simon watched as you turned away to sit on the stool. Your form hunched over as you eyed the substance, in the microscope.

Meanwhile, Simon then busied himself with checking her irises. He leaned in, his gloved thumb holding the eyelid to reveal cloudy eyes. His brows set lower, deeply, as if trying to figure out who she was. What her story was. How she ended up here. And then, he thought he saw her eyes shift. Like a lizard. Flickering to him. His gloved hand withdrew, hovering, barely stroking her skin.

He remained largely where he stood, faltering in the slightest. He made no sound, just stared at her corpse as if he’d imagined it. She was completely still and lifeless.

“It's blood.” Your voice then cuts through the air. He exhaled, his chest lowering and then flickered his eyes to you before rounding the table, closing the distance.

Awkwardly, and suddenly you’re shoved to the side as his torso looks close to your face. He leaned down, looking into the microscope to see what you saw, a hand gripping the base. You scowled up at him as the Brit knew no personal space.

“She must’ve fought it off her captor.” Price muttered, then glanced at you two. “Back it up.” He spoke as if you were a mutt that needed training. You didn’t like it.

“I was just doing my work.” You muttered and rolled your eyes at Simon. He moved away and crossed his arms, staring down at your sitting form like you were an insect to behold.

You didn’t like it one bit. You turned your cheek away over to Price, seeing what he’d written down. “That means there was a struggle involved.” You figured.

“Clearly.” Simon added, behind you like a sound board. Except he wasn’t exactly helping you. You bristled and kept your eyes trained on the chalkboard.

“Were her wrists broken as well?”

“Yes.” Simon spoke. He moved away to your thankfulness, and looked once again over the table. Surely enough, her wrists also had signs of bruising and swelling.

“Same M.O.” Price sighed, recalling the last male victim.

You got up from the stool and walked over to Price. “If it fits the M.O as last, this could be a serial killer.” Your voice was low, in a hushed tone. Simon watched on the interaction from behind, thumb stroking the edge of the table with a sense of distrust radiating off of him.

“Surely enough.” Price then responded, eyes darkening with something unbridled. It was an intense need to figure it out, like a missing puzzle piece. His hand stroked his scruffy jaw before sending his eyes over to Simon.

“Proceed with the internal examination.”

You joined along—more than happy to assist. But now you were beginning to feel like the lap puppy beside him rather than an efficient practitioner. You disliked it.

It only brought up feelings of being constricted. Cast away like a chore being ticked off the list for the evening.

Simon's hands worked deftly to make the Y-shaped cut. Soon enough the ribs were exposed, decaying organs laying underneath. Your eyes assessed the damage.

“No hole in the heart.” You said, brows furrowed.

“Odd.” Price sighed through his nose and then strode to assess the two of you. He was even more perplexed by the lack of the corkscrew hole missing.

Simon lowered his scalpel onto the metal tray on the cart beside his hip. His gloves flexed.

You watched the body cavity, eyes flitting around. You then leaned away to look at Price, “I’ll have that blood analyzed by the lab.”

“Do it now.” Price ordered firmly, eyes cutting into yours. He needed to figure this out. The look in his eyes told you enough.

You wasted no time in stripping your gloves, throwing them in the can, and then grabbing the sample. You were glad to be out the room filled with too much testosterone. Simon began working the rib cutters as you left out the two metal doors.

The lights flickered above as you approached the broken and small elevator shaft. The smell of cigarettes met your nostrils, and you tilted your head this way and that. The cold, white and depressing floors of the morgue disappeared as the doors shut.

Suddenly it was just you and your thoughts—holding the sample. No elevator music. Then your mind wandered. You wondered what kind of music both of them would listen to.

You could predict Price having an 80s Latin pop music playlist. Ana Gabriel thrown in there, along with some 90s throwbacks. The usual Whitney Houston, Creed, and some Pearl Jam. It fit his divorced dad persona. You had to stifle a scoff at the crude thought. You tilted your head up, hearing the cogs slowly work in the elevator going up. If he knew you had this thought he’d probably do more than just free your scarf—No, he’d find a way to choke you.

And Simon? You never really thought of that one. You wouldn’t know. If you had to take a stab at it, probably Metallica, Iron Maiden, and of course you threw in a sappy song, Take My Breath Away.

You could imagine his eyes peering around, wired headphones plugged in. In the flower shop he would work on cutting the stems carefully, back facing you. Lights from above were cold and gray as it flickered. His pocket was hefty from his phone, wires tangled carelessly by his masked jaw. The headphones fit snug underneath. And he’d listen to Berlin, her silky voice as his rugged features seemed captivated by the petals. How the red petals graced his scarred, pale form. Like blood cascading in rivulets, soft and inviting.

Maybe Top Gun would be his favorite movie, you sarcastically thought. He’d probably think Tom Cruise an idiot, or found him to be a die hard with a raging hard on, eager to prove something.

Just a thought. A handful of thoughts. You snapped out of it when the doors opened but this time, the doors opened to a warmly lit floor. Soft music of a record played, almost jazz like despite the crude, and surgical environment. The moment bursted like bokeh’s, fluttering and glittering. Some nurses walked about, humming. Some pushed carts. Some checked their lists off.

“Hello, where is the lab, please?” You asked quietly to the woman ahead. She appears soft, almost with a trusting look. Her brows are higher set, giving her a wide eyed appearance, and lips smeared with pink gloss. She smiled tightly, pointing her pen down the converging hallway of music.

“That’ll be it.” She said, and it went well with her looks. You felt odd, like a wolf in sheeps clothing here. Everyone appeared too nice. What an odd contrast to your dark, null and devoid personality.

Your ears caught on, head moving to the source of music. It came from the ends of the hallways which converged, but you barely saw the entrance.

You began to slowly walk, bristling past some nurses and to the yellow hallway. The music became louder and clearer, scratching momentarily.

The room had a cabin feel, from the dark oak wood, to the linoleum floors. A brown couch was ratted and old, sagging. There was a vinyl spinning untouched. The soft lamps glowed eerily, marking a presence unknown. You could see the lab wasn’t too far from the room, located just beyond it. It seemed like a wavering mirage, placed behind a mirror.

“Now I’m on my knees. Darlin’ please. It’s time to die—“

The music got cut off as if the vinyl got scratched. Your hand that was resting on the door, holding it open now moved to your side. The door shut and you felt oddly singled out. Like prey being trapped in the four corners of the room. The lights danced like Christmas lights, suddenly buzzing with a high frequency, before it got overwhelmingly loud.

The buzz even shook your core, vibrating your organs. You felt like you were shifting left and right, hands covering your ears as you let out a soft sound. Confused, you looked around.

You spied what appeared to be some whiskey and a nurse coming out, her giggling eerie voice appealing to yours, “Have some, would you?” She beckoned softly. They all sounded the same too.

Unless that was you being pious, and pessimistic. You scoffed and shook your head as she poured into a clear glass. Your eyes narrowed.

“No thanks. On the job, ma’am.” You said, although you itched to taste the burn and feel it satisfy the rotten parts of you momentarily. Your brow twitched as you held onto the sample, looking past her into the lab.

“Don’t be like that…here. My names Sarah. Sarah Lockman?” She introduced, and walked forward to you. Her green eyes peered out, like foliage shining in the sun. The glass was present in her hold, shining too. You eyed it and swallowed and grabbed the sample tightly.

“I don’t know you, really.” You said, voice stiff like steel.

“Of course you wouldn’t…you know. I’m not supposed to be drinking on the job. I mean. It’s a lab and all…what would they think?” She whispered as if only you two were meant to hear. She sighed and carelessly chucked the drink down her throat, her pale fingers grabbing the glass.

“But it feels good to let go.” She added and sighed, her eyes lighting up.

You knew exactly what she meant. And the feeling of it all. You eyed her and watched the glass become empty, the brown liquid gone. “They’ll find you, you know.”

Sarah smiled softly and shook her head, “It isn’t bad until I’m caught.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” You muttered and looked down at your shoes. Who were you to judge her? To diss her? When you did the same thing. You sighed and pinched your nose bridge with a free hand, and then peered past her, to the mirror.

“I gotta get in there.” You said and moved past her. She then grabbed your arm softly, gently. Her voice shook almost like a tremor.

“I know you do it too.” She said, almost hesitantly. As if she could be wrong, but yet astoundingly correct. You stiffened up and you slowly turned your head to her, glancing at her pale hand clutching your lab coat.

“Do you, now?” You whisper and eye her shorter form. She swallowed, feeling impeccably small under you.

“Then tell me I’m wrong. Judge me. But don’t think you’re right, because you’d do the same one day.” Her words wrap around you like a blanket, feeling oddly too comforting. It’s as if you understood her, and you did. You sigh and remove her hand, facing her fully. A soft glimmering light cast upon your faces, glowing and softening the edges.

Like an old film. Like a teardrop catching the suns rays.

“Drink.” She urges, keening her head just slightly to bat her lashes at you. Her lip lifts at the corner almost slightly. A wave of submission befalls you and you shudder.

She suddenly moves light a feather to the drink, pouring it. Half a glass. You spun and reeled at the sight and before you knew it, the liquid burned. It tasted like sin and guilt and yet, a wavering dream.

“There. That’s all. Something to take the edge off, right? Seeing all that death.” She explained, giggling unceremoniously to you.

You sighed and wiped your mouth, when the room felt fuzzy and dizzy. Like an echoing dream. A cadence drifted softly around you two, cocooning a strange, twisted, intimate moment. You then lowered the glass onto the stand where the record played, lips parted.

“You drink strong for a little nurse.” You concluded, tasting the whiskey.

“We all need liquid courage, don’t we?” She mentioned your name, and you sat on the sagging couch, slumping slightly. The sample could wait. The lab was right there, after all. Your head spun and you looked at her, lids hooded and lips parting to breathe out warm puffs of air.

“Damn right. How old are you?” You asked.

She shrugged, “Age means nothing, not when the trauma happens without a care.” She said lightly, sitting beside you.

The couch sagged and your head threatened to tip back slowly, as her voice echoed. The room constricted and you felt her gaze on your slack form. She seemed to be amused, more than anything, watching you spiral.

“You get me, I think.” You whisper, feeling the drink spread like hot fire in your belly.

“I do. Trust me, I get you much more than anything.” She said.

After a while, the room became distorted and her voice faded completely. It was you and your mindless thoughts, and the steady thump of your heart. The rush of your blood sent you in a heat, and this was the high you more focused on. Just a second, you thought. Your eyes shut.

When it opened, you had no idea how much time had really passed, but you knew this. You were spinning. Unsteady. You rose up, seeing Sarah move past you and into a smaller room.

“Let me get you some water, you have to get back to work don’t you?” She whispered uncannily. You eyed her and nodded, clutching the sample and waiting. You stood in the warm room, seeing how the sudoku papers we’re spread on the coffee table, the tall lamp buzzing.

She crossed the distance, disappearing into a closet. The mirror of the lab faded and became a wall of brick, and you blinked dizzily at it. Had you really thought the lab was there? You remember the nurse pointing to a different room. Shit, maybe it was the one across this one instead.

A foot emerged from the closet. Soft, gentle, and bare. Like a child taking its first step.

Your eyes unsteadily caught it, expecting Sarah to come out with the water. And there she were in her glory, glowing, shining with this sort of essence you couldn’t describe. Something out of a dream. You weren’t really sure if it whispered soothingly or if it screamed. It all blurred.

Her pallid, molten fingers caressed the knob as if beckoning you to come closer. Then, you trailed up to see a knee lean in view, shaky as if disgruntled. Mangled. Malnourished.

You saw her pale, soft, and rancid-like skin she had. For someone out of a dream you felt you were seeing her as clear as daylight, with her auburn hair and deepest eyes. She appeared vixen like, and yet disgruntled.

Your breath froze. Her hand rested on the knob, steadying itself before her head rose to you. Long auburn hair curled around her form.

She whispered uncannily, or rather produced a whisper from behind you. You slowly walked to her, not before your stomach hurled and you stopped.

Before you knew it, you ran out, forgetting the water as she shouted your name.

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propertyofkylar · 3 months ago

Text

kinktober day six: dubcon (m!harper x afab!pc)

word count: 1055

tags/warnings: dubcon, medical kink, inspection kink, fingering, reader has a pussy but no explicit gender, gross medical malpractice

Trips to the doctor always filled you with trepidation, and they always had. Now, with Harper as your doctor, these feelings only worsened. You were sat on the uncomfortable paper of the examination bed, feet swinging awkwardly as you tugged the gown to cover more of your thighs. You felt so exposed, with nothing on underneath the gown, as your doctor requested. Only your socks were offering some semblance of modesty.

Your doctor had you see him weekly, which would be fine, only he insisted on doing a full examination every time. You weren’t sure why you always needed a physical. Harper said it was necessary for your…health.

“And how have you been sleeping lately?” He asked from his seat, scribbling on his notepad.

“Fine,” was your short response. It didn’t faze Harper, though. He simply nodded. Like he always did.

“Mhm,” Harper replied. “And your sexual activity?”

Your fingers clenched the hem of your gown, knuckles turning white. “...same as always.”

“I see,” all you could hear was the scritch of pencil on paper. “A little more detail, please. Activity with penises or vaginas?”

Now, you were chewing on your lip. “...both.”

“Oral, penetrative...?”

“Both.”

“And are you using protection?”

Images of your recent sexual encounters - consensual and not - flashed through your mind. “Um…sometimes.”

“I see.” A few more scratches and Harper set the notepad down, looking at you. “Well, you should know that isn’t very safe. I’ll now need to conduct a physical examination. Please lay back and put your feet in the stirrups.”

You had done this so many times by now, the motions were like riding a bike. Did you even have the right to feel embarrassed with your hole exposed like this? Was there a point to feeling bad?

Harper snapped on his latex gloves and moved closer to you, shining a light into your crotch. He hiked the hospital gown up towards your waist and gently placed his hands on your hips, making mildly approving noises as he moved further down your legs.

“Ah,” now he was looking directly into your cunt. “It doesn’t look inflamed or anything, which is good. I need a closer look, though.”

The same old song and dance, every week. Why did he keep up this pretense? Then again, why did you go along with it? Something shameful burned in your chest. Something that you kept pushed down, out of sight. You liked it.

No, no way. You shook your head. “Doctor, I don’t see why you need to…”

“You are my patient, and I am a doctor. It is my duty to ensure you are in peak condition,” Harper said smoothly, his hands creeping closer to your pussy, which unfortunately, was starting to feel wet. “And you just indicated you are having unsafe sex. A closeup exam will show if you have contracted any sort of STIs or other diseases.”

You weren’t entirely sure that was how it actually worked, but there was no point in saying anything. What would you do? Run out of the office, half-naked? You had heard rumors of places they sent patients who acted out, and they did not sound pleasant. The mere thought made you shiver. So, complacency it was again.

One gloved finger slid into your cunt as heat coiled in your belly. Harper’s fingers were slim and long. He hummed a tuneless song as the finger moved around inside, curling against your gummy walls. The other hand came to rest on top of your lower stomach. “Everything feels normal so far,” he said. But you knew the doctor was far from done.

Another finger slipped in and you let out a small gasp as his knuckles brushed against your g-spot. “I see that sexual pleasure is still normal as well,” Harper said with a light chuckle. “No need to feel embarrassed. This is, of course, completely normal.”

The pair of fingers slowly started to pump in and out, all under the guise of an examination. You whimpered softly, your body squirming subconsciously as it sought out more friction.

“Please try to stay still, or it could mess with my process,” Harper said. The hand on your belly dipped down to tweak your clit, eliciting another gasp from you. “Your clitoris seems normal, too.”

His fingers continued to stroke your insides as his other hand slowly rubbed your bundle of nerves. “I think,” you took in a sharp breath, trying to cover up a moan threatening to spill. “I think you’ve gotten your answer by now.”

“Please don’t interrupt.” You knew that was all you would get out of him.

Both of his hands were making quick work of you, and Harper added a third finger. “Very good,” he said appraisingly. “See how well you took that? Very nice elasticity. That said, you may want to work on strengthening your pelvic floor. We can practice some kegel exercises after this.”

“Ngh–okay,” you managed to squeak out. The consistent pumping of his three fingers combined with the circular rubbing of your clit had you nearing your limit.

“I can feel your walls tightening around my fingers now. I see you are close to climax. This is good, I’m glad to see your functions are working as they should,” Harper kept up his tempo, trying to draw that orgasm out of you.

And no matter how you tried to hold it back, it burst forth from you, just as it did every week with Harper. A low moan came from your lips as it hit you, and stars danced before your eyes. You also felt a gush from your aching cunt as it clenched around those latex fingers.

“Wonderful!” Harper said with a smile, drawing back and disposing of his gloves. “And look at that. Ejaculate.”

You looked down to see a large wet patch on that crinkly exam paper. No fucking way. You squirted on the doctor? Now, your cheeks truly were burning with shame.

“Ah, please don’t feel embarrassed!” Harper was entirely normal, standing up and heading over to his notepad. “It’s completely, totally normal. A perfect response to sexual stimulation. And you did excellent work. It seems like your body is in excellent shape.”

Harper offered you a grin, which seemed kind, but a hungry, predatory look lingered in his eyes. “Same time next week?”

#degrees of lewdity #dol #dol fanfic #harper the doctor #harper x reader #cw dubcon #kinktober #writing #bitches be like 'no fic tonight'#then post fic literally 30 min later #fucking ridiculous

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xxanaduwrites · 9 months ago

Text

much ado about nothing, major

i. bubbles & battle scars

gif creds @sakuragifs !

pairing: john “bucky” egan x (ofc) maude “blue” bluell

warnings: this story will contain mature themes, descriptions of injury, blood, sexual content, swearing, as well as, physical and mental illness. proceed with caution.

— i: mentions of injury, death, & puking. (pretty much just maude, bubbles, & croz being a dynamic trio, total bestie vibes — & then there’s john. he’s just there haha)

word count: 3.4k

there must be something or nothing at all

July 24, 1943 was the date — a date marked in the history books as the start of the Hamburg attacks, and in the journal of Nurse Maude Bluell, an inclusion of her very first introduction to one Major John Egan.

It was just past 0900 hours when the doors swung open to the infirmary rather unexpectedly. Bluell was organizing a new shipment of supplies, placing gauze, bandages, and wraps alike in their respective places, Lottie wa re-evaluating the health passes for the men who were flying today — confirming that they has passed inspection so to speak, and Q — well Q was reading newspaper cutouts of her favorite gossip columns, courtesy of her girlfriends back home. A red cherry sucker laid limply in her mouth as she took in the recent excepades of the Hollywood starlets she fawned over.

For Q, it was better for her to dive her nose into the latest gossip than worry about a certain Lieutenant she had tethered a liking too. A certain Lieutenant Curtis Biddick — "Curt" for short — who was scheduled to fly today. Q would deny the prospect of liking the New Yorker with the heavy accent, but it wasn't deniable to Lottie and Maude who had seen the Lieutenant saunter in every morning just to talk to her at the nurse's station. He used the need for a sucker to subside his "apparent" drops in blood sugar as his excuse of choice.

Lottie reprimanded her every time, claiming that they were only for the patients, not for the healthy airmen — hiding the sugary sweet lollipops from her colleague.

But, Lottie's attempts proved to be fruitless as Q would find them at every turn in every single hiding spot, opening a sucker of her own just to push Lottie's buttons.

And, she was doing that just now — not just to bother the blonde, but to also hold some sort of reminder of Biddick, that he was here with her as much as she was there with him — the cherry red sucker that mirrored the very same shade of her hair — tucked safely in the pocket of his flight uniform for a victory treat.

Alas — in other words — there wasn't much to do until their men came flooding back in waves.

Until there was.

The sound of a door swinging open broke the dead silence that pervaded the medical unit. The three women immediately dropped everything they were doing once they saw the sight of Colonel Harding sauntering in with Lieutenant Payne following suit — under the haven of a thick blanket, accompanied by the the arm of one of his fellow airmen.

Or well — Maude and Lottie did.

Susan was trying to consume the last line of the article in front of her as fast as she could. She didn't want to be left wondering what Bettie Davis was doing nowadays in the middle of assessing what was to come.

Lottie, being under the wing of Doctor Stover longer than the two nurses beside her, did not hesitate to meet Harding half way. "Good morning, Colonel'' she greeted, pressing her clip board of names close to her chest as a means of suppressing the shock of it all. It was rather unusual to see any of the airmen, let alone the Colonel until the conclusion of a mission, especially when every health pass had been confirmed and processed.

"Morning. Ladies," Harding replied to the three nurses present respectfully as he always did, curt, and to the point. "Lieutenant Payne is coming down with something and will no longer be navigating today's mission," he explained. "You ladies mind checking up on him?"

"Oh not at all, sir!" Lottie chirped, setting her clipboard down and immediately swinging into action. She nodded over at her colleagues, urging them to take the clearly pale and ill Lieutenant from the hold of the corporal present.

It didn't take long for Bluell and Q to get the Lieutenant situated and comfortable in a bed with brand new sheets — pressed and floral scented. Maude felt lucky and rather grateful that they had completed that task in time for such a situation to occur. Q was still quite busy with her cherry sucker while simultaneously taking the man's blood pressure, so Bluell decided to do the evaluating — not that she minded anyways. It was refreshing to see a man in front of her who wasn't bleeding out and barely coherent. She could already tell without really knowing that Payne would be just fine. That she wouldn't be losing another one of their men just yet, and that made the weight in her chest subside with the sweetest relief.

"Lieutenant Payne," Maude enunciated carefully, smiling fondly at the poor man in front of her. It was obvious from the sight in front of her that illness had racked his bones. The color was draining from his skin, a dull gray taking over, a line of sweat was creasing his brow, and his eyes drooped heavily doused with a glossy sheen. "Please, if you could tell me what seems to be going on. How are you feeling?"

"Well, quite shitty," he laughed dryly, yet a smile still managed to grace his features and prove to be rather contagious to Maude's expression in seconds flat. "I was fine. I mean, I thought I was. 'Twas until I was propped up ready to fly, feeling like I could hurl if I even moved a muscle. Major Egan shut that down real quick though. Got me a sub with Croz."

And there it was, a title attached to the name of a man Maude Bluell would have scorched into the back of her mind soon enough. Yet, now – now in that very moment, her unfamiliarity with that very same man would simply fly over her head. Instead, she would find a tying point to her patient in the traces of his explanation, one that made her eyes light up in genuine interest. "Lieutenant Crosby?" She asked while dropping the back of her hand to Payne's forehead, inspecting the extent of his temperature."

"Yuh-huh," he nodded

At the same time as Q announced "one-nineteen over seventy," but it really sounded like, "nun-eye-dee ova even-yee," with that sucker still tucked dedicatedly in her mouth.

Maude's hand dropped from Payne's forehead then, seeming pleased to know that he wasn't burning up as bad as she expected – definitely warm but more mildly speaking – and his blood pressure was relatively normal. The wheels were already turning in her head, coming to the conclusion that he merely had some sort of bug. But, she couldn't really come to one until Doctor Stover came to access the man himself.

"Lemme guess," Payne began, getting Maude's attention after she instructed Q to get the Lieutenant a glass of water. If she got his prognosis right, he would need to remain hydrated to subside the urge to vomit. "He's here quite often ain't –" Payne's words seemed to lodge in his throat then, his features twisting just the same.

The clear indication of his illness brought Nurse Bluell to flight mode and she picked up the bucket adjacent to his bed in mere seconds. "Let it out, Lieutenant," she urged as she situated it on his lap just in time for him to spill out the contents into the bin instead of his bed. He did just that, and Bluell did not hesitate to keep the bucket steady and rub his back in a soothing motion, hoping to ease the strain in his back from achy muscles.

Once he was done, he slumped back against the headboard – his eyes appearing glossier than they had before. He was spent, but that did not stop him from mumbling out his appreciation. "Thank you Nurse – Nurse?" He trailed off, a crease forming on his sweaty forehead with a curious sort of confusion.

"Bluell. Nurse Bluell," she introduced herself, moving the bucket off the bed, tying up the old one, and replacing it with a brand new one. "But you can just call me Maude."

"Maude. The powerful battler," a droopy smile spanned across his face, recalling the meaning behind the name of the nurse in front of him.

"Yes, but –" her cheeks dusted pink, and she looked away from him as she got rid of the previous trash close by. "Not me. All you – All you boys."

"Doubt that." Q brought over the water then and he thanked her kindly before taking a gentle sip. "Call me Bubbles."

"Pardon, Lieutenant?" Bluell stood straight then, completely taken aback by his sudden admission. She took a deep breath and sucked back the urge to laugh.

It wasn't uncommon by any means for nicknames to be a staple pass of courtesy and comradely around base. It served as an attempt to distinguish the tension of a deeply set reality and also comouflague identity to foreign forces. Like Charolette and Susan who replied to Lottie and Susie Q or just plain old Q. It was common knowledge. And she had found herself giving into such knowledge as she adjusted to the shortened form of her surname — replying to Blue more often than not. But, Bubbles. Bubbles? She hadn't heard something quite like that before.

"Bubbles. That's what they call me. Ain't heroic by any means. You can ask Croz the next time he's here, 'M sure he'll tell yuh," he elaborated.

A chuckle escaped her then, a genuine smile enveloping in her cheeks in a way that almost felt foreign. She couldn't remember the last time she smiled – really smiled since she'd arrived on base. "Quite heroic to me,." She flattened her hands across the edges of the mattress, making sure he was tucked into the sheets comfortably and then she fluffed up the back of his pillow for me good measure. "Should rest up now, Lieutenant. I'll be here if you need anything. Please don't hesitate to call us over," She affirmed, and in a sudden newfound sense of confidence or maybe it was simply just the comradery, she found herself adding, "that's an order, Bubbles."

Bubbles – still poorly, shivering, and pale as a ghost – managed a light laugh from his strained throat as Maude left the man be. "You got it, Maude"

Maude's spirits appeared to be more pleasant than usual as she busied herself in the next coming hours. Her conversation with Lieutenant Payne – or Bubbles if you will – subsided the nerves that usually rattled her in deep anticipation of what was to come. However, knowing that Lieutenant Crosby was navigating today still kept her worried.

Would his stomach be okay?

Would the natural herbs she recommended to brew in his tea ease him?

Those thoughts did not fail to plague her mind throughout the day, but she was grateful to have some distraction in the task of caring for Bubbles. She made sure to keep an eye on him as much as she could, so much so, that it started to concern Nurse Charlotte Reign and Susan Quinn who felt as if previous patterns from the young nurse were resurfacing. Patterns that were brought into light the very same day an airmen died in her arms for the very first time.

Yet, Maude felt fine – well, as fine as one could be in the circumstances placed upon her. She felt like she could breathe again the moment the boys returned from the Trondheim mission in the later afternoon. It had proved to be successful – and even more so in the hands of one Lieutenant Crosby who was currently at Bubble's bedside. With a chair situated over, he not only came to check on his best friend, but also report on the mission.

Maude was finishing up wrapping a flier's burn wounds adjacent to Lieutenant Payne when she unintentionally overheard the conversation at hand. "I mean the flak, it came in so hot. I didn't even think about it when I put it on. It – It must of froze, but then these chunks, they start rolling down my forehead, I think 'holy mackerel crosby, holy mackerel, you've been hit!"

"Of course you would narrate your own death." Bubbles laughed lightly at his friend's retelling.

She secured the wrap tightly and comfortably and practically repeated the earlier lines she had said to Bubbles. She was starting to become more and more accustomed to her script, finding it more and more natural as she annunciated each word within passing days.

"Well, I mean I could make overthinking into an Olympic sport." Lieutenant Crosby joked just as Maude appeared at Bubbles bedside. She smiled at the two men, acknowledging them as she refilled Payne's water cup without interrupting their conversation.

"I've been puking so much today, I'm starting to catch up to you. Ask Maude." He nodded to the nurse next to them.

"Evening Maude." Crosby greeted the nurse. "Hope Bubbles here ain't giving you too much flak.”

"No more than you have." She just about pulled the man's chain with that one, making Bubbles erupt in laughter.

"Hey, 'snot my fault, Nurse." Crosby held a hand to his chest as if she had wounded him with his words, but the knowing smirk on his face proved otherwise.

"Did you try the tea?" She asked Croz, handing the cup of water over to Bubbles. His color was starting to come back. He looked better than this morning but he still needed to stay hydrated if he was gonna get back in the skies anytime soon.

"Nah. Next time when I actually know I'm flying I will," he sent a look over to Bubbles, only pushing his friend's buttons for fun. "Thanks Bubbles."

"Anytime." He said laughing against the rim of his cup. He took one last sip before Maude placed it back on the side table for him.

It seemed like Croz wasn't gonna let that one slide so easily. "You know I washed my hair twice, I still can't get the smell out." He leaned over his friend, practically shoving his hair in the fellow Lieutenant's face."You wanna smell? Yeah, jump in."

"No. No!" Bubbles tensed up then.

"Yeah, Come on." Croz pushed on.

Maude couldn't help but laugh at the playful side of these men. Men who still managed to let their inner kid shine through all the horror and terror they had ensued in the skies.

"Get – get away. I will puke on you! Yuh gonna have to wash it out." Bubbles threatened, trying to push Croz away.

And then like a burst of unexpected flax, everything shifted.

For not only Croz who immediately stiffened back in his seat – putting on a serious and professional front, but for Maude who – for lack of her own sense of understanding – found herself freezing just the same, but for a whole other reason.

"There he is," a deep, firm, yet some-what carefree voice broke the ice within her. And there he was, one Major Egan looking and sounding like one of those Hollywood starlets in Q's paper clipping — just stepping out of a film in the cinema. And if he hadn't had a small cut just under his right eye, he could have passed as a man who hadn't just returned from an intense mission across the skies. Clean cut, pressed in his uniform, curls styled and gelled back to perfection, with his flight jacket wrapped around his arms. Arms that held a strong hand planted against the edge of the foot of Bubbles bed. "How you doing Bubbles?" He asked.

Maude hadn't realized she was staring at the six foot two bulk of a man in front of her until Bubbles spoke up. "Never better, sir."

"That's good." And then his eyes landed on her, so intense, she suddenly wondered if he had become even taller than he was a minute ago. Feeling caught, she looked away and busied herself with the water cup on Bubbles nightstand to give herself something to do. Would the Major report back to Doctor Stover that she was incompetent and unfit to take care of his men? Lucky for Maude, his gaze broke away from hers the moment she turned around. "And I was looking for you," He said to Croz.

The chair beneath Croz creaked in protest as he stood up to be at the Major's level. "I'm sorry, Major."

"What for?" Major Egan inquired loosely.

"I – I didn't give PRs the whole flight back, I messed up the rendezvous – "

"I know. I know. The radio silence really threw off those Jerries. It's that and hitting the deck." Egan affirmed. With the conversation becoming more detailed, Maude felt out of place and rather rude for overhearing. Yet, the next words that came out of the Major's mouth not only took Croz and Bubbles by surprise, but Maude too. Any previous contemplations seemed to dissipate the moment Egan said, “Now, Harding, he couldn't be more impressed by you so, I'm transferring you to Blakely's crew full time," and then, " Bubbles, you get better, we'll find you a new fort. And Croz, we gotta give you an actual nickname."

"They call him Bing back home." Bubbles added into the conversation just as Maude urged him to take another sip. "More?" He asked, and she simply nodded as she turned back into her previous position– her view of all three men near her resurfacing.

"Bing Crosby? That's just lazy, unless you can sing." Major Egan put in his two cents, and his eyes gleamed when he asked, "Can you sing?"

"I–I ca –" Croz tethered.

"Like a donkey." Bubbles confirmed with zero ounces of hesitation, truly on a roll at deflating Croz's ego today without letting an ounce of illness ruin the fun.

"No, no – not a note, sir."

"Ah, I'm no good either, but I'm loud and hell if you can commit with enough enthusiasm, it really don't matter." And this was when Maude would come to learn of the singing shenanigans that came with one Major Egan. If only she knew then that those shenanigans would very well start up something alright.

The shorter Lieutenant and the taller Major clapped hands then in parting – a shake of sealed establishments and confirmations, proving that they were on the same page. "I'll see you at the Club Croz. I'm buying," the one with height told him, referring to the same exact club Lottie and Q would be dragging Bluell against her will in just a few short hours. "Goodnight Bubbles."

"Sir."He croaked between sips and finally handed the cup back to Maude for good.

"Goodnight, sir." Croz bid farewell. When the Major was out of earshot could Maude breathe, and Croz seemed to be too because he was back to bantering as he commented, "He thinks my nickname is lazy."

Another patient called her over then, stealing her away from the two men she had found herself laughing along with, yet a part of her felt grateful for the sudden diversion – especially now, after the Major's interruption. She couldn't explain it – couldn't even compartmentalize it exactly, but something had shifted inside her the moment he had stepped foot into the infirmary. An instinctive feeling of sorts — awfully hard to pinpoint. It hurt her head too much trying to think about it, so much so, she momentarily wondered if she was coming down with the same exact virus as Bubbles.

She wasn't.

But, she knew it was something, but what was it?

That — she didn't know.

Yet, something deep inside her – against her better judgment – told her that she needed to know. So as Croz passed by and bid her a farewell of his own, she knew what she had to do. And when the girls pitched going out to the Club again tonight, practically begging her in their shared quarters — Lottie using Q's obvious need for a distraction with Curt's lack of a return — did she give into their demise.

Was there really much ado about one night on the town?

Lottie and Q wouldn't think so, and Major Egan – well he wouldn't think so either.

the way in which she is already whipped without "knowing" is so real.

+ Q — curt and susie got me giggling & kicking my feeties !!!

also, for important context purposes, the gifs in the beginning is how i imagine bucky diverting his gaze from eyeing miss. maude ;) sir, we all know you were LOOKING — respectfully!

p.s.: i love bubbles & croz so bad, ugh my HEART <3

ANYWAYS.....

more to come sooner than you think. lemme know what ya think so far? feedback is much appreciated as this is BRAND NEW. this is also my very FIRST historical-esce fic so my apologies if there is any inaccuracies, but it do be my own fiction twist anyways haha.

love ya'll a mil, smoochies!

— xanadu

tag list:

@rubberpsyche

@precious-little-scoundrel

@major-mads

@luminouslywriting

@justheretoreadthxxs

@karmasloverrr

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