#right irrigation

[andy-clutterbuck]

4x02 | Infected

[disabled-dean]

Realizing that the rain melted all the snow so the bone trail is still accessible for hiking 👀

[inth3world]

Yeah, so, water ISN'T a right recognized by the US government. If you didn't already know.

[landtechscenery]

The Right Irrigation System for Your Commercial Landscape

A well-chosen irrigation system is crucial for maintaining a thriving green space. Selecting the appropriate system can determine whether your landscape is vibrant and healthy or plagued by water waste and high maintenance costs. Read more about choosing the right irrigation system for your commercial landscape.

[thirddeadlysin]

if you do get it, the number one way to protect yourself is vaccination. the number two way is MAXIMUM REST. I mean like flat on your back for five days at a minimum and then as many days as possible sitting up in bed and maybe walking to the kitchen a few times a day. For the first week though you go to the bathroom and take paxlovid and go back to bed. You want to compete with Charlie Chocolate Factory's grandparents for most effective bed-holder-downer and win by a landslide. Your only job is to let your immune system use as much of your energy reserve and calorie intake on fighting the infection and preventing damage as possible.

A secret third thing is to immediately start an antihistamine regimen like detailed in this post (or their MCAS post):

know someone who enjoys horror stories? share this one! it's true!

hahahahahahahahahaha aarrggghhhhhhhhhh 3,000,000 deaths due to COVID-19 last year. Globally. Three million. Case rates higher than 90% of the rest of the pandemic. The reason people are still worried about COVID is because it has a way of quietly fucking up your body. And the risk is cumulative.

I'm going to say that again: the risk is cumulative.

It's not just that a lot of people get bad long-term effects from it. One in seven or so? Enough that it's kind of the Russian Roulette of diseases. It's also that the more times you get it, the higher that risk becomes. Like if each time you survived Russian Roulette, the empty chamber was removed from the gun entirely. The worst part is that, psychologically, we have the absolute opposite reaction. If we survive something with no ill effects, we assume it's pretty safe. It is really, really hard to override that sense of, "Ok, well, I got it and now I probably have a lot of immunity and also it wasn't that bad." It is not a respiratory disease. Airborne, yes. Respiratory disease, no: not a cold, not a flu, not RSV.

Like measles (or maybe chickenpox?), it starts with respiratory symptoms. And then it moves to other parts of your body. It seems to target the lungs, the digestive system, the heart, and the brain the most.

It also hits the immune system really hard - a lot of people are suddenly more susceptible to completely unrelated viruses. People get brain fog, migraines, forget things they used to know.

(I really, really hate that it can cross the blood-brain barrier. NOTHING SHOULD EVER CROSS THE BLOOD-BRAIN BARRIER IT IS THERE FOR A REASON.) Anecdotal examples of this shit are horrifying. I've seen people talk about coworkers who've had COVID five or more times, and now their work... just often doesn't make sense? They send emails that say things like, "Sorry, I didn't mean Los Angeles, I meant Los Angeles."

Or they insist they've never heard of some project that they were actually in charge of a year or two before.

Or their work is just kind of falling apart, and they don't seem to be aware of it.

People talk about how they don't want to get the person in trouble, so their team just works around it. Or they describe neighbors and relatives who had COVID repeatedly, were nearly hospitalized, talked about how incredibly sick they felt at the time... and now swear they've only had it once and it wasn't bad, they barely even noticed it.

(As someone who lived with severe dissociation for most of my life, this is a genuinely terrifying idea to me. I've already spent my whole life being like, "but what if I told them that already? but what if I did do that? what if that did happen to me and I just don't remember?") One of its known effects in the brain is to increase impulsivity and risk-taking, which is real fucking convenient honestly. What a fantastic fucking mutation. So happy for it on that one. Yes, please make it seem less important to wear a mask and get vaccinated. I'm not screaming internally at all now.

I saw a tweet from someone last year whose family hadn't had COVID yet, who were still masking in public, including school.

She said that her son was no kind of an athlete. Solidly bottom middle of the pack in gym.

And suddenly, this year, he was absolutely blowing past all the other kids who had to run the mile. He wasn't running any faster. His times weren't fantastic or anything. It's just that the rest of the kids were worse than him now. For some reason. I think about that a lot. (Like my incredibly active six-year-old getting a cold, and suddenly developing post-viral asthma that looked like pneumonia.

He went back to school the day before yesterday, after being home for a month and using preventative inhalers for almost week.

He told me that it was GREAT - except that he couldn't run as much at recess, because he immediately got really tired. Like how I went outside with him to do some yard work and felt like my body couldn't figure out how to increase breathing and heart rate.

I wasn't physically out of breath, but I felt like I was out of breath. That COVID feeling people describe, of "I'm not getting enough air." Except that I didn't have that problem when I had COVID.) Some people don't observe any long (or medium) term side effects after they have it.

But researchers have found viral reservoirs of COVID-19 in everyone they've studied who had it.

It just seems to hang out, dormant, for... well, longer than we've had an opportunity to observe it, so far.

(I definitely watched that literal horror movie. I think that's an entire genre. The alien dormant under ice in the Arctic.)

(oh hey I don't like that either!!!!!!!!!) All of which is to explain why we should still care about avoiding it, and how it manages to still cause excess deaths. Measuring excess deaths has been a standard tool in public health for a long time.

We know how many people usually die from all different causes, every year. So we can tell if, for example, deaths from heart disease have gone way up in the past three years, and look for reasons. Those are excess deaths: deaths that, four years ago, would not have happened. During the pandemic, excess death rates have been a really important tool. For all sorts of reasons. Like, sometimes people die from COVID without ever getting tested, and the official cause is listed as something else because nobody knows they had COVID. But also, people are dying from cardiovascular illness much younger now.

People are having strokes and heart attacks younger, and more often, than they did before the pandemic started. COVID causes a lot of problems. And some of those problems kill people. And some of them make it easier for other things to kill us. Lung damage from COVID leading to lungs collapsing, or to pneumonia, or to a pulmonary embolism, for example. The Economist built a machine-learning model with a 95% confidence interval that gauges excess death statistics around the world, to tell them what the true toll of the ongoing COVID pandemic has been so far.

Total excess deaths globally in 2023: Three million.

3,000,000.

Official COVID-19 deaths globally so far: Seven million. 7,000,000. Total excess deaths during COVID so far: Thirty-five point two million. 35,200,000.

Five times as many.

That's bad. I don't like that at all. I'm glad last year was less than a tenth of that. I'm not particularly confident about that continuing, though, because last year we started a period of really high COVID transmission. Case rates higher than 90% of the rest of the pandemic. Here's their data, and charts you can play with, and links to detailed information on how they did all of this:

Here's a non-paywalled link to it:

https://archive.vn/2024.01.26-012536/https://www.economist.com/graphic-detail/coronavirus-excess-deaths-estimates

Oh: here's a link to where you can buy comfy, effective N95 masks in all sizes:

Those ones are about a buck each after shipping - about $30 for a box of 30. They also have sample packs for a dollar, so you can try a couple of different sizes and styles.

You can wear an N95 mask for about 40 total hours before the effectiveness really drops, so that's like a dollar for a week of wear.

They're also family-owned and have cat-shaped masks and I really love them. These ones are cuter and in a much wider range of colors, prints, and styles, but they're also more expensive; they range from $1.80 to $3 for a mask. ($18-$30 for a box of ten.)

[roger-elizabeth-debris]

went to the doctor and had them irrigate my ears, but the nurse only did one so now I'm Wet and Clean™ in only one ear and my tism be screeching about it

[bitters-n-sweets]

coffee tables — jack abbot x fem!reader A late-night shift brings Jack Abbot face to face with the one person he let slip through the cracks. Some wounds don’t bleed, but still ache. warnings: reader has an accident | I have no medical background whatsoever, everything was googled. part two || masterlist

You can only feel the burning pain in your thigh. EMTs wheel you in—blood soaked through the side of your jeans, sirens still fading.

"Laceration to the upper thigh," the EMT reports. "Glass. Deep, but clean. She’s stable."

Jack is already standing in the trauma bay, gloves half on. When his eyes land on you, he freezes. He looks at the intern beside him, stops her from taking the case, and says, "I’ve got this."

Ten minutes later, you're placed behind the curtains when Jack catches up to you and helps move you from the gurney.

"Oh fuck," you mutter, wincing as they cut your jeans open to fix you up.

"Push one of morphine. Let’s keep her comfortable," Jack says.

That’s not why you winced, but you stay quiet.

"I’ll handle the sutures," Jack adds, grabbing the nearest chair. "What happened?" He tries to start a conversation.

You sigh. "I was... trying to assemble a coffee table by myself. With a glass of wine. Or three."

Jack chuckles, but the worry in his eyes doesn’t go away.

You only realize your heart’s racing when the monitor catches Jack’s eye. "Pulse is still slightly elevated. Little fast for someone just sitting here," he says, slipping the stethoscope into his ears and pressing the diaphragm against your chest. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Maybe because you're so close. Too close.

"Yeah, well, try bleeding on a gurney while your ex-boyfriend evaluates your vitals," you retort.

The nurse takes that as a cue to leave you two alone.

That gets a flicker of a smile from him—tiny, reluctant, gone in a second. You don’t miss how Jack’s jaw tenses. Like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to.

The morphine helps you relax a little. You sink back against the pillow, body loosening as Jack goes to work on your wound.

"You’re lucky," Jack says, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves. "Another inch and it would’ve hit your femoral artery."

"Guess I’m blessed," you mutter, voice softening under the meds. "Or cursed, depending how poetic you’re feeling tonight."

That earns another ghost of a smile.

"You look tired."

You’re not even sure why you’re still talking—maybe it’s the morphine, maybe it’s him. Some part of you wants to ask for another doctor, but the truth is, you’d rather have Jack. Even now.

He works efficiently—cleansing the wound, irrigating it, steady hands doing what they were trained to do. It’s oddly intimate, watching him focus like this. You used to admire that about him. The way he disappeared into his work like it was a refuge. A religion. Like fixing others meant he didn’t have to look at himself.

"I am tired."

"I thought you’d be—" you pause, words hazy, slow. "Happy."

Jack pauses mid-suture but doesn’t look up. "I’m not unhappy."

"That’s not the same thing."

Silence stretches between you. Only the soft beeping of the monitor and the sterile buzz of fluorescent lights.

"Are you? Happy?"

You don’t answer right away. Your eyes meet his, searching for something—an honesty, maybe, or a hope you’ve been holding onto without admitting it.

Finally, you whisper, "I’m trying to be."

Jack’s gaze holds yours a moment longer, the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air.

There were things you thought you’d say if you ever saw him again—the anger, the pain, the bitter truth of what he left behind. But the second your eyes landed on him tonight, all of it faded. Not forgiven, just… quieter. Because beneath the exhaustion and the scruff, he looks better. Or maybe just a little less haunted.

Is that because you're not in the picture?

"I, uh," Jack clears his throat. "I’m seeing a therapist."

"Oh?" Your eyebrows raise. "That’s... good. Is it going well?"

"Yeah... I think so. He thinks I do night shifts because I find comfort in the darkness."

You let out a small laugh. "I think he knows you better than I did."

That lands harder than you meant it to. Jack’s expression falters—just for a second. Like the words caught him right where he knew they would. But he doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t defend himself.

"Sorry, I—" you sigh, pressing your head gently against the pillow. "I was mad at you for a long time. After we broke up. The amount of times I almost stormed into the ER just to yell at you..." You trail off, shaking your head. "I lost count."

Jack exhales through his nose, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. He sits back in the chair, eyes on your stitched-up thigh, like he can’t quite bring himself to meet your gaze just yet.

"I wouldn’t have blamed you," he says finally. "You had every right."

"Stop—"

"No, let me just—" He takes a breath. "I told myself I ended things because I didn’t want to hurt you," he continues, almost to himself. "But the truth is, I already was. I just didn’t know how to stop being... like that."

You study him for a moment, tears pooling in your eyes. The new lines on his face. The tired kindness in his gaze. It’s not an excuse. He’s not trying to win you over with some perfect apology. He’s just telling you the truth, finally.

"I’m not great at fixing things outside of work," he says, finally meeting your eyes with a faint, self-deprecating smile. "But... if you ever need someone to finish putting together that coffee table..."

You blink, surprised by the sudden shift, then laugh—quiet but real.

"Figured it’s the least I can do. If I can’t change the past, maybe I can help make your living room slightly less dangerous." He shrugs.

You shake your head, still smiling. "Only you can joke around at a time like this... I kinda miss that." A hint, carefully placed.

You want to pull him in for a kiss, a hug, anything—to just touch him again. But you stop yourself. If there’s anything left here between you, anything real and fragile, you don’t want to rush it.

Jack bandages you up, his hands pausing for a beat longer than necessary before pulling back. You watch the way his fingers still, the way his shoulders hold tension even after the wound is closed.

"You should keep it elevated for the next day or two," he says quietly, discarding his gloves. "And don't mess with the bandage unless it gets soaked."

"Got it," you murmur, not breaking eye contact.

He stands slowly, but he doesn't step away. There's something caught between you now—weightless and heavy all at once.

Jack runs a hand through his hair, breath catching. "I've thought about calling you," he admits, voice low. "So many times."

You don't look away. "So why didn't you?"

He shrugs, voice shaking as he says, "Because I didn't know what I'd say. And because I was scared I hadn't changed. Or that I had, but it still wouldn't be enough."

The honesty hangs between you like a bridge just starting to form.

You nod once. "Well. You still have my number. And apparently my blood type."

That gets a soft huff of a laugh from him, head dropping for a second. When he looks back up, his voice is softer.

"I meant what I said, by the way. About the coffee table. Let me come by this weekend. I'll bring tools. Actual tools—not the shitty hex key that comes in the box."

You lift an eyebrow. "Are you saying I can't handle a little IKEA furniture?"

"That's exactly how you got here," he says, that old teasing spark lighting behind his eyes.

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you.

"Let me help. Please."

You hesitate. But only for a moment.

"Okay," you say. "Saturday?"

"Saturday." He nods, already committing to it like a promise. "And maybe… after the table's done… we talk a little more?"

"Yeah. Sounds like a plan." You offer a smile.

Jack brings the courage to hold your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Get some rest," he says, his voice quiet now. "I'll check on you before shift ends."

And as he turns to leave, you catch it—that small, involuntary flex of his fingers. Like the feel of your skin is still echoing through him.

You stare at the empty space where he stood, your hand still tingling.

Maybe this isn't the clean break it could've been. Maybe it's not a clean start, either.

But it's something.

------

here's part two!

[dragonsondragons]

Self Care - Jack Abbot x Resident!Reader

Summary: Jack’s new girlfriend takes self care really seriously given the line of work they’re in. He starts to observe these habits and some of them rub off on him.

Tags: Super fluffy, no use of y/n, implied age gap, suggested sexual activity, no real smut just Jack feeling you up a little, beekeeper!Jack

Author’s Note: Why am I obsessed with beekeeper!jack. There may be more where this came from because I had so much fun with this one– perhaps Jack and reader gardening (wink wink) while in their garden? Leads to sweet and slow stoned sex? Let me know what you think or if you have any requests! I’m always looking for more ideas. 

Also, fill out this google form if you'd like to be added to my taglist :)

You do your little stretching routine after you wake up and you ask him if he wants to join you. He gives it a try, reluctantly at first. Then he starts to realize how good it makes him feel and does it with you every time. 

“What's this pep in your step you got going on here, brother?” Robby notices one day at hand-off. “Something to do with your favorite resident? Or should I say…new lady friend,” he does a little jazz hands.

“I regret ever telling you about us,” Jack rolls his eyes at lady friend. “But yeah, actually. She’s got me stretching when we wake up,” he explains.

“Ah. She’s got you whipped is what you mean.”

Jack chuckles under his breath. “Fuck off, stretching is good for you. And being whipped isn’t so bad either.” ____

You have a little garden that you tend to in the morning as the sun’s still rising right when you get off shift. It's cathartic, to take care of something that can't puke or bleed on you. Can’t punch you in the face. 

Both you and Jack had worked last night and it was a tough one. One of those nights where it felt like you lost more than you saved. You asked Jack to come back to your place after the shift ended, just wanting to be near him after your hell of a day. 

It was still early in your relationship, you had only spent the night at Jack’s place. This was his first time coming to stay at yours. 

You could tell he was so exhausted that you offered to drive home and he eventually accepted. He sat in the passenger seat of his Tacoma with his eyes closed as you drove, envisioning a shower, you looking soft in a ratty old t-shirt, and eating take out on the couch before going to sleep.

Instead, after you made two mugs of tea and set one before him on the coffee table, you headed to the backyard, slipping through the sliding glass door with a quiet “be right back, have to take care of some stuff real quick.”

After you’re gone more than 10 minutes and he almost dozed off twice, he started to wonder what this stuff was. He peeks out the glass door, seeing you knelt down at the edge of a garden bed peeling weeds out of the ground around your plants. The garden hose was on, filling up a big watering can to your left.

He comes to stand next to your kneeling form, placing a tender hand on the crown of your head and lightly running his fingers through your hair. “What are you doing, baby?”

“Checking on the plants. It helps me clear my mind from the day.” You smile softly up at him, see his free hand rub at his weary eyes. “Why don’t you go hop in the shower, I’ll be right in," you promise. He nods, turns to head back inside. 

He couldn’t believe you wanted to be pulling weeds and lugging watering cans after a shift. But when you trailed in a few minutes later, joining him under the spray of the water, he could see the way your shoulders were looser. You were more peaceful, at ease. It made him feel more calm too, just knowing you felt a little bit better. 

He started lugging bags of soil for you the following mornings. Dug up trenches to lay a new irrigation system for the crops. This time of spring brought so many birds tweeting around in the morning air, the perfect sound track to your calming moments together in the garden.

It was a peaceful endeavor, one Jack never thought he would find himself doing but turns out he absolutely loves it. After you tell him about the benefits of pollinators he really wants to start keeping bees (Jack Abbot is beekeeping age). He does all this research about it to make sure he doesn’t fuck with the bees, wants to do it right. Gets the whole mesh suit which you can't stop laughing at the first time he puts it on. Names his hive Beetopia. He's serious about these bees and you find it so endearing. You love that he's meshing into your life like this, making his own niche in something you both do together.

Sometimes when there isn’t much to be done he’ll make breakfast while you tend to the garden. He will always try to utilize the fruits and vegetables you grow as well as his self-harvested honey whenever he can. You eat it out on the patio, admiring the work the two of you have done. Your own little paradise. ____

Out of all the self care tactics that you have brought into his life, the bubble bath is definitely one of his sleeper favorites. His house had a huge bathtub in it that he never once used. One of the first times you stayed over, you went to use the bathroom before going to bed. His eyes were already closed when he heard you squeal in the en suite attached to his room. 

“How did you not tell me about this!” you yelled out to him. 

“What, the bathroom?” he responded half asleep and confused. You came back into the room and jumped into the bed next to him, resting your chin on his chest. He peeked his eyes open as he rubbed up and down your back.

“No! That massive tub, genius!” He was surprised. Hadn’t thought once about that thing since he moved in. 

“You like it?”

“I don't like it, Jack. I love it. Baths are so soothing and rejuvenating. I always feel like a newborn baby when I get out of the bath. And I don't have a tub at my place.”

“You’re welcome to use it anytime you want, honey.” He shifted you to your side, cuddling into you and kissing your cheek. 

“You’re too good to me. And as a reward I’m making you get in there with me.” he lets out a breath of a laugh as he drifts off to sleep with you in his arms. ___

You both had the next day off, for once. So there was no time like the present to christen Jack’s bathtub. He was nervous about getting in, not being able to wear his prosthetic to keep him stable, but you got in first and held onto him tight as he stepped over the edge and eased himself down into the water. You settled in front of him, letting out a breath as you melted back into him. 

You thought you liked baths already, but this was pure bliss. His strong body against you, your breaths synching up. He washed your hair and you washed his. The warm water soothed his achy back and the overcompensating muscles in his leg. 

Safe to say, baths become a regular occurrence for you two.

You get him a matching fluffy robe with a hood because one time he said he was jealous of how cozy you looked in yours after a bath. Once, Shen stopped by to drop off the butterfly portable ultrasound that he had borrowed and Jack answered the door in said robe. 

Jack had his stoic work face on, the grumpiness only enhanced by the fact that Shen’s visit was interrupting his time with you.

“Ha, you look like a Sith, Abbot,” Shen teased him, butterfly in one hand and a half drank Dunkin’ in the other. “Robe’d up and about to cut my hand off.” He took a loud sip of his coffee as Jack just glared at him. 

“Get out of here before I actually consider it.” He tugged the Butterfly from Shen’s grasp, about to slam the door in his face. 

“Oh c'mon Jack, that’s not very nice.” You ran up to the door and opened it further to reveal yourself. 

“Sorry John, he didn’t mean that.” 

“Yeah right.” He takes in your appearance beside Jack, wearing the same exact fuzzy robe. “Like the matchy matchy, very cute you two.” Shen pulls out his phone and snaps a picture before either of you could even process it. “That’s totally going in the group chat, dude,” he laughed. 

“Not making a good case for yourself here,” Jack muttered. Shen couldnt stop laughing, and at that you moved your hand off the door jamb and let Jack slam it shut. 

He turned to you then and let out a little chuckle at the whole ordeal. “He’s a piece of work.”

“Thought he was your favorite resident?”

“No, you're my favorite resident.” ___

Besides stretching to start the day on a good note, taking soothing baths, and tending to your garden you also do yoga sometimes to turn your mind off and tune into your body after a hectic shift. He’s still reluctant to try that one, and likes to give you your space to do the things you enjoy on your own sometimes. So he doesn't join you for that, but he loves watching you as you get ready to head to the studio. 

You always wear these skin tight, colorful matching workout sets that drive him crazy. He doesn’t mean to keep you from getting to class, but sometimes he just can’t help the temptation.

“Baby,” he draws it out in a long groan. He crossed the room to you, grabbing your hips and ghosting his hands up and down, reverently. You were trying to gather your keys and yoga mat to head out the door. “You’re killing me here with the powder blue.” The leggings hugged your ass just right. God, he was about to start drooling.

You try to squirm out of his hold to put your shoes on, but he won't budge. “Get a good look, Jack, because I gotta go. Gonna be late if I don't leave right now.” 

“Oh no, you're gonna be late already? Maybe you should just stay here with me,” he pouts suggestively. 

“Already paid for the class. Actually you did, your card’s on the account.” With your resident salary, Jack liked to treat you to things like a membership to a fancy yoga studio with free green smoothies. He loved ‘providing’ for you, even though you both knew you could be just fine by yourself. 

“Even better. I don't care about losing 30 bucks right now. Because you look way too sexy in those leggings to leave me here all alone.” He pecks your lips, then down your neck, sucking the spot where he knows will draw out a moan from you. You grasp your hand into his hair, getting lost in his efforts to entice you. 

“Let me peel these off of you,” he begs, running his fingers under the waistband of the leggings. His hands travel lower, kneading at your ass and pulling you tighter against him. “Just let me worship your beautiful body, sweetheart.”

How could you say no to that? Maybe you would miss your class, but this was a form of self care as good as any.

[blueiscoool]

A 2,000-Year-Old Pompeii Garden Springs Back to Life

The Pompeii Archaeological Park has recreated an ancient perfume garden—right down to its antique roses.

A garden once flourished in Pompeii. There, alongside a typical row house, olive trees, roses, and vines blossomed, nourished by hand-carved irrigation channels. The entrance to the site bore the Latin inscription “Cras Credo,” translated to “Credit will be offered tomorrow,” a touch of Pompeiian humor. The Vesuvius eruption in 79 C.E. wiped out the grounds—but preserved hints of its purpose.

Now, a new garden is taking root the same spot. The Pompeii Archaeological Park has just unveiled the restored Garden of Hercules (so named for a statue of the mythical hero uncovered at the site), freshly planted with 1,200 violets, 1,000 ruscus plants, and 800 antique roses, as well as vines and cherry and cotton apple trees. The botanical display is intended to mirror how the garden appeared 2,000 years ago, based on the findings of botanist Wilhelmina Jashemski, who identified pollen, spores, and plant fossils in the area in the 1950s.

“In Pompeii, the natural and archaeological landscape are one,” Gabriel Zuchtriegel, the park’s director, said in a statement. “The green of Pompeii, which was once perceived as a management and maintenance problem, an element almost separate from archaeological structures, is now recognized as an essential component of archaeological areas, as well as of the largest agricultural project of the Park.”

Located on Regio VIII, Insula 2 of the archaeological park, the house joining the garden was uncovered in 1953 before the rest of its grounds was excavated in 1971–72, with further studies carried out in the ’80s. Researchers found that the house was rebuilt following a 62 C.E. earthquake, with its owner buying surrounding land to plant the garden.

In the garden, archaeologists discovered holes in the earth that once held the roots of olive trees, impressions left in the soil by vine trellises, and biological traces of roses. Numerous perfume bottles found on the site indicate the garden was once involved in the commercial production of perfume. Flowers would be pressed with olive oil or grape juice, researchers found, before the concoction was bottled and sold.

Also significant was the discovery of an ancient irrigation system, which allowed gardeners to water the plants through a hole in the wall, without having to enter the site. The water would then flow through channels that wound their way around flower beds, or pool in reservoirs created by earthenware pots, or dolia, situated around the grounds.

“If a gardener needed to give extra water to a plant, they could take it from a dolia,” historian Maurizio Bartolini told the London Times.

Bartolini, who worked on the replanted garden, believes that the garden’s owner might have been experimenting with scents at the site, as opposed to running a full-scale operation. The garden, he noted, measures a mere 98 by 98 feet, while creating 5cc of perfume takes some 2,000 roses.

The irrigation system has been recreated for the Garden of Hercules, its troughs meandering across the new beds. A terracotta statue of the Greek legend has also been reproduced, installed in a small nook next to an outdoor dining space.

“This was a productive place,” Zuchtriegel told the Times of the space, “but also really beautiful.”

The recreated garden is part of Pompeii Archaeological Park’s efforts to shed light on daily life in the ancient Roman city before its destruction. Also currently on view at the site is “Being a Woman in Ancient Pompeii,” an exhibition that delves into the lives, roles, and activities of Pompeiian women.

By Min Chen.

[natalianovnas]

༄ `. 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒 & 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 — ⌗02

summary : raised in the heart of the countryside, you, Y/N Langford, has always known the rhythm of ranch life—early mornings on horseback, sun-drenched vineyards, and a quiet kind of freedom carved into the land passed down through generations. however, your father's recent colleague is interesting enough.

genre : country!au, wlw, countryside life.

warnings : smut, beefy!nat, top!nat, sub!reader, teasing, flirting, age-gap (r is 24 and nat is 32).

words count : 4.3k || masterlist

an : might seem boring in the begining but I promise, it's worth your while. smut is down below :)

𖦹 part one 𖦹 part two 𖦹 part three 𖦹 part four 𖦹 part five

HORSES & ROMANCE :

— The Begining Of Belonging

📍Langford Ranch House

Clare Valley, Southern Australia

The Langford house glowed like a storybook as the sun dipped behind the hills, warm light spilling from the windows and casting long, golden rays across the wraparound porch. It was a wide, two-story structure with a green tin roof and paint that had peeled in a few places, but that only added to its charm. The scent of rosemary, garlic, and warm bread drifted through the evening air.

Natasha stood at the edge of the gravel path, a little too aware of how quiet her boots sounded on the stones. She’d changed into clean jeans and a dark linen shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal her forearms. Her hair was pulled back—not tightly, but not entirely relaxed either.

The long table on the porch was already set. Dishes lined the middle—roasted vegetables from the garden, baked lasagna steaming in the center, bowls of salad tossed with lemon vinaigrette. There was a pitcher of red wine and glasses already half full.

“Come in, come in. Hope you’re hungry.”

“I am,” Natasha admitted. “It smells incredible.”

Georges was seated at the head, napkin over his knee, already halfway through a story about the time your cousin fell into the irrigation ditch trying to impress a girl. Across from him was your grandmother, Elise, eyes sharp but kind, wearing an apron and sipping ginger beer.

“Ah! Natasha,” She greeted. “There’s a seat right there by Y/N. Don’t be shy.”

And then there was you.

Seated sideways in a wooden chair, wine glass loose in hand. The artificial lights struck your profile, catching your cheekbone and the faint tan line at your collar.

Natasha offered a small, respectful smile and took the seat beside you.

You looked up as she stepped onto the porch, a faint smile on your lips. “Glad you made it,”

“I said I might,” Natasha replied, walking over and taking the seat. “Didn’t say I’d behave.”

You laughed softly. “Good. It’d be boring if you did.”

“Smells incredible,” she said to your grandmother.

“That’s because I cook with actual skill,” Elise declared. “Not like Georges—he burns toast.”

“Only once,” Your father protested.

Plates clinked. Elise set down a tray of garlic-stuffed roast chicken and roasted pumpkin slices, then waved off any offers to help. Georges poured the wine—dark red, earthy, bold—and slid Natasha a glass without question.

“Clare Valley Shiraz. One of ours,” he said proudly.

She took a sip, letting it settle on her tongue. “Smooth. But not soft.”

Georges grinned. “Like the women in this family.”

Dinner rolled on with the kind of ease only old families could master—jokes with no setup, teasing that didn’t sting, and silences that felt comfortable. Elise recounted a neighbor’s cow escaping again.

And Natasha? She watched. She listened. She responded when spoken to, asked just enough questions, and found herself slowly thawing. The porch felt lived-in, like people belonged here.

So did you.

Your laughter was real and heartwarming. You filled Natasha's plate without asking and nudged a breadbasket her way. Once or twice, your knee brushed hers under the table—not accidentally—but you didn’t make a show of it either.

Halfway through the meal, Elise nudged Natasha with a grin. “So. What brings you out here from the big world? Georges says it's work, but a little bird tells me it's a little more.”

Natasha smiled politely. “Needed some air. A little quiet. Time away.”

“Running from someone?” Your dad teased.

“Grams, tell your kid he’s got no filter,” You muttered behind the rim of your glass.

“Running toward something,” Natasha answered, cool and unbothered. She glanced at you. “Maybe.”

There was a brief hush. Then Georges gave a low whistle. “Well, damn. That’s poetic.”

You laughed under your breath. Natasha didn’t look away.

As the stars began to crowd the sky, and the last of the dishes were cleared, Elise brought out a dessert she called "apple slab"—warm pastry crust with cinnamon and vanilla ice cream melting into every corner. Natasha tried it. She closed her eyes briefly.

Georges leaned toward her halfway through. “Told you—better company than you expected, huh?”

She nodded. “You weren’t wrong.”

The conversation shifted to crops and winter prep, and then to you—specifically, the time you tried to tame a wild filly at sixteen.

“She broke her wrist but refused to go to the hospital,” your grandmother told Natasha with a shake of her head. “Said she didn’t need a doctor, just duct tape and whiskey.”

Natasha looked over at you, one brow lifted, not surprised but interested. “Really?”

You shrugged, grinning around a bite of bread. “I was stubborn.”

“Was?” Your dad muttered.

You kicked his boot under the table.

As the stars began to pierce through the fading sky, conversation softened. The wine was nearly gone. Crickets started up in the distance, and the vineyard glowed faintly beneath the last lavender light.

Your grandmother excused herself first, and Georges followed shortly after with a promise to check the fencing in the morning.

You stayed. Natasha did too.

There was quiet between you now, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just the gentle hush of nighttime settling over land that had worked all day.

You glanced sideways at her. “You survived Langford dinner.”

“Barely.” Her voice was dry, but her eyes held warmth. “You all talk like you’ve known each other for centuries.”

“We practically have.” You stretched your legs under the table. “That’s what happens when you grow up where everyone knows your middle name, what age you first rode a bike, and how many times you cried watching The Lion King.”

“Twice?”

You laughed. “Four. Don’t judge me.”

Natasha smirked, then leaned back in her chair, her arms loose over the sides. “It’s nice. The way your family is. The way you are here.”

You studied her then—the way she relaxed just slightly when she wasn’t looking.

“You’re welcome to come by again,” You said casually. “We don’t usually bite.”

She looked at you, serious now. “And if I stay too long?”

You tilted your head. “Then you might start feeling like you belong.”

For a moment, you both just looked at each other. The stars overhead blinked into the dark sky like promises, and somewhere in the distance, Alba let out a quiet, contented whinny.

🍀 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 🍀

6:12AM. A cool mist hugged the vineyards like a ghost clinging to memory, curling low around the vines and bleeding into the open pastures.

Dew clung to every blade of grass, and the air still carried the chill of night, crisp enough to cut through the fabric of Natasha’s hoodie.

She wasn’t usually awake this early—not without cause—but something about the quiet of the ranch had tugged her from sleep before the world stirred.

She hadn’t even meant to go walking. She’d only stepped outside the house for air. And then the horizon broke into a slow bloom of amber light, and she just kept moving, boots crunching softly along a gravel path that curved away from the vineyard and toward the back paddocks.

Then she heard it—

A sharp exhale, followed by the pounding of hooves.

It wasn’t Alba.

The redhead crept closer, careful not to announce herself. She moved through a break in the fence, stepping behind a wooden post and peering through the clearing ahead.

You were in the ring.

Not the manicured one near the barn where children learned to ride—but the rough, wide training corral on the edge of the property. It was worn in by years of sun and sweat. Just dirt, wind, tension and you.

The horse in the ring was beautiful and wild. A deep russet coat and black mane, flaring nostrils and rolling muscles as it snorted and pawed the dirt. Its eyes were wide with resistance, its back arched in refusal.

Natasha didn’t move. She watched.

You held the rope with just enough slack to give it trust. You didn’t force contact, just stepped slowly, deliberately, your boots quiet in the dust.

“There you go,” You whispered— warm, low, and calm. “Not here to hurt you.”

The horse didn’t believe you. Not yet.

It darted to the side, testing you. You turned with it, gentle but firm, keeping distance without surrendering authority.

Nat realized what she was watching wasn’t about breaking. It was about respect.

“You’re not a prisoner,” you murmured. “You’re just scared.”

There was something heavy in the way you said it—like you weren’t just talking to the animal.

The stallion stopped. Just for a second. His head tilted, ears flicking. That was enough for a first.

He took a single step forward. You didn’t move. Came another step before he then exhaled—a long, rattling breath that shook tension from his shoulders.

You dropped your gaze, lowering yourself slightly, shifting into a crouch. Still no pressure. Still no force.

And then, miraculously, impossibly, the horse approached.

Natasha found herself holding her own breath.

When the horse finally bumped his nose against your shoulder, your hand lifted—light, slow—and you rested it against his neck.

“Nice one, big guy,” You smiled. “You’re alright now.”

Only then did Natasha move. A quiet step back. She didn’t want to interrupt, didn’t want to break whatever sacred moment she’d just witnessed.

But you had already known she was there.

You turned your head, still stroking the horse, and caught her eyes through the rising light. There was no surprise in your expression. Just calm.

“You always spy on people before coffee?” You questioned with an expectant raised brow.

The Russian gave a faint smile, stepping forward now that she’d been caught. “Only when the show’s worth it.”

You chuckled, brushing your hair off your face. “That was Bramble. He’s a rescue. Nobody’s been able to get close to him for months.”

“He trusts you.”

“Not trust. Not yet. Just curiosity and a little relief.” You glanced back at the horse, who now stood beside you, tethered by choice instead of fear. “That’s a start.”

Natasha nodded, eyes still on you. “You’re good at this.”

“With horses?”

“At being patient with things that bolt.”

There was a silence between you that hummed with more than early morning wind.

You didn’t break it. You didn’t flirt or tease. You just looked at her—really looked—and gave the barest nod.

“Come by later,” you said, stepping toward the gate. “If you want.”

🍀 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 🍀

Natasha spent hours thinking about earlier's moment with you.

“Come by later,” — Not an invitation, but permission.

She came by around late afternoon. You were exactly where she expected to find you—behind the barn, near the tack shed, rinsing off a saddle with a garden hose. You spent time together — repainted rooster's fences because you had a design idea.

You snorted softly and tossed her a clean towel. “Make yourself useful.”

She caught it one-handed. “You always this bossy?”

“You always this agreeable?”

The redhead tilted her head in consideration. “Only when I’m interested.”

Your gaze flicked toward her then, unreadable for a beat too long. But whatever you were thinking, you didn’t say it.

Later on, you motioned toward the hay bales stacked under the old oak tree you used to play by when you were younger. “Come on. I’ve got ten minutes before I have to check the perimeter fence.”

She followed you there, the sun warming her back as you both sat. From here, the land seemed to stretch forever—golden and open, scattered with horses and silence.

You didn’t fill it with small talk. Neither did she. You both just sat. The peace of it settled slowly, like dust after a storm.

“You really love this place,” Natasha said after a while.

You nodded, still looking at the view. “It’s not just home. It’s... legacy. My father  probably told you already but his great-grandfather built the first stable. He and my mom added the vineyard. My sisters ran off, but I stayed. Someone had to.”

“That sounds like weight.”

“It is.” You glanced at her then. “But it’s the kind I can carry.”

She nodded, understanding more than she said.

🍀 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 🍀

The next few days passed in a slow, golden rhythm.

The Russian spent most of it unpacking, fixing the back gate, replacing floorboards in the living room or simply working with your dad.

She worked without a shirt most afternoons —the heat was relentless— and she noticed the way you passed by more often now. Always with an excuse. Returning a borrowed drill she hadn’t lent you. Asking if she needed help setting up a chicken coop she hadn’t even built yet. Always smiling. Always wearing shorts that made Natasha seriously consider whether peaceful living was all it was cracked up to be.

You were beautiful, that wasn't ignored by anyone but it was unnerving, how irresistible you could be. In some ways, she felt she wasn't supposed to look and think about you in the way she did but she just couldn't help herself.

She was only human after all. 

From your side, you didn't care. You felt attracted to her and you weren't going to lie to yourself. Your father never had a problem with whoever you dated, as long as you were happy he didn't mind it.

You and Nat were both adults, so if anyone had a serious say in whatever that was starting to bloom between the two of you— it was only Nat and

The sun was beginning to dip when the fair lights flickered to life, warm and golden, strung between trees like fireflies. The annual Cherry Hollow Harvest Fair sprawled across the town’s open field—tents pitched, hay bales arranged like benches, the smell of roasted corn, fried dough, and sweet cider wafting through the cool autumn air.

Kids ran barefoot over the grass, their laughter high and wild. Folk music drifted from a wooden stage where a band played fiddles and banjos. People from all around the county came for this night. It wasn’t just tradition—it was home.

And Natasha Romanoff? She wasn’t sure what she was doing here.

Georges had insisted. “It’s tradition,” he’d said, patting her shoulder like she was family now. “Everyone goes. You’ll like it.”

So she’d come. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a fitted olive-green shirt.

She spotted Georges near the cider stand, chatting with the mayor and three other men who looked like they'd been born wearing cowboy hats. He waved when he saw her, but didn't call her over. She appreciated that—he let her move at her own pace.

Then she saw you.

Across the fairground, in a sage green denim jumpsuit that stopped by your thighs, hugging them perfectly with the top buttons open to tease with your cleavage hair pulled up with a white clip that matched your boots.

You had a paper cup in one hand and your other resting casually on your hip as you spoke to a woman selling apple pies. You laughed at something, head tilted back slightly in that unguarded way Natasha was starting to recognize.

You were a different version of yourself here—looser, brighter.

And she liked it. Maybe too much.

You noticed her after a moment, your smile lingering as your eyes locked. Then you tilted your head subtly, like an invitation: Come over.

Natasha made her way through the crowd slowly, absorbing the details: children with sticky faces, old men playing horseshoes, the way the stars were beginning to bloom in the sky.

When she reached you, your gaze ran down her frame—not in a way that was obvious, but in a way that landed.

“You clean up alright,” You said, sipping from your cup. “Not bad for a city girl.”

“Not bad for someone who just learned what ‘cow patty bingo’ is,” Natasha replied, glancing over at the fenced square in the grass that was... exactly what it sounded like.

You laughed, fully this time, and offered her your drink. “Spiced cider. Try it.”

She hesitated just long enough to make it noticeable. Then took a sip.

You watched her the entire time.

“Sweet,” she said.

“Like the fair.”

“Is that what you are?” Natasha asked, eyes steady. “Sweet?”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Before either of you could push the moment further, a loud clang sounded near the mechanical bull arena and someone called your name. It was the ranch hand, Micah, gesturing toward the prize booth.

“I promised to judge the pie contest,” you said with a sigh. “Small-town royalty obligations.”

Natasha lifted a brow. “You’re a judge and a competitor?”

You gave her a wicked grin. “No one said I had to play fair.”

As you moved away, Natasha’s eyes followed you through the crowd. She wasn’t used to wanting moments to last longer. But with you, they always ended too fast.

She wandered a little after that—tried a caramel apple, watched kids dance barefoot under the fairy lights, even listened to Georges tell an elaborate story about winning the chili cook-off in '98.

But when the music shifted—slower now, softer—Natasha looked for you again.

She found you leaning against the fence near the bonfire, watching the flames. Your blouse glowed orange in the firelight, your face half-shadowed, thoughtful.

She came up beside you quietly.

“You come here every year?” she asked.

You nodded. “Every year since I was five. I’ve worked every booth. Played every game. First kiss was behind that pie stand.”

Natasha smiled faintly. “That sound like a good memory or a bad one?”

“Sticky,” you said. “She had frosting on her lips.”

That surprised a quiet laugh out of her. You turned toward her slightly, and for a beat, neither of you said a word.

Just firelight.

The smell of smoke.

The unspoken want hanging between you.

“You staying long?” you asked, voice lower.

“I might,” she said. “Haven’t decided.”

You nodded. “Well. This place grows on you. Just watch out—it makes it harder to leave.”

“I’m starting to see that.”

Someone called your name again.

You exhaled, almost reluctant. “I should—”

“I know.”

You hesitated. “Wanna walk me home later, maybe?”

Natasha didn’t answer right away. She just looked at you, the corner of her mouth lifting.

“Yeah,” she said. “I do.”

And just like that, something shifted.

Not loud. Not sudden.

But real.

The kind of shift you feel in your chest before your mind can catch up.

🍀 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 🍀

The fair had mostly dimmed by the time the music ended. Booths began to close, vendors packed up pies and preserves, and the chatter faded into the quiet hum of crickets and wind in the trees.

Natasha waited near the edge of the bonfire crowd, hands tucked into the pockets of her denim jacket, eyes scanning for you.

You emerged through the fading glow, brushing hay from your jeans, your cheeks still flushed from laughter and cider. The warmth of the evening was still on your skin, but the night was cooling fast, and you’d slipped into an old cream-colored cardigan that made you look even more like home.

“Ready?” You asked, eyes finding hers in the dark.

Natasha just nodded.

You didn’t speak at first, the two of you walking side by side down the gravel path that led out of town and back toward the ranch. There were no streetlights—just moonlight, stars, and the occasional crunch of gravel under your boots.

“I usually drive to the fair,” You said eventually. “But walking feels better tonight.”

The redhead glanced at you, head tilted and a faint smirk. “You always ask people to walk you home, or am I special?”

You smirked, playing her game from earlier. “Only to the ones I don’t want to leave too quickly.”

She let that sit for a moment. Then, softly: “I can see why you stayed here. This town, your family… it’s not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

Natasha shrugged. “Something quieter. Less alive.”

You smiled at that. “It’s a stubborn kind of place. It grows wild and deep. You can’t just skim the surface.”

Natasha hummed. “No. I guess not.”

You passed the vineyard fence. The moonlight painted rows of vines silver. In the distance, the faint outline of the ranch house stood against the night sky, warm light glowing from the porch.

“You tired?” You asked, voice barely above the breeze.

“Not really.”

You slowed. “Wanna come in?”

Natasha’s pause wasn’t long.

“I do.”

Inside, the house was quiet— Ace, your golden retriever is probably asleep. You kicked off your boots, set your keys in the bowl by the door. Natasha followed you into the kitchen where the smell of cinnamon still lingered from the pies you'd baked earlier to offer at the fair.

"Water?" You offered.

She nodded. You poured two glasses.

She didn't sit. Neither did you. You stood at the kitchen counter, sipping slowly, like the silence had something to say if you just let it stretch long enough.

And then, softly, she set her glass down.

"Why'd you really ask me to walk you home?"

Your answer was quiet, honest. "Because I wanted to be alone with you. Not in the barn. Not with my dad around. Just... here."

Natasha stepped closer. "Why?"

Eyes flicked to hers, holding steady. "Because I've been trying not to want this since the second I saw you."

"That makes two of us."

Her hand reached up slowly-giving you time to stop her-and brushed your cheek. You didn't pull back. You leaned in.

The first kiss wasn't slow. It wasn't hesitant. It was earned. Built on days of glances, tension, heat, and restraint. It came with a soft sound from your throat as her mouth met yours, full and open and hungry.

You stepped back against the counter as her hand slid to your waist, anchoring you.

You kissed her like you'd been holding back a storm. She kissed you like she was finally letting go of one.

When you broke apart, breathless, foreheads pressed together, you whispered, "This isn't a mistake, is it?"

Natasha's eyes searched yours. "Not even close."

You kissed again-this time slower, deeper, less urgent but more intentional. Her hands rested at your hips, yours slid beneath her jacket, fingers grazing warm cotton and skin.

Still kissing, you led her down the hallway with unspoken understanding. The bedroom door opened easily beneath your palm.

Inside - moonlight across the bed. A soft creak of floorboards. Breath and heartbeats. Clothes shed slowly. A laugh when her jacket snagged on your elbow.

Your mouths met again in the low light of your bedroom, this time with but the hush of the night. Your fingers finding the hem of her blouse and slipping underneath, grazing the warm skin of her toned stomach.

She let you lift it, arms rising wordlessly as you peeled the shirt over her head and dropped it aside. Her skin was soft beneath your hands-lean muscle, warm breath, and something tightly coiled beneath the surface. But it was her eyes that held you there-fixed on yours, careful, burning.

"Tell me if you want to stop," Uou whispered, even though every part of you ached to go further, eyes fixated on her body before returning to her eyes.

"I don't," She said, voice husky, fingers brushing down your spine. "Not tonight."

Her hands moved to the buttons of your jumpsuit, undoing them one by one with a kind of quiet focus. You watched her as she worked-how gentle she was, how deliberate. She wasn't trying to rush this. She wanted to feel it. All of it.

When her mouth touched your shoulder, your breath caught. Her lips traced a path from your collarbone down, tasting skin like she was learning you. And you let her, pressing closer, your hands tangling in her hair as she kissed lower.

The sheets are cool against your back as she hovered over you, her weight braced on one elbow, the other hand brushing lightly down your bare side.

She kissed you slowly-mouth warm, lips soft and deep, tongue teasing yours in a rhythm that had your heart pounding.

"You drive me insane, you know that?" She murmured against your lips.

"Good," You breathed, kissing her again. "I intend to keep it that way."

More clothes vanished in between kisses and laughter, until there was nothing but skin and need and the quiet creak of the mattress beneath you.

Natasha trailed her fingers down your stomach, eyes watching your face for every flicker of response. When her touch found you, you gasped-hips arching, breath hitching as she moved with precise, devastating control.

She then kissed your neck, your chest, your ribs-like she wanted to memorize the taste of you.

And you let yourself fall apart under her hands.

But it wasn't just pleasure. It was the way she looked at you while she gave it. Like she wanted every inch of you while you took every inch of her large cock. Like you were worth knowing this way.

Your nails raked gently down her back as you moaned her name-quiet but desperate, breathy against her ear.

Everything you'd imagined. Everything you hadn't let yourself imagine.

The teasing was gone now. What remained was hunger, care, and a kind of reverence that made your breath catch.

You didn't rush. You didn't need to.

You had all night.

And maybe, just maybe-something after that.

When it was over, the two of you lay tangled in the sheets, your head resting against her shoulder, fingers lazily drawing circles on her skin.

But before you drifted off, she kissed your temple and whispered, "I don't know what this is yet. But I want more of it."

And that was enough-for tonight.

➪ next part.

[queers-gambit]

Tower Scrolls

prompt: during the Siege of Eregion, Elrond barters for his fiancé's life, and her life's work.

pairing: Elrond x intended!female!reader

fandom masterlist: The Rings of Power

word count: 4.1k+

note: brain go wonky, don't take this too serious

warnings: we got angst! we got drama! we got spoilers! i think it's more hurt and comfort, but to each their own! there's cursing, character injury, canon-complicit character death, blood, depiction of abuse and torture, violence, is this a reader insert? i don't know anymore, but i think so. oneshot, filler, very abrupt ending.

Fire rained from the sky. Ash snowed on once white-sand buildings. Tension permeated the air. Blood irrigated soil.

Eregion was under attack.

Elves screamed in despair, Orcs snarled from outside the city walls, and no matter where you turned, you were trapped in this never ending barrage of violent misfortune. To the best of your ability, you manned the city walls and ordered the citizens of Eregion to find shelter, tunnel out of the city, or pick up arms and fight - fight for their homes, their families, their lives.

It was nearly a natural succession of power after dedicating majority of your life to Eregion and Lord Celebrimbor; a common presence, friendly face, such an outstanding ally that few hesitated to take your command. Yet you were met with resistance, some Elves rejecting your orders in favor of this "Annatar, Lord of Gifts," apparently sent from the Valar themselves to aid Celebrimbor in his creative work. They thought he was Lord of Eregion now, and since you were loyal to the previous Lord - who Annatar claimed had lost his ever sharp mind - you were looked upon with the same frown.

So, you did the only thing you thought you could do.

You protected your Lord, almost to the extent of your life. Too many had already fallen, you refused to follow; insisting on remaining with Lord Celebrimbor for the duration of his efforts so long as Annatar was in Eregion. The immortal being wasn't keen on the idea, but Celebrimbor was much soothed around you - so, he agreed, on the condition that your Lord finish his work on the Nine Rings.

After escaping before, Annatar thought the best suited idea would be to chain Lord Celebrimbor to his work bench; knowing you did not have the means to break him free and feeling it was a safe move. However, as you witnessed, the will of the Lord of Eregion was by far stronger than that of The Deceiver.

"I cannot!" You begged your Master. "No, you will not ask this of me! The audacity you possess - "

"You must!" Celebrimbor insisted, taking your cheeks in hand to smush your lips in a pucker. "Listen to me - listen! You have always known right from wrong, but now is not a time for rationality, it's a time for action. He mustn't get the Rings, I need you to run with them. Run away - far, far away from here, use the tunnels - "

"I will not abandon you," you snarled, "nor will I abandon this city, not while she still stands!"

"This is bigger than us, bigger than Eregion," Celebrimbor tried to convey his severity, forcing the Rings in your hand - but you were stubborn. For all the traits he loved, he despised your pigheadedness the most - despite admiring it once upon a time. So, he managed to convince you to cut just his thumb off after originally asking you to take the whole hand so the cuff could slide off, but he downgraded to just his digit for the same desired effect.

"Go," you begged him, tears in your eyes as you wrapped his hand with a clean(ish) cloth to staunch the bleeding. "Go, please, before He returns. Do not look back, my Lord."

"Come with me - "

"I'll hold Him off to give you more time. Now, go. Go!"

It wasn't easy, but Celebrimbor left you behind. No sooner had you confirmed his escape did Annatar return; surveying the workshop and you with sinister eyes.

"Where is he?"

"With luck? Far from here. With hope? Even past that," you answered, stood in the middle of the room - looking as if nothing could phase you. All a lie, of course, but Sauron didn't need to know you were close to pissing your pants out of sheer intimidation. "So... You're Him? I have to admit," you gestured at him, "it's a bit of a let down."

"I have many names - "

"Oh, spare me the personal lore all of Middle-earth knows," you snipped, offering a stale look. "You need a new story."

However, Sauron smirked and circled you, taunting, "I know you know where he went. I know you know where the Rings are, too."

"Then have a look in my mind, see for yourself," you smirked back, "go ahead and see that I purposefully did not ask and my Lord did not tell. Go on, if you do not believe me, have a look and know you are wrong - " You were cut off by your own gasp when Sauron's eyes rolled before he brandished a sword to pierce through your foot and into the floor.

"Where. Is. He?" Sauron seethed in your face; hot breath fanning the fly away hairs.

"Away from you," you managed to grit, the sword in too deep to yank free by yourself. "You'll never find them," you laughed without humor when Sauron's anger got the best of him; storming through the workshop, tearing it apart, searching in vain for Nine Rings that were not there. In his anger, you obtained a series of fresh blemishes as he threw anything he could to the sound of your amusement.

Yet any glimmer of hope in your chest was doused, all traces of faith and humor vanishing when guards lead Celebrimbor back into the workshop; discovering the destroyed forge and you, pinned by a bloody foot in the midst. You couldn't move from your place as the guards surrounded Sauron with the intention to apprehend him, yet you saw the threat before anyone else. You begged the guards, your kin, your brethren, to back away, to take your Lord and flee! You begged them to run. You begged them to listen, to hear you!

But it was too late.

Sauron turned your people on one another and had them slaughter each other before disposing of the final guard himself. You screamed at Celebrimbor to run, nearly tearing the blade through bone as you attempted to reach for the man who had taught you your entire life. The man who gave you a chance. The man who built you a home. The man who introduced you to your intended. The man you loved like a father.

But Sauron's grasp extended to all.

Celebrimbor was beaten senseless, the Dark Lord trying to pry information about the Nine from him by any means. Yet your Lord did not budge... And that's when Sauron turned to you. "Please, no! Don't! She doesn't know anything! I swear, please, spare her!" Celebrimbor pleaded when Sauron ripped the sword from your foot before knocking you to your knees; bowstring pulled back, arrow armed and aimed at your calf. "She doesn't know amything!" Celebrimbor screamed as your first tear fell.

"But you do," Sauron narrated, loosing the arrow into your flesh. You tried to subdue your screams, but the immortal took to alternating between shooting you and Celebrimbor with arrows; though his struck lethally, yours struck painfully. To Sauron, you were a plaything; a token to negotiate with, attempting to withdraw information by offering you harm, thinking it was enough to break Celebrimbor.

He was mistaken.

You panted as blood dribbled from the corner of your mouth, wincing as Sauron's boot came down on your knee; smearing his heel into an open wound with you flat on your back. "She... She doesn't know," Celebrimbor tried again. "She is... She's the Lady of Eregion now, and I would not curse her with such a burden as you have me!"

"Oh, a promotion?" Sauron mused, glancing at you - but you saw his underlying desperation.

"Eregion is no more," you whispered, head lulling on the floor to meet Celebrimbor's eyes and smile sadly. Blood lined your teeth. "It would've been the honor of my life should I have been able to defend your city, my Lord."

"Our city."

"How touching," Sauron's eyes rolled.

"She doesn't know," Celebrimbor repeated in anger.

"I know," Sauron nodded, "I looked in her mind. Still, the bond between you is greater - perhaps, you'd be more inclined to share with her?"

"He'd never," you chuckled in delirium, "he'd never sacrifice this world for the likes of you." Another arrow thumped into your shoulder, making you groan as Sauron angrily tossed the bow aside. Fearing your life was soon to be extinguished, you whispered, "I-I'm so sorry, my Lord. I failed you."

"No, do not say such a thing," Celebrimbor insisted, Sauron stalking over you before squatting in front of the Elven smith, "for it is I who failed you..."

Sauron sighed, sounding condescending yet soft as he reached over to stroke Celebrimbor's cheek, "Look what you have done to yourself."

You didn't care for his poisoned words, knowing your time was limited - just like Celebrimbor's. Yet the Dark Lord tried one last tactic: mercy. He promised to end your joint suffering should the location of the Nine be revealed. Your Lord was defiant still. So, Sauron tried gaslighting, and when that didn't work, he begged, "Please."

Still, it did not work and Celebrimbor affirmed his time was ending... So, naturally, after he plucked up a spear, Sauron threatened, "There are ways of keeping you both alive." In Sindarin, he added, "Friend." To the look of horror on Celebrimbor's bloody face, Sauron offered, "Must I show you my mastery of that craft as well?"

"'Craft'?" Your Lord chuckled ruefully. Then he spat, "Your only craft is treachery. So pure, it shall betray the very hand that forges it."

Sauron stepped over your limp, bleeding form too casually, quietly seething, "Your words are empty."

"No," Celebrimbor insisted, sitting himself up slightly. "No, hear me. Hear me!" Your dimming eyes widened as your Lord found his feet, back against the stone pillar he had once slumped against as support. "Shadow of Morgoth! Hear the dying words of Celebrimbor! With only Y/N, Lady of Eregion as witness!" You didn't move, you couldn't... You were defeated, you knew there was no way Sauron would let you leave this tower alive. So, you listened and bore witness for as long as you were capable of doing so. "The Rings of Power shall destroy you. And in the end, I foresee one alone shall prove your," he shouted, "utter ruin!"

"NO!" You screamed when Sauron turned, shouting in anger as he strode over you and stabbed Celebrimbor with his spear. You could only watch in fearful disgust as the Dark Lord, still in fair form, hoisted the Lord of Eregion up the stone pillar as if a flag on a pole.

Celebrimbor was in obvious pain, mouth agape, blood dribbling from his slathered lips. Sauron's words were still heard despite the low, quiet register, "You're wrong. I am their Creator." He growled, "I am their Master!"

"No," Celebrimbor's head shook as if pitying the immortal. "You are their... Prisoner. Sauron, Lord..." He trailed as his life's light was snuffed, "of the Rings."

You let your grief manifest in tears, watching as Celebrimbor's eyes found yours - conveying his goodbye as he mouthed one last apology... Then deflating as his soul, as promised, vacated this form to return to the shores. You didn't voice your note of Sauron's single tear, just staring at your Lord in disbelief - until the Dark Lord planted the end of his spear to the ground, staking Celebrimbor above all.

"N-No, no, wait!" You begged, trying to turn over onto your stomach to pull yourself across the ground. "No, please, please, take him down - get him down from there! Please, do not - do not leave him up there!" You cried out as arrow shafts were irritated back to life, reaching blindly - helplessly - upward as if you could reach the Lord of Eregion from his hoist.

Sauron watched you for a moment, the Orcs heard marching up the tower. With a swift swing of his leg, Sauron kicked your jaw - effectively knocking you out and overturning your body to your back; splayed out as if on display... Similar, but not akin, to Celebrimbor - whose pooling blood soaked into your gown.

Through your unconsciousness, Sauron eventually ordered Eregion be razed to the ground, every Elf slaughtered, and the Elven leaders be brought before him - unharmed. He gave specific instruction for every scroll in Celebrimbor's workshop to be torched; his way of punishing you for your insolence over supporting and protecting Celebrimbor.

When you awoke, the tower was quiet. You stiffly lifted your hand to your jaw; rubbing it tenderly, letting your sight refocus and being acutely aware of every feeling in your body.

"Fuuuuuuuck," you whimpered, trying to sit up but being unable due to protruding arrows. You went limp again, feeling a single twinge of anger you had to wake up because your eyes caught sight of and stared at Celebrimbor.

You failed...

You gasped shrilly when hands seized your upper arms and heaved; lugging you over the shoulders of two Orcs as a third swiped at the arrows to break them in the most painful way possible. Considering their brutish nature, you would've thought they'd have lopped your head off and moved along - but instead, they began carrying you towards the door.

"Wha-What's happening?" You asked through a slur, feet dragging under you, spying one of the Orcs gathering scrolls and tomes you spent your life writing alongside Celebrimbor in their dirty arms. "Wait - wait - what're you doing? What're you doing!?"

"Quiet!" An Orc snarled, dropping the hilt of his dagger to the soft part of the base of your head where it connected to your neck. You were silent out of sheer pain.

Down the tower you were drug, brought into the devastated courtyard where Orcs snarled at you from all sides; the two that carried you dropping you on your shattered knees. You were held at knifepoint as Orcs streamed from the tower and dropped your scrolls and tomes in several different piles a short distance away. Head injury caused your sight to blur in and out, but you knew what they were doing... What they intended.

"Please, please, don't do this," you whimpered, hearing several Orcs laugh. "No... No, no, no, no, please! Don't - " You had no more fight as collectively, your records were so extensive that several piles were made, few set ablaze.

All around you, Elves were slaughtered mercilessly, bodies left behind where they fell; the sounds of the city dying with them as the Orcs ran out of the innocent lives to claim. You could only watch. Before you, the Orcs tossed banded lassos around the decorated statue of Faenor, evident their desecration knew no bounds.

Yet hope sparked... The blade at your neck tightening when you perked up upon seeing several Orcs leading few saved Elves into the courtyard - your fiancé one of them.

"Elrond!" You cried, the Orc snarling a hiss as the hand in your hair yanked back. You struggled to the point of blood draw when Elrond's sight casted on you - trying to escape his captors, but being held back.

"Y/N!" He called back, the High King Gil-galad at his side and finding you amongst the rubble, too. The King muttered something you couldn't hear, but to Elrond, he understood the Sindarin word: wait.

"Hey!" You snapped, blade drawing a line of blood from your neck; pressure mounting as he pressed closer. You growled in annoyance.

Faenor toppled to the ground, shattering the heart of any Elf left to witness - Orcs mounting him, ravaging for hidden and seen treasures. With Gil-galad, Elrond, and other survivors, the Orcs moved inward as if to ensure the Elves had a front row viewing to the incineration of their culture.

"Y/N," Gil-galad called to attention, earning several snarls and hisses, "where is Lord Celebrimbor?"

"Dead," you whimpered, Orc growling at you in reprimand.

Elrond's eyes swept over the scene and swiftly understood the impending doom. The largest of the scroll piles was before the Elves now, an Orc pacing around it with his torch alight, tears down your cheeks as you couldn't look away as if in a trance you did not realize.

"No, Uruk! No!" Elrond begged when the Orc went to drop the flame; you struggling against your captor, both hands around his meaty wrist.

"No!" Gil-galad's beg echoed around you.

"That is the full record of Celebrimbor's works," Elrond tried to make the Orcs understand potential ramifications. "The wisdom of all who ever dwelt in this place, all accounted by the Lady Y/N, whose work cannot be found outside Eregion! Its value is beyond jewels or even blood! Take our lives," Elrond gestured to himself and the King, you struggling again on horridly abused knees, "but leave it be, I beg you."

Perhaps you were far too used to people listening when your fiancé spoke because you eagerly sat forward best you could while thinking perhaps the Orcs would listen to Elrond. Imagine your acute and heavy despair when the Orc laughed manically and turned to shove the torch into the bundle of fragile parchment. "NO!" You sobbed uselessly, watching the last of your life's work go up in flame.

You fought against the Orc's grip as Gil-galad snarled, "Cowardly traitors!"

"You fucking bastards!" Your head reared back to (painfully - nobody wins with a headbutt) break the Orc's nose. He released you as other Orcs were wrestling Gil-galad to the ground, able to pick up a blade and take out three too-close enemies.

It was the first time Elrond heard such language fall from your lips, but all he could register was the Orc punching you in the jaw in an attempt to subdue you - blood spitting to the side, seemingly darkening a bruise already blooming. He's never felt such rage.

Elrond fought with his bare hands; elbowing the Orcs behind him, punching the ones before him, fighting to get closer to you. He got ahold of a torch, screaming in white-hot anger as he set the Orc that hit you ablaze; dropping the torch and taking you into his embrace.

"My love," he breathed in your ear, able to peck your cheek just as the snarling Orcs forcefully ripped you out of his arms. "No, no!" He tried to reach out for you, but both were wrangled in.

"Please, don't! NO! No, no, no!" You gasped when Elrond was taken in custody, yet it wasn't you who saved him.

Another Orc reminded, "No! Lord Sauron wanted their leaders unharmed."

"Well, what about her? She looks injured," A different Orc growled, jostling your shoulder and pointing his dagger at your throat. Elrond was forced to his knees as you were, facing one another.

"Lord Sauron did that, said to discipline her should she resist," the Orc answered in a hiss, others shoving more Elves into the courtyard - including Arondir from the battlefield. A blade was held to Elrond's throat as your head bowed in the heat of the bonfire; being ripped up by your hair and forced to turn to watch the flames. The Orcs noticed the pair of you seemingly cared more about the literature than your lives, so, they thought you should relish in this moment.

So Elrond was held in a similar position, but his sight was on you; watching you crumple into despair while more Orcs tossed the last of the scrolls into the flames. Your life, since a youthful student, had been spent intermittently in Eregion under the care of Lord Celebrimbor, whom you thought of as an adoptive father, learning heraldry. He let you work at his side, keeping accurate, detailed record of his philosophies, ideas, processes, and creations for the histories. Yet, now, they wafted into the air as ash - lost to this Age, never to be recovered or duplicated or seen again.

Once more, you dropped your head, earning a backhand to the temple. Gritting your teeth, you let the Orc force your head up but shut your eyes tightly, defiantly; hearing their breathing turn ragged. "Cut her eyelids open!" An Orc barked.

"That's not what Lord Sauron said," another seethed with refusal.

"She's resisting!"

An Orc scoffed and stabbed your thigh with a dagger, eyes flying open as you gasped in pain. "There! See!" It laughed, holding you in a chokehold as tears leaked down your cheeks. Elrond struggled and shuddered against his captors, hating the sight of you dismantling yourself emotionally, but to witness your abuse, he hated more.

Then, from a short distance, a horn bellowed.

"Dwarves!" King Gil-galad identified, the Elves rejuvenated by the surprise (and delayed) arrival of aid. In tandem, they began to resist; yourself included by ripping the dagger from your thigh and driving it into your captor's ribs; praying flesh came too when the blade was ripped free.

He grunted and shoved you forward onto your chest and hands, able to flop over to watch your approaching demise - only to discover Elrond surging up to the Orc and snapping its neck with his bare hands.

"Elrond!" You gasped when the Orc fell to the side... Dead.

"C'mere," the half-Elf you intended to marry panted, reaching down to yank you onto your bloody feet; catching you on his chest when your weight buckled. "I got you, I've got you, love, you're safe," he whispered, hoisting you into his embrace before turning for the stream of Dwarves. "Durin!" He greeted jovially.

But when the Dwarf turned, it wasn't the ginger prince Elrond knew like a brother. The dark haired Dwarf heaved a sigh, informing, "The Prince... Is in mourning," before rushing off into the fray.

"'Mourning'?" You repeated in a daze. "Over Disa?"

"His father, perhaps?" Elrond guessed, tightening his arms to lift you and turn away from an Orc rushing forward. He blocked the enemy's advance, trying to keep secure hold of you - leaving an opportunity for you to use the last of your strength to drive your dagger (still in hand) into the Orc's throat. "Good girl," Elrond praised as the creature fell, panting from exhaustion. "Can you still fight?"

"I can barely stand on my own, Elrond," you whimpered, gripping his neck and shoulders in a vice grip to remain upright.

He nodded, "Right." With a sniffle, he lifted you again and rushed for an alcove, depositing you in rubble before caressing your face. "How bad?" He asked softly.

"Enough."

"Let me see - "

"Elrond, there's no time," you snatched his hands when he attempted to reach for your skirt, "the city is under attack, it's falling to Sauron - you need to help them. Go, go fight."

"I won't leave you."

Your ears rang with the same words you told Celebrimbor.

"You have to, this is bigger than any of us," you repeated what you'd been told.

"Elrond!" Gil-galad was heard calling, Arondir appearing in the mouth of the alcove.

"Over here!"

When the High King arrived, he paused to take in the sight of the pair of you. "Good," he panted, "you're both alive. The Dwarves are aiding our escape, we must leave now... The city is fallen," he directed at you.

"You should all go," you sniffled.

With confusion, Elrond snapped, "Without you?"

"I've business to see to in the tower."

"The tower will fall," Arondir explained, slowly lowering to a squat to put himself on your level. "Whatever you think is left is lost, my Lady."

"Celebrimbor's in there. I was taken before I could get him down."

"'Down'?" Gil-galad repeated, "What does that mean?"

Tears filled your eyes, telling the trio what Sauron did to you and your Lord; the King insisting hope was lost and it was time to go. "I cannot walk," you whispered, shaking your head, "and my injuries surpass - "

"I will carry you," Elrond rushed, holding your cheek gently, "I will not leave you behind."

"No... She will walk," Gil-galad stepped forward, revealing his Ring of Power, Vilya. You were unsure what his intention, but Elrond moved behind you to let you lean back into his chest as the King chanted his prayers.

Yet you passed out before fully healed.

"My King - "

"She's alive," Gil-galad soothed Elrond, the hand hosting Vilya laid to your forehead, "just exhausted. She's been through much, far more than I care to fathom. Sauron took it easy on her, he used mortal weapons against her."

"He didn't intend to kill her?" Arondir questioned.

"He needed her alive - whatever the reason," Gil-galad frowned.

"Will she wake?" Elrond worried.

"I have faith she will, trust in the Valar," the King nodded. "Now, if you intend to fight another day, we must go. Now."

And so, the Lady of Eregion was smuggled out of the smoking city in the arms of the Elf she loved, leaving behind all she knew and created. By the Third Age, at least one scroll written by her hand could be found in every library of Middle-earth; and in the Great Library Elrond built for her, detailed accounts of Lord Celebrimbor's work as recalled and honored by his adopted daughter, future Lady of Imladris.

requesting rules and masterlist

TROP masterlist

[ersatz-ostrich]

DBH Headcanons: Getting Your Wisdom Teeth Removed

Connor, RK900, Markus, Simon, and Gavin x gn!reader

Some headcanons about what it would be like to be taken care of by some of the characters of Detroit: Become Human while recovering from getting your wisdom teeth removed. Inspired by, well, getting my wisdom teeth removed.

[A/N]: I got my wisdom teeth out a while back and it honestly wasn't as bad as I'd heard from other people. My mouth tasted funny for a while, though.

Connor:

Chances are, you’ve already briefed him on your wisdom teeth procedure and everything that happens before and after

By the time the actual surgery rolls around, he’s downloaded every bit of information about pre-op and post-op

And he’s not going to hesitate to bother you remind you about everything

“Don’t forget to wear comfortable shoes and clothing.” “Y/N, you can’t have any food or water 8 hours before the surgery.” “Y/N, please refrain from strenuous exercise in the 24 hours before your surgery.”

When you come out of surgery loopy on anesthesia, he sits with you in recovery and tries to talk you through it (even though you don’t remember a lick of what either of you said)

I’d say he’s a mother hen post-op, but more like a worrywart type

He’d buy all kinds of liquid foods for you and is constantly asking about your pain levels

Gets a lot of weird looks in the supermarket while he’s checking out the soup aisle

“That’s not a domestic android I’ve ever seen…”

He’s definitely on top of your antibiotics schedule, and if you need it, pain meds

Makes sure you’re regularly irrigating the wounds if you need it 

If you’re ever worried or insecure about swelling and discomfort post-op, Connor is there to smother you in kisses

Nines:

As a deviant, he isn’t as much of a mother hen as Connor, probably because he’s more self-assured in his ability to take care of you as well as your ability to take care of yourself when you can

He wouldn’t hover as much as Connor but he’d definitely download information about the procedure before you go

Coming out of the operation, you knock out again for a bit in recovery and Nines insists on staying with you, covering you with his jacket and letting you rest your head on his shoulder

If Connor got weird looks while in the supermarket buying things for you and picking up your prescriptions, Nines sticks out like a sore thumb

Like he’s clearly not a domestic/service android so he confuses a lot of shoppers and employees as he browses the aisles and fills his basket with cans of soup, oats, and ice cream

“Why on earth is a police investigator android buying soup on a Friday morning?”

If you’re in pain, he’ll do everything to comfort you

Pain meds, ice cream, cuddles, your comfort movies and shows, anything for you

He doesn’t seem outwardly clingy or affectionate but he’s such a softy

Markus:

This obviously isn’t his first rodeo

If you’re scared going into the surgery, he’s with you all the way until the nurses put you to sleep

Cruises through post-op no matter what state you’re in due to the sedative

At home, he’s got you covered

No need to break out the cans of mush—he’s got you covered with homemade soups, the softest scrambled eggs you’ve ever had, soft pasta dishes, you name it

With Markus, you’ll never miss a dose of antibiotics

If you’re in pain, worry not

Markus has your pain meds, blankets, and infinite cuddles

He’ll have your favorite flavors of ice cream on hand

Straight out of the tub if you feel so inclined

Simon:

He might not be a caregiver like Markus but he was once a domestic and childcare android

Calms your nerves going into the operation and when you’re all woozy post-op he’s right by your side

Coming out of the operation, it doesn’t matter if you look like if Alvin the Chipmunk got into a fistfight and lost—Simon’s there to shower you in kisses and envelop you in hugs

Like Markus, you’ll never have to worry about the liquid and soft food diet

If the pain’s too much, Simon will be your arms and legs for the time being

He’s a wizard with chores and errands

It’s like you never even got your wisdom teeth out

Gavin:

Would totally take off work to help you recover

Which, given how competitive he is at work, would probably seem like an anomaly to his coworkers

“I’ve never seen Reed take off for more than a day or two at a time. Shit, he’d come into work sick so long as he wasn’t actively dying,” Says Tina

“I’ve had to wrangle that fucker into his car more times than I can count to prevent him from coming into work injured,” Grumbles Fowler

“Hopefully he’ll take this time to rest as well as take care of someone else.”

Would record the stuff you say coming out of sedative in post-op for the memories (and for you both to laugh at when you recover)

I don’t see him being as great of a cook as Markus or Simon, but he’s definitely able to cook to support himself and you

Of course, he’d get you all the ice cream you want

He knows what it feels like to be in pain and cranky so he does everything he can to either comfort you or give you space to get through it

If you wanted it, he’d cuddle with you while you spend the day reading or watching your comfort shows and sipping on smoothies (no straws allowed, of course)

To anyone getting their wisdom teeth out soon, good luck! To anyone recovering from the surgery, feel better soon! Hope you enjoyed reading this silly little compilation of HCs! See you next time x

[ririright]

“Chaos & Kisses: The Cheeky Wife Chronicles”

Husband! Hayden x Wife Reader (Headcannons)

Pt.1 — Pt.2 — Pt.3

❤︎ Smacking his butt when he walks by

He jumps, every single time—even though he should be used to it.

Immediately looks over his shoulder like “Was that—? Did you just—?”

Face goes red, he stammers something like “Y’know I wasn’t ready for that! You can’t just—”

Then he starts smirking.

“You better run.”

You do. And he definitely chases.

❤︎ Yanking the towel off him after a shower

“HEY—”

His arms flail in slow motion like he can catch it.

Instinctively tries to cover himself, stammering with a red face:

“Wh—That was a NEW TOWEL!”

Chases you and slips on the floor, dramatically shouting “You are SO LUCKY I love you!”

Once he catches you? That towel’s coming back into play—but not how you expect.

❤︎ Sneaking up and pinching him while he’s working on the farm

You catch him mid-shovel or knee-deep in the duck pond and pinch.

He gasps so loud the chickens scatter.

Glares at you with mock betrayal.

“I almost dropped the feed, you menace.”

But then he breaks into a grin and tackles you right into the hay pile.

❤︎ Whispering something dirty at the worst possible moment

You lean in during a quiet moment—breakfast with guests, a casual trip to the hardware store—and whisper something very NSFW in his ear.

He chokes on his drink. Turns beat red.

Immediately blurts something totally unrelated like, “Yes I’ll buy the fence posts!”

Then mutters, “You’re gonna pay for that later.”

❤︎ Sitting on his lap innocently…then shifting just enough to not be innocent

At first he’s all smug, arms around you like “Aw, cuddly today?”

Then you grind down just enough to catch him off guard.

“Hey—oh my god—what are you doing, you brat?”

His voice goes from playful to wrecked in two seconds flat.

He doesn’t push you off. He just locks the doors.

❤︎ Making kissy noises at him while he’s serious

He’s mid-lightsaber lesson or explaining how the drainage pipe works and you just start going “Mwah. Mwah. Mwah.”

He loses it.

“You can’t just make that sound while I’m talking about irrigation!”

Immediately drops whatever he’s holding and tries to kiss-attack you back.

❤︎ Wearing his flannel and nothing else when he walks into the room

Stops dead in his tracks.

“That’s mine. Wait. Keep it. No—actually, take it off.”

❤︎ Tying his apron on for him from behind and whispering filth while you do it

He stiffens. Literally.

Tries to stay focused on the pie he’s baking. Can’t.

“You’re dangerous. You belong in jail. For crimes against concentration.”

❤︎ Doing the bend-and-snap when you drop something

You “accidentally” drop a spoon and slowly bend down to pick it up with full dramatic flair.

He goes dead silent.

When you look back, he’s just standing there, clutching a dishtowel, jaw dropped.

“Did you just—?”

Then he lunges.

❤︎ Flashing a bit of skin, then pretending it’s no big deal

You stretch, and your shirt rides up just enough to show your hips or lower back.

You act like nothing happened.

He stares like he’s been shot.

“Don’t do that. Not unless you want me to forget how to do chores. Or speak.”

[ayeforscotland]

What is Dataflow?

This post is inspired by another post about the Crowd Strike IT disaster and a bunch of people being interested in what I mean by Dataflow. Dataflow is my absolute jam and I'm happy to answer as many questions as you like on it. I even put referential pictures in like I'm writing an article, what fun!

I'll probably split this into multiple parts because it'll be a huge post otherwise but here we go!

A Brief History

Our world is dependent on the flow of data. It exists in almost every aspect of our lives and has done so arguably for hundreds if not thousands of years.

At the end of the day, the flow of data is the flow of knowledge and information. Normally most of us refer to data in the context of computing technology (our phones, PCs, tablets etc) but, if we want to get historical about it, the invention of writing and the invention of the Printing Press were great leaps forward in how we increased the flow of information.

Modern Day IT exists for one reason - To support the flow of data.

Whether it's buying something at a shop, sitting staring at an excel sheet at work, or watching Netflix - All of the technology you interact with is to support the flow of data.

Understanding and managing the flow of data is as important to getting us to where we are right now as when we first learned to control and manage water to provide irrigation for early farming and settlement.

Engineering Rigor

When the majority of us turn on the tap to have a drink or take a shower, we expect water to come out. We trust that the water is clean, and we trust that our homes can receive a steady supply of water.

Most of us trust our central heating (insert boiler joke here) and the plugs/sockets in our homes to provide gas and electricity. The reason we trust all of these flows is because there's been rigorous engineering standards built up over decades and centuries.

For example, Scottish Water will understand every component part that makes up their water pipelines. Those pipes, valves, fitting etc will comply with a national, or in some cases international, standard. These companies have diagrams that clearly map all of this out, mostly because they have to legally but also because it also vital for disaster recovery and other compliance issues.

Modern IT

And this is where modern day IT has problems. I'm not saying that modern day tech is a pile of shit. We all have great phones, our PCs can play good games, but it's one thing to craft well-designed products and another thing entirely to think about they all work together.

Because that is what's happened over the past few decades of IT. Organisations have piled on the latest plug-and-play technology (Software or Hardware) and they've built up complex legacy systems that no one really knows how they all work together. They've lost track of how data flows across their organisation which makes the work of cybersecurity, disaster recovery, compliance and general business transformation teams a nightmare.

Some of these systems are entirely dependent on other systems to operate. But that dependency isn't documented. The vast majority of digital transformation projects fail because they get halfway through and realise they hadn't factored in a system that they thought was nothing but was vital to the organisation running.

And this isn't just for-profit organisations, this is the health services, this is national infrastructure, it's everyone.

There's not yet a single standard that says "This is how organisations should control, manage and govern their flows of data."

Why is that relevant to the companies that were affected by Crowd Strike? Would it have stopped it?

Maybe, maybe not. But considering the global impact, it doesn't look like many organisations were prepared for the possibility of a huge chunk of their IT infrastructure going down.

Understanding dataflows help with the preparation for events like this, so organisations can move to mitigate them, and also the recovery side when they do happen. Organisations need to understand which systems are a priority to get back operational and which can be left.

The problem I'm seeing from a lot of organisations at the moment is that they don't know which systems to recover first, and are losing money and reputation while they fight to get things back online. A lot of them are just winging it.

Conclusion of Part 1

Next time I can totally go into diagramming if any of you are interested in that.

How can any organisation actually map their dataflow and what things need to be considered to do so. It'll come across like common sense, but that's why an actual standard is so desperately needed!

[cece693]

YOU REMIND ME OF SOMEONE DEARLY PT. 1

pairing: platonic! male child reader x hannigram synopsis: Hannibal isn't taken aback by anything anymore—his life has been filled with experiences that built him into the man he is today—but during a hospital shift, he's stunned to encounter Mischa again. While the child is of the opposite gender, everything down to their smile is reminiscent of his beloved sister. A parental instinct immediately engulfs the doctor, more so, when he realizes the child doesn't have the best life.

The hospital’s after-hours hush always soothed Hannibal Lecter—pneumatic doors sighing like well-trained lungs, anesthesia drifting faintly above polished tile. Tonight, however, the stillness tore at him with anxious claws. “Dr. Lecter, trauma bay three,” a scrub nurse called. “Pediatric transfer from Frederick County."

Hannibal nodded, letting the masque of urbane calm settle over his features. The fluorescent lamps above Trauma Three were a pitiless white, but Hannibal had lived inside harsher lights. He crossed the threshold prepared for gore, for the usual cloying perfume of antiseptic mixed with the metallic ozone of blood. What he was not prepared for was the instant, violent dislocation of time.

The harsh lighting revealed a body far too small for the adult gurney. Eleven, perhaps twelve. Golden-straw hair, clumped by plasma, framed the child’s face. Under the glare it looked exactly the shade Mischa’s curls adopted in midwinter sunlight—just before she’d scamper back inside smelling of snow and woodsmoke. The resemblance struck so hard Hannibal’s lungs forgot their task, forcing a shallow, ragged breath past perfect teeth. His fingertips twitched for the memory of her weight in his arms, for the warmth that had been ripped away and devoured by wolves wearing human skin.

Then clinical habit re-asserted itself: assess, catalog, plan. Radius with spiral fracture—yanked, not fallen. Cigarette burns in varying stages of healing. A deep purple boot bruise where a child’s liver nestled beneath brittle ribs.

The scalpel of rage glinted behind Hannibal’s eyes, but his hands remained steady as metronomes. He repaired a splenic laceration, plated the shattered forearm, irrigated and closed. When the ventilator finally clicked into a gentle rhythm, Hannibal allowed himself a single stroke of knuckles across the child’s hair—an unheard benediction.

When the boy surfaced from anesthesia, his lashes fluttered, revealing irises the soft caramel of birch sap. They lacked the worldly exhaustion Hannibal had carried since childhood; they were absent of judgment, of fear—even of the instinct to flinch. Instead, they carried something impossibly forgiving and looked at Hannibal with utter gentleness.

“Are…are you my guardian angel?” he whispered, throat rasped raw.

The words struck like a scalpel finding unfinished suture—precise, unbidden, opening Hannibal along a seam he had sworn would never gape again. Guardian angel. In Mischa’s nursery there had hung a watercolor cherub, all pastel wings and candle-bright eyes, painted by a governess who believed children slept safer beneath pretty lies. Hannibal had scoffed at it, even then. Angels had never answered Mischa’s screams.

Yet here was a boy who could have been carved from the same early-spring light, asking shyly if the butcher at his bedside might be Heaven-sent.

“No, little one,” he said in Lithuanian first—reflex, because the timbre of those vowels belonged to Mischa—then translated softly. “Angels are creatures of heaven. I am simply a man who could not endure seeing you harmed.”

The boy’s lips curved. A faint dimple ghosted his right cheek—Mischa’s dimple. “Thank you simply-a-man.”

Delight stirred; it felt like thawing ice. Hannibal leaned closer, matching the child’s hushed cadence. “My name is Hannibal Lecter. May I know yours?”

“Y/N,” he breathed. “Y/N Anatole.”

Light, Hannibal noted—the name of a lantern-bearer in Old Greek. Prophetic. “Y/N,” he repeated, tasting the syllables. “Y/N, do you know why you’re here?”

A flicker—too knowing for innocence, too resigned for twelve. “I got clumsy again,” he said, parroting an excuse beaten into him until it sounded like fact. The quiver at the edge of his mouth told the true story.

Hannibal’s anger flared, hot enough to bleach memory.  Clumsy. The word echoed like a joke told at a funeral. He imagined the father’s boot slamming into a ribcage the size of a violin case, the mother’s ringed hand snapping ulna like kindling. A swan-neck clamp in Hannibal’s mind clicked shut on their carotids—a fantasy so vivid he felt the spray warm his cheeks.

But before the rage could overflow, Y/N touched his sleeve—small, trusting. “It’s okay. I always get better.” The boy’s words, so matter-of-fact, sliced deeper than any scalpel. I always get better. Anemic optimism forged in bruised bone and narcotic drip—a child’s version of this is normal.

“Getting better is not the same as being safe, Y/N. And you deserve safety more than you can yet imagine.”

The boy blinked, surprise widening those birch-sap eyes. “Dad says accidents make me tough.”

Hannibal’s jaw flexed. Tough, yes—like rawhide soaked, stretched, beaten until it could no longer feel. Exactly the kind of “strength” a cowardly man could admire from a barstool. However, before Hannibal could refute that absurd claim, the door was nearly ripped from its hinges as two adults barged in, reeking of liquor and stale resentment.

“We want him discharged tonight,” the father snapped, the words slurring just enough to betray a companion flask. “We’re missing shifts because the kid’s accident-prone.”

Y/N shrank against the rail, analgesic haze not quite dimming the reflexive fear. Hannibal heard the flutter of the boy’s heart trip into tachycardia—an SOS tapped in flesh.

“Your son sustained a splenic laceration, four displaced fractures, and a pneumothorax,” Hannibal replied, voice quiet but diamond-edged. “Moving him now would almost certainly kill him.”

The mother rolled her eyes. “Doctors love drama. He’s been worse.”

“No, madam,” Hannibal corrected, “He has never been worse.”

The father stepped closer, posture puffed with ritualized dominance. “Listen, doc, you patch ’em up, we take ’em home. That’s the deal. Sign the papers.”

Hannibal inhaled slowly, bottling wrath the way chemists bottle acid—tight-sealed, for later use. “Hospital policy requires a 48-hour observation. If you object, you may sign an AMA discharge—Against Medical Advice. However, child-protective services will be notified immediately.”

“You can’t do such thing!” the father bellowed, voice wobbling between outrage and incipient panic.

Hannibal did not so much as blink. He let silence hang between them long enough for the father to taste his own heartbeat. Then, with the unhurried diction of a professor correcting an imbecile, he replied: “I can. And I will. Federal statute 42 U.S.C. § 5106a requires me to report any suspicion of abuse. Your son’s injuries are not suspicious; they are conclusive.”

A purple vein jumped in the man’s temple. “You smug—”

Hannibal pivoted slightly, granting the father a clear view of the ceiling-mounted camera whose red LED winked like a judgmental eye. “This encounter,” Hannibal added, “is being recorded. Any further obstruction will be appended to the CPS report—under violent interference with medical care.”

The mother’s mascaraed eyes darted upward, saw the lens, and a tremor seized her bravado. “Honey,” she hissed, tugging at her husband’s sleeve, “let’s just—”

“Shut up!” he snarled, jerking free. Rage overrode tactical thought; he lunged, thick fingers closing on Hannibal’s coat lapels.

Hannibal allowed the grasp, studying the meaty hands as a pathologist examines a specimen: interesting only in the theoretical. Then he spoke, voice so low the syllables vibrated directly through the father’s bones. “Remove your hands, sir, or I will remove them for you.”

For one breathless second the man froze—primitive brain parsing predator signals too primal for language. The spell shattered when two security officers strode in, summoned by Hannibal’s silent badge-tap moments earlier.

“Sir, step back and release the doctor,” the lead guard ordered. Tasers, bright as dragonfly wings, hung at their belts—a rehearsal that would not be needed if Hannibal chose less public methods.

The father’s grip slackened. Hannibal smoothed his coat as though brushing off lint, eyes never leaving the man’s. “Please escort Mr. and Mrs. Anatole to the family waiting area” he told security, “and remain until social services arrives. They are not to see the patient unsupervised.”

The woman wilted; the father sputtered threats—lawsuits, politicians, a brother on the county board—but the guards’ practiced grips shepherded them into the hallway, their protests fading beneath the hiss of automated doors.

Silence settled over the recovery bay like a fresh layer of sterile gauze—light, immaculate, strangely heavy with the residue of violence just expelled. Hannibal let the hush seep all the way to his pulse; only when his own heartbeat slowed to a deliberate metronome did he turn back to the gurney.

Y/N’s heart rate spiked the monitor in bright green peaks. He lay stiff against the pillows, IV line trembling where it vanished beneath his taped wrist. “They’re gone?” Y/N asked, voice a rasp of timid hope.

“For now,” Hannibal answered, lowering himself to the bedside with a grace that conceded nothing to exhaustion. He kept his tone level, its sotto voce cadences meant to reassure prey—but here repurposed to soothe a child. “Others will speak with them before they return. Very serious people.”

And if those people fail, he told himself, I will speak with them in a language bone understands—syllables of fracture and finality.

A pulse of uncertainty flickered across Y/N's face. His gaze darted toward the door, half-expecting those familiar silhouettes to charge back through. Hannibal sensed the boy’s muscles coil, the primal readiness to make himself small or flee despite the drain in his flank and the plate in his arm.

Deliberately, he slipped a gloved hand beneath the rail and pressed the bed’s control, tilting the headrest until Y/N reclined more comfortably. Monitors adjusted, beeping a fraction slower. Then he placed two fingers beneath the boy’s chin—light, paternal, non-threatening—and guided that birch-sap gaze back to his.

“Look at me,” he murmured. Midnight OR fluorescents painted silvered halos on their foreheads. “You are safe here. Do you understand?”

Y/N swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing against bruised cartilage. “The nurses said that, too. But Dad usually finds a way.”

There it was—the surrendered certainty of an eleven-year-old who has seen every promise collapsed into apology. Hannibal’s jaw tensed hard enough to click. He forced the muscle benign, then brushed his thumb across the bruise shadowing Y/N's cheekbone in a gesture more diagnostic than affectionate, though it felt like both.

“Your father will find many things tonight: a police report, a social-worker’s interview. But he will not find you.” Hannibal murmured, adjusting the blanket so it draped in perfect hospital folds, the way he once tucked Mischa under goose-down quilts during Baltic winters. “Sleep. That is the prescription now.”

“But what if—”

“No ‘what ifs’ tonight. I will remain until you’re dreaming. And outside that door stands a nurse who would tackle an army for her patients.” Hannibal leaned closer, voice dipping into conspiratorial warmth. “She doesn’t look it, but she played varsity rugby.”

A ghost of a smile appeared; the tachycardic beeping eased toward normal sinus rhythm. Hannibal reached for the IV pump, dialing the rate to deliver two milligrams of morphine and a micro dose of midazolam—enough to usher pain into the background and coax the boy gently over the rim of consciousness. As lashes sagged under the twin lullabies of medication and safety, Y/N fought to keep them open. “You promise?”

“Yes.” Hannibal vowed, fingers brushing the child’s knuckles. "Sweet dreams."

[bullet-prooflove]

6500 Follower Bingo Card Celebration: Jack - John Shen x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @miraclesabound @cannonindeez @fadeinsol @nommingonfood @yousigned-upforthis

Hitting The Bingo Square: Pistol Whipping

Companion piece to:

Dick Pics - You and John discuss your dating life in the ambulance bay during a rare shift break.

Brunch - John refuses to give up when you miss brunch with him.

Silly Little Boys (NSFW) - John's not like the other men you've been with.

In The Summer - You discover John's secret.

Tiger, Tiger - John reveals the truth between his engagement and his history.

John finds out about your history when an old DCFS file appears in an unmarked envelope on his doorstep. He’s just about to head out for a run when he trips over the damn thing, scattering the contents across the stoop. At first he thinks he’s being sued but then he takes in the pink post it, his mother’s careful cursive writing.

I thought you’d like to know the kind of trash you’re getting into bed with.

It’s one month out from the wedding and he’s been waiting for the next intervention from his parents and it appears this is it.

He hurries to gather up the loose pages before the wind can catch them and finds himself clutching the top sheet. It’s a brief rundown of the McCarthy family, pictures and names included.

He’s met two of them, he realises as he scrutinizes document in his hand.

Seamus, the father. Patrick, the brother.

It had been during a shift when he’d first become an attending. A couple of guys had been arrested because of a barroom brawl that had gotten out of hand. The two in handcuffs had pistol whipped the shit out of a guy who had bumped into them, spilling a drink. His friends had piled on and it had become a large scale bar fight resulting in six guys being hurled into the E.D with varying injuries. The original victim had been sent straight up to surgery because they’d shattered most of the bones in his face.

John had been called in to treat the older one Seamus McCarthy, because he refused to have the twelve inch gash across his scalp looked by Abbot. He’d been cuffed to the bed, blood matting in his shoulder length, greying hair as he spat at Abbot, the phlegm splattering against the tiles underfoot.

“You need to calm down” Abbot had said in that cool, gruff tone of his as he studied the heart monitor attached to Seamus’s chest. “You’re gonna give yourself another heart attack.”

“And how am I supposed to do that when the cunt who took Sissy is standing here right in front of me?” Seamus had raged as John had begun to irrigate the wound.

“I didn’t take your daughter.” Abbot had reminded him, his eyes still fixed on the heart monitor. “She left because you were whoring her out to pay for your coke habit. I just made sure she had a safe place to go to.”

“You wanted to fuck her without paying.” Seamus had accused. “I bet she was ever so grateful to her new daddy wasn’t she?”

The silence that descended over the treatment bay in that moment was deafening. John could feel the tension in the room, oppressive and malevolent as Abbot’s gaze swung to Seamus, his upper lip curling up in disgust.

“You really are a piece of shit aren’t you?” Abbot had said, distain dripping from every word. “You don’t give a fuck about her unless she’s on her back earning you a couple of grand a night.”

His stare shifts to John.

“You got this?” He asks him, stripping off his latex gloves. “Because I am fucking done.”

“Yea.” John had said holding up the staple gun before pressing it to the gash Seamus’s head. “Yea, I got this.”

It’s only now as John stands there on his doorstep, gripping those papers in his fist that he realises that the girl they were talking about, that was you.

Sissy…

Cici…

Both nicknames for Cecilia. You may have changed your last name but your photograph is staring right back at him. You look fresh faced, young but those eyes, they tell a different story, one that he’s seen a dozen times in The Pitt after one of them has called DCFS.

It breaks his heart because now he understands why you don’t talk about your family, why everything from your younger years revolves around the boxing gym. You don’t have any good memories of home, just the shame of what comes with being chewed up and spat out by the people who are supposed to love you.

You’re subdued when you arrive at his place that night. You don’t come in when he opens the door instead you linger on the stoop, wringing your hands. It’s an anxious tell, something he’s never seen in you before and it makes him want to wrap his arms around you, to chase away the demons that seem to be dogging at your heels.

“I got a visit from your mom today at the firehouse.” You tell him, your gaze fixed on something down the street. You haven’t met his eyes once since you’ve appeared, it’s like you’re too terrified of what you may see in them. “Apparently she gave you my DCFS file…”

“Yea, I tossed that.”  He says, his palm rubs over the nape of his neck. “I kinda met your dad last year in The Pitt. He said somethings about Abbot, fucked up shit.”

“Jack Abbot saved my life.” You begin, pausing to find the words as you tuck your hands into the pockets of your coat. “When I first left home I was working as a cleaner at the boxing gym. I’d stay there overnight after Greg the owner had left, wake up and make sure it look like I had just arrived. I couldn’t afford training sessions so I would just watch, try to pick up a few some tips. Jack was always there first thing, he was trying to adjust to life with the new leg. He took me under his wing, taught me the basics. It was the first time in my life that I didn’t feel powerless.”

You let out a long sigh because the hard part is coming, the part that you don’t like to tell because it just clarifies all the shit that was in that file.

“Jack picked up something was going on with me pretty early on, I had a lot of anger for a eighteen year old and I think he got a read on where it came from. His first wife Maria was a social worker, she knew my family, had an idea of why I left. One night my dad came around trying to get me to come back home. Jack was in the parking lot, he intervened. My father told him if he wanted a ride he would have to pay, and I thought this is it, this is the moment that he hands over a few hundred dollars, fucks me in the back seat of his car because that’s what I’d been taught to expect.” You bite your lower lip before shaking your head. “Jack kicked the shit out of him instead, I’d never seen my dad scared before. I think that was the moment I finally realised that the world wasn’t the way I thought it was, that there were good people out there, people who were willing to help if I just let them.

“I became an EMT because of them, because they took me in, gave me a safe space to figure out what I wanted. They believed in me and because of that I made something of myself, something I’m proud of and your mom John, your fucking mom, just looked me in the face and told me I’m not good enough for you, that I should just let you go and marry Jia. Is she right John? Should I just let you go? Or should I keep you, should I come inside that house and fuck you so hard that you won’t even want to look at another woman after me?”

There’s a fire in your eyes, it burns so bright and beautiful that he can’t help but be consumed by it. You are not your history, the same way he’s not his. You’re both something more, something wonderful, something exciting.

Something real.

“Keep me.” He whispers, his hands come to rest on your waist, pulling you close.  “You should god damn keep me.”

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