#Revolve Recovery | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thebibliosphere · 11 months ago

Note

I was just playing gotham knights again and noticed some passive dialog regarding Babs having a back brace, which is at least acknowledging that there was damage done, but I'm a little sad for the loss of some really cool disability representation. What are your feelings on her (and on a similar note Batman's) miraculous recovery from paralysis in DC?

I think Gotham Knights handled her disability fairly well, considering this is a universe where magic, nanobots, and puddles of evil green goo that can heal the dead exist. All things considered, it would have been very easy for them to either erase it entirely or just handwave and say, "She worked really hard and got better," as previous iterations of the canon have done.

Because she did work hard and get better, but the hard work is ongoing because they depict her issues as chronic.

She's got a limp (it's the most obvious in her Talon suit with no cape in the way), which means she can't rely on speed or high kicks like the others can (I mean, she can kick, but it's her slowest motion, and until you max out her suit, it's the most liable to get her thrown to the ground), so she falls back on precision and her tech.

Jason punches for maximum pain, Dick moves with dizzying speed, and Tim's gonna sneak up on you and drop you like a rock, but Babs is going for the pressure points with ruthless precision. Not to mention her drones.

The conversation with Tim, realizing she might need help boosting her suit to compensate for her pain/strength issues, is a nice little way of making the player aware that she's got these ongoing problems because, honestly, a casual observer could mistake her back brace for athleisure wear if they didn't recognize the shape of it. It's also a good way of throwing in some exposition about how she's still going to physical rehab and that her PT would like her to "wean off" her back brace, but because her PT doesn't know her actual job as a vigilante, Barbara admits she can't and is essentially finding ways to manage her own care and create her own accommodations. Accommodations which they are all shown to be willing to help with.

It's a nice little touch when superhero narratives tend to revolve around self-sacrifice to the point of self-destruction. Alfred giving Dick into trouble for pushing himself too far and hiding injuries is a nice touch, too, even if it's like trying to bail water on the Titanic with a teacup.

I also like that not only do you see her wheelchair lurking around the Belfry—along with the disability adaptations they put in place, like the ramps, the wheelchair elevator, and the desks that move up and down to wheelchair height—but that she also still uses her chair from time to time.

[ID a screenshot from Gotham Knights showing the Belfry. Light streams in through a giant clockface, showcasing a bank of computer screens. In front of the screen, Barbara Gordon is using her wheelchair as Dick Grayson stands behind her, probably making a bad pun.]

Whether she's using it because she's tired or simply because it's more comfortable than the computer chair is never revealed. Nor is it brought up or commented on. It's just something that's normal for Barbara to do, and I like that. I like that it's normal. It's not a part of herself she's trying to erase. She works with it, not against it.

Is it perfect? No. Do they outright erase her disability like so many of the comics are guilty of? Also, no. I'd argue that, in fact, they kept her disability. They just changed the nature of it.

Barbara now has a dynamic disability, one which fluctuates and requires different management based on her day-to-day (or night) activity. She's in active treatment for it and will be for the rest of her life. Are some of the physical feats she achieves realistic for someone with an injury of her nature? Not really, but again, this is a world where nobody stays dead, and there are zombie assassins coming out of the walls. I'll take the attention to detail and care they put into her story any day over the "Willpower Fixed My Spine" narrative we could have gotten.

As for Bruce getting healed by magic, again, it's Batman. Comic book logic is wibbly-wobbly at the best of times, and realistically speaking, they couldn't leave Batman paralyzed. His whole deal revolves around being stealthy and punching the shit out of people. He wouldn't be Batman anymore, and frankly, I don't trust the comic writers as far as I could throw them to handle that right.

By contrast, the Gotham Knights writers handled Barbara with much more care and nuance than I ever expected. And I'm thankful for that.

---

*I also like that both Dick and Barbara are often shown wearing joint braces. Dick's are especially reminiscent of the way gymnasts and people with hypermobility tape their joints to reduce pain and prevent injuries. It's a nice little touch. They're not invincible. Their bodies hurt. They're just like me but with money and much bigger problems like giant killer robots and zombie assassins.

#gotham knights game #disability #barbara gordon #dynamic disability

1K notes · View notes

wosospacegirl · 4 months ago

Text

And they were roommates - part 2

Summary: Y/n gets injured and has to stay in recovery for 8 months. It's a good thing her friend and teammate, Kyra, is more than willing to move in with her. wink wink

Warnings: angst; hurt/comfort; reader might have a crush on Kyra ;)

Word count: 3.4k

Masterlist

You can read part 1 here and part 3 here

Over the next few days, Kyra and Y/n settle into a comfortable, domestic routine.

Kyra was the first to wake up each day. She went straight to Y/n’s room to check on her and give her her morning medication, along with a cup of black coffee.

Y/n didn’t like mornings, especially now with the heavy cast on her leg. Kyra, on the other hand, loved mornings, so she sat by Y/n’s bed and chatted for 20 minutes straight while Y/n nodded along to whatever Kyra was saying.

“—And that's how we’re beating Man United this weekend,” Kyra concluded after a long thought process about technical strategies that would lead the Gunners to yet another victory. “I mean, they can’t keep putting her as a winger, right?” Kyra turned to Y/n, waiting for her to nod again.

“How can you have so much to say at 7 am?” Y/n asked, hiding her face in her pillow.

“I just do, it’s a talent, you wouldn’t know it, Grumpy,” Kyra shrugged and threw herself on the bed next to Y/n, the sunlight hitting Kyra’s freckles.

Kyra was wearing tracksuit bottoms and an old, oversized t-shirt, she looked pretty, comfy, and very cuddly too.

“Will you come with me today?” Kyra asked, changing the subjects, caution in her voice.

“Where?” Y/n asked confused, her eyebrows furrowed. She wasn’t supposed to go to physiotherapy or the doctor for another two weeks.

“Training?” Kyra explained, holding her head with one hand as she rested her elbow on the mattress. “They miss you, the girls, I mean. You could go there for a few hours, talk to Alessia, Leah, Steph… I bet Win misses you too,”

“I’m not in the mood,” Y/n said, turning her back to Kyra. Y/n missed the girls, but it would be too upsetting to see them running around while she could barely stand on her own.

“You’ve said that the last three times, Y/n” Kyra sighed. “You haven’t left the house, not once, and you also won’t talk to anyone but me and your mom. That’s worrying. You can’t just wait for me to come home every day, you also need to do relaxing and fun things for yourself.” Y/n felt a pleasant pressure on her shoulder. It was Kyra’s hand.

You can’t just stay here in bed and rot, maybe you could start a new hobby! Painting, sudoku, I don’t know!”Kyra continued, using the serious tone she never used with Y/n. “You need to see people, see your friends, get some fresh air.

Y/n rolled her eyes. “And do what? Talk about how miserable I am all the time?” Y/n said bitterly.

Kyra didn’t understand.

She had never been seriously injured before, she didn’t know what it was like to just go to bed every day not knowing what the future held. Football was everything to Y/n. It was her passion, her hobby and her career. Ninety per cent of her friends were footballers themselves, her whole social circle revolved around football.

Without it, she was nothing Football’s been her thing since she was a kid. Y/n had grown up with a ball on her feet, and now it was gone, and she didn’t know if she would get it back. Right now, Y/n was nothing.

Kyra pressed her lips together and stared at the girl, trying to think of what to say.

“Go away please, I want to be alone,” Y/n muttered after the room had gone quiet.

“No,” Kyra said. “Let’s talk about this, let’s—”

“Go. Away.” Y/n snapped.

Y/n felt the shift in the mattress. Kyra wasn’t sitting on it anymore. “You can’t keep pushing people away, it’ll only hurt you even more,” Kyra said quietly. “You can’t let yourself go like that, you know how easy it is for us athletes to get depressed after an injury, I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“I’m not depressed, Kyra!” Y/n locked eyes with the other girl, anger slowly building in her chest. “I just don’t have anything! If I talk to the girls all I’ll think about is how they’re playing and I’m not.

“You don’t have anything?!” Kyra raised her voice. “What do you mean you have nothing? You’re not just your fucking leg, or your football—You’re a whole person! Just because you can’t play right now doesn’t mean you have no worth.”

Y/n remained silent as Kyra’s voice escalated. Kyra was starting to get angry with her. Kyra had never been angry with her before.

“You are injured! Your tibia split in two, of course, it’ll take some time to heal. Does that mean you have to stay in the house for the remaining months? Of course not!” Kyra’s face was flushed, and she was out of breath.

“Kyra, my whole life had been inside a pitch, I don’t know how the fuck to live without knowing if I’ll ever be in one again!” Y/n exploded, pointing at her cast “And this fucking leg hurts all the time, it’s always a reminder of how unhappy I am and how the world kept on moving while I just stay here!”

“But you don’t have to just stay here! You are the one who is avoiding the world, but it hasn’t stopped for you, it never has! Especially because you have people who care about you! You would know that if you would answered your phone when your friends called,” Kyra rubbed her eyes, tiredly.

“Why is it so hard for you to be kind and patient with yourself?” Kyra asked, looking genuinely confused, trying to find the answer to her question on Y/n’s face. “It’s so easy to treat you well, I don’t know why you find it so difficult.”

Kyra finally took a deep breath, and then another.

“Okay, I’m calm now. I’m sorry,” Kyra said, unclenching her fist. “I didn’t mean to get mad at you, I know you’re frustrated and angry right now. I just wish you’d be more compassionate with yourself and your body.

The room was silent.

“I’ll just… go then. I have to be at training in half an hour anyway,” Kyra took a step closer to where Y/n was lying, she dropped a soft kiss on her cheek. “Just don’t—rot in bed the whole day, ok? I’ll buy you some food and send it over at lunchtime so you can eat something other than crisps”.

Y/n felt her skin warm where Kyra had kissed her. She barely had time to process it before Kyra pulled away. “Okay, thank you,” Y/n whispered, she couldn’t help the blush creeping up her neck.

She should say something, she should say how sorry she was and how ungrateful she had been, Kyra didn’t complain about having to put up with her. Often Y/n felt that she didn’t deserve to have Kyra by her side and now was one of those times. She felt embarrassed by the way she just acted.

Y/n wasn’t someone who felt at ease with vulnerability. She didn’t normally let people see her at her lowest, except her closest friend, of course, but even now the thought of seeing them, of going back to Arsenal, even if for a few hours, felt excruciating.

It was as if life was mocking Y/n. Everyone’s life would go on, even if hers was frozen in time. Arsenal still had good and healthy athletes to train.

Kyra still had responsibilities to attend ttoY/n didn’t, not for the months ahead of her.

Eight months the doctor said, eight months until (and if) she could run. Would she be this bitter for that long? Was she going to stay frustrated with everything and everyone forever? Was she going to shut herself off from her teammates—her friends—if she didn’t heal the way she intended?

Change was a slow process, but Y/n decided to start it right now.

“Ky?” Y/n called.

“Yeah?”

“I’m being an idiot,” Y/n admitted.

Kyra smiled. “Yeah, you kind of are.”

“I’m sorry,” Y/n apologized. Small steps.

“It’s fine, you are a lot meaner when you lose at UNO, it didn’t scare me.”

Both girls smiled at each other.

Kyra held no grudges; it was one of the things Y/n admired the most about her.

“But if you really want me to forgive you, you’ll let me do something,” Kyra added, mischievous in her voice.

Y/n narrowed her eyes. “What?’

“You’ll see,” Kyra said before leaving the room. “I’ll be back around 3 pm, see you!”

Y/n heard the front door close, and now she was alone. Y/n thought she enjoyed being alone, but deep down she didn’t. She missed Kyra when she was away. The house no longer felt warm and comforting; instead; it felt cold and isolated.

Y/n thought about Kyra’s words; about her being kind to others and not to herself. When Beth and Viv tore their ACLs, Y/n committed herself to take their dogs on a walk every day, since the couple couldn’t walk.

When Vic got injured Y/n made sure she was left alone during the physio sessions. When Leah also tore her ACL she made sure to call her every day to see how she was doing; Leah, unlike Y/n, answered her calls.

Y/n had so much love and support around her. She needed it to allow herself to receive it.

Y/n looked around her room. It felt strange now. Before her surgery, she had thought the room was rather cosy, with its green walls and light wooden furniture, but now it felt like a prison.

Maybe Kyra would agree to put on a mattress in the living room and make it into a bed. Then both girls could just sleep there, and watch some films. It would probably bring Y/n some comfort.

Hours later Kyra came back from training wearing a black kit. Her hair was in a ponytail, with grass and dirt on it. Y/n wasn’t sure if it was because of their fight earlier, but Kyra seemed different somehow

Even though Kyra was all dirty, y/n couldn’t help but notice how pretty she looked. She realised she hadn’t seen Kyra with her hair in a ponytail before, she always wore it in a bun. It was nice, maybe the new hairstyle was the reason why Y/n couldn’t take her eyes off of her.

Cute, Kyra is cute.

She has always been cute, of course, but in the last few days, she looked even prettier. It’s okay to think your friends are cute. It was normal. Y/n thought to herself as Kyra bent down to take out her shoes, the black legging hugging her body. The book Y/n had in hand long forgotten.

Hot. Y/n thought. She was hot.

Maybe it wasn’t okay to think your friends were hot.

“Sorry?” Kyra asked turning to face Y/n.

Y/n widened her eyes. “What? Y/n said, her cheeks flushed. Fuck, had she said that out loud? And why did she sound so defensive? Chill out. “I didn’t say anything., she said, in a calmer tone, closing her book.

“Yes, you did,” Kyra insisted, looking at her with a smile. She let her hair out of the ponytail, letting it fall over her shoulder.

“Nop! You’re going mad, I’m afraid.” Y/n asserted, chin up.

“It must be all the time we spend together, then” Kyra raised a brow.

A lot of time together, indeed.

“Wait, is that a book? I haven’t seen you with a book for a while, I’m proud you still know your letters.” Kyra continued, a smirk on her face

Kyra was right, thought. With football and national camps, she hadn’t had time to read. It had been embarrassing years since she picked up a book. But now she had time, so she just took advantage of it.

“Haha you’re so funny,” Y/n said dryly. “You told me to do something nice for myself, so I decided to read this book I had lying around,” Y/n said, proudly.

Kyra looked dramatically surprised. “Wow, you actually listened to me? Did something happen while I was gone? Did you fall? Oh, you might have brain haemorrhage!”

“The ability you have to turn a normal conversation into a sarcastic one will always blow my mind,” Y/n said, rolling her eyes.

“Good thing I love to blow your mind,” Kyra said before realizing the double meaning of what she just said.

The girls stared at each other.

“Okay that was awkward,” Kyra mumbled, blushing. “I mean it like—”

Y/n laughed, thinking it was cute how embarrassed Kyra looked. Usually, Kyra was the one who put people in awkward situations.

“It’s all right, I got what you meant,” Y/n said, offering a small smile. “So—” She changed the subject, not wanting Kyra to feel uncomfortable. “What was that thing you wanted me to do so you can forgive me?”

Kyra looked at her watch. “You won’t have to do anything. But they will be here soon.”

Y/n frowned slightly. “Did you get that line from some horror film? Who the hell are they?”

Kyra rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun, I’m trying to be mysterious here”.

“You sound suspicious, not mysterious!”

“Oh, shut up, just sit there and look pretty, no more questions, please.”

Y/n welcomed the compliment “Why, because you won’t be able not to tell me?” She challenged.

Kyra was the worst secret keeper she had ever known.

“You know me so well actually!” Kyra said. “Stop asking questions. I’m going to take a shower, but I’ll be right back,” Kyra said before heading upstairs.

Don’t go. Y/n almost said. Almost begged her to keep that kit on so Y/n could just look at her for a few moments.

The thing was: Y/n got used to having Kyra around, not just because she needed Kyra’s help to get things done, but because she just…appreciated her presence.

Y/n was always bored to tears while Kyra was away for training or a match day, so when Kyra came home, Y/n wanted her all to herself. Which was a bit strange.

Kyra Cooney-Cross was making Y/n think of very, very weird things. She wasn’t necessarily upset about it, though.

Minutes later Kyra stepped out of the shower, wearing sweatpants and an Arsenal hoodie. Y/n welcomed the sight more than she’d ever admit. Kyra was pretty, prettier than yesterday and the day before that.

Was Y/n suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning? Could that be the reason she was fancying Kyra? As it genuinely finding her attractive and not a bets mate type of way?

Kyra was attractive, of course. But Y/n hadn’t realised just how much it messed with her mind, and mostly her body. Kyra was her friend. Not as in a friends-with-benefits thing, but oh they could be, Y/n would be happy about that.

Kyra moved in to help me out, that’s all. She doesn’t like me that way, and that’s fine. Totally fine. Y/n bit her nails, trying to convince herself.

Before Y/n could spiral any further, Kyra clapped her hands and told Y/n to get ready, because apparently, the visitors they were having over were about to arrive.

An hour later Alessia and Leah stopped by with a warm lasagna on Leah’s hands.

It turned out that Kyra was only forgiving Y/n if she agreed to meet some of their friends and socialise for a few hours. “It’ll do you good” Kyra had said.d

“Hey, pest,” Leah greeted Kyra at the door. “How’s your pest doing? She hasn’t been answering mine or Lessie’s messages for a while now, is she dead? Did you kill her?”

“Well good evening to you too, Leah,” Kyra said ironically, letting both Leah and Alessia in, after kissing Alessia on the cheek.

“Why can’t you be like Alessia, she is so nice!” Kyra pouted, pointing at the blonde girl, “She doesn’t call me a pest or anything.”

Leah laughed and handed Kyra the lasagna. “Lessie girl is too nice to ever tell you the truth.”

Kyra and Leah continued their bickering while Alessia made herself at home. The girl was very familiar with Y/n’s house, having spent many film nights here with Y/n and Kyra before Y/n’s injury.

Alessia went into the living room, where she found Y/n sitting on the couch, crutches propped up to the side.

“Less” y/n said cheerfully.

“Hey sweetie, how are you doing?” Alessia sat by Y/n’s side, hugging her. “God, I missed you so much, you have no idea.”

Y/n smiled and leaned further into Alessia’s embrace. “I missed you too, I feel like dying every time Kyra goes to training and I have to stay here by myself., Y/n confessed.

“Oh, so you miss me when I’m away. That is so lovely to hear!” Kyra's mischievous voice filled the living room as the girl elbowed Leah, “See, I told you she wasn’t bored of me yet.”

“Take me with you, Less, please.” Y/n playfully whispered in Alessia’s ear before the girl’s body was replaced by a taller and leaner one.

Leah hugged Y/n and patted her back before lightly smacking the top of her head.

“Ouch! What was that for?” Y/n whined, pouting.

“Me, Beth, Less, Kim—we’ve all been texting you non-stop, and you won’t text us back!” Leah scolded. “We’re not just your teammates, we’re your friends, in case you forgot!”

“Tough love. Told you.” Kyra chimed in from the corner of the room.

“Shut up, Kyra,” Leah and Y/n said in unison.

Y/n kept her eyes down, feeling a little embarrassed. Leah wasn’t wrong, though. Over the past week, she’d only been texting two people: her mom—because otherwise, she’d probably sent the police down; and Kyra—so she could pick up some snacks for Y/n on her way home.

“I know being injured is hard, but you can’t isolate yourself, especially from us!” Leah continued with a gentle reprimand. “You’re only going to feel worse.”

Leah pointed at Alessia, who was now standing next to Kyra. “Lessie told me you didn’t laugh at the memes she sent you! It’s Less, mate—you can’t make Lessie sad.”

If Y/n wasn’t being lectured by her captain, she would’ve laughed at how Leah was using Alessia’s sweetheart personally to make Y/n feel remorse about being a bad friend.

“Also,” Leah continued, now turning to Kyra. “Can you imagine how hard it is to rely on someone like Kyra for updates? Yesterday, she thought it’d be funny to tell Steph one of your bone screws had come loose.”

Y/n snapped her head towards Kyra, who suddenly looked like a kid caught red-handed. “I didn’t even get screws in my surgery! The doctor used locking compression plates instead!” Y/n argued.

“Well, you tell that to Steph,” Leah said dryly. “She cried and said we should call the surgeon responsible for letting you leave the hospital with a loose screw in your leg before Kyra finally told her she was just joking and that you were fine at home.”

“I didn’t think she would actually believe it,” Kyra winced, looking away, a small blush crept onto her cheeks.

“Steph got back at Kyra, don’t worry, Y/n,” Alessia added smiling. “Kyra is now responsible for walking Win every day before training.”

“I hate walking,” Kyra mumbled.

“Should’ve thought of that before messing with Steph,” Leah smirked.

“I was just trying to lighten the mood!” Kyra groaned.

“You don’t always have to fix things with jokes,” Y/n said smiling. “But I appreciate you are—at some point— giving updates to the girls. Still, leave that to me, I’ll start texting you guys back. I am sorry” Y/n apologized, glancing at Leah and Alessia.

“It’s all right kid, we’ve all been there, injuries bring out the worst in us,” Leah said, patting Y/n’s shoulder. “Now can we please eat the lasagna Lessie has made us? I’m starving!”

“You made your lasagna?” Y/n asked, her mouth watering.

“Sure did. I know it’s your favourite,” Alessia said with a wink.

“May you be blessed for all eternity, Less,” Y/n said with an utmost stone face. “It’s been days since I’ve had good food.”

Kyra helped Y/n with her crutches before asking, a firm hand on her lower back. “Days? I’ve been making nutritious meals for us since you got back from the hospital!”

“Putting frozen pizza in the oven isn’t ‘making nutritious meals,’” Y/n teased, accepting Alessia’s hand as she sat down on the dining chair.

“I’m trying my best here,” Kyra huffed, crossing her arms.

Y/n leaned in, pressing a kiss to Kyra’s cheek. “Yeah, Yeah, I know. And I appreciate it very much.” She smiled.” Now let’s eat before Leah passes out from hunger.”

| PART 3 |

Notes: Please like, share and let me know what you think! Feedback is important and makes me want to write even more. :D

Masterlist

#woso #woso fanfic #woso imagines #woso x reader #kyra cooney cross #women soccer #arsenal fanfic #woso appreciation #arsenal women #woso community

421 notes · View notes

leupagus · 5 days ago

Text

Honestly? I think it's because Langdon knows about her past addiction issues and avoids her specifically because of them. It's not so much that he doesn't know anything about her, but rather that he knows just enough about her to want to give her a wide berth. And I think there's two different reasons for that, aka the reason before he became an addict and the reason after he became an addict.

From the way Langdon talks about addiction and addicts throughout the season, it's clear to me that he has MASSIVE prejudices toward them. Think of what he says to Robby — "Could an addict do what I can?" He does not respect the addicts he treats, even. One of the people he steals drugs from is poor Louie, who (from his conversation with Robby later) openly admits that he's trying to kill himself by inches via his alcoholism. Langdon probably does not know this, but he still deprives Louie of medication that will help him simply because he believes - rightly or wrongly! - that Louie wouldn't take the pills anyway and that they should go to someone (ie him) who's more deserving.

And I don't think that kind of attitude just sprang up once he himself became an addict; I think they're part of a longstanding prejudice. Patrick Ball has mentioned that Langdon comes from Appalachia, and as someone with family from there, I know how one could understandably confuse the systemic issues within the region for "well these individuals just fucked up their own lives." I've done it myself! The absolute rage you can feel toward a loved one or friend who struggles with addiction can blind you to how addiction works, even if you should know better. And my guess is that that's where Langdon's attitude comes from — seeing addiction up close without really internalizing the reasons why it happened other than the old saw of "personal responsibility." Langdon went to med school to become a doctor, to save lives, but we see him treat those who are dying or dead with a sort of impatience that speaks to a lack of empathy, similar to what I've often seen in people who think of addiction as a moral failing rather than an illness. And moral failings are often seen as irrevocable failings — ones that you cannot recover from.

Now, imagine Langdon meeting Cassandra "Cassie" McKay, a woman almost a decade his senior, who's in recovery and probably has a criminal history (the ankle monitor and the cops' mention that she's a "flight risk" indicated to me that whatever happened between her and Chad's new girlfriend, it's not the first time she's been in trouble with the law) but who has nonetheless gotten herself through med school and is now doing her residency — and from what we see of her, doing a really great job. She is open about her addiction (people might've missed it but she casually mentions being a "friend of Bill" to the sommelier lady) rather than shamefully hiding it, something Langdon may have never seen before. How would that impact him?

I think it might have gone some way toward changing his mind about addicts, but it still might've been more unsettling than enlightening. Langdon tends to have two methods of dealing with things he dislikes: avoidance or hostility (see: Santos). It's entirely possible that he and McKay had a similarly contentious period in their working relationship the previous year, once Langdon found out about McKay's recovery; they worked it out somehow and then they mostly stayed out of each other's way thereafter. Both of them are, I think, professional enough to work well together despite not really liking each other, and they're two of the only doctors (I think?) who we never see trading casual chitchat (someone correct me if I'm wrong here!), but they're perfectly cordial and I think they both respect each other. But! I think Langdon watched McKay pretty closely in that first year for her to "earn" his respect.

Then, after he became an addict himself, I think he believed that McKay was the most likely to realize what was going on. I don't know that that's true; being an addict yourself can sometimes give you a level of insight into other people's addiction, but from what the show's implied McKay was an addict long before she went into the medical field and the whole "stealing meds from patients" thing is very different form of addiction than buying drugs off the street. (Not better or worse, to be clear, just that the mechanisms are different.) But Langdon's paranoia is clear in season one, with him bristling at Collins calling him an "adrenaline junkie" and working double-time to undermine both Santos and Robby once he realizes they're going to do something about him. He is not thinking clearly about his actions and so I can imagine his thought process regarding McKay is, "if I just stay out of her way she won't notice anything's changed." And it seems to have worked; by the end of the season Langdon's been all but fired and McKay is none the wiser, just like most of the rest of the staff. But Langdon doesn't know that.

(BTW this is not to say Langdon is a bad person at all; certainly I don't think he's meant to be seen as a villain or unsympathetic! I just think he's a really, really complicated character who's got a glaring blind spot — just as all doctors have, just as all people have — and I think it could explain why McKay is the one doctor we don't see him interacting with very much at all.)

Anyway sorry OP for this wall of text but the relationship between Langdon and McKay is SO fascinating to me, I hope to see them thrown together a lot more in season 2!

i find it so interesting that langdon knows next to nothing about mckay and thinks of her as a private person, but she thinks of the ed as people who have her back and is shown to have a really close relationship with mateo… like I don’t know that she is a particularly private person? from collins interacting with chad it’s clear that mckay has talked/complained about chad to collins before

#two other characters I like to revolve in my head #I don't think langdon needs a redemption arc because I don't view addiction as a sin in need of redemption #HOWEVER I do think he needs to make amends to santos and robby for how he treated them #and I think part of his recovery might involve reexamining his relationship with McKay #and if that happens it'll be SO fascinating #I've seen some fics where McKay is Langdon's AA sponsor #which I can see both of them turning to AA despite its problems as a program #and I like the idea! but I'm much more interested in seeing how Langdon and McKay get to that point in the first place tbh #because whoo boy #anyway #the pitt is a slapstick tragedy

58 notes · View notes

szarina · 1 month ago

Note

I had a thought for your yandere Zayne series. What if we had a friend that we vented our frustrations about Zayne to? Maybe we were able to message them as the weirdness with Zayne progressed. Idk if you want us to tell them about how we got pregnant, but we run into them later and end up tearfully confessing everything to them. What would the friend do? How would Zayne deal with it?

❆ ₊⋆ content warnings. ooc zayne + yandere themes + stalking + implied murder + threats.

It was a unprecedented meeting.

One that happened on a windy afternoon in the middle of Linkon City. Where for the first time in months you were free to walk alone in the familiar streets where people walk like you did and take the new sights of establishments. Far from home. Far from the hospital. You weren't even going to be walking alone here if you didn't get a peek of his busy schedule.

You meet your old friend again.

The quiet cafe pairs well with the weather. The vintage interior feels like one of those in the Bloomshore District. Retro. And the ambiance made you feel a sense of security away from your husband breathing in your neck 24/7 without him doing it intentionally.

“(Y/N).....”

The call of your name with the same tone of being called endearment almost brought you to tears but you only blink softly. Seeing your friend brought you happiness even it's a smidge. That you weren't truly alone and your life didn't revolve around him.

They slide in their chair across from you. A sincere smile plastered on their face. Their eyes raking over your form and not failing to notice the ring wrapped around your finger and the baby bump.

“How are you? You look....” Their voice drawls out unsure of what to say. You look the same but there's a tint of sadness in your eyes. The look they know for such a long time.

“....I didn't know what happened to you before all of this. We stopped communicating.”

Their voice careful and you know what they were implying. Your relationship with Zayne was complicated and you confided in them. Well, everything since college. Sleepless nights. Sharing a tub of ice cream while watching poorly made horror movies. Talks about what the future may look. You exchanged messages too during your recovery.

You stayed silent for a minute. Trying to get your bearings and not bawl your eyes out while other patrons are having their own cup of coffee. Looking down you caught the glimpse of your bump, you were already showing — adding curve to your once natural belly. It's more rounded and visible straining against the fabric of your sundress.

The cup of hot cocoa burns in your palm but you paid it no mind. Distracted by the tiny marshmallow sprinkled at the top. Your brows furrowed. Realizing that you were already starting to pick up Zayne's preferences when it comes to drinks and other things during pregnancy. It was bad habit. You were prone to picking up other people's habit when you're close to them.

“I'm sorry.” You look at her with glassy eyes and their gaze immediately softened. Holding your hand in theirs. A way of comfort you have known forever in their own ways.

“Jesus...(Y/N). What happened?” They asked when they see the tears cause you didn't cry like that. Cry like the world had ended and trapped you.

“I was going to leave.” Your voice trembled. They understand what you mean. It's not like your emotionally distant fiancé will switch overnight to a new caring persona who never have seen you all your life acting like a caring fiancé that they should have been in the first place even it was an arrangement.

They listened — listened to you talk while you unravel all the things that had weighed heavier. You told all of it. Starting from your drunken outburst, the accident two days later. Being dead to the world for a month and after that everything started to spiral.

Your fiancé now husband hovering over you any chance he can get. The acts of care turned control but there is still the freedom you have for yourself. Then comes the manipulation disguised as concern. Your mistake was you brushed it all of. Why would Zayne, your fiancé will care for you, not out of obligation but a responsibility. All in the span of eight months you live under his roof.

You look at the wedding band wrapped around your finger and then your stomach. Pregnant with his babies. All this happened in a night when you decided to tell him you wanted to leave, were you had already built the courage to leave him.

The memory still stung — haunting you. How Zayne had effortlessly manipulated your life within a fortnight. The pregnancy. The sudden marriage. All of it. Now, you're stuck with no way out.

You friend exhaled deeply. Their hands cold of what they just heard from you. A confession that took a lot of courage to say in the daylight. You would never lie to them like this. Not when you're looking miserable as you spoke of them.

They didn't say another word as they stood up to hug you. Rubbing soft circles in your back as you finally cried. For the first time in months, not the hormones but the anguish and the regrets. Of having to turn someone a monster and forcing you to carry life that you didn't want.

When your cries turns to sniffles. They gently wiped your tear-stained face. Caressing your cheek softly before squeezing your hands in assurance.

“We're going to find a way, (Y/N).”

Tears pooled again at the corners of your eyes. “I can't. I'm pregnant. He'll come for my babies.”

“No. He can't, not when I'm going to help you.”

They can't let you get trapped furthermore. It will kill you, slowly and they'll be damned before it can happen to you. No one deserves that kind of love.

He comes home later that night.

You were already preparing for bed acting like you didn't leave his home. You can't raise suspicions that you were plotting against him. It did cross your mind not until you meet with your friend in a chance of fate that it was starting to get clear and there's hope.

The surgeon kneels before you. Taking the lotion from your hands before lathering it to his own calloused ones then spreading it to your soft skin. Starting from your ankles. They've started to be more swollen but with his hands expertly massaging them it became a sort of relief before his fingers move upwards to your chunky calves.

Always meticulous and gentle while he soothes your swollen limbs with his touch.

He'd done this since you started showing. Not wanting for you to be burdened as simple as self-care when you have him to cater to your every needs.

His hands slowly inched towards your inner thighs. He's silent and only sound that fills in the room is your soft breathy moans of relief.

“Did you enjoy your walk?” He asks without stopping still rubbing circles in your skin. He raises his head and he meets your slight widened eyes.

He always knows and that irritates you so much. You didn't even lie. “I did.”

“How's your conversation with your friend? I hope it's nice.” His voice didn't hold suspicions cause he knows and he needs is the confirmation that he is right.

“I'll leave you.” You say with a hint of bravery.

Zayne smiles. Not of pure mockery or pity but a smile that he's confident.

“You won't. You're pregnant with my children.” He says without indifference. Putting his palm to your rounded belly. The sliver of skin poking from your nightgown and revealing the soft expanse of your pregnant belly almost made him drool.

“Your friend seems really nice too. It would be a shame they can't help you when they're occupied worrying about their well-being.”

It's warning. A threat.

Your husband doesn't take it lightly when someone threatens the safety he provided for you. Saving lives is just as easy as taking one.

He notices the tears beading at the corner of your eyes. “Don't cry. Stress is bad for you and the babies.” He mutters softly like he just didn't threaten your friend.

He tenderly caressed your round cheeks before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I won't let them take you away from me.”

#♱ ⋮ shai's works⸝⸝#chubby reader #lads x reader #lads zayne #lads #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace angst #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #l&ds #zayne x chubby reader #zayne x reader #zayne x non mc #yandere lads #yandere x chubby reader #yandere x reader

277 notes · View notes

p0orbaby · 9 months ago

Text

It Doesn’t Get Any Easier

summary: you’re the new physio, tasked to help leah one on one with her recovery; but lines start to blur the longer you spend with one another

warnings: none

a/n: i enjoyed this one. also trying out a slightly different style so let me know what you think

word count: 2.8k

Leah comes in every morning just after 7:30, always a little earlier than the rest of the team—well, what’s left of the team—who roll in around 8, give or take. You start noticing her patterns by the second week. It’s not intentional. It’s just that she’s hard not to notice. The way she slips into the room quietly, moving like a shadow, like she’s trying not to be seen even though she’s Leah Williamson and there’s something impossible about Leah Williamson going unnoticed. You’re not sure she’s aware of it, or maybe she is, maybe it’s part of the act, something people like her learn over time—how to balance being seen and unseen simultaneously. Either way, she always acknowledges you. It’s a brief nod or a soft “Morning” that comes out like a sigh. But it’s there. And you nod back because it’s professional, it’s polite.

You’re the new physio, brought in because someone higher up decided that ACLs are the new pandemic, and Arsenal’s hit hard by it. One by one, players dropping like flies—tears, rips, stretches that aren’t supposed to stretch. Someone needed to focus on rehab, on these slow and tedious one-on-one sessions. So, here you are. Your life has become a revolving door of knee braces, resistance bands, ultrasound machines, and cold compression therapy. A strange, repetitive kind of intimacy.

Leah is assigned to you. "Take care of her," they say. She’s a captain. She’s the face. There’s an unsaid urgency that comes with her, an invisible asterisk by her name. You feel it in every briefing, every passing mention of her progress. Everyone’s waiting for her return. Waiting for her to be fixed.

Your first session with her is awkward. Stilted. You’re overly conscious of how she sits, her knee elevated, her eyes on the ceiling, like she’s counting the tiles instead of looking at you. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and that weird plastic-y scent that medical equipment always has. You ask her the standard questions: pain level, range of motion, any stiffness. She answers with one-word responses, tight-lipped. There’s a distance between you that you can’t quite figure out if it’s professional or personal. Maybe both.

Weeks pass, and the routine becomes muscle memory. You know when to push and when to pull back. How to make her laugh, how to coax her into stretching just a little more without her getting defensive. You start to notice the little things about her. Like how she always wipes her hands on her shorts after you adjust the brace on her leg, or how she clicks her tongue when she’s frustrated, a soft noise that barely registers unless you’re paying attention, which you are. You’re always paying attention to Leah.

It’s in the middle of a session that things shift. You’re guiding her through a series of exercises—balance work, stuff that’s boring but essential—and she’s sweating, biting her lip as she focuses on not wobbling. You’re right there, hands out, ready to catch her if she stumbles. She doesn’t, but the proximity is there. Too close, maybe. Your fingers brush her waist as you correct her form, and she inhales sharply. You freeze, but she doesn’t move. Neither do you.

"Is this okay?" you ask, your voice lower than usual, and you’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the weight of her stare, those sharp blue eyes locking onto yours.

"Yeah," she says, but her voice sounds strained, like she’s not sure it’s the right answer. She’s not looking at you anymore, her focus now on the floor, her hands gripping the sides of the bench like she needs to anchor herself. The room feels smaller, the air thick.

You pull back, step away, putting space between you, but it doesn’t feel like enough. You can still feel the echo of her skin under your fingers, the heat of her proximity. You clear your throat, force a smile. "Let’s take five”

She nods, doesn’t say anything, just grabs her water bottle and takes a long drink, her throat working, a bead of sweat rolling down her neck. You turn away, pretend to be adjusting something on the ultrasound machine even though it’s perfectly fine, just to give yourself something to do, something that isn’t thinking about how her skin felt under your hands.

The next time around is more tense. There’s an unspoken tension now, like a line has been crossed, or maybe it hasn’t, but it’s close. You’re hyper-aware of every movement, every brush of skin. Leah doesn’t mention it, but there’s a change in her too. She flirts, subtly at first—offhand comments, jokes that land just a little too close to something more. You laugh, play along, because it’s harmless. It’s nothing. Except it’s not.

You catch yourself watching her more. The way her muscles ripple under her skin as she moves, the way her lips part when she’s concentrating, how her eyes flick to you when she thinks you’re not looking. You wonder if she notices you doing the same. You wonder if she feels it too—this thing simmering between you that’s becoming harder to ignore.

One day, after a session, she lingers. The rest of the team has filtered out of the gym, and it’s just the two of you, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound.

"Thanks for today," she says, her voice soft. She’s sitting on the edge of the bench, her knee still wrapped in the brace, but she looks more relaxed than she has in weeks. There’s something in her eyes, something you can’t quite read, and it makes your chest tighten.

"It’s my job," you say, but the words feel hollow. You’ve been telling yourself that for weeks now, trying to convince yourself that this is just work, that this is just another injured player, another knee to fix. But it’s not. You’re not sure when it stopped being just that, but it has.

"Is it, though?" she asks, and her voice is lighter now, teasing, but there’s an edge to it. A challenge.

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. "What do you mean?"

She stands, slowly, her movements careful, deliberate. She’s close to you now, too close again, and you don’t step back this time. "I think you know what I mean," she says, her eyes locked on yours, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous.

You don’t have an answer, or maybe you do but you don’t trust yourself to say it out loud. The air between you crackles with something electric, something that feels inevitable.

She leans in, just a fraction, and you freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. You could close the distance. You could kiss her, right here, right now, and no one would know. It would be easy. Too easy.

But you don’t.

Instead, you step back. You force a smile. "We should stick to the plan. Don’t want to push the knee too hard too soon”

It’s a cop-out, and you both know it. The shift in her expression is almost imperceptible, but you catch it—the brief flicker of disappointment before she masks it with a shrug.

"Right. The knee," she says, her tone casual, but the tension is still there, hanging between you like a thin thread ready to snap. She doesn’t push it, though. Instead, she grabs her bag, slings it over her shoulder, and heads for the door. But just before she leaves, she glances back at you, her eyes sharp, like she’s trying to figure you out, trying to decide if this is a game or something else entirely.

You stand there for a long time after she’s gone, the gym feeling too big, too empty. You can still feel the weight of her gaze, the heat of her body close to yours. You tell yourself it’s just work, just rehab. But deep down, you know it’s not that simple.

It’s never that simple.

The sessions after that are different. There’s a push and pull now, a tension that neither of you acknowledges but is impossible to ignore. Flirting turns into something sharper, more pointed, like you’re both testing the limits, seeing how far you can go before something breaks. But nothing breaks, not really. Not yet.

Then one night, you cross the line. It’s late, the training ground is empty, and Leah’s the last one in the gym. You’re both exhausted, worn down by weeks of slow progress, of frustrations mounting. The conversation starts off innocuous—something about her recovery timeline, how she’s feeling. But it shifts quickly. There’s an edge to her voice, a sharpness that cuts through the usual banter.

"Why do you keep pulling back?" she asks, and there’s nothing light in her tone now. It’s serious. She’s serious.

You blink, thrown off. It’s late, the harsh fluorescent lights above cast everything in this sterile, washed-out glow that makes you feel like you’re in a hospital, or some kind of waiting room where nothing feels real, nothing matters. Leah’s standing in front of you, close but not too close, not like before, but close enough that you feel it—the weight of her presence, the space she occupies, the air between you vibrating, charged with something neither of you is willing to name but it’s there. It’s been there for weeks. Maybe longer.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, but it’s a lie and you both know it. You’re tired, too tired to come up with something convincing, and it’s the way she’s looking at you now, like she’s seeing through every excuse you’ve built up, every wall you’ve thrown up between you because you know you have to, because you’re the physio, you’re supposed to be the professional, the one who stays detached, clinical, objective. You’re supposed to care about her body, her knee, not the rest of her. Not this.

But the truth is, you do care, too much, and it’s bleeding into everything. Into the way you touch her during sessions, the way your fingers linger just a little too long on her skin when you’re adjusting the brace, or the way your pulse speeds up when she leans back on the bench, sweat glistening on her forehead, the tendrils of her hair stuck to her neck, and you wonder what it would feel like to brush them away. You know you shouldn’t, that it’s a line you can’t cross, but the line’s blurred now, so faint you can barely see it anymore.

Leah narrows her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s wearing an old Arsenal training kit, the fabric worn and soft, the logo faded from too many washes, and you notice that she tugs at the hem of her shirt when she’s frustrated, twisting it around her fingers like she’s trying to keep her hands busy, like she doesn’t know what else to do with them. “You’re not stupid,” she says, and her voice is sharp, but there’s something underneath it—something vulnerable, like she’s exposing a part of herself she doesn’t want to, but she can’t help it. “You know exactly what I mean”

She’s right. Of course she’s right. You’re not stupid. You know why you’ve been pulling back. Why you’ve been keeping your distance. It’s because this—whatever this is—is dangerous. It’s complicated. It’s wrong in a way that’s hard to define but easy to feel, like a low hum in the back of your mind that you can’t shake. And yet, the more you try to stay away, the more you find yourself drawn to her. Like gravity. Like something you can’t control, no matter how hard you try.

“It’s not that simple,” you say, and your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears. You’re aware of how this looks—two people alone in a gym, the air thick with unspoken tension, the kind of tension that feels like it’s been building for a long time and is about to spill over. You glance at the clock on the wall—it’s almost 10 a.m.—and you wonder how it got so late, how time seems to bend around her, how hours slip by when you’re with her but still, its never enough. There’s always more, always something unsaid hanging in the air between you.

Leah uncrosses her arms, taking a step closer. You can see the faint scar on her knee, the way the skin’s still a little pink, a little raw, and it’s a reminder of why you’re here, what your job is, but all you can think about is the way her eyes are locked on yours, unflinching. “I’m not asking for simple,” she says quietly, and there’s an intensity in her voice that catches you off guard. “I’m asking for honest”

The word hangs in the air, heavy, and you feel something in your chest tighten. Honest. You think about what that would look like. What it would feel like to stop pretending, to stop playing this game where you act like you don’t notice the way she looks at you, the way your body reacts to hers. You think about what it would mean to cross that line, to give in to what’s been building between you. The consequences. The fallout. The way it would shift everything irreparably, and yet, the thought doesn’t scare you as much as it should.

You take a breath, slow, steady, trying to collect yourself, trying to find the right words, but they’re all tangled up in your head, a mess of things you can’t say, shouldn’t say. “Leah,” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence, because there’s no good way to say what you’re thinking, no good way to explain the way your heart speeds up when she’s near, the way your skin prickles under her eyes, the way your mind drifts to her at night when you’re lying in bed, staring into the darkness, replaying moments in your head that shouldn’t matter but do.

She’s watching you, waiting, and you can feel the weight of her expectation, the way she’s daring you to say something real, something that matters. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re tired of pretending, tired of holding back, but something inside you cracks, just a little, just enough.

“I’ve been trying to keep this professional,” you say, and the words come out in a rush, tumbling over themselves like they’ve been waiting to escape. “Because I have to. Because I don’t know how else to do this without—” You stop, shaking your head, because it sounds ridiculous, it sounds like an excuse, and maybe it is. “It’s not just about your knee,” you say finally, and it feels like a confession, like something you’ve been holding onto for too long. “It’s about everything else”

Leah’s eyes widen, just for a moment, and you see something flicker across her face—surprise, maybe, or relief, or something else entirely. She doesn’t say anything right away, but she steps even closer, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of her sweat mixed with the scent of her shampoo, something clean and floral, and it hits you like a wave, overwhelming in its simplicity. You feel the pull again, stronger now, undeniable.

“You think I don’t know that?” she says, and her voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it, a sharpness that cuts through the haze in your mind. “You think I don’t feel it too?”

The words hang between you, suspended in the air, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the gym, the team, the world outside this room. It’s just you and her, and the weight of everything you haven’t said, everything you’ve been too scared to admit.

Leah reaches out, her fingers brushing against your arm, and the contact sends a jolt through you, a spark that ignites something deep inside, something you’ve been trying to suppress for weeks, months. You’re not sure who moves first, but suddenly, the space between you disappears, and her lips are on yours, and it’s like everything snaps into focus all at once.

The kiss is rough, urgent, like it’s been building for too long and now there’s no stopping it. Her hands are on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the heat of her body against yours, the way her breath mingles with yours in the small, stolen space between kisses. It’s messy, frantic, like neither of you can get enough, like you’ve been starving for this and now you’re finally letting yourself have it.

You don’t think about the consequences, about what happens when this moment ends. You don’t think about the power imbalance, the lines you’re crossing, the mess you’re making. All you can think about is the way she feels against you, the way her fingers dig into your skin like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

511 notes · View notes

thatguywrites · 2 months ago

Text

Drivers + Wags with Gym Rat/Trainer Boyfriend

My Drivers+Wags series is just going to be them simping over reader

Oscar + Lily

You met from being Oscars trainer and over time you were just absorbed into their relationship

Oscar loves that both of his partners work in Motorsports, because it means that you're both generally not too far

Oscar makes you film his gym thirst traps

Lily doesn't care as much about working out as you and Oscar, so she just gives you guys snacks after work out, and enjoys watching the two of you

She is very pro home gym, because she wants to be able to ogle in the comfort of her own flat

You're always in the middle of the bed so that they can feel you up

When Lily gets too absorbed in work you just pick her up and bring her to bed yourself

Max + Kelly

You're another trainer in the long line of trainers that have extreme sexual tension with Max

It ended up going a bit further though

You started helping Kelly with light pregnancy workouts she could do

And then they had an intervention to ask you out

Scariest time of your life, you thought you were being fired

Sometimes P will join exercises too, and start acting like a drill sargeant

The trainer has become the trained

When training in his flat, it's an ever-going uphill battle against trying to workout while the cats want attention

P gets enlisted to distract them

Charles + Alex

Charles' vlogs are devoted to checking you out during his morning rides

The three of you always work out together a lot

Or you work out, try to get Charles to do his exercises, and Alex drools over the two of you

Alex makes you bench press her

Every race there are mini scandals that Charles and Alex are cheating on eachother with you

Alex is always holding onto your arm when she's nervous

Charles talks to you like you're Max

It's all very flirty

In Charles' flat, whenever you are doing something and you're muscles are flexed even a bit, it completely distracts them

You help both Charles and Alex with health and stuff, but also make sure to get them to eat junk food

A beautiful body can only be enjoyed if you're happy living in it

Alex + Lily

You were Alex and Lily's gym crush

When Alex heard you were being interviewed to be his trainer he got on his knees and begged for you to be hired

He was instantly very flirty to you once you were hired

Lily was too, whenever she was at races

Which was mysteriously much more common now...

When you agreed to go out with them, they literally squealed

Whenever they want to flustered you they over dramatically compliment your muscles and looks

You can flustered them by just picking them up tho so it's all fair

Just don't complain when they expect you to slam them down on the bed

Valtteri + Tiffany

The three of you go on morning bike rides all the time

Working out together is your love language

You also cook a lot

Making sure your high-performance athletes eat enough to stay strong

You go to as many of Tiff's and Val's races as you can

On days off you make sure they do recovery stretches, and eat enough

They make sure you don't get too absorbed into work in return

A lot of your relationship revolves around sports and physicality, but you also make sure to have movie nights and tell them you love them

Learn Finnish for Valtteri. He'll go red.

Taglist: (Comment or DM to be added)

@koalapastries @justaf1girl @spoonfulofmilo @lokisen @op-81-lvr-reblogs

292 notes · View notes

pascaloverx · 4 months ago

Text

STARVE

Summary: You lost your husband some time ago while he served as a gladiator for Emperors Geta and Caracalla. General Acacius saved you from becoming an object of pleasure for the emperors. Since then, he has taken you as his mistress. In your free time, you became a disciple of Ravi, the healer, dedicating yourself to tending to wounded gladiators. All seemed to be in perfect harmony until Hanno, a gladiator driven by a thirst for vengeance, crossed your path.

Author's Note: And the gods said: Starve will be a multi-chapter fanfiction (I hope readers will follow it all the way through). Without further ado, the characters belong to Ridley Scott's Gladiator II universe, though there will be significant deviations from the film. Historical accuracy regarding life in the Roman Empire may not always be strictly observed, so I hope you can overlook that. Yes, this story revolves around a love triangle, but I will strive to satisfy everyone. This fanfiction will include adult content, violence, and potentially coarse language. Enjoy!

three five (+18)

FOUR

You lost consciousness, yet fleeting moments of the struggle to bring you back to life drifted through your mind like a fevered dream. Ravi, frantic, attempting to stitch your wound. Your body burned with searing heat. Someone held your hand, cold lips pressing against your forehead, as you fought to return—to reclaim a life you were no longer certain you deserved. But the thought of never waking again, of being torn from those you held dear, was a nightmare far worse.

Your late husband appeared before you. He spoke no words, only extended his hand, beckoning you to follow him. You embraced him as one does in farewell, knowing it was not yet your time. And then, whether by day or night, you awoke. Pain throbbed low in your abdomen, a grim confirmation that this was no hallucination—you had been wounded. More than that, Hanno had sought your life. Yet your wound was dressed with care, wrapped securely in bandages. Your attire was unfamiliar, the fabric of your tunic impossibly fine—far beyond anything you had ever worn. You had been tended to with great attention, that much was certain.

"It is a relief to see you recovered," came a voice, firm yet measured. Emperor Geta stood at a distance, observing you intently before stepping forward. In that moment, the pieces began to fall into place—the luxurious garments, the richly adorned chamber. Of course. These were his quarters.

"I would not say recovered, Emperor, merely awakened." Your voice was steady, though your body remained weak. "I see that you are safe." Fragments of memory returned—the gladiator revolt, the last moments before your collapse.

"General Acacius managed to quell the disorder among the gladiators," Geta remarked, his voice smooth yet watchful as he moved closer. "I suspect his true aim was to save his beloved mistress from the grasp of death, though that is something you shall have to confirm with him yourself." You pushed yourself upright, adjusting to the ache in your body, making space on the bed for him to sit. After all, these chambers belonged to him.

"I must thank you for your care. I imagine my recovery is due to your efforts," you say, your gaze fixed upon Emperor Geta. Years had passed with the two of you in such close proximity, yet always bound by the same unchanging dynamic—he desiring you, while you belonged to another. If not to your late husband, then to the great General Acacius.

"You saved my life, healer," Geta murmurs, his eyes locked with yours. His hand comes to your face, a gentle yet deliberate touch, urging you to meet his gaze more fully as he draws closer.

"And your act of bravery will not be forgotten. The gladiatorial games shall resume as soon as you are well enough to attend them—at my side, fulfilling your new role in Rome." Something feels amiss. A new role?

"Forgive me if I seem ungrateful, but what new role do you speak of? And I had assumed the gladiators would not be so willing to continue their battles in the arena," you say, your thoughts reeling, trying to piece together what has transpired in your absence.

"I do not wish to overwhelm you, but your actions have made something clear to me," Geta replies smoothly. "A companion willing to sacrifice her life for me, one who possesses both skill and knowledge in tending to wounds, would be of great use. From this moment on, you shall be my attendant before all of Rome. I assure you, you need not spend every moment at my side—but while you do, you shall keep me entertained."

He pauses, his tone sharpening slightly. "And let me make one thing very clear—you need not concern yourself with what the gladiators wish. They will stand in the arena for as long as I decree it. We decree it—my brother and I."

A faint smile lingers on his lips as he rises. "Now, rest and recover. These chambers—and whatever garments you may require—are yours." Then, with deliberate ease, he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss at the corner of your lips before pulling away. The unexpectedness of it leaves you momentarily stunned. And just as swiftly as he came, Geta turns and departs, leaving you in silence.

Not immediately, but moments later, you rise. With some difficulty, you make your way through the palace, recalling the times you accompanied your late husband to his brief meetings with Caracalla. You needed to see Ravi—perhaps the only one truly concerned for you. As you prepare to take the risk of mounting a horse to go to him, General Acacius appears, accompanied by several guards on horseback.

"Where do you think you're going?" Acacius questions the moment his gaze meets yours. You look at him, anger simmering beneath your composure. Years by his side—tending to his wounds, watching over him—and when you were the one struck down, he left you in the hands of Emperor Geta.

"General Acacius, there is a certain recklessness in your question. We are no longer connected, and surely, it is inappropriate for you to question my actions when they matter so little to you," you respond, continuing to ready the horse for your departure.

"Leave us," the general commands his guards, dismounting. "If defiance is your intent, I suggest you try harder," Acacius murmurs behind you, his breath warm against your ear. His hands graze your arms, a slow caress that makes you shut your eyes at the familiarity of his touch.

"Did you even spare a thought for my well-being while I lay dying?" you ask, uncertain now whether your survival is of any importance to him at all.

"If you must ask me that, then you never truly knew me, despite all these years," Acacius says. "I would have faced all of Rome to save your life if it came to that. And indeed, I put an end to a rebellion to ensure that you would stand before me once again, looking at me with that same cold indifference. And here you are." He moves in front of you, seizing the reins of the horse you had been preparing to mount. You avert your gaze, momentarily ashamed.

"I imagine you have punished the gladiator responsible for this," you say, meeting his eyes once more.

"I cannot do that. In the chaos, we were unable to identify who attacked you," Acacius replies. But something in his demeanor shifts—something is not right.

"That will not be an issue. I can identify him," you lie, watching him closely. You need to understand why he is suddenly hesitant. "Do not do this," he says almost immediately.

"And why not?" you demand, struggling to comprehend why Acacius would have any interest in sparing Hanno.

"I cannot tell you. Not yet. Just… don’t," he pleads, his voice softer now, almost desperate.

"Let me guess—it has something to do with Lucilla?" you say, feeling your blood boil. "Your wife comes before any retribution for an attempt on Emperor Geta’s life? Or nearly sending me to my death?" There is no need for him to answer—you already know. Perhaps it is better this way. The sooner you accept that Acacius does not belong to you, the easier it will be to accept the reality that, piece by piece, you are being handed over to Geta. Always belonging to someone—never having someone who belongs to you. Perhaps one day, you will belong to yourself.

"Believe me, it is not easy letting the one who hurt you go unpunished, but there are circumstances that prevent me from—" You do not let him finish. In one swift movement, you mount his horse, the one he had so foolishly left within your reach, since he still blocked the one you had prepared. Yes, you are stealing a general’s horse.

"A word of advice before I leave, General—if you continue placing your wife above all else, you will die. A person blinded by love loses all the instinct for survival," you tell Acacius before spurring the horse forward. But instead of heading toward Ravi, you turn in the direction of the one who owes you the most answers. Hanno.

Your wound threatens to slow you down, but with determination, you press on, each step a test of endurance. At last, you arrive at your destination—the dim, squalid cells where the gladiators are kept like beasts awaiting slaughter. The air is thick with the stench of blood and sweat, the groans of the injured echoing through the narrow corridor.

A guard, stationed at the entrance, swiftly steps forward to block your path, his expression wary. "You are the savior of Emperor Geta, correct?" he asks, scrutinizing you.

"In a way," you reply, your voice steady. "I have come to visit one of the gladiators—I used to tend to his wounds." He studies you for a moment before stepping aside, though his eyes linger on you with mild curiosity.

"You saved our emperor. You may visit whomever you wish. But be warned—none left unscathed. They were punished mercilessly for their part in the rebellion," the guard cautions.

You nod and move forward, your gaze sweeping over the men behind the iron bars. Some are barely conscious, their bodies marred with fresh wounds, while others simply stare blankly ahead, their spirits crushed by suffering. You cannot help but think of Ravi, who must be overwhelmed, desperately trying to mend the broken bodies around him. Then, a sound catches your attention—soft yet urgent. A woman’s voice, one you recognize.

Your steps slow as you follow the sound, until you find yourself before Hanno’s cell. The heavy iron door is ajar, and within, you see him—battered, bruised, barely standing. But he is not alone. Lucilla is there with him, locked in what appears to be a hushed, heated exchange. A strange unease coils in your stomach. Whatever is happening, it is not something they expected to be witnessed. You take another step forward and clear your throat, making your presence known.

"Am I interrupting something?" Both of them freeze, their heads snapping toward you, eyes wide with surprise. And Hanno—Hanno looks utterly ruined.

Your chest tightens at the sight of him. His body bears the cruel marks of battle—wounds torn open, bruises darkening his skin like the aftermath of a storm. It is evident that Ravi has not tended to him, that no gentle hand has sought to mend what was broken. You should feel some measure of satisfaction at his suffering, for he nearly cost you your life. And yet, all you can summon is a strange, unwelcome pity.

"You are alive." Hanno’s voice is urgent, as though the mere sight of you breathes life back into him. He moves toward you, instinctively drawn closer.

But you retreat—a step, then another. His pale blue eyes search yours, and in them, you find sorrow. Perhaps it is for himself, or perhaps for the wariness that now defines the space between you. It matters little. The last time he stood this close, you were left at death’s door.

"Yes, I live." Your tone is measured, though not without bite. "And I see you have already sought comfort elsewhere." Your gaze flickers toward Lucilla, her presence beside him casting shadows of suspicion. The truth strikes swiftly—this is why she so fervently opposes Acacius bringing Hanno to justice. Lucilla stiffens, her face drained of color.

"It is not what you think, Y/N!" she exclaims, a thread of panic woven through her voice. She steps away from Hanno, as though distance might absolve her. You do not reply, merely observing as she turns toward him, her voice lowering to something just above a whisper. "I cannot explain why I am here. I shall leave that task to you."

Then, with a fleeting touch to his arm, she murmurs, "Stay safe." And with that, she departs, leaving you and Hanno alone. There is hesitation in both of you, a guarded uncertainty. And yet, beneath it, something else lingers—a strange, unspoken pull, as if despite all reason, some part of you still longs to close the distance.

"Was it for her that you tried to kill Emperor Geta? He was not even the intended target, was he? Or would you have slain him first, then Acacius, so the two of you could be together? What kind of reckless fool are you, Hanno?" Your voice rises, edged with fury, the mere thought of it setting your blood aflame. Had he truly risked everything—had he risked you—for Lucilla? Acacius had always belonged to her, but Hanno had not.

Before you even realize it, your hands are upon him, shoving his body against the iron bars of his cell. He grunts in pain but does not resist, allowing you to press him further into the cold metal. And then—he smiles. As though your rage amuses him, as though he welcomes it.

His rough hands close over yours, steadying them, though he does not force you away. And then, with a swift motion, he pulls you into his cell. Before you can utter a word, his palm is over your lips, silencing you.

"I will explain everything," he murmurs, his voice low, commanding, "but not if you refuse to listen. Be a good girl and keep still for a moment." Your eyes flash in warning before you sink your teeth into his hand. Hard.

He curses, releasing you with a sharp intake of breath, shaking his hand as if to rid himself of the pain. The faint taste of blood lingers on your tongue.

"I shall remain silent for your explanation," you say coldly, "but do not lay a hand on me unless I grant you leave to do so."

Hanno huffs out a soft chuckle, flexing his fingers as though to ease the sting. He is still smiling—perhaps at your audacity, or perhaps at the sting of your defiance. Then, his expression darkens.

"Lucilla is not my lover," he says at last. "She claims to be my mother, though the fact that she brought me into this world does not necessarily make her one." His words strike you like a blow.

You take a step closer, your mind racing. "That would mean…" The realization unfurls within you, pieces of an old tale assembling into a truth long buried. The missing child. The son of Lucilla, lost to the world. "Lucius." Your voice is scarcely above a whisper. "Lucius Verus Aurelius."

Hanno—or rather, Lucius—gives a slow nod. "I had no wish to reveal it, but I could not allow you to believe there was something between us." There is something oddly hesitant in his gaze, something almost vulnerable.

"Were you afraid I would tell Acacius?" you ask, searching his face for an answer. "Though if he spared your life, it means he already knows."

Lucius exhales, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I care not if you tell Acacius or Geta what I have done or who I am. My only concern was that you might believe I meant to harm you." His voice wavers, and for the first time, you see the torment behind his eyes. "I wished the gods had taken me instead of you. Believe me, it was never my intention to wound you. I have suffered for it every day since, for I wounded the only person who made me feel alive since the death of my Arishat." His voice is thick with emotion, his eyes dangerously close to tears. You stare at him, your chest tightening, before your hand flies across his face in a sharp slap. His head turns with the force of it, his cheek reddening, but he does not flinch. He merely watches you, unreadable.

"Nothing you say will undo what you have done," you say, your voice trembling with anger. "The sheer folly of striking against an emperor! And worse—of keeping this from me."

You push him back against the stone wall of his cell, your gaze flickering over him—his bare chest, the rise and fall of his breath, the defiant set of his jaw. His lips.

Lucius tilts his head slightly, his breath warm against your skin. "Strike me again if it pleases you," he murmurs, his voice nearly brushing your lips. "If pain is what you wish to inflict upon me, then I shall welcome it." His words send something hot and wretched through you, something you refuse to name.

Your hands tighten at your sides, your anger warring with something far more dangerous. "How could you do this to me?" The words spill from you in a whisper, your strength faltering as tears well in your eyes. "Do I mean so little to you?" For the briefest moment, you let yourself break.

"No—do not doubt what I feel for you simply because I was reckless," Hanno says, his voice strained yet firm. "I sought vengeance for Arishat’s death. I thought that if my target were Acacius, it would create a rift between us. If only I had realized sooner that it was vengeance itself I should have abandoned, not merely my aim."

He steps closer, his fingers brushing against your cheek as he wipes away your tears. Your voice trembles with emotion as you ask, "You abandoned your attack on Acacius… for me?"

His jaw tightens. "And it nearly cost me your life. I shall never be so foolish again." His hand rises to your chin, tilting your face up toward his.

His lips hover just above yours, his breath warm against your skin, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

"I have not forgiven you yet," you murmur against his mouth, your words barely above a whisper, "but listen well—tend to your wounds with Ravi, and next time, think before you act. Strength without strategy is a wasted effort." Your lips are so close that it is almost a kiss, a ghost of what could be.

The hunger in his eyes is unmistakable, mirroring the heat pooling in your chest. Your body aches to close the distance, to surrender to the pull between you. But you cannot. Not yet. Without another word, you step away, turning swiftly on your heel. You do not dare look back as you slip from his cell, leaving him behind.

202 notes · View notes

nebuladreamerrr · 1 year ago

Text

Love in words| Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

Summary: Kylian wins your heart with a charming routine of leaving little love notes in French. Unbeknownst to him, you’ve been secretly learning French just to understand his sweet messages

Warnings: English is not my first language. I don't speak Dutch or French, so if there's any mistake, I would appreciate it if you let me know :)))

You couldn't help but smile when you noticed the little envelope next to the breakfast on the counter, certain that your boyfriend had prepared it before leaving for training. It was these small gestures that made you fall more deeply in love with him each day.

The past few months hadn't been easy. In fact, your relationship hadn't followed a "normal" trajectory at all. Just a year ago, you had left your beloved Netherlands to advance your modeling career. Many saw it as a leap into the unknown, predicting you would return with less than you left with. Fortunately, you proved them wrong. It was at a serene evening event under the moonlight, hosted by a brand to showcase their new perfume, where you first met your current partner.

From the moment you met him, you felt a connection. However, you rarely recount your first conversation because it embarrasses you, despite it being one of Kylian's favorite stories. To Kylian's surprise, you didn't recognize who he was, leading him to initially disbelieve you and playfully ask what profession you thought suited him. Without hesitation, you said "architect," which amused him greatly.

Luckily, it turned into a humorous anecdote, and the following week, the handsome Frenchman seized the opportunity to take you on a date where you could savor authentic French cuisine. It was during this date that your mother called you, causing you embarrassment as you excused yourself briefly to the bathroom to speak with her. Uncertain of how to ensure you didn't return with a negative impression of him, Kylian took a lipstick from your bag and wrote on a napkin, "Meeting you was a nice accident." This gesture deeply touched your heart, and since then, you've cherished that napkin, hoping to one day share it with your future children as a cherished memory.

When your relationship began, you faced a series of challenges. First, Kylian got injured. Although it wasn’t a severe injury, he was quite moody since his whole life revolved around football. Luckily, your arrival in his life cheered him up, and he used that recovery time to get to know you better. However, the main issue in your relationship was the language barrier. After moving to France, your French was not very good, and after some bad experiences with a few French people who got offended when you mispronounced words, you decided to communicate mostly in English. Additionally, Kylian didn’t know any Dutch, so your conversations often felt monotonous or a bit awkward, requiring a translator to express your different points of view.

Kylian was quite concerned when you told him about the "trauma" you developed due to those few rude individuals who belittled your efforts and preferred to ridicule you rather than help you improve. To encourage you, Kylian came up with a plan involving leaving little notes in French to motivate you to learn the language. Of course, he understood that you could easily use your phone to translate them, so the first letter he gave you was on your birthday, hoping you’d understand how much he wanted it to come from you and not from a simple translation app. Therefore, on your birthday, he left this letter along with a bouquet of blue carnations:

“Bonjour à l'amour de ma vie,

J'espère que tu as très bien dormi aujourd'hui comme la princesse que tu es. Tu n'as aucune idée de combien je suis fier d'être ton petit ami et d'avoir comme petite amie une personne si gentille et noble, quelqu'un qui se soucie des autres et qui n'a pas peur de tout risquer pour accomplir de grandes choses.

(Y/N), en seulement vingt-quatre ans, tu as accompli tant de choses, et j'espère que tu es fière de chaque réussite car je ne peux m'empêcher de sourire comme un idiot amoureux quand j'entends ton nom mentionné dans une émission de télévision ou que je vois que tu as posté une nouvelle photo sur ton profil.

Je sais que tu vas me tuer pour avoir tout écrit en français, mais j'espère qu'un jour tu liras et comprendras tout. Je ne veux pas dire que j'espère que tu seras ma femme et la mère de mes enfants parce que je suis sûr que cela arrivera; nous sommes destinés à être ensemble.

Merci de me supporter, et s'il te plaît continue de cuisiner; je ne sais pas ce que je ferais sans ta nourriture. Je t'aime tellement, mon amour, profite de ta journée.

P.S. Please, princess, don’t translate anything, and don’t ask anyone to translate it for you. I love you, my queen."

("Good morning to the love of my life.

I hope you slept very well today like the princess you are. You have no idea how proud I am to be your boyfriend and to have such a gentle, noble person as my girlfriend, someone who cares about others and isn’t afraid to risk everything to achieve great things.

(Y/N), in just twenty-four years, you have accomplished so much, and I hope you are proud of every achievement because I can’t help but smile like a love-struck fool when I hear your name mentioned on a TV show or see that you’ve posted a new picture on your profile.

I know you’re going to kill me for writing this all in French, but I hope that one day you’ll read and understand everything. I don’t want to say I hope you’ll be my wife and the mother of my children because I’m sure it will happen; we’re destined to be together.

Thank you for putting up with me, and please keep cooking; I don’t know what I’d do without your food. I love you so much, my love, enjoy your day.

P.S. Please, princess, don’t translate anything, and don’t ask anyone to translate it for you. I love you, my queen.")

When you read the letter, you couldn't help but feel a bit shocked because you didn't expect to receive a handwritten letter from Kylian, especially not one written in French. Although it frustrated you that you couldn't understand what was written, you were sure it was all kind words. From that moment on, you had a new goal: to decipher everything the letter said.

Your motivation grew with the increase in notes that Kylian left everywhere: in your car, your apartment, and even in your purse. His messages varied—some shorter, some longer—but they all had one common factor: they were all written in French.

“Mon cœur, les gars me taquinent parce que je veux aller voir Vice Versa 2 avec toi. Est-ce bizarre ? » "Sweetheart, the guys are bullying me because I want to see Inside Out 2 with you. Is that weird?"

« Hey, je n'aime pas que tu prêtes plus d'attention à mon frère qu'à moi. Rappelle-toi, j'ai une Coupe du Monde, et lui non. » "Hey, I don’t like that you pay more attention to my brother than to me. Remember, I have a World Cup, and he doesn’t."

« Pendant l'entraînement, je n'ai pas pu m'empêcher de penser à toi et à comment nos enfants vont me taquiner parce que je ne parle pas néerlandais. Pourquoi tout le monde se moque de moi ? » "During training, I couldn’t stop thinking about you and how our kids will bully me because I don’t speak Dutch. Why does everyone make fun of me?"

All of this motivated you to sign up for classes with a private tutor to learn the language. You often surprised her by asking about the meaning of specific words to slowly decipher the meaning of your boyfriend’s letters. When you finally succeeded, you couldn’t feel more satisfied with yourself. So, you decided to write Kylian a letter in French and slip it into his training bag, hoping to surprise him. You also had a little revenge planned.

"My love, I hope training went well, and you had a great time with the guys.

Remember to behave, and there will be a delicious meal for lunch.

Overigens, ik denk dat het tijd is dat jij ook mijn taal leert, dus ik hoop dat je veel plezier hebt. Onthoud, als je opgeeft, zal mijn vader een slechte indruk van je hebben.

Ik hou van je, mijn kleine schildpad.

(By the way, I think it’s time for you to learn my language too, so I hope you have a lot of fun. Remember, if you give up, my father will have a bad impression of you.

I love you, my little turtle.)

P.S. Don’t use the translator either."

#kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe x reader #kylian x reader #mbappe imagine #mbappe psg #mbappe x reader

386 notes · View notes

theambitiouswoman · 9 months ago

Text

Learn to work with intention.

Parkinson’s Law revolves around the idea that the more you work, the less you get done.

Work expands to fill the time you deem available for its completion. When you establish fixed hours to your work, you will find unproductive ways to fill it along with distractions that will undoubtedly steal your more of your time.

Work like a lion. Sprint, rest, repeat.

Human beings are naturally designed to focus intensely for shorter bursts. Zoning in for 4 hours a day & maximizing those peak hours can have you achieving more in less time, leaving room for rest & recovery that fuels your next sprint.

Productive > busy

262 notes · View notes

tinyshyteacup · 8 days ago

Text

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @oceanticspace @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp @xmiaacxio @meyukoo @grilka @itsgivingdepression @timebomb1101 @inejghafasdagger @koshkahhh @juliperezsilveira

-------------------------------------------

Gif from @daryl-dixon-daydreams

TW: walkers (zombies), medical treatment, anesthesia, injuries, blood loss, blood transfusion, soft Daryl, protective Daryl, scared Daryl,

Part 35

Dead Weight - Part 36

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the softness. Clean sheets, a real pillow. The second thing you notice is the dull, persistent ache in your side and the way everything feels fuzzy around the edges.

The third thing you notice is Daryl.

He's slumped in a chair beside the bed, his chin resting on his chest—and deep dark circles under his eyes like he hasn't slept in days.

"Hey," you whisper, your voice coming out rougher than expected.

His head snaps up immediately, blue eyes wide and searching your face. "M'awake," he says, slightly startled and, despite his denials, coated in sleep.

His eyes soften with relief, so much so that it makes your chest tight. "How y'feelin'?"

"Like I got stabbed," you say, then immediately wince. "Sorry. That was... that was a really bad joke."

But Daryl's already moving closer, his hand finding yours with a gentleness that still surprises you. "Don't apologize. Just... don't scare me like that again, alright?"

The Doctor chooses that moment to appear, clipboard in hand and that professional calm that all doctors seem to master. "Good, you're awake. How's the pain level?"

"Manageable," you lie, because the circles under Daryl's eyes make you feel responsible for his obvious lack of sleep.

"She's lyin'," Daryl says immediately, and the doctor nods like he expected as much.

"The surgery went well. We removed the blade cleanly—no major organ damage, but you lost a lot of blood. You're looking at four to six weeks recovery time, and that's if you follow orders and don't push yourself."

Four to six weeks. It feels like a lifetime when you've now spent years of your life moving place to place.

"Did I... did anyone else get hurt?" you ask, memories of the warehouse starting to trickle back.

"Everyone else made it out," Glen's voice comes from the doorway, and you turn to see him hovering there with that same worried expression you remember from the van.

"Aiden didn't make it, but... that wasn't on you."

The relief is overwhelming, and combined with whatever painkillers they've got you on, it makes you feel loose and unfiltered in a way that would normally terrify you.

"Glen," you say seriously, reaching out your free hand toward him. "Have any of you been sleeping with Daryl?"

Glen stops mid-step, his eyebrows shooting up. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Sleeping. Like, actual sleeping. Because he might get lonely and he's literally the safest place in the world. Nothing bad can happen when you're next to Daryl. He's like... like a security blanket that can shoot things."

Daryl's face has gone bright red, and is now buried in his hands, meanwhile Glen is trying very hard not to laugh.

"Uh, no. No one's tried that. But thanks for the... umm, recommendation?"

"Ask Maggie if she minds. Tell her its for safety reasons."

"Shuddup," Daryl mutters, but his thumb is stroking over your knuckles in a way that tells you he's more embarrassed than actually upset.

The doctor clears his throat. "The blood loss and medication can cause some... uninhibited conversation. It should wear off in a couple hours."

Over the next few days, you discover that the makeshift infirmary—really just a converted house—becomes a revolving door of visitors. Carl stops by with Judith, who seems fascinated by all the medical equipment until she starts fussing and Carl has to take her away.

Eugene appears with his usual stream of consciousness rambling about medical procedures and recovery times until Daryl finally snaps.

"Eugene, shut the hell up. She needs rest, not a damn lecture."

"I was merely providing information that might be—"

"Out." Daryl's voice goes flat and dangerous. "Get outta here."

You squeeze Daryl's hand weakly. "It's okay. He's just trying to help."

"Don't care. Yer hurt, and he's makin' it worse."

You look up at Daryl with tired eyes. "You don't have to protect me from friends."

"Yeah, I do," he says simply, settling back into his chair. "That's what m'here for."

The knife sits on the bedside table. Every time you look at it, Daryl's gaze follows yours, but he won't look directly at it. Won't touch it.

"I still want it," you tell him one afternoon when the pain is making you brave. "It's mine. You gave it to me."

"It hurt you."

"It saved my life more times than I can count. One accident doesn't change that."

But he still won't look at it, his jaw tight with something that looks like guilt.

Carol visits on her own one evening, settling into the chair Daryl vacated with her usual quiet grace. She studies you for a long moment before speaking.

"He's not sleeping," she says without preamble.

"What?"

"Daryl. He's not sleeping, barely eating. Just sits here or paces the hallway like a caged animal." Her voice is gentle but firm. "You need to talk to him."

"I'm trying. He won't listen."

"He'll listen to you. He always does."

When Daryl returns from whatever errand Carol sent him on, you pat the bed beside you. "Sit with me?"

He hesitates. "Don't wanna hurt ya."

"You won't. Please?"

He perches carefully on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the familiar scent of leather and outdoors that always clings to him.

"I can't sleep here," you admit quietly. "It's too... clean. Too quiet. I keep expecting something to go wrong."

He nods like he understands, chewing his lip slightly.

"Remember Atlanta?" you continue. "On the highway, when that herd came through?"

His expression softens slightly.

"Y'were scared out ya mind."

"I was. I'd never seen that many walkers in one place. And you... you didn't even know me then, not really, but you dragged me under that car and kept me safe and calm."

You reach for his hand, remembering. "You tapped on my cheek. Like a heartbeat. Kept me breathing steady until they passed."

Daryl's quiet for a long moment, eyes downcast, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm. "You were hyperventilatin'. Thought you might make a buncha noise."

"You saved my life that day."

He doesn't respond to that, but he does scoot closer, careful not to jostle your injured side. His free hand comes up to stroke your hair, the gesture so gentle it makes your eyes flutter closed.

"I'm so tired," you whisper. "But every time I close my eyes in here, I just... I can't."

Without a word, he takes your hand and places it palm-down against his chest, right over his heart. Then, barely perceptible, he starts tapping that same rhythm on the back of your hand with his fingertips. Steady. Reliable. Safe.

"What would I do without you." you mumble with a soft smile as sleep finally starts to take hold.

You don't see the way his eyes close tight like he's trying to hold onto the moment.

The woods are silent except for the sound of his ragged breathing, but Daryl barely notices. He's made it maybe half a mile from Alexandria before his legs give out, his back hitting the rough bark of an oak tree as he slides down to the forest floor.

His shoulders curl inward, head dropping between his knees like he's trying to make himself as small as possible—like that scared kid hiding in the closet while his daddy raged through the house with a belt in his hand.

The sob that tears from his throat sounds like something drowning. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to stop the images that keep flashing through his mind—your blood on Glenn's hands, the way you'd looked so small and broken in that bed, the knife he'd given you buried in your side like some kind of sick joke.

He should have been there. Should have been the one watching your back, not off playing nice with Aaron and his recruitment bullshit. You'd almost died because he wasn't there to protect you, and the guilt is eating him alive from the inside out.

His hands are shaking as he pulls them away from his face, and he's dimly aware that he's making sounds—broken, animal noises that he can't seem to stop.

He just lets himself fall apart here, where the eyes of Alexandria can't find him.

The stairs feel like Mount Everest today, each step sending a dull ache through your side where the stitches pull at healing skin. You're only three weeks into what Denise, the new doctor, insists needs to be a full six-week recovery, but being cooped up in the infirmary was driving you crazy.

"I can manage the stairs," you insist one morning, determined to make it up to your room on your own steam.

"Like hell," Daryl says, but he's already positioning himself beside you, one arm around your waist for support.

Each step is an effort, your healing muscles protesting, but his presence beside you makes it manageable. When you pause halfway up, breathing hard, he presses a soft kiss to your temple.

"Take your time," he murmurs against your hair. "Ain't goin' nowhere."

The simple tenderness of it makes your chest tight with emotion. This is a side of Daryl that few people get to see—the gentle touches, the quiet care.

Behind you, the voices of your well-meaning psudeo family drift up from the kitchen—Glen's animated voice as he tells Maggie about another supply run, Carol's gentle insistence that you need to eat more to get your strength back.

They mean well, but right now all you want is the quiet sanctuary of your attic room.

Daryl seems to sense this. Without a word, he moves to your other side, letting you lean against him as you tackle the remaining steps. His body is warm and solid, and you can smell that familiar mix of leather and woodsmoke that's purely him.

"There," he murmurs as you finally reach the top, slightly breathless. "Told ya."

Your room—yours and Daryl's—feels like a haven after the clinicalness of the infirmary. The late afternoon light filters through the small window, casting everything in warm hues. Daryl's clearly been busy; the bed is freshly made with extra pillows, and there's a glass of water on the nightstand beside something wrapped in soft cloth.

"What's that?" you ask, settling carefully onto the edge of the bed.

Daryl shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. "Yer knife. Cleaned it up, fixed the handle where it got damaged."

You unwrap it carefully, breath catching when you see the familiar vine and wildflower pattern etched into the wood. He's not just cleaned it—he's restored it, polished the blade until it gleams and reinforced the handle where it had cracked during the accident.

"Daryl..." Your voice comes out smaller than intended. "You didn't have to—"

"Yeah, I did." His voice is gruff, but there's something vulnerable underneath. "Was m'gift to you. My fault it—"

"Don't." You reach for his hand, squeezing gently. "Don't you dare blame yourself for what happened."

He doesn't argue, but you can see he doesn't believe you either. Instead, he helps you settle back against the pillows, his movements careful and precise. When you wince slightly at the pull of stitches, his hands still immediately.

"Hurtin'?"

"Just sore." You catch his hand before he can pull away completely. "Stay?"

The next few days blur together in a haze of healing and quiet domesticity. Daryl barely leaves your side when he doesn't have to, bringing you meals and books, helping you to the bathroom when your pride finally gives way to practicality.

His touch is always gentle—fingertips brushing your forehead to check for fever, lips pressing soft kisses to your temple when he thinks you're asleep.

It's Carl who brings Judith up one afternoon, the baby gurgling happily in his arms.

"Thought you might want some company," he says with that shy smile that reminds you so much of the boy he used to be.

"Hand over my Lil Asskicker," you say, making grabbing motions that have Carl laughing despite himself.

Judith settles against you easily, her tiny fist wrapped around your finger as you prop yourself up against the pillows. She's grown so much since those early days at the prison, but she still has that perfect baby smell and the way she looks at you with those big, trusting eyes.

"You're gonna be trouble, aren't you little miss?" you murmur to her, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

That's how Daryl finds you twenty minutes later—Judith fast asleep against your chest, both of you bathed in afternoon sunlight. He pauses in the doorway, and something shifts in his expression as he takes in the scene.

This is w'family's 'spose ta look like, he thinks, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. Could I have this?.

"She botherin' you?" he asks softly, moving into the room.

"Never," you protest as he carefully lifts Judith from your arms. "Don't take away my baby fix."

"Yer fix needs a diaper change," he says practically, but there's fondness in his voice. "I'll bring her back later."

True to his word, he returns after settling Judith downstairs, this time carrying a steaming bowl that smells like Carol's vegetable soup.

"Carol's orders," he says, settling onto the edge of the bed. "Y'need to eat."

You accept the bowl gratefully, the warmth seeping through the ceramic and into your hands. Daryl watches you eat with that intense focus he gets sometimes, like he's memorizing every detail.

"What?" you ask around a spoonful of soup.

"Nothin'." But his hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Just... glad you're okay."

That night, he helps you get ready for bed with the same careful attention he's shown all along. He turns away while you change into sleeping clothes, hands you your medications with a glass of water, makes sure you have everything you need within reach.

When he finally climbs into bed beside you, he moves like he's afraid he might break you. But you scoot closer anyway, fitting yourself against his side despite the lingering soreness in your ribs.

"Comfortable?" he asks, his arm coming around you carefully.

"Mmm." You're already drowsy from the pain medication.

"Daryl" you murmur. "Can you do the thing?"

You feel the ghost of a smile against your hair and his fingers start a gentle rhythm against the back of your hand—tap, tap-tap, tap.

Like a heartbeat.

"Go on, sleep woman," he murmurs against your hair, and you feel rather than hear the words he mumbles as you drift off—something about being scared, about not knowing what he'd do if he had lost you.

The days continue to pass in this gentle rhythm. Glen and Maggie help out regularly, Glen still carrying guilt over what happened at the warehouse despite your repeated assurances that it wasn't his fault.

There are reports coming in about walkers with 'W' carved into their foreheads—something that has everyone on edge, though they try to hide their worry from you.

One morning, about four weeks into your recovery, Daryl comes upstairs looking conflicted.

"Aaron wants me t'go ..." he says without. "Recruitment thing... Imma tell him no"

"They need you," you say gently. "Go."

"Don't wanna leave you—"

"Daryl." You reach for his hands, squeezing them between yours. "I'm getting stronger every day. Carol and Maggie are here, and Glen's not going anywhere. I'll be fine for a couple of days."

He's quiet for a long moment, jaw working silently. Finally, he nods. "Y'sure ? ... No tryin' to do too much."

"I promise." You pull him down so his forehead rests on yours. "Just... come back in one piece."

His lips on your head feel like a vow.

While he's gone, you find yourself getting a little stronger each day. Maggie comes up one afternoon and finds you actually dressed and sitting in the chair by the window instead of propped up in bed.

"Look at you," she says with a smile, settling into the other chair. "Feeling better?"

"Getting there." You shift slightly, testing the pull of healing muscle. "Slowly but surely."

You talk about inconsequential things— Maggie's plans for expanding the garden, Glen's worry about the marked walkers. But there's comfort in the normalcy of it, in having your friend beside you as afternoon light streams through the window.

Meanwhile, miles away, Daryl sits in Aaron's car during a break in their recruitment search, his hand unconsciously moving to his pocket. His fingers find the small ring of antler there—carved from that first buck he caught at the prison, strung on a piece of braided string. You'd made it for him, dropped it on his matress like it was nothing.

Bring back a deer ... I’d love you forever.

He scoffed, he'd been such a prick to you then, all you were doin was tryin to keep folks spirits up.

He'd kept it. Worn it around his neck out hunting sometimes, carried it in his pocket since the prison fell because it felt too precious to risk losing.

By the time he returns two days later, you've managed to make it downstairs unaided and are sitting in the kitchen with Carol, helping her prepare vegetables for dinner. It's the most normal you've looked since the accident, and the relief that floods through him is almost overwhelming.

"Hey," you say softly when you see him, and your smile is bright enough to chase away the lingering shadows from the road.

"Hey Y'alright" He drops a gentle kiss on top of your head, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo. "Feelin' better?"

"Mmm." You lean your head back against him, solid and warm. "Missed you."

The admission makes something tight in his chest loosen. "Missed ya too."

-----------------------------------

It's about a week later, when you're finally starting to feel like yourself again, that everything changes. You're making your way slowly upstairs after spending the morning in the garden with Maggie when you hear Carol calling for Daryl from downstairs.

"He's up here," you call back, pushing open the door to your room.

"Hey," you called softly, not wanting to startle him. "Carol's looking for—"

He turns at the sound of your voice, and the look that crosses his face when he sees you is pure panic.

You both freeze.

This was the first time you'd seen him without a shirt, and the sight of his back stole the words from your throat. Raised, angry lines crisscrossed his skin—some thin and precise, others thick and jagged.

Old wounds that had healed into a roadmap of pain.

Daryl scrambled for his shirt, panic flashing across his face. "Shit—I didn't—you weren't supposed to—"

"Daryl." Your voice was barely a whisper.

He'd gotten tangled in his shirt, hands shaking as he tried to pull it on inside-out. "Just... just pretend you didn't see nothin', alright? It ain't—it don't matter—"

"Daryl, stop."

Something in your tone made him go still, though he wouldn't turn around. His shoulders were rigid with shame, head hanging low.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I know it's... I know they're ugly. Disgusting. I get it if ya—if this changes things."

Your heart shattered at the defeat in his voice. Slowly, carefully, you approached him like you would a wounded animal.

"Can I ... please?" you asked softly, your fingers hovering near his shoulder.

He flinched but didn't pull away. "Why'd you wanna?"

Instead of answering, you moved to stand behind him. On your tiptoes, you caredully reached his shoulder blades. The scars were worse up close—evidence of years of repugnant systematic cruelty.

Daryl was trembling now, every muscle coiled tight. "You don't gotta pretend they ain't there. I know what they look like."

Your throat burned with unshed tears, but you kept your voice steady. "They're part of you."

"They're ugly. They're—"

"They're proof," you interrupted gently.

He went quiet.

Standing on your tiptoes, you pressed the softest kiss to a scar near his left shoulder blade. You felt him shudder, heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Proof that you survived," you whispered against his skin, placing another gentle kiss. "Proof that you endured." Another kiss, this one over a particularly brutal-looking mark. "Proof that you fought to become who you are."

"Stop," he whispered with a huff of breath, but there was no real protest in it.

You continued your gentle ministrations, each kiss placed with reverence rather than pity.

"You know what I see ?"

A wet sound escaped him—half sob, half breath.

"I see a little boy who never gave up. I see someone who took all that pain and chose to be gentle anyway." You pressed your forehead between his shoulder blades, arms coming around his waist from behind. "I see the man who would die before letting anyone hurt any one of us the way someone hurt him."

Daryl's breath hitched, and you felt his tears drop onto your arms where they circled his waist, you move your hand to press your palm flat against his stomach, feeling his breathing become less ragged at the touch.

"You grew up to be exactly the kind of man who would have protected that little boy," you whispered. "Strong enough to stand between him and anyone who wanted to hurt him. Kind enough to make him feel safe."

He turned in your arms then, and the sight of tears tracking down his cheeks nearly undid you. But there was something else in his eyes now—not just shame, but wonder.

"Y'really mean that?" His voice was thick, vulnerable.

You reached up to cup his face, thumbs brushing away his tears. "Every scar on your body is a reminder that you survived to become this man. My man. They're not ugly, Daryl—they're sacred."

He pulled you against his chest then, holding you so tight you could barely breathe. His face was buried in your hair, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

When he finally pulled back to look at you, his eyes were red but clearer than you'd ever seen them.

"Y'mean it, Y'sure?" he asked, searching your face.

Instead of answering with words, you took his hands and interlaced your fingers with his.

You dipped your head to catch his eyes under the curtain of his hair "Every word." You whispered

91 notes · View notes