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fawniswriting · 2 months ago

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𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐞

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: After a mission filled with close calls and bad decisions, the team comes home to find an even bigger threat waiting at the door—your wrath.

Warning(s): THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS!!! platonic!thunderbolts x reader. no use of y/n. use of the nicknames doll, honey, and pretty girl. canon typical violence. descriptions of injuries. descriptions of explosion, gun use, etc. established relationship. profanities. kissing. VERY suggestive content (minors be advised). talks of having a baby. bucky being a little feral (very briefly). slightly hurt/comfort. basically bucky and reader being the parents of the group.

Word Count: 3.6k-ish

Author's Note: GUYS I saw this fanart on instagram and instantly knew that I had to write something inspired by it!!! I've been itching to post a thunderbolts fic since last week 😭 welcome back 2012-2014 era of avengers' tower fanfics ✨️ anyway I hope they're keeping the revolution hair for bucky in doomsday or else I swear I'm gonna RIOT!!! (I know seb's head is shaved rn but wigs exist yk 😔) don't forget to comment, like, and reblog loveliesss 🩷

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Bucky Barnes doesn't understand a lot of things since he returned to society.

Cryptocurrency is one of them. Social media is another. Anything that involves more acronyms than actual words is an immediate no on his list.

Above all else, Bucky Barnes struggles to comprehend how exactly he became responsible for the group of walking disasters now hailed as earth's newest, mightiest heroes.

Looking at the pack of hellions in front of him, Bucky has serious doubts about that title.

Right in the middle of the tower's lobby, the Thunderbolts—the New Avengers now, apparently—are scattered like barbie dolls in the aftermath of a toddler's tantrum. John is standing against a column with a tight jaw, his left leg lifted gingerly, wrapped in a makeshift splint that looks suspiciously like someone's utility belt. Beside him, Yelena sits on the ground, legs sprawled in front of her as she cradles a bruised shoulder with an equally bruised hand. Alexei leans atop the front desk with a dried blood streaking down his temple, the young receptionist gone in fright the moment the team walked through the tower's entrance. Even Ava, usually one to disappear before debriefs, is visible for once, propped against the wall with her suit half-glitched and her expression blank.

Everyone is accounted for. Everyone is breathing.

But they all look like they rolled down a hill of bad choices where they banged their heads at every rock.

The mission was supposed to be a quiet recon, a simple surveillance on a rumored underground tech sale in an abandoned shipyard, low risk with minimal engagement. But then someone—Bucky still doesn’t know who—decided that they could handle it.

No heads-up. No plan.

Just four impulsive thrill-seekers interrupting a high-stakes black market deal involving high-tech plasma rifles and an offended buyer with too many goons.

By the time Bucky caught wind of what was happening, it was already chaos. He had to go in solo, extract the squad under heavy fire, disrupt the shipment, and reroute an entire response team of hostiles to avoid further catastrophe. They got out—just barely—and none of them seemed particularly eager to look him in the eye about it, especially after the thirty-minute tirade he launched into somewhere between fourth gear and a traffic jam.

From his place in front of the elevator, Bucky crosses his arms. “If any of you pull something like that again, you're all getting benched. Indefinitely.”

“What?!” Alexei roars.

Yelena scowls. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You don't get to make that call, Bucky,” John protests.

Ava nods. “We're not children. You can't just ground us whenever you feel like it.”

“Yeah?” Bucky laughs. Sarcastically. “Watch me, kid.”

As if on cue, the elevator arrives with a ding. Bucky gestures curtly towards the opening metal door. “Inside. Now.”

Reluctantly, the team shuffles in like a group of sheep being herded back into their pen for a much-needed nap time.

For a beat, the only sound that settles inside the cramped space is the low mechanical hum of the elevator ascending.

That is until Ava decides to speak up.

“I’m just saying,” she begins, “it wasn’t like we meant to crash the deal. We were just improvising.”

“Improvising?” Bucky exclaims, glaring at her. “You call tossing a grenade into an active negotiation improvising?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Yelena argues, crossing her arms. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Bucky screeches, his tone rising. “Walker nearly lost a leg!”

“It's just a sprain,” John clarifies. “Probably.”

“See? It's just a sprain!” Yelena repeats a little too cheerfully. “He'll be good as new in no time. Right, John?”

John nods, failing to conceal his wince when Yelena bumps her unharmed shoulder to his.

Bucky rubs his temples. “I can’t believe I’m in charge of you people.”

The elevator dings again at the top floor.

“You know,” Yelena says as the team stumbles out of the metal trapbox, “we technically stopped the deal. You're not giving us credit for that.”

“That’s because you weren't supposed to stop the deal. You were supposed to observe.”

“Back in my day, observe meant punch first, ask questions later,” Alexei quips.

Bucky lets out a scathing scoff that echoes through the air. “Right. Remind me again how many years you spent rotting in that Siberian prison, Alexei?”

“Well, that's not very nice,” John mutters.

“You know what else isn't nice, Walker?” Bucky growls. “Getting your asses lit up by dozens of machine guns because none of you seem to grasp the basic concept of following orders.”

The group swelters in a momentary silence.

“I mean, in our defense,” says Ava, “none of us actually got shot.”

Before Bucky can tell her off even further, a voice suddenly intercepts, “How fabulous! You guys didn't get shot? Geez, someone really should give you all a medal for that.”

The whole team stops in their tracks.

One by one, everyone turns their head towards the direction from which the voice has come. The view that greets them could probably send a perfectly healthy man straight into an early grave.

On the platform floor a few paces away, they find you standing with arms folded across your chest. Despite the bright lilt of your voice, your eyes are cutting as they assess the entire team with the judgement of a juror who has already decided on a guilty verdict. It's clear from your attire that you were freshly off work before going straight to the tower, and since everyone knows that you were supposed to be on a work trip to Philadelphia for at least another two days, it’s safe to assume that your ticket back was booked right around the time someone shouted “mission compromised!”.

It's a full ten seconds of shared disgrace before Yelena finally breaks the silence.

“You called her?” she hisses, landing an accusatory glare in Bucky’s direction.

“I did not.” Bucky scoffs. “And why does it matter if I did?”

“Bucky didn't call me,” you interject, your posture still rigid, your gaze still icy.

“Then who—no.” Yelena's eyes drift towards the kitchen, squinting as she takes in the figure trying to hide behind the doorway. “Bob.”

Ava snaps her head up. “Bob, you little shi—”

“That’s enough,” you jump in, moving sideways to conceal Bob from Ava's murderous line of sight. “He's got nothing to do with this. This is about you—all of you—and what a stupid, reckless, dangerous thing you just did.”

Under your scrutiny, the whole squad shifts like a pack of raccoons caught rummaging through the kitchen trash. The weight of your stare seems to age them all by a decade.

“I'm gonna give all of you two minutes to explain yourselves,” you declare, the authority in your tone indisputable. “And I already know what happened, so don't even think about trying to trick me.”

There is a lull in the air where everyone seemingly tries to process your demand.

When their mouths open again, what follows is not so much an explanation as it is a verbal dogpile. Everyone starts talking all at once—too loud, too fast, and entirely contradictory. John tries to lead with the logistics, only to be steamrolled by Alexei shouting something about creative liberty. Ava attempts to downplay the situation with a jovial “it was barely an explosion!” while Yelena throws her under the bus with a hasty “she started it!”.

Bucky—standing to the side with the posture of a man watching his funeral getting turned into a Dollar Store circus—doesn’t even bother stepping in. He knows better.

You hold up a single finger and the room quiets instantly, like someone pressing mute on a trashy sitcom argument. The stillness that follows is so heavy, even the lights begin to flicker in anticipation.

“But we got out fine!” Ava sputters, desperate to fill in the quietness, though her voice immediately thins when she adds, “Mostly.”

“Yeah! I mean, it's just a bruise here, a bruise there—everything's great.” Yelena grins.

Your sharp stare slides towards John, the lines between your eyebrows tightening as you take in the awkward angle of his injured leg. John nearly cowers under your piercing gaze.

“How bad is the damage?” you question, your voice booming throughout the surrounding space.

“What, this? Oh, it's not that bad. Probably just need to ice it then I'll be good as new—”

“Walker.”

It's hardly a secret that John is perhaps your least favorite person in that room, with you still clearly holding a grudge towards him for what happened with the Flag Smashers. The man is used to your constant cold shoulder by now. He expects it, even. More often than not, John finds himself wondering if you would ever warm up to him the way you have with the rest of the team.

And yet, as he now stands at the end of your long stare, John can't help but think that perhaps your silent treatment isn't really that bad. Especially if it means he doesn't have to be on the receiving end of the critical scrutiny you're currently aiming towards him.

The blond gulps.

“There's a forty percent chance it might be broken,” John admits. “But it's likely just dislocated. No big deal.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Get to the medbay and tell them to run a scan,” you command. “Alexei, go with him.”

“That's not necessa—”

The sharp glare you're sending him causes John's words to lodge in his throat.

Alexei springs right into action, steering John away from your ferocious perusal and back towards the elevator.

“C'mon, big guy,” Alexei bellows. “Let's go pay a visit to our doctor friends.”

As soon as the two men disappear into the elevator, your glower shifts towards the remaining two people standing behind Bucky. Yelena pretends to check her nails while Ava's eyes are roaming the ceiling with faux nonchalance, both a pathetic attempt to avoid the clear daggers in your stare. The ridiculousness would've made you chortle were you not livid beyond salvation right now.

“I want you two to go back to your rooms, clean yourselves up, and be back here in no more than thirty minutes,” you proclaim. “We'll continue our discussion after dinner.”

“Wait, hold on—”

“That's not—”

“Just go, you two,” Bucky interrupts, the blue in his eyes colder than the Arctic ocean. “That wasn't a request.”

The two figures slump in defeat, teetering towards the staircase with the speed of a turtle in a morning rush hour. You hear Yelena grumbling something in Russian under her breath, and you force yourself not to think about what the phrase might mean lest you want your skin to crawl in an even higher degree of vexation.

“Good gracious.” Bucky shakes his head.

Behind you, Bob emerges out of the kitchen, his shoulders drooping ever so slightly as he approaches you like a wounded kitten.

“They're mad at me, aren't they?” Bob murmurs. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you guys fight with each other.”

“It's not your fault, sweetie,” you assure him, extending your hand and offering a comforting squeeze around his palm. “They're just being idiots right now. You did good, okay? Give it a few hours and I promise you, they'll forget about this already.”

Bob nods solemnly, his voice quiet as he excuses himself and trudges towards the common area. You release a breath as you observe him diving head first onto the sofa, burying his face in the cushion like a Victorian widow fainting onto her chaise.

Turning around, your eyes lock with another pair in blue. The smile on Bucky's face grows as he takes you in, his arms opening with all the intention to collect you in his embrace.

“Hey, doll. I've missed—”

“No. Stay right there.” You raise your palm, taking a step back. “I'm mad at you, too.”

Bucky blinks.

He watches you turn around and walk away from him, his arms coming down limp by his sides before he scutters after your retreating form. Bucky lingers in the doorway as you move about the kitchen, taking out pots, knives, and pans while slamming the cabinet doors shut in the process. You don't even spare him a glance as you start retrieving fresh ingredients from the fridge.

“Honey?” he calls out, voice meek beneath the echo of your knife slicing through onions on the counter. “C'mon, doll, you're really not gonna talk to me?”

“No.”

The chopping continues.

Bucky rubs his face.

“You know I'm just as disappointed in them as you are, right?” he begins. “Swear to God, doll, I had nothing to do with this. Didn't even know what those rascals were planning ‘till I got the call from Alexei. Told ‘em off as soon as I extracted them outta there.”

“Hm.”

Sighing, Bucky takes a tentative step forward, then another, finally closing the distance when he's sure you wouldn't smack him across the head with the chopping board in your hand. His fingers find purchase around your elbow, halting your movements, the gentleness aching as he spins you around to face him. The knife and half-sliced onion lie dormant on the counter.

“Hey,” Bucky utters, so softly that the air nearly swallows the word whole. “Talk to me?”

You heave in a shaky breath, evading his eyes. “What's there to talk about? I told you I'm pissed.”

“Okay, that part I already got.” Bucky chuckles, brushing the back of his palm on your cheek. “Help me understand why? At least tell me how I can fix it, pretty girl. Hm?”

Your silence quivers at the edges, growing more brittle with each swipe of Bucky’s touch on your skin. The walls around your heart crumble under his infuriating tenderness.

“When Bob called and said the team had gone radio silent, I—” you pause, swallowing hard, “—I thought something terrible happened. I booked the first train out of Philly before I even hung up.”

Bucky stays quiet, watching you with careful eyes.

“I couldn’t reach anyone. Not John, not Yelena, not Ava, not Alexei—not you. And the longer I waited, the worse it got in my head. I pictured the mission going sideways. All of you gone.” You inhale sharply. “I pictured all of you coming home in body bags.”

Bucky's heart breaks at the shudder he feels running through your back. His soul is already mourning over the loss of light he would usually find shining so brightly out of your eyes. It makes him cling to you just a tad bit tighter.

“Bob finally called me again to tell me that you're all fine. That you're on your way back. But that's not the point, Bucky.” You look at him then, your fingers flexing. “The point is, I should've never heard about all of this from Bob in the first place. I should've heard it from you.”

Bucky's shoulders sink. “I didn't want you to worry.”

You shake your head, eyes burning with the threat of unshed tears. “But I do worry, Bucky! That’s the point. I worry every single time. The moment all of you step out of this building, I'm counting down the minutes until you guys return to me again. You can't shield me away from that.”

He steps closer, removing what little bit of distance between the two of you until all of your atoms are nearly merged as one. “You're right. You are. I should’ve called. Should've trusted that you'd want to know, even if it might scare you.”

“It did scare me,” you whisper. “And I didn’t want Bob’s voice telling me everything was okay. I wanted yours.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs, his arms pulling you nearer. “No more leaving you out. I promise it’ll be me from now on. I'll tell you everything, doll. Always.”

A shuddering breath leaves your lungs, and just like that, you completely melt away under Bucky's touch. Your forehead drops against the line between his shoulder and chest, your fingers gripping his sides as though he was the very force keeping you tethered to earth. Meanwhile, Bucky's lips ghost over the top of your head, whispering sweet nothings, the contrasting temperature of his palms appeasing you with random patterns against your back.

“I don't know how this all started,” you confess. “I'm not sure when I began caring this much about those idiots, but I do. The thought of something happening to them—to you—to all of you…”

Bucky's arms tighten around your frame. “I know, honey. I feel the same way.”

“This is not what I had in mind, you know?”

You tilt your head back to stare at his face, your fingers tangling themselves in the soft waves that Bucky has been growing out over the past few weeks. He almost cut them all off several days ago, but after some convincing on your end—which may have included activities that found your fingers buried in the soft tendrils and his face buried somewhere else—you managed to talk him out of it.

Bucky's eyebrows lift. “What do you mean?”

“Well… when you said that you were joining this team, I thought I'd never seen a more dysfunctional group of people in my entire life. I figured it'd be a miracle if all of you last a whole month without someone quitting or accidentally blowing each other up.” You chuckle, your eyes softening. “I didn't think I'd end up pacing the hallway every time you guys went out, worrying like some overworked mother of five.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh, his forehead falling onto your own. “I get it. This wasn’t exactly how I imagined myself stepping into the dad role either, but… here I am.”

“Yeah?” Your lips quirk up. “How did you imagine it then?”

“Well—” Bucky's voice drops, his breath warm where it fans against your skin, “—I figured it’d start with a little house, somewhere quiet. Nothing fancy. Just enough for us to start building a life in. I’d fix the place up real proper. You’d hum to yourself as you whip up one of those famous pies of yours, and I’d pretend not to stare.”

The cheeky grin on Bucky's face grows, prompting a laugh out of your chest. His thumb continues to trace idle circles upon your waist.

“Then, when you feel the time's right, we’d try for a baby. The old-fashioned way. Real slow, real sweet. I’d kiss you like I got all the time in the world, and make love to you like I didn’t.”

Something flutters inside your chest, like stardust stirring in a forgotten corner of the galaxy. The way Bucky is looking at you makes you feel as if you were the first breath of the universe itself.

“That's how I pictured us becoming parents,” Bucky adds, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not… this. Whatever this is.”

You smile at the graze of his beard on your cheek, angling your head to capture him in a brief kiss.

“You know what I think this is, Buck?” you ask, teasing your lips against his own. “I think we should view this as a practice run. After all, how hard can it be to parent our own kid if we can do it to a group of five ridiculous, chaotic misfits, right?”

“Doll.” He sighs. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“Depends.” You hum, your lips twitching in feigned innocence. “If you think I'm imagining you putting a baby in me… then yeah, you're absolutely right.”

Bucky swallows your cheeky grin with a kiss, grunting against your mouth as he presses you back against the counter. The muffled moans you let out are music to his ears, a lascivious melody that rushes straight towards places he reserves explicitly for you. His hands slip under your blouse, roaming the expanse of skin, drifting lower and lower in search for the one place that could send him straight to heaven and—

“Yelena! Give it back to me!”

“I told you it wasn't me!”

Bucky groans.

The shrill voices resonate all the way down to the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable echoes of footsteps thundering down the staircase. Bucky makes a guttural noise of frustration as his face slumps into the crook of your neck.

“I swear to God, I’m gonna ship them to Asgard one of these days,” he mutters.

You snort, brushing your fingers through his hair and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

“Let's put a raincheck on the baby-making, soldier,” you purr, smirking when it spurs on a rumble from Bucky's chest. “Looks like I've got a fight to break up before we have two dead superheroes on our hands.”

He groans again, this time at the loss of your warmth as you slip out of his arms. From the kitchen's doorway, you raise an eyebrow towards the common area, perching your palms on either side of your hips as you take in the havoc ahead.

“What the hell is going on here?” you snarl.

“She stole my snacks!” accuses Ava.

“I don't even like Jammie Dodgers, you lunatic!”

“What a lot of crap. We all know you'd even eat chicken off the ground given the chance, you pig!”

“Fucking asshole—”

“Hey!” you interrupt, your voice sharp as you march towards the two fuming Avengers. “You call each other any more names, then I promise you, you're gonna wish you got shot on that mission today.”

Bucky watches the whole interaction from the kitchen with his arms crossed and a slow grin spreading across his face. He leans against the counter, studying you with the quiet reverence of a man who has found the meaning of home after decades of searching. Even in the midst of this domestic madness, even with the team’s antics grinding on his last nerve, he wouldn't trade a single thing in his life for anything else.

There are still a lot of things in this world that Bucky struggles to understand.

But with you by his side, and his entire team watching his six, he knows that he's got nothing to worry about.

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dokyumms · 4 months ago

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seventeen's reaction to you hiding an injury from them !

pairings: ot13 x reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2.2k (lowkey estimated bc word counter isn’t working)

cw: injuries (sprained wrist/ankle, concussions, etc.), blood mentioned but not descriptive (woozi) way too much backstory bc i'm a d1 yapper

a/n: for the record i've never sustained a major injury (thankfully!) besides when i dislocated my shoulder when i was 4 years old so this may not be accurate. SO sorry that this took so long i had a brain fart or smth 😔

scoups - you really didn't think he'd notice immediately, but he does. you accidentally rolled your ankle trying to catch the subway. it wasn't too bad; the doctor said you'd minorly sprained your ankle, but all it needed was a couple weeks in a splint.

so deciding it wasn't that big of a deal (and lowkey a win since you got to skip work), you didn't think of telling seungcheol because one, you didn't feel like listening to him scold you for staying up too late the night before, and two, he'd just gotten off tour. he didn't need to spend the next couple of weeks babying you over an injury that didn't even require surgery. in some attempt to hide it, you put on some sweatpants and slippers and call it a day.

but when he returns home from a day out and catches you instantly put down your leg from where you'd been elevating it on a footstool, he immediately grows suspicious of something. "why were you doing that just now?"

"eh? i think you're being paranoid- oh, um..." you try to play it off, but then he comes closer and inspects your body for a bit before pulling up your pant leg to reveal the splint surrounding your ankle despite your protests.

his eyes widen and he looks up at you from where he's kneeling. "you got hurt? when? why didn't you call me?" he asks rapidly. you sigh, listening to him scold you even more than what he would have if you'd told him earlier, finally promising him to never hide anything from him again.

jeonghan - basically, you slipped in the shower and gave yourself a concussion while jeonghan was at practice. out of pure embarrassment, you didn't tell jeonghan because let's be real, it sounded a little stupid and someone like him would never let you live it down.

and honestly, you thought you'd exceeded. jeonghan had come home and didn't mention anything to you, just complaining about how he hates all his choreography (he says this everytime he has to learn new choreo...). that was until you went to bed.

all is well, but then those massive headaches roll in one by one and now you're stuck with an unbearable migraine. trying not to disturb your boyfriend, you uncurl yourself from him and barely make your way to the kitchen.

the headache only gets worse as you fumble with the advil bottle while cursing your concussion aloud when suddenly a hand takes it and opens it. "here," you turn around, only to find jeonghan offering the bottle with a confused, sleepy look.

"and what were you muttering around? a concussion or something?" you gulp, taking the advil as you try to come up with an excuse. he takes your (literally three second) hesitation as an answer, "wait- you actually got a concussion?" avoiding the question, you attempt to usher him back to bed, but now he's somehow gained consciousness and doesn't back down. "y/n, what happened? and why didn't you tell me?" and when you finally tell him, he's... disappointed?

"baby, you really didn't tell me you got a concussion because you thought i'd make fun of you?" he sighs, shaking his head before putting his hands on your shoulder, "i'm your lover before a jokester or best friend, okay? i care about you more than anything. don't hide things like this from me."

joshua - in this situation, you would say "snitches get stitches" but the only one who actually got stitches was you.

you got a pretty bad arm wound while bike riding with your friend. it hurt and the only thing you really remembered was crying from the pain. anyways, joshua had just gotten off tour, and you'd feel bad for making him worry, so you made your friend promise to not mention it to him.

but the only warning you get when you return home from the hospital is a text from that same friend saying, "sorry y/n...." before you open the door and are greeted by a very worried joshua.

"y/n! i heard about your arm, are you okay?" you try to brush him off, but he doesn't let you. "hey, your friend also said you were going to try to hide it from me. why's that?"

"it's really not a big deal shua-"

"don't lie to me, she said you were crying, babe. why are you trying so hard to keep this from me?"

you don't know what to say and joshua just embraces you, "here, i'll take care of you okay?" and you let him, because it's joshua.

jun - ugh, he's so oblivious yet somehow annoyingly observant that he finds out without trying.

someone ran over your toe with a shopping cart during your grocery trip. it truly didn't hurt that much in the moment, but the hours after that? oh boy were they torturing.

it still didn't seem like enough to tell jun about, so you simply went about your day suffering in silence.

during dinner, however, he asks you through scoops of chinese steamed egg, "did you hurt your foot while shopping?"

taken aback by the accuracy of his question, you literally drop your spoon and he's just like, "what?? you just seem to be lighter on your feet today, that's all."

he takes the whole situation pretty lightly (oblivious i tell you) that he doesn't even believe you when you try to tell him the truth 😭 "okay, okay, you're just trying to make me seem smart now." so then you take off your sock at the dinner table and lift your bruised foot to show him and he looks at you like this: (°ロ°)

hoshi - unlike jun, he does NOT take it lightly. he's almost offended.

yes, you shouldn't be trying to walk around too much with a bad ankle, but you can't help it okay? sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, like walk hoshi's dog, latte, while he works on his album.

he's been really busy, okay? you never told him about how you tripped around a week ago, so you'd just been living as if it never happened. honestly it's no surprise that you kind of automatically accepted his sister's request without thinking of your ankle (that was praying you'd stop putting pressure on it).

but then you make the grave mistake of posting your walk on instagram with just a sliver of the bandage wrapping up your ankle. he literally hearts the story, removes it, and replies with an angry face.

he calls you, "y/n! what are you doing walking around with an obviously injured leg? and why am i finding out through your instagram story?"

you're not sure what to say, but he talks for you, "i'm leaving practice right now so i can take care of both my babies, don't move. you'll make your ankle worse, babe."

"right, because you'd know-" and he hangs up on you,

wonwoo - silently observant...

you were surprised that you'd been able to go this long with a cast around your wrist, only using hoodies to conceal it, but turns out wonwoo's like those shop employees who wait for people to steal $1000 worth of stuff before dropping that lawsuit on them.

one day, you're both just sitting on the couch when he grabs ahold of your wrist. he literally waits for you to be distracted, doomscrolling on social media, to do it.

but then you feel him roll up your sleeve, and now you're doomed.

"what's this, y/n?" he asks firmly, holding your arm tight enough to where you can't move, but somehow gently as to prevent any discomfort (how cute of him).

"you really didn't think i would notice it? you wearing hoodies when it's 70 degrees, eating with your nondominant hand, taking forever to shower because you have to wash your hair with one arm, why didn't you just let me take care of you?"

you sort of shrink back in shame; wonwoo read you and you were stunned. he simply takes you into his arms, murmuring, "i'm not mad, i just want you to know that you don't have to struggle like that when i'm here. i'll notice either way."

woozi - ouch. you accidentally cut yourself while cleaning up the remnants of a glass cup you dropped. the cut was deep, but somehow still in a sleepy daze, you cleaned it to the best of your ability, slapped some gauze on it, and went back to bed.

whenever jihoon comes home, he follows his normal 2 am schedule, but then notices the blood-stained towel in the hamper. he rushes to your room, only to find you sound asleep.

still, he shakes you awake, "y/n, why's there a towel with blood all over it in the laundry room?" you kind of look at him, confused, before simply lifting your arm to reveal the amateur work you did you bandage it.

at first, he sighs in relief, but then you see his brows furrow. "when did this happen? seems kinda serious..." he inspects it closely as you mumble, "i dunno, couple hours ago? i dropped something."

"what? why didn't you call me? i could've come home earlier to take care of it." he says, feeling guilty about not being there.

"it's really nothing, you've been really busy anyway. this isn't something you should worry about-" but he shushs you. "i'm never too busy to help you, y/n. i don't want you thinking like that."

dk - like hoshi, he doesn't take it lightly. you took a heavy fall while rushing to work a couple days ago. it wasn't a big deal until your arm started to bruise pretty badly.

you knew seokmin would freak out at it, so you planned on wearing long sleeve shirts to cover it up, and it'd been working pretty well.

but unfortunately for you, this had to be the time where you forgot to bring a shirt with you to shower, accidentally bringing two pairs of pants instead.

you tried to dash in and out of your room as fast as possible, but seokmin was plopped on your bed, getting a clear view of your arm (you had a towel wrapped around you okay?).

his jaw drops, you grab a shirt, water is dripping everywhere, and you yell “i’ll explain later!” as you run back to the bathroom.

when you come back, his jaw is still in the same position. “seok, it’s really not that bad.” you assure him, but he barely pays attention, just reaching for your arm. “it looks bad though…” he mumbles, poking at the bruise like a little kid, “that didn’t hurt, right?”

ugh, he’s so cute.

mingyu - you somehow manage to slice your hand open while cooking dinner for whenever mingyu comes home.

do you tell him? absolutely not. you definitely do not need him locking you out of the kitchen after you try to cook one time.

you really don’t have time to go to the hospital (which you definitely should’ve done??) so you opt to put some pressure on it with a towel until it stops bleeding, and because you have terrible timing, mingyu enters the apartment.

at first he says “smells pretty good! what are you-“ he strides into the kitchen to see the food you were unable to plate at the dining table (that actually looks pretty good), your distressed face, and then your hand.

“at least i got here on time,” he says, taking your hand and looking at it closely. “don’t worry, i was like trained for this stuff.” he smiles, heading toward what you used to think was an overstuffed medical cabinet.

“you didn’t even call me. were you planning to take care of this yourself?” he asks, wrapping your hand with precision. “i’m here for a reason, you know? you just gotta let me help you, baby.”

the8 - you had a feeling minghao would notice immediately, but there was a very slim chance he’d miss it this time. he’d just got done filming for his survival show, and you knew he’d be tired when he got home.

you’re a pretty clumsy person, and you always felt bad for making a usually calm minghao worried. so, when you tripped and got a concussion the day before, you didn’t tell him.

it was going fine, painkillers acting as your savior, but then you ran out of them. groaning, you decide to wait for minghao to leave the house to go buy more, but he doesn’t?

it’s like his subconscious knew your plan, and eventually you just can’t take it anymore, calling your friend and asking her to drop some off.

then you go to take a nap on the couch as an attempt to sleep off the headache you have, unaware that your friend’s at the door.

minghao gently shakes you awake, bottle of advil in his hand and a concerned look on his face. “i knew something was up with you. you should’ve just told me, y/n.” he says, explaining how your friend gave him a weird face when he asked about the medication and then dropping how you got a concussion like it was obvious.

“we shouldn’t hide things like this, okay? it’s not good for you.”

seungkwan - let’s just say, you may not be cut out for volleyball.

you were just goofing off with your friends, playing volleyball, when you dislocated your shoulder. seungkwan was hosting a variety show, and you didn’t feel like bothering him, so you didn’t mention it, not even when he video called you during his lunch break.

it wasn’t that bad of an injury, the doctor popped it back into its socket and you were sent home with some medication.

a week passes with no problem, but then seungkwan offers to play some badminton (like the LAST sport you should be trying to play during recovery), and thinking it wouldn’t be too bad, you accept.

it’s only till you’re actually swinging the racket that you realize that your shoulder has definitely not healed, let alone healed enough to really be playing a sport. you suddenly pause, “wait- just give me a minute.” he runs over from his side of the court. “hey, what’s going on? you look like you’re in pain.”

trying to get out the fact it’s because you got a dislocated shoulder, you ramble “it’s fine, just a dislocatedshoulderigotaweekagowithouttellingyou 😄”

and he’s like “WHAT? are you crazy?? why are you trying to play on it?” and proceeds to grab that same arm and drag you out of the court. he definitely scolds you for the rest of the day…

vernon - normally he’s chill, but right now he’s lowkey tweaking out.

while he was visiting his sister for her birthday, you broke your leg. you didn’t tell vernon because you wanted him to have a good time with his sister (how nice of you 😊), but when he comes home, he doesn’t think of it as such.

you’re laying on the couch, watching a show, whenever he enters the apartment. there’s a blanket over you, so he doesn’t notice the leg immediately.

“finally, this jet lag has got me *yawn* out of it.” he says, lifting the blanket just enough so he can slide in next to you.

he still doesn’t notice until his leg touches your boot, yelping in surprise. “why are you wearing shoes on the couch?” and then making another surprised noise when you reveal its a medical boot.

“did this happen when i was gone? you should’ve told me…” he gently scolds you, mainly because you made him so surprised, and then just lays back with you on the couch like nothing happened.

dino - you really wanted to tell him, but he just looked so happy in singapore and you really didn’t feel like ruining his time there.

on the way to class, you fractured your wrist while trying to catch yourself. since then, you’ve been struggling trying to do basically anything: changing clothes, showering, cooking, the list goes on.

but you didn’t tell him, just choosing to get through it until he comes home.

“y/n~ i’m home!” he calls out, walking in with his luggage. you’re in the shower, arm sticking out as far as it can away from the water, trash bag wrapped around that arm, and ultimately, just in a bad position.

“um, in here! can you help me?” you holler. you feel bad for making him help you as soon as he got home, but you’re going through hell and back trying to shampoo your hair.

he walks into the bathroom, “you sure you want me in here?” and all he sees is a fogged up shower with a trash bagged arm sticking out of it. surprisingly, he immediately understands what happened.

“babe, you should’ve told me earlier.” he says, helping you wash your hair properly. “i don’t like to think that you’ve been struggling like this without me there.” he frowns, kissing you on the forehead.

#seventeen #svt #seventeen reactions #svt reactions #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #seventeen imagines #svt imagines #seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #seventeen x you #seventeen x y/n #seventeen drabbles #seventeen scenarios #dokyumms #dividers by toastray

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deadsetobsessions · 11 months ago

Text

Danny’s always thought meeting other vigilantes and heroes outside of Amity would be an event he’d gush about. He’d figured it would be more intimidating. More graceful, certainly. Less humiliating, considering he’s known Val for ages and she’d seen him choke on chili cheese fries in middle school and hack it out like a dying walrus.

Ah, well, at least this time, it wasn’t humiliating for him. Danny Fenton knew when to count his blessings, and this counted for sure.

The sight of the helmeted vigilante laying face down on the pavement for five minutes straight was getting worrying though, even if Danny sympathized with the feeling.

“…You good?”

A pause of deliberation.

“No,” came the muffled reply.

Danny finished filling his gas tank- gah, why did the GAV have to eat so much?- before walking around his car and prodding at the now dozing man. Huh. He smelled kind of liminal. The man groaned.

"Hey, is there someone coming to get you or...?" Danny trailed off. Other than inwardly laughing at watching the infamous Red Hood eat shit on the asphalt, it was probably a good idea for Danny to figure out why the guy was so far from Gotham.

"Ain't your business, kid, get lost." Red Hood made to stand up, only to groan as he stressed his very broken arm.

"Right. Do you want me to sit here with you until your trusted adult picks you up?"

"Oh, fuck off."

Danny grinned. "Here, hold on. I think I've got an arm splint in my car." Without another word, he trotted off to grab his medical supplies.

"That's a concerning amount of medical supplies," Hood's hand- the unbroken one, went to his gun.

"I get hurt a lot. Like, a lot." Danny replied candidly, forking over the medical supplies.

"Red Him! Bizarro come pick up!"

Danny looked up. "Is that... zombie Superman?"

"His name's Bizarro. And he's way better than that blue asshole."

"I'll take your word for it," Danny shrugged. Liminals tended to have better instinct about people anyways.

"Bizarro! Down here, bud!"

"Red him!" Bizarro floated back down to the ground with a thump. Danny saw the little Superman plushie sat on top of his shoulders. "Red her in little trouble!"

"Shit, get me up." Bizarro turned slightly suspicious eyes onto Danny, who just smiled at him.

"Who this?"

"This is... uh..."

"Danny. Retired vigilante." Danny rocked back onto his heels. He'd retired Phantom years ago, taking over the family business and shutting down the portal.

"Huh. That explains a lot," Red Hood considered his arm. "Red Hood. This is Bizarro."

"Skinny him help?" Bizarro asked, visibly worried.

"Sure! Whatcha need help with?" Danny paused. "Can I be something other than skinny him, though?"

"Hey- wait-"

#danny phantom #jason todd #dc x dp #dcxdp #red hood #bizarro #the outlaws

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augustwinesworld · 1 month ago

Text

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

description:

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? angsty, building up for that confrontation...

notes: omg never get two concussions within a six month period, 0/10 do not recommended. Not gonna lie, this was a bitch to write, but i like it. can't wait for the next part :)

word count: 4.9 k.

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ (kofi)

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

You kept your hands firm on the rails of the stretcher as you pushed through the corridor, dodging a med cart and a nurse hustling with a specimen tray.

Someone shouted orders two bays down. A phone rang. Monitors beeped and screeched.

The place smelled like antiseptic, like every hallway had just barely missed being a battlefield.

It was the middle of everything, and yet somehow, you felt nowhere at all.

The wheels of the stretcher clattered over a threshold, jarring enough to snap you out of the fog for a second.

You looked down at him. Noah. Your son, still, scarily still, on the gurney. The splint on his leg looked too big for him. His skin was pale, except where it was bruised, scraped, swollen.

There was blood in his hair. Blood in his ear.

But his breathing was even. Pupils reactive.

Alive.

He got hit by a fucking car, you thought, dizzy. And he’s alive.

That fact repeated itself over and over in your mind like a glitch: He’s breathing. He’s alive. He’s breathing. He’s alive.

You didn’t know if it was a comfort or a curse.

You adjusted the corner of the blanket over his shoulder—just to have something to do with your hands. It was ridiculous, really.

He’d broken bones, maybe worse, and here you were tucking him in like it would fix it. Like it would undo it.

He used to kick off every blanket you gave him. Even as a baby. Hated feeling trapped.

You remembered that stubborn, wiggling heat under the muslin swaddles, how he’d flail until he was free, frowning and loud. You’d laughed at the time. Now it clawed at your chest. You just wanted him to move. Make a sound. Give you something. Anything.

The hallway bent, and the trauma bay came into view—curtains half-drawn, shadows behind them shifting like memories too close to the surface. You tightened your grip on the rails.

Fuck.

Of all the wings in the hospital, this one still stung. You’d worked in rooms like this before—had stitched and suctioned and cracked open ribs on metal tables barely wide enough to hold the grief. You’d written your name in adrenaline a thousand times over.

But this was different. Personal. Too close.

The door opened as you approached, someone stepping out with a chart in hand. Dr. King again. She gave a nod, held the door open for you and Whitaker to wheel Noah inside.

“You can sit with him as long as you need,” she said quietly. “We’ll be down the hall.”

You nodded. They left. The door shut behind them with a quiet thud.

And for a moment, it was just the two of you again.

You sank into the chair beside his stretcher, pulled it close enough to rest your hand over his. His fingers twitched faintly under yours.

You paused, just for a second. Watched a resident laugh too loud at something their attending said. Watched a janitor mop around a candy wrapper near the vending machine. Watched an orderly restock gloves like it was just any other shift.

To them, maybe it was.

To you, it felt like the end of the world.

You didn’t realize you were crying until the tears reached your lips—salty and stunned, like your body hadn’t caught up to the relief yet.

Maybe you should’ve gone home. Should’ve showered. Slept. Screamed into a pillow. But instead, you sat. Still. Hands folded in your lap. Breath thin. The lights overhead hummed, and something about the rhythm pulled you backward—years, maybe.

To that time when you found out you were pregnant.

And now here he was. All those years later. Flesh and bone and blood and stillness.

You leaned in, brushed a thumb over the edge of his brow. Whispered his name, soft like a prayer.

"Noah."

His lashes didn’t flicker. But the monitor beside him beeped steady.

Ten years and one month ago…

...you knew.

Not thought. Not guessed. Knew.

It bloomed through you, like a sunrise after the end of the world. No trumpet, no flash—just the light creeping in, undeniable and final.

You were pregnant.

The words didn’t form in your mouth, but they echoed anyway, bouncing off your ribs and trying to claw out your throat.

He left, and you were fucking pregnant.

You were the intern who got pregnant by her attending. Except he fucking left—and left you with all of this. So now you weren’t just the intern who fell for him. You were the idiot who got left behind. Pathetic.

And worst of all, you’re the moron who loved him anyway and is now sobbing in her bathroom floor, what a fucking cliché.

It might’ve been funny if it weren’t so humiliating. If it weren’t real. If it weren’t you.

God.

You knew better. You knew him. Didn’t you?

Or maybe you just wanted to believe someone could look at you the way he did and actually mean it. Maybe that was your real crime—not the sex, not the mistake, but the hope. The stupid, dangerous hope.

And now here you were.

Pregnant. Alone. Crying on tile that still smelled like bleach.

And somehow, still in love with a man who walked out like you were nothing.

How poetic. How fucking predictable.

You blinked. Once. Twice. The mirror swam. The bathroom spun again, not from nausea this time, but from the weight of it all. The nausea had just been the overture—this was the real collapse.

The test was still hidden under the sink. You’d bought it two days ago. Maybe three. On a whim—on an instinct you didn’t want to name.

You hadn't even opened the box. Just shoved it beneath the extra toilet paper, like if you hid it long enough, you could pretend you didn’t already know.

But you did.

You must’ve made a sound, because your sister tensed beside you on the cold tile.

“What is it?”

Your voice barely made it out. “I need to check.”

She didn’t ask. Just helped you up slowly, gently, like you were made of glass. And maybe you were. Maybe you had been for weeks.

Hair still pulled back, shoulders hunched forward, you moved like your bones didn’t belong to you anymore.

You knelt again—this time in front of the cabinet. Hesitated. Let your hand rest on the handle a second longer than it needed to.

Your sister stayed behind you. Just watching. Though her presence was enough to calm some of your nerves.

You opened the cabinet slowly, with the same care someone would use when handling a bomb.

Reached past the old mouthwash, the bent razor, the lavender-scented wipes you bought six months ago because they were on sale. Reached past everything familiar until your fingers grazed the box—blue with white letters.

It looked smaller than you remembered, but still felt heavier than it should’ve.

You stared at it. You couldn’t remember picking it up, or even deciding to. Just the feeling: the buzzing in your fingertips, the weight in your chest. Like your body had known before your mind did.

Your fingers shook as you tore it open. Your hands were shaking as the plastic wrapper inside crackled too loud, the noise filling the room.

You took it with your sister inside the room—her back turned, as she stared at one of the walls. You peed. Washed your hands automatically, like your body had done this before. Like it was just any other day. Then the waiting.

The longest minutes of your life unfurled in silence.

You didn’t speak, and neither did she. She sat behind you, her back against the bathroom door. Legs drawn in. Like she was guarding the world from coming in too fast.

You stared at the little window, willing it to lie. Wishing it would. But it didn’t.

The little window filled slowly. Lines bleeding across like spider cracks in ice.

One line.

Then—the second.

Two lines.

You stared. Long enough for the moment to crystallize. Long enough for the heat to drain from your body.

Two lines.

Clear as day.

Positive.

It was like time had split open. Like the silence came back, louder than ever, pressing in from all sides.

Your sister leaned in. “Is it—”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. So you just nodded, barely.

Her breath hitched. Then she whispered, “Oh.” And an even softer, “Oh, sweetheart.”

You didn’t cry. Not yet. Just sat there. Eyes on the floor, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you could hold everything in if you just held still.

The test was still digging itself into your palm. Scorching hot and branding your skin with all that could’ve been and would never be again.

The tile under your knees. The cheap plastic in your hand. The warm body of your sister behind you. And inside you—something entirely other.

It wasn’t heartbreak, yet not exactly grief either.

Not a hole. Not an absence.

But a presence.

Something had stayed.

He had left, and something had stayed behind.

You could still feel the imprint of him—his voice, his hands, his shape melted into your mattress. But this…wasn’t him. Or well, it wasn’t just him. This was yours too.

Your sister moved closer, kneeling beside you now. She put a hand on your back. Said nothing. Just breathed with you and laid a comforting hand on your upper back.

You kept staring at the test. You couldn’t look away. You didn’t know how.

The silence roared in your ears.

And in your head, over and over, the same thought spun through your head:

What the fuck do I do now?

Turns out, you did what needed to be done.

One hour. Then one day. Then one month.

You kept breathing. Kept moving. Kept showing up.

Not because it ever got easier. It didn’t—but because he was there.

He became your reason, even when you had none for yourself. You built a life one brick at a time. Held together with cracked cement, sleepless nights, and the kind of love that didn’t ask for permission.

You didn’t feel strong, didn’t feel brave. But somehow, you were still standing.

You learned what he liked and what he didn’t. Decoded his cries, packed his lunches, braided his hair.

You learned that children don’t just grow up—they teach you how to.

Now, almost a decade later, here you are.

You sit at his bedside and watch his lashes flicker—so dark, so long, just like his father’s. He stirs, just barely, like some part of him knows you’re near, even in his sleep.

The hospital light is bright, almost incandescent. Machines hum around you, and you can hear the faint screams happening outside in the ER. His hand is small but not tiny anymore—boyish now, almost too long for the body that used to fit in the crook of your arm.

And for a moment—just one brief, shattering second—you remember it all.

You reach for his hand again. This time, you don’t let go.

Nine years and six months ago…

It was your third day in a row on trauma. Third trimester. Twenty-eight weeks and change.

You were running on fumes and decaf. The kind of tired that settled in your bones and pulsed behind your eyes. The kind that made every choice around you feel like you were swimming in cement.

The OR was freezing, loud, and too bright. The overhead lights glared off the metal trays, sending sharp little stabs into your retinas. Your compression socks were cutting into your calves, and your scrubs, once fairly loose, clung to every inch of your overheated body, already damp with sweat.

Someone cracked a joke about you “scrubbing in with a plus one,” and you laughed, because it was easier than not.

Because if you didn’t laugh, you’d cry. Or scream. Or bolt out of the room. Maybe the state.

But instead, you blinked hard, once, twice—then turned and dry-heaved into the nearest sink.

“Again?” Mary asked. “That baby better come out with a fellowship in general surgery.”

You wiped your mouth with the sleeve of your gown, tasting antiseptic and bile, and forced yourself upright. Your lower back felt like it had been compressed into fucking sawdust.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“You should sit,” someone murmured.

“I’m fine.”

And maybe you were—until you weren’t.

Between cases, you collapsed onto a rolling stool, your knees practically buckling under you.

You leaned your head back against the wall, pressing into it like it might hold you upright through sheer force of will.

Your back was on fire. Your hips throbbed. And your feet didn’t feel like feet anymore. Replaced by two aching blocks of pressure and heat.

The baby shifted slightly higher, compressing your ribs. Breathing became effortful—short little gasps between charting lines. You scribbled your notes in a haze: vitals, GCS, blood loss, incisions, retractors, Apgar scores, OR in, OR out. It blurred. You blurred.

The door swung open. Liz, your co-resident, breezed in and tossed something in your lap—a chocolate-coconut granola bar.

“You look like you might eat a clamp if I don’t intervene.”

You blinked down at it, then up at her. “Thanks.”

You unwrapped it slowly, fingers trembling, and took a bite without tasting it. Chewed out of habit, not hunger. Your mouth was dry. Your tongue heavy.

Charting came next. Pages and pages, everything blurring into codes and times and blood loss and Apgars. Somewhere in the middle of dictating a post-op note, you felt the faintest thump low in your belly—then another.

You froze.

Your hand drifted to your stomach, palm flat. Waiting.

There it was. Again. Soft but certain. Like a tiny drumroll beneath your ribs.

You fumbled for your phone and hit play on the playlist you’d made weeks ago, on a late night. Just a little something for nights like that one, where your body wouldn’t let you sleep. For the mornings you woke up crying.

ABBA. Of course.

Because why not. Because something about the harmony, the baseline, the sheer ridiculous joy of it made him kick—and that brought a smile to your face.

You didn’t know how or why, but he loved it.

It made you laugh just how much the little guy loved moving to their songs.

Especially “Dancing Queen.”

It worked. As soon as it hit the chorus, he was at it again—tiny heel, tiny elbow, someone inside you dancing in time with the world.

You laughed. A real one this time. Sharp and sudden and kind of insane.

The nurse across the station glanced over. “You good?”

You pressed a hand to your side, feeling another kick, a slow roll.

“Yeah,” you said, breath catching. “Yeah. I think I am.”

You almost forgot what it felt like.

The weight. The worry. The quiet joy of those impossible months. The ache behind your eyes from nights you didn’t sleep.

You almost forgot how it felt to wake up and wonder how much more of yourself you could give before there was nothing left.

It wasn’t the first time you’d see him like this. He had been so small that time. Hooked to a thousand different machines.

Even as a doctor, if they’d had asked you what they were for, you wouldn’t have been able to answer.

But then—now—you glance at him. His chest rises under the hospital blanket, no strain, no wheeze. His lungs are clear. His color’s better now.

And just like that, the memory unspools again, slow and merciless.

You’re not wearing sweats to the hospital. No blood under your nails. No charting mid-contraction. But he’s still here—still yours.

You brush your fingers over his hair, soft from sleep, and feel it again. That same impossible pull toward something you built on your own. With your own hands. Something no one else could take credit for.

He looks like him when he sleeps.

Not always. But sometimes—when the light hits just right, when the furrow between his brows softens—you see it. Robby.

You hate it. You need it. You wished it didn’t still feel like a wound.

You watch Noah breathe and wonder, not for the first time, if that resemblance is a gift or a punishment.

Because even though you’d never say it out loud, sometimes there’s a flicker—just a flicker—when you look at Noah and see him.

The same tilt of the head. The same frown when he concentrates.

And it’s not that it hurts, exactly.

It’s just...complicated.

Like loving your son means loving a part of someone you’re supposed to have let go.

Like no matter how much time has passed, some part of your heart is still dragging its feet, refusing to let Robby go all the way.

Not out of longing, not anymore.

But memory. Muscle. Something older than choice.

Some days, he’s just your son.

Other days, he’s a walking echo of the man who left you behind without a word, holding the future in both hands.

And maybe he thought you’d be fine. Maybe he trusted that you’d keep it together, because you always did.

Or maybe he just didn’t care.

That thought—the one you choke back more often than you’d admit—cuts the deepest. That maybe Robby knew exactly what he was walking away from, and still decided it was easier.

Still decided you were easier to leave.

But right now, it’s quiet.

Just the two of you again. Like it was in the beginning. Like it always comes back to.

And for now—for this one breathless second—you let yourself believe that’s enough.

Noah stirs.

You shift closer, instinctual, and hum something low under your breath. Just a few quiet notes. A lullaby with no name, just shape. Something from the early days—half Chiquitita, half stress-induced improvisation. He quiets at once, and you smile, barely.

You wonder if he remembers it. You don’t even know if you do. But your body does. The rhythm. The holding. The waiting.

God, the waiting.

Waiting for the second line on the stick. Waiting for the first kick. Waiting for him to call you back. Waiting for him to walk through the door and say anything—I’m scared, I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to stay. But all you ever got was silence.

Again. Pathetic right?

But that was another life. You don’t wait anymore. You don’t beg. You don’t hope for explanations that never come.

You have someone else to think about other than yourself. Someone who solely relies on you. And needing doesn’t scare you the way it used to.

It had all blurred together, back then.

Nine years and eight months ago…

Nursing with a textbook balanced on one knee, highlighter clutched between your teeth. Changing diapers with procedure recordings playing in the background. Falling asleep on the kitchen counter at 4 a.m., head pillowed on a pile of notes, milk stains on your shirt.

You learned to chart one-handed. To sleep in thirty-minute stretches. To carry both your stethoscope and your breast pump like extensions of your own limbs.

The program didn’t make it easy, nor did the whispers. Or the silence he left behind.

There were days you couldn’t even say his name. Couldn’t afford to. Saying it meant admitting what he did. What you still carried. What you missed, even if you didn’t want to.

But you didn’t do it alone.

Your sister showed up every weekend without asking, groceries already unpacked, laundry already sorted. Your mother held Noah while you studied, whispering hushed prayers over his locks, as if her faith could hold you all together.

Liz smuggled you snacks between cases and covered your post-op charts when Noah had his first cold. She never said his name.

Neither did Mary, who let you cry once in the on-call room, no questions asked, no judgment. Just handed you her coffee.

Isabella—the chief no one dared cross—softened whenever she saw you struggling to keep your eyes open. She started blocking your twelve-hour shifts into tens.

Quiet kindness, no announcements. But when someone once tried to ask what really happened, Isabella cut them off with one look.

Kai cracked jokes and made sure you always had a chair. Dr. Ramos gave you a key to his office “just in case,” and never mentioned it again.

There were others, too. People who never said what they were thinking but showed you in every way that they knew.

They all knew. About the way he left. About the fact that he was older, higher up. That maybe the both of you should’ve known better. And that you hadn’t even known you were pregnant when he disappeared.

That you had once looked at him like he hung the moon, and then woke up one morning to a blank sky.

They knew you’d loved him. That you'd wanted forever. But they’d seen the aftermath too. The missed calls. The radio silence. The vanishing act.

And for all their professionalism, their restraint, no one really forgave him for that.

Not for leaving you. Not for leaving Noah.

And honestly? You’re not sure you ever did either.

You made it through on caffeine, pure stubbornness, and the kind of love that rewires your insides. The kind that sings in your bloodstream when a small hand finds yours. The kind that makes you believe you’re doing something holy, even when you’re covered in spit-up and panic.

And sometimes, when the nights were particularly long—when Noah cried until his chest hiccupped and your own body ached from holding so much—you'd look down at him and think:

Everything was worth it if it got us here.

You get up, carefully. The fever’s breaking now—thank God. His forehead is cooler when you press your lips to it. His breath is steadier, heat fading from his cheeks. The worst of it is over.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. You kiss him again, softer. “You’re okay.”

And you realize—you are too. Not whole, maybe. But okay.

And that’s more than enough.

You thought you’d buried that part of your life.

Boxed it up in late-night feedings and Match Day anxiety, in checklists and pediatric milestones.

Some days, you almost forget what it felt like.

Searching for him in every place you visited. Kind of hoping he’d be there, if only to curse him out in front of a crowd.

You were angry. You still are, sometimes. But mostly, you just got tired.

So you let it go—bit by bit.

You stopped looking for him.

Until one day, you didn’t have to look.

He was just there.

Six years ago…

It was late October. That golden stretch of fall just before everything goes cold and gray. The kind of light that makes everything look softer than it really is—especially the farmer’s market.

You’d just bought apples—Honeycrisps, overpriced, but Noah liked the crunch—and he was tugging at your hand in that impatient way toddlers do.

Mittened fingers curled around yours, cheeks warm from the cold, a sticky ring of cider at the corner of his mouth. You were laughing at something he said. Something about pumpkins being “sleeping people in disguise.” You’d almost felt happy.

And then—you saw him.

Turning, just ahead.

Profile turned toward the baked goods stand. That familiar set of shoulders. That tilt of the head, slightly to the right, the way he always did when he was reading a sign or weighing a decision.

Your laughter died in your throat.

You froze. The bags dug into your wrist, the apples suddenly too heavy. Your pulse kicked up so fast you felt dizzy. You blinked, once. Twice. Still him. The back of his neck. The shape of him. The impossible fact of him.

You said his name. Just once. Soft. Like a prayer you’d sworn never to say again.

“Robby.”

Noah looked up at you, confused. “Mama?”

But when you blinked again—

He was gone. Again.

You rounded the corner like someone in a dream, your feet slow, hesitant. The crowd shifted around you—mothers and strollers, college kids with tote bags, an old man with a harmonica—and none of them were him.

Just a swirl of movement and noise and the smell of kettle corn.

Gone.

You stood there, staring at the place where he should have been. Where, for a second, you were sure he'd been. Heart thundering, throat dry, lungs locked.

Like the past had torn open its chest and said, look, look what you could have had if he’d stayed.

Noah tugged your hand again. “Mama, what’s wrong?”

You looked down at him. His wide eyes. His tiny hat with the ears on top. And for a second, your knees almost buckled. Because if it had been him—if you had seen Robby—he’d been this close to his son and still walked away. Again.

You knelt. Your voice was too calm. “Nothing, baby. Just thought I saw someone.”

You told yourself it was a trick of the light. A shadow. A memory shaped like a man. Because the alternative was worse.

Because if it had been real—if he’d seen you, seen Noah, and still turned away—then that would mean he didn’t just leave.

He stayed gone. Chose gone.

You didn’t cry. Not then. Not with Noah watching. But the cider curdled in your stomach. You stood, straightened your coat, and kept walking.

You told yourself, If I ever saw him again, I’d walk away.

And you believed that. You did.

But a part of you—ashamed, buried, furious—knew it wasn’t true. Not completely. Because even in that moment, with the ghost of him fading into the crowd, your first instinct had been to reach for him. To say his name. To hope.

And that terrified you.

Because it meant that after everything—after the silence, the vanishing, the endless nights—you still hadn’t managed to kill that last, fragile thread.

You still remembered how it felt to love him. And worse—you still wanted him to love you back.

Even now. Even then. Even when you knew better.

So you walked Noah home that day. Pretended the sun on your shoulders didn’t feel like a lie. Told yourself he wasn’t real. That maybe you were tired. That maybe you were slipping. And maybe you were.

But deep down, you knew.

He’d been there. And he hadn’t stopped walking.

The trauma room door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud. A sound you’ve heard a hundred times before—but tonight, somehow, it lands differently.

You exhale. Shoulders low. Muscles warm with exhaustion, limbs half-buzzing with the tail-end of adrenaline. Noah’s doing good, great even. You did what you always do—you held it together.

The corridor is dim, lit only by the low fluorescents humming overhead. A slow hour in a long night. Nurses’ shoes squeak softly in the distance. Somewhere, a machine beeps in a rhythmic, unhurried pattern. The quiet is thick. Pressurized.

You turn.

And freeze.

He’s there. Again.

Just a few feet away.

Black scrubs. An old hoodie you—frayed at the cuffs, faded where he used to roll up the sleeves. His hair is shorter now, dark and sleep-ruffled. There’s stubble along his jaw, a tiredness beneath his eyes that wasn't there before.

Or maybe it was, and you were just too in love to see it.

You blink once. Slowly. As if your body needs time to believe it’s real. As if any sudden movement might scatter him like smoke.

Michael.

You taste his name before you even think it.

Older. Thinner.

He’s holding something in his hands—gloves, maybe, or a folded chart—but it doesn’t matter.

It’s the way he’s standing.

Your mouth goes dry. Your heart stutters, then lurches into a rhythm that feels embarrassingly human.

You want to say something. Anything.

Ask if he knew. If he suspected.

If he ever looked. If he even tried.

You want to scream at him. You want to fall into him. You want to walk away. The same way he did all those years ago.

But you don’t move. Neither does he.

You drink him in. Slowly. Not like before. Not like memory.

There’s a line between his brows now. A small scar on the side of his neck you don’t recognize. His hands are the same—long fingers, pale knuckles, veins like cords. You used to trace them while he slept.

For a split second, you're back in that bed—early morning light, his back warm against your chest, the city moving on the other side of the window. The sound of his laugh in your ear. The promise of something ordinary and endless.

But then the moment buckles. Fractures under its own weight.

He left.

He left you when you needed him most.

And now he’s here.

Once again, a protagonist in one of the worst times of your life.

You don’t know if you want answers or just closure. But you know this:

This time, you don’t blink.

You hold his gaze. You let him see the hurt. The history. The steel in your spine.

And he doesn’t run.

He just stands there, like maybe he’s been waiting for you to look at him like this. Like he doesn’t quite know how to take the next step—but he wants to.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough to keep you standing, too.

next chapter ↠

taglist: @snowflames-world, @nosebeers, @midnghtprentiss, @delicatetrashtree, @thestrals-and-firewiskey, @rosiepoise88, @miss-me-jack, @jojodojo02, @whimsicalfungiforager, @whos6claire, @melsunshine, @foolishseven, @misshoneypaper, @iceb1ink1uck, @kmc1989, @vlightning95, @girl-who-loves-books, @qardasngan, @madprincessinabox, @equallyshaw, @memoriesat30, @justobsessedwithyou, @scorpiotulipicon.

#𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (august)#𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.｡.:*¤☆#𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch #dr robby

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dulcebloodhnd · 2 months ago

Text

BABY, NO

pairing: jack abbot x reader

requested by: @orderoftheflamingflamingos

Could I submit a request about Jack dating an EMT/Paramedic and he’s like “You rappelled down a bridge, again?” Like she’s badass and independent but he’s her man and cares about her.

authors note: i tweaked it a little but i hope you enjoy it nonetheless :))

Jack was off duty and was not expecting a call from the hospital, it was his day off and he hoped it was going to stay that way. Dana was on the phone, most things blurred together but he heard her name and ‘injured on the job’. He grabbed his keys and left his apartment immediately and headed back into work.

Noise encapsulated the streets and continued way beyond into the emergency department. Bodies of doctors and nurses walked about, small chatter of patients and the distinct clinical aroma of a hospital. You sat perched on the cot, cradling your broken arm between two splints as you waited for a doctor to attend to you.

Dr. Collin’s breached the doorway with your chart listing off the tests that need to be done, ordering an X-ray for your arm and to conduct a physical examination of coordination to check if you had a concussion or not.

Collin’s excused herself after performing the exam and you were left alone in the bay. You overheard ‘where is she?’ and next thing Jack barged into the room.

“What happened?” Jack immediately went to your side.

“Work,” was all you could mutter. Your head rested against the fresh linen pillowcase.

“Don’t tell me you rappelled down a bridge again?”

Silence pursued his question. All you could do was give a guilty exchange of a smile in return.

“A young girl was dangling from below, a failed suicide attempt. The good thing is she is safe with minimal injury. Rather that than her take the brunt of what I got.”

Jack sucked in a breath, his shoulders tense and the crease between his brows prominent. Your uninjured hand grabbed his and rubbed soothing circles around his knuckles.

“I’m okay, baby.”

He sighed as you pulled him down to sit on the edge of the cot, gently tugging his arm to get his body closer towards you. A safe haven. You kissed between his brows then dragging the tip of your nose against his bridge before kissing him again on his lips.

“I’m taking you home with me after we get your sorted. You won’t be leaving my sight for the next couple of weeks,” Jack said.

“As long as I get to spend more time with you.”

“I hope this isn’t a newly developed tactic to spend more time with me.”

“What if it is?” You questioned cheekily.

“Baby, no.”

You laughed and kissed him in small successions until he smiled alongside you. God, aren’t you glad to have him by your side.

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p0orbaby · 2 months ago

Note

they have an argument and hours later r gets hurt ??? guilty & terrified ale 🥺

The last thing you say to her is, “Don’t follow me.”

And she listens.

Which is exactly the problem.

It had started over nothing—truly nothing. Some throwaway comment, an eye-roll, one of you saying something too quickly and the other one not fast enough to let it go. And then it spiralled. Sharp words. Defensive ones. Yours, mostly.

She stood in the kitchen in that annoyingly calm way she does, arms crossed, expression pinched. You snapped first. Told her to leave you alone. Told her you needed space.

And now it’s been four hours.

No texts. No calls. Just silence you’re too proud to break.

You’re walking home from the Mercadona—milk you don’t need, biscuits to eat the sad away, something to do with your hands. The sky’s bruising, early evening, people spilling out of cafés. You’re not really paying attention when it happens.

A blur of wheels. A yell. The sick, cinematic sound of a crack.

You hit the pavement before you register the pain—shoulder first, then elbow, then a white-hot jolt in your leg that steals the air from your lungs.

There’s shouting. Someone calls for help. Someone else’s hands hover uselessly near yours.

You try to sit up. You can’t.

Alexia gets the call halfway through pacing a hole in her living room rug. She answers on the first ring, bored and frustrated and ready to stay mad—until she hears the words hospital, accident, emergency contact, and your name.

She’s out the door before they finish the sentence.

When she gets there, she’s breathless and wild-eyed, speaking too quickly to the receptionist, switching between Spanish and English in a panicked frenzy. “She’s here? She’s okay? She’s okay?”

They direct her to the curtained-off bed where you’re half-sitting, half-slumped in a thin hospital gown with one wrist in a splint and your ankle elevated, bandaged up, probably broken.

You look up when she pulls the curtain back.

You don’t even have time to speak. She’s already there—at your side, kneeling down, hand on your thigh like she’s afraid to touch more.

“Qué te ha pasado, mi amor? What—what happened?” Her voice cracks. “You look—fuck, you look awful.”

You try to smile, weakly. “Hi.”

“Hi? That’s all you’ve got?”

“I told you not to follow me.”

She lets out a sound—part laugh, part cry. Her hands are shaking. “You broke your leg.”

“Hairline fracture,” you correct. “Cyclist.”

“Cyclist,” she repeats, like it personally offended her. “I should’ve been there.”

“You were mad at me.”

“I was mad,” she echoes, voice low. “But I still should’ve been there.”

You let that hang in the air a second. Then, quieter, “You still came.”

“I’ll always come.”

You look at her for a long time. Her eyes are red. Her hoodie’s inside out. She’s sitting on a hospital chair like she belongs there—like she has to be there or she might combust.

You sigh. “I don’t want to be angry anymore.”

She exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the phone call. “Me neither.”

You don’t go back to yours. She takes you home. Carries your bags and helps you up the stairs and tucks you in like you’re made of glass.

She presses a kiss to your grazed knuckles before she turns off the light. “I was so scared,” she whispers, like a confession.

“I know.”

She slides in beside you. Holds you like something precious.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #woso #woso x reader

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beetle-bun · 4 months ago

Text

Sampo doesn't know how he managed to fall asleep that night or remember even closing his eyes. One second He was staring at the ceiling, consumed by the dread pooling in his stomach and the impossible desire to keep Gepard safe and to himself as he listened to his quiet breathing in the other room, then he was jolted awake by a hand over his mouth.

Panic, raw and sour had him wide awake. He thrashes, trying to reach for his blades before realizing he’d taken off the holster and left it with his daggers on the floor by the door. (A mistake-- he never leaves himself unarmed. He’ll chastise himself for it later.) He throws his hands out and claws at the arm pinning him desperately, breathing heavily as he bites the hand over his mouth.

“Sampo!” Gepard’s voice is a harsh growl but he doesn’t get off of Sampo, smacking his thrashing hands away. “Stop. Stop!” He hisses it out, eyes wide and fierce with fear that doesn’t register in Sampo’s brain, clouded by the adrenaline in his blood and the feeling of being trapped. Gepard grunts, his knee pressing on Sampo’s sternum and the splints digging into his stomach.

“Sampo, please. Please. ” It’s a whispered yell, desperate. Gepard is breathing heavily, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. He keeps glancing up at the door; his shoulders are shaking. Sampo can feel his words on his face when Gepard looks down at him again, his nails digging into Sampo’s cheek. “Quiet, be quiet, Koski. It’s-- it’s…” Doctor, the problem's in my chest, Chapter 5 by @shoezuki I couldn't help myself but to draw another fanart for this epic fic, it ruined me so badly 😭 waiting for the next update more than anything

#artists on tumblr #gepard landau #doctor the problem's in my chest #sampo koski #sampard #gepo #honkai star rail #fan art

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pricetagged · 5 months ago

Note

MEDIEVAL SCAMMER GHOAP?! Please enlighten us🙏🙏🙏

Since you both asked so nicely, have a snippet of a whisp of a concept😅

I have an idea. Not fully fleshed out. I could go in two directions, either historical Ghoap working as Pardoners and taking advantage of ignorant village reader (corruption kink, religious themes, abuse of power etc.).

OR, for my monster-lovers, has anyone seen Dragonheart? I was picturing, like, one of them is something beastly, the other plays at knight = profit? Fantasy scam and rescue? So, it would go something like this:

(Tw kidnapping and kind of mean Ghoap)

---------

Your situation didn't look any better flipped on its head. Flipped on your head, rather. Snatched and thrown over a bulky shoulder, high– higher than even your standing position. It was discomfiting; it was terrifying. Blood rushed to your face not only in fury but also in shame as your skirts fluttered in the breeze.

He noticed, too. His greedy fingers dug into your thighs, skimming down like he was soothing a skittish horse. But you felt the way he lingered. The way he chuffed and squeezed tighter when you kicked out with all the strength of a skittish colt.

Your fists pounded uselessly against heavy splint-mail, hands-catching on rough nodules and spikes that didn't quite register as pain. Not to your panic-stricken mind, thoughts flying off in the wind behind you as the beast carried you off.

But the smack registered.

Perhaps it was the sound, the harsh slap of flesh on flesh. Whipping crack, like the snapping of a great branch. The precursor to an eerie stillness, violence begetting obmutescence. And it worked–

–for a second. For the time it took for your stinging nerves to catch up with your racing mind. Then you howled. Kicked and clawed and hissed like a feral cat as tears welled in your lash-line.

"How dare you–"

"Quit yer fashin'. Ye'll bring the whole kingsguard down this way–"

"–good–"

"–and then I'll have tae kill them all," That had your attention, legs tense under the heavy band of his bicep. "Dinnae much feel like sharin' ye around."

"Oh, you beast! You foul, vile, disgusting–" Your voice was high, words scratching as they hitched out of your aching throat.

It hurt to speak, vocal cords already shredded from the way you'd screamed when he'd first ransacked your village. Coughing on heavy, acrid smoke and crying futile warnings about the Black Knight and his monster-in-arms ('Quiet, girl. Viper-tonged harlot, slither off and for gods' sake, quiet!') . But it hurt more to be silent. You flung insults like broken arrows, hoping that they would somehow land. That they would hit, fortuitously, and pierce the thick-hide of this brute. But hope is vain, and the fancies of men make gods laugh.

You landed hard on something soft.

Ego almost as bruised as your knees, you kept your eyes low. Sweeping. Marshy, wet silt. Topsoil sluiced off, only mud and clay and reeds to your right. A cheerfully babbling brook just beyond, water murky and discoloured with backwash from– the water flowed past the estuary of the village so it must be– no–

The realisation was caustic. Mordant. Burning at you like the scorched air in your lungs.

"You're a monster," you spat the words, mouth watering in your haste to let ichor drip forth and blacken him as much as the foul, brackish water ahead.

"Noticed that, did ye," he laughed, words glancing off like feeble blows. "Best not tae piss me off, then. Stay there and behave yersel'. Company's comin'."

Glancing up at him was like a blow to the stomach, wind punched out and body shaking. You already knew that he was big, inhuman. But now you could see every inch; monstrous, twisted mockery of natural features. Like a man formed of rock, too immense and hard and jagged to pass for anything but artificial. Counterfeit. Contranatural. Creation's bastard. All tusks and teeth and shorn hair. Hair everywhere, even down his bare, bulging forearms and thick knuckles. Coarse, dark.

His eerie, bright blue eyes blazed around black, pupils wild and blown. It could be the thrill, cruel playfulness of an apex predator. Berserker-wide, coming down from the kill–

But he'd been carrying you for a while, bloodlust long-since sated on the men and manse of your homeland.

You shivered, sweat and cold mingling in a discomfiting damp that raised the hairs on your arms. (The hairs on the back of your neck were already needle-stiff and prickling).

You pocketed a stone, a big jagged filthy shard. One you hoped could bruise and slash and poison, turn wounds weeping and sick.

Now that you were silent, he seemed especially strident, swaggering around the barebones of what you supposed must be a dwelling. You felt the slight whistling of air from the cave behind, cavernous and black. If you had to run, to hide, you'd take your chances with the forest and river ahead. To be lost in the appetites of the mountain abyss would spell death as surely as at the hands of this creature.

You watched him, cocksure and comfortable as he shucked off his warhammer and began unbuckling his braces. If you could read the snarl of his crooked teeth, you'd perhaps say he was in high spirits. He sent you a wink as he shrugged off his splint-mail, gravelly laugh echoing in the cavern behind.

It disguised the approach of your visitor.

"Grabbed the wrong one, Johnny," you shrieked as something grabbed your forearm, hauling you up. Looking down you saw the muted sheen of a spiked gauntlet. Black patina, flaked in iron rust. You swallowed hard, lump in your throat so big that it caught any words that might try to escape. Him. The Black Knight. The Liar.

"Ye said to grab the pretty one by the fancy house."

"She's not the magistrate's daughter. No ransom for her." He spun you around, metal biting hard into your chin as he arched your face towards his.

Cloaked in ink-black helm and visor, you could just about peer in to meet his gaze. He looked back with cold, assessing eyes. The voice that rumbled forth was as harsh and breccial as you remembered, words rending you apart with serrated precision: "Not worth a rescue mission."

He released your chin with a final shake of your head, huffing amusement as you rubbed at the thin scratches he left behind.

It was hard to breathe now, stomach swirling and head-light. Even if you could will yourself, it wouldn’t help. There was already a faint coppery smell leeching from the Knight; your heart recognised it even if you would not give name to it. It sped up, fast enough to rush past your ears with discordant force.

You didn’t feel the other one step up behind you, not until it was too late. There, trapped between man and monster (man the monster), tight enough that you couldn't even shiver. You felt the power of the creature even more now without the armour, all muscle and fat, sheer power close enough to sink your fingers into. But you couldn't move, your shallow breaths already catching in your throat into soft, hitching whines.

"Shh, it's alright, bonnie," Rough, clumsy fingers swiped under your eyes. You felt him crouch lower, stubbly hair and tusks digging into your powder-soft cheek. "Looks like we're gonnae have tae keep you, then."

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

#i will work on my wips and the stuff from the poll!! this has just been sitting in my asks for a while #yeah idk i could do the pardoner one too but ive got soooo many wips (always) so here #ghoap #báirseach writes #báirseach rambles #ghoap/reader #ghoap x reader #ghost x reader #john mactavish x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley/reader/john mactavish #cod imagine #cod x reader #tw kidnapping

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tsunaso · 5 months ago

Text

"I'D LET THE WORLD BURN"

pairing. Obito Uchiha x Top!Missing-nin!male reader

synopsis. in where obito is saved but by the wrong hands. — 3.5k

warnings. mdni, nsfw, rough sex, amab reader, aged up obito (the kannabi bridge incident happens when he is 18), dead dove, gore, physical and emotional abuse, manipulation, toxic dependency, dubcon undertones, exploitation of trauma, dark themes.

The acrid scent of blood and burnt wood hung heavy in the air as M/n knelt by the crumpled body. The boy was a mess—his dark hair matted with dirt and blood, his skin bruised and pale.

One leg was crushed beneath the rubble, the jagged bone peaking out of the skin of whatever remained. The fleshy tethers barely holding together as the wound sluggishly oozed blood.

It was clear to M/n that he wouldn’t be able to save the leg.

The boy on the other hand barely clinging to life yet—he was still conscious. He was mouthing words that M/n couldn’t make out but they sounded like names–Rin, Kakashi, Sensei.

M/n wondered who these people were to the boy as he stabilized him and whisked him away.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

His body was betraying him—his ears rang, breathing felt like knives, and his body oddly enough, felt numb. Is this what it felt like to die?

No—not yet.

He promised them that he would catch up, that he would surpass Kakashi, so he can’t give up. But his body is betraying him—giving up.

His vision is becoming cloudy, when suddenly he feels relief. He sees the figure of a person and he can’t help but think that Rin and Kakashi had come back for him— they even brought sensei!

With that thought he completely falls into unconsciousness.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

When he awoke, it wasn’t the cold of death or the warmth of his team by his bedside that greeted him. Instead, it was the subtle chill, that flowed from a nearby open window.

A flickering fire cast shadows on the walls of the small cabin, its light catching on the smooth walls. He tried to sit up, but pain shot up through his chest and down to his leg, forcing him back down with a sharp gasp.

“Don’t move,” a voice said, calm but firm.

Obito’s gaze snapped to the source. A man knelt by his side, his face partially hidden by the shadows. His presence was commanding, the kind that demanded attention without needing to ask for it.

The man’s hands moved with practiced ease as he adjusted the bandages around Obito’s chest, his touch surprisingly gentle.

“You’re lucky I found you when I did,” the man continued, his tone almost conversational. “A few more minutes, and you’d have bled out in the mud. Hell of a way to go.”

“Who… who are you?” Obito rasped, his throat dry and voice barely audible.

The man paused, tilting a cup of cool water to Obito’s lips— he opened his mouth before he could even think of checking for poison, the water soothed his achingly dry throat.

His dark eyes met Obito’s as he put down the cup on a nearby dresser. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that made Obito’s stomach twist.

“Just someone passing through,” he said after a moment, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Call me M/n.”

“M/n…” Obito repeated, his voice cracking.

“Rest now,” M/n said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder when Obito tried to push himself up again. “You’re in no shape to do anything reckless. I’ve already stitched up that leg of yours, but if you move wrong, you’ll tear it open again.”

Obito’s gaze flicked to his leg, and his breath hitched at the sight of the crude splint and thick bandages wrapped around the stump where his lower leg used to be, it was gone from the mid-thigh. Panic clawed at his chest, his mind spinning as he remembered the boulder, the pain, the crushing weight that had pinned him—

“Hey.” M/n’s voice cut through the spiral, his hand gripping Obito’s shoulder more firmly. “Breathe. You’re alive. That’s all that matters right now.”

The words, though simple, anchored him. He inhaled shakily, forcing his mind to quiet, and nodded.

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Over the next few weeks, M/n tended to Obito’s injuries with a patience that bordered on tenderness.

He hunted, cooked, and even shared what little he had without complaint, though his sharp, calculating eyes always seemed to watch Obito too closely.

“You’re strong,” M/n said one evening, his voice breaking the quiet. He was crouched by a fire outside of the cabin, sharpening a blade as the light danced across his features. “Most people wouldn’t have survived what happened to you. But you did.”

Obito glanced at him, his expression guarded. He was still wary of this stranger, but he couldn’t deny that M/n had saved him. He owed him his life.

“I had to,” Obito muttered, his gaze falling to the fire. “Rin and Kakashi… they need me.”

M/n’s hand stilled, his blade catching the light as he looked at Obito. “Do they?”

Obito frowned, confusion flickering across his face. “Of course they do. They’re my teammates.”

M/n hummed thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the blade in his hands. “And where are they now?”

The question hit harder than Obito wanted to admit. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he looked away. “They probably think I’m dead.”

“Maybe,” M/n said softly, his voice almost pitying. “Or maybe they left you behind.”

Obito’s head snapped toward him, anger flashing in his dark eyes. “They wouldn’t—”

M/n raised a hand, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m not saying it’s true. I’m just saying you shouldn’t expect too much from people.”

His words lingered, settling over Obito like a shadow.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The day Obito could walk again, he ran. His leg ached with every step, the crude prosthetic M/n had fashioned was digging into his skin—which to M/n’s credit said he would make a better one, one that would connect to his chakra and fit better. But he didn’t care for that right now—he had to see Rin, had to let Kakashi know he was alive.

But when he found them, the sight that greeted him shattered what little was left of him.

Rin’s body crumpled beneath Kakashi’s Chidori, blood staining the ground as her lifeless eyes stared into nothingness. Kakashi fell to his knees beside her, his expression twisted with grief, but all Obito could see was the blood on his hands.

Something inside him snapped. He wanted to scream, to cry, to kill, but his body refused to move. The world blurred around him, and by the time he stumbled back to the cabin, his breath was ragged and his vision was swimming.

M/n was waiting for him.

“Obito,” he said, rising to his feet as the younger shinobi collapsed into his arms. “What happened?”

“They… she…” Obito’s voice broke as he buried his face in M/n’s chest, his fists clinging to the man’s shirt like a lifeline.

M/n’s arms wrapped around him, his grip firm but not unkind. “Shh,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over Obito’s hair. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m here.”

Obito’s shoulders shook as he wept, the grief and anger pouring out of him in waves. And through it all, M/n held him, his gaze dark and unreadable.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The days after Obito returned to M/n were a blur. He didn’t speak of what he saw—didn’t have the words to describe how Kakashi’s Chidori had ripped through Rin’s chest, how her blood had painted the earth. When M/n asked, his response was always the same: silence.

But M/n didn’t press him. He gave Obito space, kept his voice soft, his touch gentle, and waited.

It was on the seventh night, after another fitful sleep, that Obito finally broke.

The fire crackled between them, casting dancing shadows across the cabin walls. Obito sat hunched over, his face buried in his hands, his entire frame trembling with barely contained emotion.

“She’s dead,” he whispered finally, the words clawing their way out of his throat. “Rin’s dead. He… Kakashi… he killed her.”

M/n’s gaze sharpened, but his expression remained calm. He set down the blade he’d been sharpening and crossed the room to kneel in front of Obito.

“I see,” M/n said quietly, placing a firm hand on Obito’s shoulder. “So now you know.”

Obito’s bloodshot eyes lifted to meet M/n’s, confusion flickering across his face. “Know what?”

“That people betray you,” M/n said simply, his tone laced with pity. “The ones you love the most—they always do. Rin, Kakashi, your sensei—they all abandoned you when you needed them most. And now look at you.”

“That’s not true,” Obito muttered weakly, though the weight of M/n’s words pressed against him like a vice. “Rin didn’t… she didn’t abandon me.”

“Didn’t she?” M/n’s hand slid to the back of Obito’s neck, squeezing just enough to draw his attention fully. “You saw what she did, Obito. She chose to die. And Kakashi let her.”

“She didn’t want—”

“Then why didn’t she fight? Why didn’t she try to stay alive for you?” M/n’s voice hardened, though he kept his expression calm. “Because she didn’t believe in you, Obito. They didn’t believe in you. But I do.”

The words hung heavy in the air, sinking into the cracks of Obito’s broken resolve.

“I pulled you out of that wreckage. I saved you when no one else cared. Not Rin, not Kakashi, not anyone.” M/n leaned closer, his grip tightening slightly. “You only have me now. And I will never leave you. But you have to let go of them. Let go of the people who hurt you.”

Obito’s shoulders shook, his breath hitching as the first tears fell. And when M/n pulled him into his arms, cradling him like a fragile thing, he didn’t resist.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

It started as training.

At first, M/n’s methods seemed harsh but reasonable—he drilled Obito relentlessly, making him push past exhaustion, teaching him how to move with his new prosthetic.

The pain in his missing leg was unbearable some days, but M/n was always there, his voice unwavering: "Your pain is a gift. Learn from it."

Obito tried. He really did. But the grief still gnawed at him, slowing his movements, making him hesitate. He could still see Rin’s face, still hear Kakashi’s voice calling her name.

M/n saw it. He always saw it.

One evening, after Obito collapsed mid-exercise, chest heaving and body trembling, M/n’s patience snapped.

"You’re weak," M/n’s voice was cold as steel. "That’s why you couldn’t save her. That’s why they left you."

Obito flinched, his fingers clenching in the dirt beneath him. “I’m trying,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

"Not hard enough."

The kick came fast—M/n’s boot slammed into Obito’s ribs, sending him sprawling onto the ground. The air fled from his lungs in a choked gasp, pain searing through his body like fire. He curled in on himself instinctively, clutching his side.

His mind screamed at him to fight back, to retaliate—but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

M/n crouched down beside him, fingers gripping Obito’s chin, forcing his face upward. His dark eyes were unreadable, but there was something expectant in them. Waiting.

“Look at me,” M/n ordered.

Obito’s vision was blurred, pain radiating through his skull, but he obeyed.

The moment their gazes locked, a sharp snap rang through his head—a shift, a pull, like something deep inside him had finally woken up.

M/n’s expression changed slightly, his fingers tightening just a little. "Oh?"

Confused, Obito blinked, the world suddenly too sharp, too vivid, too clear. The flickering fire behind M/n cast shifting shadows across his face, the individual strands of his hair distinct in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

His breath hitched.

"The Sharingan," M/n murmured, a slow smirk curling his lips. "Three tomoe."

Obito didn’t understand at first. He blinked again, the clarity still there, still unnatural—and then realization hit him like a blade to the chest.

His Sharingan had fully matured.

The pain, the anger, the agony of loss—it had pushed him to this moment.

M/n had pushed him to this moment.

Obito shuddered, his lips parting as if to speak, but nothing came out. He felt sick, like something inside him had shifted permanently.

M/n’s thumb brushed over his split lip, smearing the blood there as if admiring it. "Now, do you see?"

Obito swallowed hard, his new vision locking onto M/n’s eyes.

"Pain makes you stronger," M/n murmured, almost reverently. He released Obito’s chin but didn’t move away. "You should be thanking me."

And Obito did.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

M/n hadn’t spoken in a while.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The only sound was the dull drip, drip of blood hitting the wooden floor. Obito’s blood.

He knelt, panting, sweat and crimson streaking his face. His body ached, the dull throb in his ribs reminding him of the blows he had taken. His Sharingan still spun wildly, his breath sharp and uneven.

He had failed. Again.

M/n leaned back against the wooden table, arms crossed. He was watching—always watching—but his expression gave away nothing.

Obito’s stomach twisted. He had learned to recognize that look.

"Disappointing," M/n finally murmured, shaking his head.

Shame burned through Obito’s chest like acid. His fingers twitched where they rested against the floor, curling into fists.

Not enough.

He was never enough.

“I…” Obito swallowed thickly. “I’ll do better.”

M/n exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Will you?”

“Yes.” His voice was desperate now, raw with something frantic. He lifted his head, looking up at M/n with pleading, bloodshot eyes. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

M/n tilted his head slightly, as if considering it. Then, after a long moment, he moved.

He crouched in front of Obito, reaching out. His fingers caught Obito’s chin, tilting his face up fully. The touch was softer than it should have been, considering the pain he had just inflicted.

"You still hesitate," M/n said quietly, his thumb grazing the sharp edge of Obito’s jaw.

Obito shivered beneath the touch, not out of fear—but something else.

M/n’s voice dropped lower, his words slow, deliberate. “You hold back because you’re still clinging to them.”

Obito's breath hitched.

Them.

Kakashi. Rin. Sensei. The ghosts of his past still clawed at him, whispering in the back of his mind.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to drown them out.

“I don’t—” he started, but M/n’s grip on his jaw tightened just enough to stop him.

“Lying doesn’t suit you, Obito.”

Obito opened his mouth—to argue, to deny—but the words died before they could form.

Because M/n was right.

There was still a part of him that ached when he thought of Rin’s smile. A part of him that still saw Kakashi standing over her body in his nightmares.

And M/n had no patience for hesitation.

A sharp sting lashed across his cheek—fast, precise, controlled. Obito’s head snapped to the side from the impact, a choked gasp escaping him.

M/n hadn’t hit him hard. Just enough to prove a point.

“You need to let them go,” M/n murmured, his hand cupping the cheek he had just struck. His touch was warm, careful, fingers brushing soothingly over the red mark.

Obito’s breath stuttered.

The contrast—the sharp bite of pain followed by this—it left him reeling. His mind struggled to reconcile the two, to make sense of it.

But M/n made it easy.

M/n was always there, guiding him, grounding him.

"Do you trust me?" M/n asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Obito nodded, without hesitation. "Yes."

M/n’s fingers trailed down, pressing against the frantic pulse at Obito’s throat. He smiled, satisfied.

"Then prove it."

Obito blinked. "How?"

M/n leaned in, his lips almost brushing against Obito’s ear. "You know how."

And he did.

Burn it all.

Konoha. The village that took everything from him. The village that let Rin die. The village that would never accept him now.

Obito trembled. The hesitation was there—a flicker, a ghost of something old and useless.

Then M/n’s fingers curled around the back of his neck, holding him steady. The touch was possessive, grounding.

"You belong to me, Obito. And I take care of what’s mine."

Something in him snapped.

Rin was dead. Kakashi had left him. Konoha had abandoned him.

M/n was the only one who had stayed.

He exhaled shakily, feeling the last pieces of his past fall away.

"You’re right." His voice was different now—colder. Certain.

M/n grinned. "Good boy."

Obito let out a shuddering breath. And for the first time in his life—he felt free.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Obito was on his hands and knees, his face pressed against the sheets, breath ragged, body trembling. His arms ached from holding himself up, but he didn’t dare collapse—not when M/n’s grip was so tight on his hips, bruising, possessive.

M/n was taking him apart.

Splitting him open. Stretching him too wide.

Each thrust was deep, unforgiving, his thick cock slamming into Obito’s abused hole, making his vision blur. The wet sounds of skin against skin filled the dimly lit cabin, mixed with Obito’s shaky moans and M/n’s amused chuckles and groans.

"Fuck, Obito," M/n groaned, dragging his nails down Obito’s back, leaving red lines behind. "You’re taking me so well."

Obito whimpered, his fingers clutching desperately at the sheets. His entire body was burning, a mix of lingering pain from training, exhaustion, and the unbearable pleasure coiling tight in his gut.

He shouldn’t love this.

He shouldn’t crave it.

But M/n had made him need it.

"M-M/n—" Obito gasped, his voice cracking as M/n suddenly thrust deeper, grinding against his sweet spot. His back arched sharply, his body betraying him, his walls squeezing around M/n’s thick length.

"What?" M/n taunted, fisting a hand in Obito’s sweat-damp hair, yanking his head back. He tilted Obito’s face just enough to see the tears clinging to his lashes. His smirk widened. "You crying for me?"

Obito bit his lip, choking down a whimper. He was so full, so overstimulated, so wrecked. His thighs shook from strain, but he didn’t want M/n to stop.

He needed it.

"Please—"

M/n’s grip tightened in his hair, forcing his head back further. His breath was hot against Obito’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.

"Please, what?"

Obito’s pride had long since shattered.

He didn’t care if he sounded desperate.

He didn’t care if he had to beg.

"Please fuck me harder—"

M/n groaned, slamming his hips forward in a bruising thrust. Obito let out a broken cry, his back arching beautifully beneath him.

"That’s more like it," M/n growled, setting a ruthless pace. Each thrust knocked the air out of Obito’s lungs, reducing him to whimpers and choked moans.

M/n was ruining him.

Breaking him in every way possible.

Obito’s dick dripped precum onto the sheets, untouched, twitching with every deep, brutal stroke into his puffy hole. He was so close, his entire body trembling, but M/n hadn’t given him permission yet.

"You wanna cum, don’t you?" M/n murmured, dragging his tongue along the shell of Obito’s ear.

Obito nodded frantically, his sore walls fluttering around M/n’s cock, sucking him in deeper.

"Then beg."

Obito didn’t hesitate.

"Please—fuck, please let me cum—"

M/n chuckled, his thrusts slowing, teasing. "So obedient now. What happened to all that defiance?"

Obito’s face flushed darker.

He was too far gone to fight back.

He was too addicted to M/n’s touch, to his praise, to the sharp edge of his cruelty.

"M/n—" he whimpered. "Please—need it, please—"

M/n hummed, pleased. His grip on Obito’s hips tightened as he slammed forward, hitting his prostate in brutal strokes.

"Cum for me."

Obito’s entire body seized up, his eyes rolling back as he came without a single touch. His cock throbbed, spilling hot streaks of cum onto the sheets, his walls clenching around M/n in desperate spasms.

M/n groaned, slamming into him a few more times before burying himself deep, spilling inside.

Obito shuddered violently, his body spent, legs weak and trembling.

But M/n didn’t let him collapse.

Instead, he pulled Obito up against his chest, his lips brushing against Obito’s sweat-damp temple.

"See how good you are for me?" he murmured, his fingers stroking Obito’s throat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin.

Obito whined softly, leaning into the touch, into the praise.

M/n smirked.

"Good boy."

And Obito let himself sink deeper into M/n’s arms—deeper into the devotion he could no longer escape.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Later that night, Obito knelt before M/n once more. His head resting against M/n’s lap.

The fire flickered between them, casting long shadows. M/n watched him with something unreadable in his gaze.

"What would you do for me, Obito?"

Obito didn’t even pause.

"Anything."

M/n smiled, reaching out to tilt his chin up. Their eyes met—Obito’s unwavering, the three tomoe in his Sharingan burning like embers.

"Then say it."

Obito closed his eyes and whispered:

"I’d let the world burn."

M/n’s smirk deepened. He leaned in, his lips barely brushing against Obito’s ear.

"Good boy."

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dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling · 4 months ago

Note

Doey, kissy and dog day with a player who has a broken arm from the train. The player while with a broken arm refuses rest and continues on like its not broken. Poppy also thinks it's not a big deal. Fueling players lack of self care. Somehow they carried dog day to safe haven.

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me :)

Doey, Kissy and Dogday & Player with a broken arm

Doey

★ Doey immediately notices the awkward way the player is holding their arm. He's concerned but decides to trust the Player's judgment for now. He can worry about you later.

★ When you get to Safe Haven, Doey points to your arm. "Looks like you've has a pretty bad fall, friend!" the Medic shifts his attention from Kissy to your arm. You wave him off "It's nothing, just a scratch."

★ He doesn't believe that in the slightest. Even though you have things to do, that injury will need to be addressed. Despite the Player's best efforts, it's obvious that you're in pain.

★ So, being the responsible person he is, Doey picks you up by your shoulders and carries you to the medic. Protest all you want, he's not letting you get out of it!

Kissy

★ She notices what happened to your arm as soon as you meet again. With concern for your well being, Kissy shakes her head and looks at Poppy, who seems more focused on her plan.

★ Even though she isn't exactly a doctor, she tries her best to remedy the situation. Her approach is to use a makeshift splint to keep the area from moving. Later, when she gets hurt, you take it off and give it to her.

★ When you finally give in and relax, she puts her good arm around your shoulders before leaning on your side. Congratulations, you're a pillow now! Can't go anywhere if she falls asleep on you. (She knows what she's doing)

Dogday

★ Dogday feels incredibly guilty for needing to be carried out of the Playhouse's prison. You struggle to stay up as the smiling critters follow behind you. Though, somehow you both made it out alive.

★ He argues with Poppy over her pushing you too much. Sure, you might be able to take it now. But what's the point if you end up dead? It's bound to happen if you aren't careful.

★ In the Safe Haven he asks you to rest with him and Kissy. Despite you clearly needing to take a break, you remain committed to the idea of continuing. Fortunately for both of you Doey steps in.

#doey #kissy #dogday #doey x player #doey x reader #kissy x reader #kissy x player #dogday x player #dogday x reader #poppy playtime x reader #poppy playtime fanfic #poppy playtime headcanon #ppt x reader #doey doughman #doey poppy playtime #kissy missy #kissy headcannons #kissy poppy playtime #ppt

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mobility-hdprosthetic-2024 · 9 months ago

Text

Post-Surgical Care with the Airplane Splint

The Airplane Splint is a vital orthopedic device used to immobilize and support the shoulder and arm in an abducted position, usually following surgery or injury. It is commonly applied in cases where controlled movement is necessary for optimal recovery, particularly in the rehabilitation of shoulder injuries. Below is a detailed overview of its purpose, design, applications, and benefits.

Key Features and Design:

Shoulder Abduction: The splint holds the shoulder in a specific abducted position (typically 90 degrees), keeping the arm away from the body.

Customizable Fit: The splint features adjustable straps and padded support to accommodate different body shapes and sizes. This allows for patient-specific positioning based on medical requirements.

Rigid Frame: Its sturdy structure ensures that the shoulder remains immobile while providing the necessary alignment for healing.

Comfort-Oriented: Modern designs include soft padding and lightweight materials, making it suitable for extended wear without causing discomfort.

Purpose and Function:

Post-Surgical Immobilization: The splint is primarily used after shoulder surgeries, such as rotator cuff repair, shoulder arthroplasty, or fracture fixation. It helps to prevent unnecessary movement that could disrupt the healing process.

Protection During Healing: The abducted position reduces strain on healing tissues, promoting a controlled environment where muscles, tendons, and ligaments can recover without excessive tension.

Alignment Maintenance: The splint ensures proper alignment of the shoulder joint, which is essential for preventing complications like frozen shoulder or joint contractures.

Clinical Applications:

Rotator Cuff Repair: After this procedure, the shoulder requires immobilization to avoid re-injury. The Airplane Splint keeps the shoulder in a safe, stable position.

Fracture Care: For fractures in or around the shoulder joint, this splint aids in immobilization, ensuring bones heal correctly and reducing the risk of improper fusion.

Brachial Plexus Injury: In cases where nerve damage affects shoulder movement, the splint can prevent further strain while the nerves regenerate.

Shoulder Dislocations: The splint helps in immobilizing the shoulder post-reduction, ensuring it stays in place as tissues heal.

Benefits for Rehabilitation:

Controlled Immobilization: The Airplane Splint provides the necessary immobilization without compromising the patient’s comfort, ensuring effective recovery while preventing complications.

Reduced Risk of Joint Stiffness: The abducted positioning helps in avoiding joint stiffness and preventing conditions like adhesive capsulitis (frozen shoulder).

Gradual Adjustment: As the patient progresses in their recovery, the splint can be adjusted to gradually introduce more movement, aiding in active rehabilitation and increasing range of motion.

Customization and Patient Comfort:

Adjustable Design: The splint can be modified for each patient’s needs, ensuring a precise fit and targeted support.

Long-Term Wear: Thanks to its padded, ergonomic design, patients can wear the splint for long periods without discomfort, reducing the risk of pressure sores or irritation.

Conclusion:

The Airplane Splint plays a crucial role in orthopedic care, particularly in post-operative recovery and shoulder injury rehabilitation. Its ability to immobilize the shoulder in a safe, controlled manner ensures optimal healing, while its adjustable design allows for a comfortable, customized fit. Whether for surgery recovery or injury management, the Airplane Splint is a key tool in ensuring patients regain mobility and function safely.

#Airplane Splint #Shoulder Immobilization #Orthopedic Splint #Post-Surgical Care

0 notes

bumblehoneybee · 2 months ago

Note

Idk if it counts as a request but I need DogDay snapping. Like this man deserves at least 1 (one) crashout at this point. Over Catnap, Angel, Poppy, anything. What we thinking, bee?

Crashout

WARNING: Chapter Four Ending Spoilers and some of my own flair on what happened afterwards, kinda depressing and defeated in vibe

"SHE RAN AWAY!" Dogday snarls. His hands shake, large fingers fumbling the bandages securing the splint to your leg. Pain swims through your head, bruised to hell from your fall. Dogday's yelling isn't helping the headache, but your tongue is too thick to tell him that right now. "Away from us! Away from him, sure, but from us! Leaving us behind!"

"She was scared." You murmur, rubbing at tired eyes. "She wasn't thinking straight."

"She wasn't thinking at all!" Dogday snaps at you. "She left us for dead, Angel. You, me, and Kissy!"

Kissy winces at her name, touching at the burnt patches of fur on her face. You touch her hand. She winces again and pulls it away from you.

"That whole mess with the Safe Haven was her fault too." Dogday grumbles. "We should've freed them. Should've taken them to the levels above! Got them out of there before blowing anything up."

"Dogday. . ."

He tenses, shoulders quivering, before they sink down with a slow sigh. "I know. . . None of us knew about Ollie, none of us knew the plan would fail like that, but. . . I dunno, I feel like we could've done more."

You coax him down enough to wrap an arm around his neck. Dogday sinks a little of his weight into you, careful of your battered body.

"Now we're stuck down here." He grumbles. You stroke his head, but he doesn't relax. "You're injured, I'm injured, Kissy's injured, and Huggy is out there trying to claw down a metal door with cloth hands just to sink his teeth into us."

"It's not ideal." You agree.

"It's bullshit." Dogday growls, but it dies away quickly. Silence settles over the three of you, somber, heavy, pregnant with words no one wants to say, but everyone knows. "Angel. . ."

"I know." You whisper, staring at a ceiling of earth and missing the sky. "I'm sorry."

"S'not your fault." Dogday sighs, settling down more as exhaustion sets in proper. "I think I always knew, even from the beginning, when you tore me off the wall and ran us out of the Playcare. . ."

He doesn't say anymore, he doesn't have to. As Kissy lies down beside you, the three of you settle into the reality that surrounds you on all sides.

You're going to die down here. And nobody will be able to stop it. Not when your luck ran out long ago, slipping through your fingers like wet clay and old stuffing.

#poppy playtime x reader #poppy’s playtime x reader #dogday x reader #dogday poppy playtime #dogday #chapter four spoilers #guess i'll still include it just to be courteous #i'm actually pretty sad about ollie being a traitor despite all he signs #i always loved him in those happily ever after fics as just a lost little boy who only knew the factory now discovering the world

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wayiiseetheworld · 1 month ago

Text

Sophie's Night

Summary: an incident during the night shift, Jack calls Robby

Warnings: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Night Shift Charge NurseOC, Violence Against Nurses, Age Gap Relationship, Established relationship by a few months Medical Inaccuracies, Set after 1.15

Word Count: 1,013

Author Note:. Part two coming. I am obsessed with Abbot, Robby, and The Pitt. Slowly going to post my stories from A03 on here. Rewatching ER and Animal Kingdom because of this show. Thank you so much for reading! || Not my gif.

A03 Link

While checking the vitals of a patient who was peacefully sleeping in bed, Sophie was unexpectedly attacked by the patient, who was intoxicated. She doesn't recall exactly how it happened; one moment she was calmly monitoring the patient's condition, adjusting his IV bag, and the next, she was pressed harshly against the wall, gasping for air. Her vision blurred, and her head throbbed fiercely from the sudden trauma. She felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her wrist from where the patient had grabbed her during the struggle.

The chaos seemed to blur together. Sophie vaguely recalled Jack pulling the intoxicated man away, his face tight with frustration and concern. She remembered Ellis’s quick reflexes as she helped her to her feet, guiding her away from the scene, while Jack’s commanding voice cut through the noise, urging the patient to calm down, calling for both security and restraints.

Sophie found herself lying on a hospital bed, her body trembling slightly from the adrenaline crash. Jack is by her side, his face etched with worry and a bit of guilt. “You have a concussion, Sophie,” he said firmly. As she opened her mouth to respond, Jack shot her a stern, warning look; knowing she would insist she was fine and ready to get back to work. He continued, his tone dropping into one of seriousness. “And your wrist is fractured. The man got you pretty well,” he said with a sigh, glancing at her injured limb. “I’m sorry I didn’t get there faster.”

Sophie made a face, trying to brush off the pain she was feeling. “It was an accident. I’m okay. I will heal,” she insisted, her voice stubborn but tinged with exhaustion and pain.

“You're off the rest of the night.” Jack tells her. “We are going to splint your wrist up. You can cast it in a few days.” He stands, “And when you were getting an xray, I went to check your emergency contact, you don’t have one. So, who can I call for you? Robby, maybe?”

Sophie bites her lip, thinking for a moment before nodding. “You don’t think he will mind right?”

“He’d be more than happy, too.” Jack tells her. It’s the truth.

++++ ++++ ++++ ++++

Robby enters the emergency department, wearing dark grey sweatpants and a loose pullover hoodie, his steps casual yet weary. Jack spots him approaching from the ambulance entrance, having chosen a discreet route to avoid the busy front lobby. Robby’s face bears the subtle signs of exhaustion, dark circles under his eyes and a slight slump in his shoulders, but Jack understands all too well; it’s well past one in the morning, and Jack woke him up from a deep sleep.

“What room is she in?” Robby asks, his voice tense with worry. “What the hell happened?”

“Room ten,” Jack replies, walking alongside Robby as they make their way down the hall. “She’s got a concussion, some bruising on her neck, and a fractured wrist. But overall, she’s going to be okay. She was going to argue about going back to work. I put her wrist in a splint, gave her some pain medication, and an IV as she was dehydrated. It could have been much worse, she was only pinned for a few minutes before we managed to get to her. By the way, do you know that Sophie doesn’t have an emergency contact listed?”

Robby knocks on the door. “Well, we will change that Monday.” He hears Jack say he’ll be at the hub if he needs anything. He steps in, to see Sophie awake in the bed, when a silly small smile appears on her face when he walks in, it pulls at his heart strings. He moves to the side of the bed where her good hand is. He bends over, pressing a small kiss to her forehead. “Hi, sunshine.”

Sophie's eyes softened, a small, genuine smile gracing her lips despite the pain. "Hi," she whispered back, her voice a little weak, tired. The nickname, "sunshine," felt warm and comforting coming from his lips. Coming from Robby’s lips, it felt like home.

Robby pulled up a chair beside her, his eyes carefully examining her injuries—the splint on her wrist, the faint bruising along her neck. Concern creased his brow as he looked at her. “Jack told me what happened. How are you really feeling? No, I mean, really feeling?”

Sophie hesitated, then exhaled shakily. “Sore. Shaken up. My head’s pounding, but I’ll recover. It’s part of the job, right? Not the first time I have gotten hurt, won’t be the last you know.”

Robby reached out, taking her uninjured hand in his, his touch gentle and reassuring. “It’s not ‘just part of the job,’ Sophie. You were attacked.” His voice carried a quiet but intense sincerity that made her heart flutter.

“I know,” she admitted softly, her gaze meeting his. “It was so sudden. One moment, he was sleeping and then….” Her voice trailed off. She shook her head gently. “I don’t wanna talk about it. Jack called you to bring me home, right?”

“Well, with a concussion, you shouldn’t be home alone,” Robby says softly, his tone gentle but sincere. “How do you feel about coming to my place? I’ve got the next two days off, and I can look after you.” His eyes search hers. “I’d really like to take care of you.”

Sophie’s lips part slightly, and her voice is barely more than a whisper when she responds. “You wanna take care of me?” The words hang in the air, fragile and hesitant, as if she’s trying to process the vulnerability of the moment.

“Yes, Sophie.” Robby says softly. “Of course, I wanna take care of you.”

“Noone’s ever wanted to take care of me before.” Sophie whispers. She takes her good hand to wipe the tears away from her eyes.

Robby gives her a soft smile before leaning in and kissing her lips softly. “I’m going to get your discharge orders, and the stuff out of her locker then we will head out, okay?”

She nods. “Okay.”

#Michael Robinavitch Fanfiction #Michael Robinavitch Fanfic #Dr Robby Fanfiction #Dr Robby Fanfic #The Pitt Fanfiction #The Pitt Fanfic #Dr Robby x OC #Michael Robinavitch x OC #robby x oc

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