#the inspiration skin care clinic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nvuy · 4 months

Text

oh, the eldritch horror! — scar

summary. venturing out in the woods to clear your head was supposed to be relaxing, so why is this twisted abominable nightmare of a beast growling in your face?

notes. i rewatched shrek because i was bored and i snatched the donkey & dragon scene right out of it. but like, instead of a dragon, it’s literally baphomet. does this count as monsterfucking bc idkkk… anyway yeah it’s like scar but his goat form. i thought it would be funny. this is just painfully self indulgent.

idk wtf is going on in wuwa but my brain shut down when this loser came on screen and started ranting about shepherds and sheep. whatever you say beautiful.

warnings. scar, very minimal crack (it’s inspired by shrek. idk what to say bro…)

This has to be the worst day of your life.

The creature snaps its drooling jaw in your face.

It looks like a goat from Hell. Like a black sheep that’s wandered from its herd. You can’t see much of its face, but the ginormous pair of curled horns are sharp at the edges. The cartilage could easily slit your throat in half if you were to make one wrong move and lean in too close.

Four yellow beady eyes glare at you, way too close to your face. You can see your warped reflection along rectangular pupils. Giant ears peeled back towards its skull, pierced with two matching golden earrings in the shape of crosses that are the size of your hands.

You laugh nervously in its face.

Oh, god, it’s going to eat you alive. You know it.

You try to take a step back, but you’re met with the roots of a tree at your feet and the trunk digging harshly into your back.

Bad idea. Oh, this was all a bad idea. The bad luck streak should’ve been an indicator right from this morning: you slept through your alarm and were subsequently late for work, you fell over twice at work, you lost your house keys, and then you decided to clear your head and go for a walk.

You ended up venturing off deeper into the trees to search for herbs to help back at the clinic in Jinzhou. You don’t even know which direction the city is anymore.

And now, there’s a creature—and it can’t be a Tacet Discord—growling and snapping its teeth in your face. It’s huge. It’s way too big to be absorbed, let alone actually taken down with brute force. Whacking it with a stick certainly didn’t help.

All that did was manage to slash a decent gash into one of its hind legs and anger it even further.

It snarls at you.

A bead of sweat rolls down your temple.

Uh oh.

“Oh, what large teeth you have!” Your voice comes out shaky, and you’re trembling as you stare up at it.

A low guttural noise escapes from the depths of its throat, and its jaw unhinges.

Your eyes pinch shut. “I-I mean, white, sparkling, teeth!” You let out a nervous huff of laughter, your words almost incoherent. “I know you probably hear this all the time from your food, but, you must take really good care of those pearly whites, ‘cause that is one dazzling smile you’ve got there!”

The creature’s slitted eyes narrow in suspicion. Its jaw snaps closed as it pulls only a few inches away from your burning skin.

You quickly wipe your sweaty palms on your hands.

You clear your throat. “I’m so grateful that your beautiful smile will be the last thing I ever see. Y’know… when you eat me… ‘cause I’m sure you must be hungry!” You prattle on and on, and your knees are weak and wobbly. “Not that you have to eat me. I’d prefer if you didn’t, but– yeah! So grateful!”

You were praying to whatever Gods could hear you that your mindless babbling saved your life. Or some superhero came through and took this thing down in one swing.

The giant creature seems to preen at your words. Its sharp teeth retreat behind a now closed mouth. Its horn suddenly don’t appear as sharp as they were before, and the curl of them against the creature’s skull look softer and more defined. They were different to the ghastly sharp edges you saw before.

Your legs can’t keep still. Your hands interlock in front of you to try and quell the shaking. Your bones feel like they’re vibrating beneath your skin.

You try to control your breathing. “Beautiful hair–fur, by the way.” You raise a finger to point at the greyish locks behind its horns. For such a mangy beast, its hair looked a bit silky. Maybe unwashed, and it was full of twigs, but slightly soft. “And I smell a hint of berry…” Lie. “…Did you… wash it?”

Stupid question.

You try to control your breathing.

Maybe the beast isn’t a beast. Maybe it’s a nice creature cursed with being ugly.

The creature is still eyeing you.

Can it understand you? Or is it trying to survey whether you’re a threat or not? You can’t tell. You heard somewhere that dogs don't like when people look them in the eyes. You didn’t even know if that was true.

The correlation is stupid, regardless. This beast is far from even remotely resembling the canis genus.

Its head is huge, even when its jaw is shut. Its nostrils are the size of your hand, and it breathes puffs of hot air in your face. You reel back further into the tree. Your stomach drops impossibly lower than it already has. Your skin is soaked in sweat.

The creature bumps its nose against your sternum and inhales sharply.

You glance to the left.

Is it… smelling you? Is it trying to figure out if you’re edible? Oh, Gods, then you’re embarrassing stalling would have been for nothing. What a day. As if it couldn’t get any worse than it already had been.

You can't outrun it. It’s huge. By the time you’ve sprinted ten feet away it can simply lean over and pluck you by the back of your collar and pop you into its mouth.

Your insides churn at the thought. You were afraid you’d hunch over and vomit out of fear on the creature’s face.

Bad plan? Maybe then it wouldn’t eat you, at least. Or maybe it would. You were afraid to take the chances, and swallow the bile rising up your throat.

Its oddly bent arms smash into the dirt on either side of you. A low garble echoes in its throat and bubbles with saliva.

It sounds like a croak of sorts.

The lamb creature bumps its sharp snout into your stomach. Those beady eyes blink—you notice it has vertical eyelids. Gross. It’s like a giant lizard, almost.

Its teeth are gone for the moment, though, so it offers you a moment of reprieve. Or maybe it’s trying to calm you down so your blood tastes sweeter, or something. Sweat continues to roll down your neck, and you swallow the giant lump in your throat.

The red sashes of the torn clothes on its back pull with its form, ripping at the seams even more.

Your eyes flit nervously to the wound on its leg. It’s a small smear of crimson against grey fur, barely noticeable, and you’re sure the creature can’t even feel the sudden pain from it anymore. It seems to be walking fine, and it does not exhibit any discomfort when it shifts its weight to each hoof.

You wince when you spot the gnarly gash you left on it.

The lump in your throat doesn’t dislodge.

You try to ignore it.

The creature’s long neck pulls into view again. It’s watching you silently.

You figure if it wanted to eat you, it would have done so already. Hopefully you seemed inedible to it. Maybe it was an omnivore or something—but those sharp teeth were definitely not just for chewing on leaves and berries in the wild.

Morphed fingers dig deeper into the dirt beside your feet.

You stare into its eyes.

Its still eyeing you.

Huh.

It’s… curious. It blinks slowly, one eye at a time, as you slowly, and so slowly, slower than you’ve ever moved in your life, raise your hands.

Then, you navigate around its giant leg beside you and step towards the gash on its hind leg. Your foot tramples onto a twig and it snaps loudly. The creature watches you with lidded eyes, but there’s a flash of teeth in warning. You gulp.

You kneel before its wounded leg and pull your satchel from around your waist.

The creature does nothing. Its teeth disappear behind its mouth again.

“Sorry,” you whisper with a wince. You hope it can understand you’re not a threat. Maybe it’s scared of you. Wouldn’t that be a spectacle? A giant predator, some eldritch abomination in the middle of the woods, scared of a little flesh bag. “Um… I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was just scared, y’see?”

You had meant to hurt it, but you’d spit little white lies if they saved your life.

The creature blinks creepily again. That uneven slow blink, like a frog.

You’re more disturbed than anything. You’re amazed that ginormous tongue locked behind its teeth hasn’t come forth to lick its sclera wet yet. Then you’d be more convinced.

You try not to let it show. “But, um…” You dig around in your satchel before you pull out a small glass vial. “I have something that might help.” The vial is made of a crystal glass with a cork in the rim. The liquid inside is a deep blue, like the blueberries growing on the nearby bushes, or like thick ink.

The creature lowers its great head down towards the bottle.

It stares at your hands expectantly before trying to sniff around the glass.

Hesitantly, you remove the cork and hold the rim closer to one of its nostrils. It most certainly doesn't smell good; it’s made up of a mixture of herbs and alcohol, but you know for a fact it does a damn good job at shielding wounds from infection. It was fool-proof medicine; you made it. And you don’t settle for less than perfection.

The creature seems displeased with the scent for it seems to flinch away from the rim. It does not swat the medicine, but it turns its head away.

It looks grumpy.

“It might help the bleeding.” It will help the bleeding. You know it will. It will heal the entire wound. But, you didn’t come here to gloat, so you keep your lips zipped shut. “It’ll sting, though.”

The creature makes a noise. It does not sound like a warning, nor an acceptance of your words. It’s simply an acknowledgement, like a toneless hum, but you also don’t speak eldritch lamb, so you could be far from the truth. For all you knew, it was hyping itself up to open its mouth around your head or take off into the trees.

Alas, it does neither of those things.

It sits back on its hind legs despite its wound and then falls into the grass.

Its eyes shut and it stills.

You blink in wonder.

Did it… die?

Nope. It’s still breathing. Its nostrils flare with every breath. There’s a giant pitiful feeling of disappointment, but at the same time, a smaller pang of relief in your stomach.

Your hand reaches out to touch the tender and raw skin around its wound.

The creature remains still. Maybe it’s sleeping. It did chase you around the forest for a good long while.

You hum. It’s like a giant dog, you think. Like a scary, huge, dog.

You take loose cloth from your satchel and dab the medicine generously into the cotton until it soaks it thoroughly. You don’t have anything to properly clean the wound with, but it will have to do. You do have a wrap of bandages, though, and it’s better than nothing.

Gingerly, you press the soaked cloth to the tip of the wound.

The creature blinks its eyes open and snarls.

You try again in the spot next to it, gently pulling any flecks of dirt you see from the gash.

It hisses then, low and horrible, and you flinch away. It watches you cautiously, hind leg pulled towards itself protectively.

“I just need to clean it,” you say desperately. You know there’s a pleaful gleam in your eyes.

The beast tilts its great head towards you before it snorts and rests down on the grass again.

When you press the cloth back to its wound, it makes a noise, but it does flinch.

So, you work gently. Slowly, like you’re treading through thick murky waters. It feels that way. The creature puffs annoyed noises through its nose, but you dutifully ignore it, watching the shimmer of the medicine in the evening sunlight to make sure it was spread evenly over the gash.

When you’re satisfied, you take its giant hoof in your lap and wrap the bandages around its leg. The size of its calf takes up almost all of the roll, but you make it work, tucking the ends into the wrap. The creature does not deter away from the treatment.

You hope it isn’t too tight.

It’ll give the beast another good reason to close its jaw around your head.

The creature blinks its gross eyes open again, those rectangular pupils drawing thinner. It’s surveying the bandaging like it’s foreign; it probably is, given the creature has probably never received treatment in its life. You notice the ghastly scars drawn over its face.

Still, you’re frightened. The noises that pour from its throat are guttural and flagrant. It’s still huge, even as it lays in the grass. When it raises its head, it’s still taller than you.

You feel a drop of sweat slip down your spine.

It probably hasn’t eaten you because you smell unappetising. You’re thankful, internally.

You stay knelt in the grass, dirt staining your pants as you watch the creature warily.

Then, it coos. It’s snout bumps into your stomach and it coos. You flinch away from the noise, hands raised near your head defensively. Why is it cooing? Does it like you? That’s better than hating you, at least. The creature huffs and puffs against your stomach, and washes of hot air waver over your sweaty face.

You shakily rest a palm on the top of its snout, mindful of the deep scars.

The creature only stares blankly.

Huh. “You’re not so bad.” You swallow nervously. “You’re sort of like a giant puppy.”

The creature lets off a low garble. It sounds innocent, like a passing noise of pleasantries. Like it’s enjoying your attention.

Your hand smooths over the strange fur. It’s coarse between your fingers, withered with age and scars, but it still somehow retains a slight softness. It’s nice. It smells suspiciously like livestock, but that’s better than smelling of blood and sinew.

The creature drowns in the feeling of your hand against its head. The gold earrings are cold against your skin.

Then, it reels back.

You almost jump when its mouth moves towards your face before a long and slimy tongue drags up your cheek. You almost gag as saliva drips from your skin, but you try not to let it show. You shiver instead, mostly out of disgust.

The creature seems pleased though.

You’re glad to be of service. And to still be alive.

Nice puppy.

You try to ignore the slime stuck to your skin as you thumb over the creature’s horns. They’re enormous, much larger than the width of your arm, but the cartilage is so delicate, and you notice chips in the black curls.

It bumps its nose into your sternum and makes a noise.

When you say nothing, it makes the same noise, but it’s drawn out and higher, more irritated. Petrified, you stumble back slightly. You have a clear shot of running now. There’s no trees trapping you with this thing. You could try and make a beeline towards where you think Jinzhou is.

The creature stares expectantly. There’s a slow kiss of a blink, and hot puffs of air fan over your face and send jitters down your spine.

“I don’t– um…” You try to settle your trembling. “I’m not understanding–”

The great creature lets out a frustrated huff, and lowers its head towards you. You think not to place your sweaty palm on its snout for pets again. It doesn’t seem to warrant them at that moment, either.

It’s getting dark now, and you’re growing nervous again. Does it grow violent in the night? Is it warning you? Oh, God, maybe it’s going to pounce.

A cloying scent fills your nose. Your eyes refocus from the tears that melt along your bottom lashes.

You watch, mortified, as the creature warps.

Those giant hooves shrink in size, followed by an engorging shadow of smoke and red dust like sand. It burns your eyes and floods your lungs wrong, and you cough, fanning your face desperately. It stinks. It smells like metals and burnt soil. This mustn’t be good for your health, inhaling all this stuff.

The creature horns curl smaller until they disappear. You can’t see much of it, but what you can see is almost disturbing. It looks painful. The silhouette of the great beast continues to shrink, and those beautiful tresses of white and grey hair curl along what can be assumed to be a more normal looking face.

Its silhouette vaguely resembles a human, but there’s much too little to see you’re not quite sure. Black ripples down those long arms and pulls away the fur covering them.

There’s the snapping and straightening of bones. You almost puke at the sound. You force yourself to look away. Sweat pools in your throat like an oasis.

When you find the courage to glance back, the shadows then peel away from the inky red fog and dust.

You gulp.

It’s a man.

It’s the beast, and you know it is because the scars on the creature’s head match the lines and pulls of his skin. He’s devoid of fur now, and his hair is dramatically shorter, small curls imitating those giant black horns twisting around the now fleshy lobes of his ears and his neck.

His clothes are the same. Ruined and tattered, but still that red coat. His shirt is caked in dirt and his pants are torn where the gash is. It’s still covered by the rolls of bandages.

He is on his hands and knees in the grass. He looks exhausted, like he’s trying to recover from the most painful transformation you’ve ever witnessed in your life.

“Um…” It’s the only thing that can seem to form coherently from your mouth.

A grin cracks onto the man’s face. “Hi.”

You nod slowly in a greeting.

Your spine snaps rod straight in fright.

The man stands to his feet slowly. His bones crack and continue snapping as he moves, and he lets off an annoyed sigh before he stretches and pulls knots from his joints.

Then, he suddenly looks alive. “That’s better. God, have you ever been trapped in your own body?” You briskly shake your head, to which he scoffs playfully and continues, “‘course you haven’t! Silly me.”

“Are you–” You feel stupid for asking, but there’s something forcing you to say it. “Are you a Tacet Discord?”

The man’s face morphs to answer your question. “Do I look like a Tacet Discord?”

Well. He did. About five minutes ago. It takes effort not to respond with irked quips, eyes flitting towards your satchel that’s still resting by his feet where you had left it.

He notices you staring at it and kneels down to pick it up. The thin strap you swing around your body is pulled over one of his fingers like the bag is a foreign object entirely.

You figure he might try and rummage inside. He won’t find much if he plans to rob you.

Instead, his eyes narrow playfully at you. “You are so interesting.” He grips the strap of your bag tight and takes one calculative step forward. “Usually, humans bore me. They’re all cut from the same meat platter, after all.

“But, you…” A pleased, airy little giggle escapes his throat. “Oh, I like you.”

Oh, this is very bad.

That smile on his face says it all.

Very, very bad.

You sucked up way too much to the beast.

You’re in for it now.

You laugh awkwardly in return. You’re not flattered in the slightest.

You hoped the world ended at that very moment. That would fix the problem.

You clear your throat quickly. “I appreciate you not eating me, sir. Really, I do! But I need to get going now. It’s getting dark, y’see, and… and it’s not safe for me to be walking around in the dark…” You’re stalling again. It worked the first time. You hope it works here again.

That doesn’t appear to be the case.

The man watches you closely.

“C-could I have my bag back?” You curse yourself for letting the waver in your voice slip. It sounds hopeless.

As expected, he only snorts. “Nope.” He swings it over his shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere just yet.”

You really need your stuff.

Your feet remain planted into the floor.

He’s scary. His smile isn’t normal. The scars pulling around his eyes make it so much worse, too.

His head tilts curiously to the side. He’s walking right towards you now. His eyes rapidly move from your face down to your legs, surveying every inch of you he could.

You want to fall through the floor and disappear.

“What’s your name, little lamb?”

Your heart spikes in your chest. He’ll follow you right back to the city, you know it. You can see it in his eyes, and his expression—where’s that stick to swat him off? Your eyes frantically search the ground as you move for some sort of branch to stave him off.

Your hands raise in front of you to keep him away, but of course your little frail body isn’t going to deter him in the slightest.

If anything, he only coos again.

You tell him your name reluctantly when your foot stumbles over a stray root. You don’t topple over. You can’t imagine what would happen to you if you had to start crawling away from him.

He repeats it once.

Then, his grin softens. “I like it.” It looks relatively normal now, like he’s not about to dig his teeth into your flesh. They’ve straightened up from how sharp they were prior, but you’re sure those canines could do enough damage. “I like you. You’re so nice. So small. So silly.”

You swallow hard.

He says nothing else.

Your brows knit together in worry. “What’s your name?”

His eyes flit down to himself as if he’s wracking his brain to remember. Then, he says, “Scar.”

Underwhelming. It’s like calling a kitten ‘Cat.’ You don’t voice your disappointment. At least his name is simple, and easy to remember.

Your eyes swarm to his bandaged leg.

He’s not even limping. The gash seems like nothing but a fleeting thought.

The man, Scar, hums thoughtfully, a nail pointed onto his cheek. “It’s not everyday you find a little white lamb away from its flock. It would be unwise to give you up to the other creatures in the forest.”

You swallow whatever courage you have left in your bones. “I don’t need protection, but thank you.”

He can keep your satchel. You are out of here.

You turn away from him this time and continue walking forward.

“Oh, but didn’t you just say it’s not safe for you to be out here in the dark?” His words taper off into a chuckle. His smile twists into something grotesque again. His arms are pulled open into some sort of mocking await of an embrace. “Come, little one. I promise I am gentle.”

You don’t believe him.

You’re sweating again. Hot ash clings into your lungs. You stifle the urge to choke on your spit in fear.

Your head turns back to watch him, suddenly alarmed. Gooseflesh raises on your arms.

Stupid.

Your foot catches onto a thick protruding root in the dirt again, but this time you do stumble to the floor. Your head smashes against the ground but you can’t pay it too much mind. You’re panicked, and ice rushes through your veins like blood.

You push yourself up instantly, but he’s quicker, and a foot stamps down onto your calf. It doesn’t hurt, no, but it’s firm enough to keep you there.

His knees hit the dirt on either side of your legs and you’re cornered. You try to sit up to the best of your ability, but he tuts as if he’s reprimanding a child. “Now, now. You’ve hit your head. You could be seriously hurt, y’know?”

“‘M fine!” You push on his chest when he leans down far too close to inspect you. “Get off!”

There’s no physical damage except for a small welt. You feel dizzy, but that’s to be expected.

There’s something alight in his eyes.

Excitement.

This is a game to him.

Scar lets you sit up, though he’s still very much straddling your lap.

That same wobbly grin pulls onto his lips.

Oh, gross. You should never have treated his wounds. Now he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing that matters to him. You’ve caused some great beast to grow delusional because you wanted to be nice.

You’re never stopping to help lonely animals in the forest ever again.

You swear you see hearts bubble and pop from his head when he blinks at you. He hums a small giggle before his arms wrap around your neck and draw his chest into yours.

He squeezes you tight and you buzz with the excitement that radiates off his skin in heat waves. More and more hearts float from his head, and you’re sure his pupils are a shape to match.

“I want to keep you.”

He squishes his cheek against yours.

“Uh…” What the hell else do you say? Especially to this thing that’s swamped over you like a giant teddy bear. You can’t even breathe.

“So small. Are humans usually this tiny? And you’re so warm–”

You claw at his arms. His grip loosens over your neck.

He doesn’t look the slightest bit apologetic. Instead, he looks intrigued and experimentally squeezes around your throat again. “Oh. I always forget just how fragile humans are.”

You sigh in defeat.

Oh, boy.

This is going to be a long night.

#wuthering waves x reader #wuwa x reader #wuwa scar #wuthering waves scar #wuwa scar x reader #scar x reader #✦ ( the macrocosmos. )

1K notes · View notes

slowd1ving · 2 months

Note

Hiiiii can u write Kim Dokja x Goth!Male!reader this sponsor constellation is Apollo and The reader is a simp for Dokja ( I love this man )

LOVE LIKE BLOOD ・゜゜KIM DOKJA

“The life is short, and I’m running faster all the time, Strength and beauty destined to decay, So cut the rose in full bloom.” By chance you meet him, by chance you become his friend, by chance you stay by his side; until it cannot be called fickle, capricious chance any longer, but an example of the inevitable law of universal attraction between two starving masses. art by @ 1L9l2Aa8UCL0IGJ (blackbox) on x! also thank you anon this ask was so big brained I yapped on for like 5k words (very sorry if you wanted headcanon/drabble form I got the most profound inspiration for this at like 3am :3) also damn you have no idea how many song titles I was perusing trying to find a suitable one for this... pairing: kim dokja + male goth reader warnings: pretty graphic metaphors, child abandonment/implied parental death, child neglect + abuse, alcohol, smoking, depression + bullying, hurt/comfort, injury, violence (as it's orv), does 10+ year long pining and oddly tense homoeroticism need a warning, anon I hope you ENJOY reading because I enjoyed writing wc: 5.6k (YAP because i love this silly man, I've never written so much for a request before lmao)

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Fundamentally, you and him are the same.

There’s a sense of loss that’s too heavy for either of your bodies to comprehend. Rather than a heart, there’s a black hole right where the organ lies; so greedy, so hungry for acknowledgement. Born blue into this world—deprived of oxygen yet wailing, screaming for your voice to be heard—it’s little wonder you’ve always been avaricious for the love your parents could never give. The hands cradling the babe were never loving; they were clinical, they were covered in sterile blue gloves and they smelled only of caustic antiseptic. There was no kiss on your slimy, puckered forehead. There was only the sting of alcoholic sanitiser.

Kim Dokja is similar, yet his parents wouldn’t (rather than couldn’t, for in your embittered mind the two concepts were so different as to be alien) spare him scraps of care. Rather than press a kiss to their son’s awaiting cheek, only bruises blossomed where the love should’ve been. No flowers were given for Children’s Day—only oily blood spilling and macerating against his chubby hands as a last, vibrant gift for their son.

These two black holes sputtered on their axes while they spun round each other: gluttonous, esurient for care that didn’t come with bruises and wailing grief.

Seoul had been unusually cold; blue afternoons spanned across the school rooftops. They were frigid and foggy—perfect for avoiding detection. Thus, the boy without kisses (only contused skin) encountered another like him on the rooftop that day. Against the haze, your own cigarette smoke had dulled the edges of what he saw—a boy canted against the railing with rippling earphones and a head tilted so far back he could taste the polluted mist.

A merger had occurred.

And though neither of you said it, there was an unspoken recognition of each other’s greed in that moment. Your eyes, ghosting over his injuries while the heavy bass played and the prussic wisps trailed around him: deep reverberations sounding a bit too like his careening heartbeat—as he made sure no one had followed him up here, that he was safe. And his umbrous eyes—honed in on the cigarette wedged between your lips, now stained black from the gloss decorating your humourless smile.

Maybe it was just that inherent feeling of kinship that came with avariciousness: a snarling sort of camaraderie that snagged at your skin with its claws. The wounds left behind were tender, but tender was precisely the adjective you were looking for—as was he.

And so, Kim Dokja found himself coming to this particular rooftop the next day. When his breathing came ragged and his vision began to swim, he instinctively sought the numbness the frigid azurine firmament would bring. Like a wounded animal, he sought safety. Flight over fight—a lesson he’d learnt too late. Bruised fists would never save him.

There you sat—eyes closed and lips still glossed in modest black. There were silver rings on your hands; rings he’d seen flashing before his eyes before he was hit, that those people no longer sported. Quietly, he matched up the scrapes on your own knuckles to the ones decorating their faces: to their unusual sullenness today. They’d furtively sequestered themselves in a club room all break, touching their swollen lips and eyes with bruised fists. Bruised fists. Like trophies, the achromatic metal glinted against the cobalt haze, and for once, his heart didn’t skip any beats at the sight of the gleaming metal. Neither did you acknowledge his presence nor their sins, but still, he sat on the same bench you were sprawled upon: hugging his bag to his chest while he scrolled the hallowed pixels of Ways of Survival.

There was no grand exchange of words, no heartfelt conversations between Kim Dokja and the boy with a messed-up uniform.

This was how tentative company was kept for a fragile week.

Tuesday was the day that fragility finally shattered. He still remembers every detail about it—down to the particular cigarette brand you’d purchased that morning, down to the chips in your dark nail polish, down to just how many rings you’d worn on your left hand (three—it was three rings). Tears had spilled down his cheeks that afternoon; they warped and distorted the words that had saved him thus far, evoked from the pain in his purple ribs and his empty stomach. Somehow, the salt he’d kept tightly bound had been coaxed by your cold presence—perhaps, knowing your indifference made it easier to cry pathetically in front of you.

You still didn’t speak, but you did hand him a tissue. You still didn’t speak, but you did press your shoulder to his own trembling one: smelling of caustic smoke, and something rich and sweet lingering beneath the plumes. You still didn’t speak, but your rings clinked on your left hand as you unhooked the earbud in your pierced ear and offered it to him: fingers brushed against his palm as he was forcibly shocked out of crying any further, like a blubbering child faced with such a conundrum that their little brains focused entirely on that rather than the reason for their tears.

Melancholy had streamed out of the device. Doleful chords twined against threnetic voices—which he could not translate nor understand but could feel in pulsing waves.

In that short whorl in the great machine of time, in the chill of the blue hour, he could not help but feel warm.

And thus, that Tuesday changed the trajectory of this merger somewhat. A deafening hum had finally blossomed from the gargantuan event; your presence could no longer be described as distant.

When he went to class the next day, you were in the seat next to him: a mirage brought on by his lack of food, no doubt. He limped to his desk, but there your corporeal form remained: this time with silver chains lining the base of your throat and a dry, sharp grin decorating your face. Sure, he knew there was a student that never showed up in his class, but he wasn’t expecting it to be you: your name now a permanent fixture in his mind.

There was a new name for this phenomenon: friendship.

The boy, with the pensive music and trophies stolen from Dokja’s tormentors, smiled up at the reader staring at him. It was an inviting gesture: the proverbial hand reaching out, the hand which he took.

You weren’t a particularly talkative friend at first: preferring to simply share your music rather than speak much. That was fine with him—it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to reading alone. Then, you started bringing boxes of food alongside your cigarettes: containers that lacked the refinement of store bought meals. One for you, and one sheepishly thrust out to him with a smile bright as burst yolk and as messy as it too. Consequently, he returned a wobbly, unsure smile back at you—not mentioning that the vegetables were slightly burnt, slightly too salty. But that was fine. The more lunches you brought, the more skilled your hands became—until he never felt truly full unless he was eating what you gave him.

In return, he cracked open his soul: pried its rusted walls with bleeding fingernails in a gesture never before seen, not since his childhood when he still knew what hope meant. Dokja for once didn’t blubber apologies and pleas for mercy—but became a teenager rather than a groveller. He complained about teachers, he discussed Ways of Survival at length (noting how you listened even when you showed no particular interest in reading it), he finally developed his own, modest aspirations for his own life. Lying in his bed in his lonely apartament, it suddenly didn’t feel so claustrophobic (yet somehow far too big for one) when you were there with your shoulder just brushing his own.

You were not as cold as you seemed: though this was always obvious from that fateful Tuesday. You made fun of and empathised with the eternal regressor; you diligently stood at his half-broken stove frying meat and vegetables; and you talked at length about whatever band you were currently into—“I’ll take you to one of their concerts when we’re older,” leaving your lips, for your dense black-hole hearts did not conceptualise a future where the other was not present. He saw your loneliness—heard the rumours of you bouncing around from orphanage to orphanage, roaming the streets and working nights rather than return to that boreal home.

So, more nights than not, he woke up from his nightmares to see you sleeping on the small couch in his home—legs just about peeking over the armrest, for your avarice didn’t only cover the abstract but the heaps of food you swiped from the canteen (and over the past two years he’d known you, you got your growth spurt far more obviously than he had). It partly contributed to almost skittish aversion his tormentors had of him—one you never did acknowledge, and so he learnt quickly to not mention it either. In this way, he too never mentioned why he invited you to sleep over more nights than not. And so, neither of your selfish hearts ever spoke a word of pity, but rather conveyed an unspoken understanding that bound the two of you in this merger.

This routine continued.

He enlisted after graduating from the local university, and so did you—suffering the eighteen months of hazing with the smoke lingering on your skin and that same, humourless smile he first saw on your face. Frigid mornings turned his own lips as blue as the sky, yet he found it was harder to feel the chill when he saw you. Just like back then, you wore the same smile that brimmed with such colour it was practically incandescent with its heat.

Two outcasts. It was hilariously terrible. Two outcasts, still sharing a pair of earbuds that had seen better days—blaring out the dolorous music that had grown on him, that described this situation perfectly. Stars were strewn in the fabric enveloped around you: memories that would continue to shine even after the world slowly marched towards its apocalypse.

In that cramped bunkroom, it had been just like school—blue nights with the moon just barely peeking through the window, with your leg still hanging off the side of the bunk and within his field of vision. And he still found the steady rise and fall of your breathing far more comforting than any white noise: like a guard dog, almost, you still shielded him by his proximity to you throughout the brutal eighteen months of mandated service.

Adulthood had crept up unbidden. In his single-room apartment, he sat on his couch with your legs sprawled just as lazy as they had been eight years prior. Though, your appearance certainly had changed—beneath the loose material of your tank top, he could see the ink seeping and decorating your skin. He’d gone with you to the underground artists right after the discharge: worriedly biting his lip while you simply grinned at him as if there wasn’t a needle pressing into you. And despite his initial concern, he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away—sneaking glances even as he browsed through job sites since the winding patterns under the fabric and silver jewellery was oddly entrancing to the eye.

In the end, he applied to the same company you had done on a whim: Minosoft, where you carefully wiped off the black residue on your lips and the smudged pencil round your eyes. You still shared your earbud with him on the subway (though you’d sent him your playlist aeons ago), you still smoked the same brand you did eight years ago, you still occasionally put on those rings you’d kept as prized trophies, you still made two sets of lunches for work. You still listened over drinks while hammered Dokja updated you on the latest update of Ways of Survival. You still angled your body just so, so that you would bear the brunt of Han Myungoh’s scolding rather than him.

You hadn’t changed.

But in some ways, he could no longer see the same boyish guy who’d awkwardly offered him his earbuds nine years ago. The look in your eyes was far more intense, the messy smiles splitting your cheeks were sharper, more overwhelming, and there was no longer any clumsiness in your movements from your sudden growth spurt from years prior. Even the very hand that occasionally clasped his shoulder, even the legs that you still casually flung over his on his beaten old couch, were far more scorching than he remembered.

You had changed.

And in the end, it was him who was left behind.

Eternal loser, Kim Dokja.

Though, he could never find fault with you for that. Not when you leaned over the tangle of limbs on his couch, not when he caught the thread of oud lingering beneath the smoke on your throat, and not when you thrust your phone screen at his face with that stupidly boyish grin that only peeked out when you brimmed with excitement—with a “look, I finally got us tickets for this festival!”. And he knew at that moment that you weren’t leaving him behind: stretching out your rough palm just like you had more than a decade ago.

He let you tousle his hair to give it more spikes. He let you dress him up in your clothes—they sat too large on his frame, but he found himself unconsciously burying his body in the fabric that smelled like your laundry. He let you slip your rings onto his fingers: slender digits jolting at the sensation of the cool metal and the action itself.

Finally, he let you rub your dark pencil on his lashline—lids fluttering up at yours while he did his best to not avert his stare. His gaze traced the bold lines of your brows and eyes, and finally onto the dark stain on your lips as you bit them in concentration. “There,” you’d murmured, gently grasping his chin. “That looks pretty.”

And just like the loser he was, he felt his chest tighten at the casual compliment, for seemingly no reason.

Over the din of the hall, he could barely hear the ebb and flow of music. Goth chords jostled him, weaving past the throes of post-punk and metal as band after band took the stage. In this crush of people, he was more focused on how your index finger threaded through his left-most belt loop; linking the two of you just enough that he wouldn’t get thrown into the mosh pit. No doubt the buzz of cheap liquor contributed to his distracted train of thoughts—he never was the best at handling alcohol. His hazy gaze distorted his view of your side profile; in the dim lights, obviously the wide smile (yolk-like, as was your grin years back) couldn’t possibly be that bright.

It was at this moment that sentimentality got to him. He was thankful that his friend had stuck by his side for so long: gazing so softly at your happy expression he was unaware of his look himself.

This was the night before the apocalypse began.

When the crowds trickled out, when the reverb of bass still played through the club, you hugged him tight for coming with you. Outcast with the outcast, you’d thought introspectively. There were cheap spirits clouding your mind that night—a hangover would surely strike you come morning—which was why you weren’t as reserved as you usually were. As you leaned down to press the man into your arms, your lips had brushed past his cheek accidentally, and you could feel the black hole in the centre of your chest constrict.

Profanities had whirled through your mind when the dark smudge remained on his cheek, and especially so as he made no move to wipe the umbrous gloss off on the subway back. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed—not with the flush on his cheeks from the alcohol in his system. There was a terrible, discordant crescendo to your pulse as you gazed at him. The gloss, from where it smeared slightly past the boundaries of your lips, burned your skin. But you made no moves to wipe the corners either—for this night only, there was something linking Kim Dokja to you.

Thus, for the first time since he was a mere babe cradled in his mother’s arms, there was a kiss planted on his cheek that wasn’t from a fist. An accidental one, but one that could not be considered devoid of affection. And though neither of you remembered it after the hazy stupor faded, it did not change the fact that it happened nonetheless.

A small snippet of joy in the bleak landscape. A caesura found within the long, winding elegy of this world. A reprieve before tragedy.

It was a fitting conclusion for the night before the end.

✦ . 　⁺

[The free service has now been terminated.]

Back in the carriage, wedged between Yoo Sangah and Kim Dokja, the two of you had shared a glance confirming the unspoken truth. Minds intrinsically linked together—he did not need to speak for you to understand his thoughts immediately. And Yoo Sangah had recognised this—as did she remember the devoted gleam in your eyes whenever you spoke to or of the man seated adjacent to you. Yet ultimately, her lips would remain closed.

When the scenarios began, it was Kim Dokja’s turn to repay you. He would be your shield moving forward—protecting your messy smile even as the world burned away. He vowed this to himself, and though the promise was heard only by him, it did not change the fact that the constellations watching him and his companions could see the oath brimming from him as he put you first.

[Almighty Sun has sponsored you.]

Even when Apollo chose you as his incarnation, even when you were just as capable as you had been before the cataclysm occurred—he could not help but feel his fists clench as you put yourself in danger.

“Hold on,” you’d murmured, rings flashing as you’d caught his wrist in your firm grasp. Even with his coins improving his stats, he still felt so much weaker than you—still the boy who ran to the rooftops while your fists bruised against the faces of those who tormented him.

Had your touch always been so scalding?

Privately, he thought Apollo had chosen the right person—smile bright as the sun, skilled fingers deft enough to play the electric guitar you’d bought on a whim, presence practically a healing balm for his soul.

“You’re injured, Dokja-ya.” And the words had made him shiver as the syllables ghosted over his flesh—your face was too close to his chest where he’d been slashed by a monster, while the affectionate tone added to his name made this situation far worse than it was. Secluded like this, in an abandoned corner of the station, it was easy to misread the situation; this was the only reason his face flushed red. His friend was far too close. When those aforementioned fingertips brushed over the wound—just grazing the wounded flesh—he jolted. From the pain, of course.

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire has sponsored 200 coins.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire would like to see more action.]

“Steady.” You eased him against a pillar while ignoring the message—ignoring how your pulse was now leaden in your mouth, how the golden gleam stitching flesh back together seemed far more shaky than usual. Though, you couldn’t ignore the pain you felt as you saw the rise and fall of his torso grow shallow; you were useless when it counted—arrows meeting their target far too late.

“Dokja-ya,” you breathed, sweeping the hair that plastered to his clammy forehead. He didn’t meet your eyes, and the heavy feeling in your chest grew more burdensome. He was supposed to tell you what was wrong; as his best friend, you duly heard his complaints and dealt with them where you could. More often than not, you could intuitively tell what bothered him; much like you had from the very first day you saw him all those years ago. And as time passed, the object of your adoration only grew easier to read.

But he was never avoidant like this.

What happened? As you watched him leave with heavy steps and not a glance spared back, you could feel the crushing weight of the sky drop back down on your shoulders. Fuck. Burying your face in your hands, you barely registered the message that popped up.

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire expresses her sympathy.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire says she knows how the two of you can make up.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire sponsors 69 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun tells the Demon-like Judge of Fire to not be stingy.]

[The Almighty Sun sponsors 6969 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun empathises with a lover’s quarrel.]

“Shut up,” you seethed, and the bad mood carried on late into the night. It was obvious to anyone with eyes; the conjured lamps lining the perimeter of camp had seethed with you. Gold had been interspersed with bleeding red—crackling like true fire, though it was anything but. Even the tattoos that lined your skin had begun eroding into ember-like patterns, as though lava was breaking through the dermis of your skin.

Unsurprisingly, it was Yoo Sangah that had approached first: past the harsh glow of your lamps, gracefully weaving through the brightness with the light steps that belied her nebula. She’d taken a glance at the incandescent splintering of your body, your hands furiously working away at the guitar plugged into your practically-bulletproof earphones, and finally the imposing frame of Yoo Joonghyuk only a few metres away as he stood guard tonight.

But when you paused, when you hastily yanked the buds from your ears, she could also see the wobble in your lip. The furrow in your brows wasn’t angry, it was anguished, while the fearsome glare in your eyes contained only pain. If she was being honest, it was hard to approach you at work and even nowadays—with ease, you picked off enemies from a distance and your longbow conveniently morphed into two curved daggers when it came down to it. You were a maelstrom with the capacity to take lives—stained with blood as you bared your proverbial teeth at any threats to Dokja. But it was precisely that that allowed her to see your stupidly blind adoration of this man.

(“Your devotion will only hurt you,” she says, as if that will dissuade you. You’ll take whatever feeling he gives you: greedily swallowing each and every morsel of emotion. Tender is your heart, but tender is good. It means you aren’t going mad over the situation you’re in.

“Yoo Sangah, I appreciate the advice,” you reply politely—you do respect her, after all. “But I do not mind that.”)

Yoo Joonghyuk had bemusedly watched as she left: staring the the dim red tattoos strewn across your body as if they could possibly help him decipher the fool in front of him. His Sage’s Eye flashed as golden as your lamps for a brief moment—detecting that your statement had, in fact, been true.

Fool, he’d said as your hands flew over the fretboard once more. Fool, as you disappeared up the stairs to the rooftop. Fool, when your lips had pressed together tightly against one another.

You did mind, even when you thought it was the unequivocal truth that you didn’t.

Maybe it was futile to even think it, but he thought that idiot didn’t deserve the long-standing care in your hands, and the veneration in the timbres of your voice. It was pointless to get attached to someone like that—especially when the end of the world was upon you.

But you wouldn’t know that, since you could not read his mind. But you wouldn’t know that, since he would never explicitly say it. But you wouldn’t know that, since you’d long-since accepted your self-torture as perfectly and utterly a part of what came with knowing Kim Dokja for as long as you did.

The rooftop was like all other rooftops. Similar. The same. Azurine fog was at your fingertips: just like that day all those years ago. Except this time, Kim Dokja was not in your sights, and you were left alone with wisps of smoke trailing from your lips and no other company save the glowing stick in your fingers. Just like it had been; before you met the boy with a heart as greedy and all-consuming as yours. Before the merger between two black holes occurred. Before he ran up to the rooftops with bruises on his face and placed new stars in the endless vacuum of your universe.

There was no charge in your phone, but the song that played that day still rested heavy in your neurons as you sprawled out on the bench. Mindlessly, you summoned the lyre-turned-guitar: doleful chords germinated, flourished and withered away once more under distressed fingertips. It was a night between scenarios; another caesura in this ceaseless tragedy. Though those days were filled with an empty stomach and an endless struggle, they were your halcyon days.

Just like that time almost twelve years back, it was a blue Monday once more.

Just like that time almost twelve years back, you didn’t hear the heavy run of footsteps through the heavy burr of music.

Just like that time almost twelve years back, Kim Dokja’s black hole heart pulsed with each discordant twang of chords—though this time the link was acutely clear to him.

The boy who once tasted the mist and tilted his body into oblivion was no longer there: replaced by a man who’d faithfully stayed by him for more than a decade. Though you hadn’t changed, not at all; not when he could still see the rings you took off his bullies, gracing your fingers just as they had back then. A trophy, dedicated to his protection. When his plans involved his sacrifice, you were the first to reach him. Your face was the first he saw, tears brimming from your lash line. For despite how you’d grown into your looks, you wore your emotions clear on your face. Your heart had been taken from the cavity in your chest and replaced with a dense core that greedily always wanted; yet it had been sewn messily onto your sleeve rather than discarded.

Kim Dokja suddenly remembered another interlude. A club, where the amorphous ebb and flow of bodies could not sweep him away from your side—since you kept him there, treasured his presence enough that you hooked your finger firmly into his belt loop and rooted him there. An anchor: you’ve always been the rock beneath his shaky feet, after all. He remembered that, and not the endless churn of music that made your face glow with happiness.

(A black smear of gloss left on his cheek. His hands, carefully wiping eye pencil away yet not touching the remnants of your lips—not until it smudged away on its own, forgotten for all of time but this day.)

A sun of his own. The reader trod his slow orbit around you long before he could conceptualise the gravity that drew two masses towards each other. Newton’s theory of universal gravitation be damned; you were the only centre of the universe, the only body that ever existed to draw others towards your brilliant light.

His eyes flickered over the smoke in your lips: the dim embers of a glow from the lines in your skin made it seem as though you were alight yourself. Instinctively, physically, he was compelled towards the patterns just like he had been all those years ago: your music, your stupid piercings and your stupid discussions about bands and the stupid way you listened attentively to his yapping about Ways of Survival. Stupid, because why did you do that? Why did you convince him to make a shrine for you in his heart? Stupid, because why is it only now that he can see what exactly lays atop the stone altar?

“Kim Dokja,” you spoke through your plumes, formal in the way he knew you spoke when you were upset and trying to keep it together. He swallowed, and he could feel the same pitter-patter of his pulse as he did all those years ago—heartbeat colliding loudly in his ear drums while he steps towards you, unsure. You didn’t let up with the strum of strings: electric in the drizzle of rain and wind and cold Seoul air.

For once, he was the one looking down at your impassive face. He was the one brushing his fingers through your hair, he was the one whose hands made themselves comfortable on shoulders—for it’s always been you wrapped around him, you whose legs wedge on top of his domestically on his shitty couch in his shitty studio flat.

“It’s Dokja-ya,” he corrected: tongue thick and leaden. It constricted his larynx and made his cadence oh so small at this moment. Tentative. Because he was your close friend and you his. He was the one who knows all your expressions—even the ones you deliberately tried to hide from everyone. He was the one who’s been with you the longest: always staring up at the muscle of your back while you act as his shield. He was the one who’s been blind.

Your fingers halted against the strings and the instrument dissolved into the wind; the concert for two had reached its conclusion, just like it had all those months ago. For despite being packed full of people, the club only ever had two people in it for him.

Lazily, those same hands that have bruised for him—but somehow had a touch that was far more painful than any torment that was physically inflicted on him—wrapped round his own that rested neatly on your shoulders.

“Dokja-ya,” you answered, and the axis the world tilted on is finally righted. This man, Dokja thought—and his umbrous eyes traced down the warm lines of your face, stopping on your lips. Bittersweet.

“Don’t leave me,” he all but begged—voice only a whisper. Don’t die on me, the black hole wanted to say instead; selfishly wishing for you to always be by his side so he doesn’t see you depart this world first. That would end him more than anything else.

“I can’t leave you,” you murmured, and oh, the hand brushing his tear-stained cheek suddenly made more sense. “Dokja-ya, I should be telling you that.”

He pressed his face into your warm palm—scorching even with the boreal damp settling over his skin. There was something twisted within him that revels in your admission: that you, too, feared him abandoning you just as he feared you leaving him behind.

“Idiot.” And he twined his fingers in yours, seeing the surprise on your face bloom—for he’s already established that you’re ever so easy to read. Idiot, because it’s ludicrous to even think that he’d ever willingly walk away from you like that.

“You’re the idiot,” you whispered as your phantasmal hand ghosted from his cheek to his collar, yanking him so he fell onto the firm sprawl of your legs—in a way he’s never felt. So warm, he thought through the haze as he straddled your languid body—fit so right against you that there was none of the tension nor the anticipation that he might’ve felt. His hands splayed out onto your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart, tracing the glowing lines he adored on your body.

So warm, he thought as your hands gently cupped his face—for you’ve never been anything but soft with this stupid man perched on your lap.

So warm, as your lips met his and he melted into your body. He could taste the acrid smoke on your tongue, but he could also taste the food you’d prepared earlier for him, and the traces of whiskey you’d scavenged. All traces of you; his insatiable heart could not help but want to merge into you.

So warm, as your tongue melded against his and he could feel the seam of his mouth against yours grow ever more ragged and messy. His hands desperately curled into your shirt, and he could feel your palms pressing harshly against his waist and canting his torso into yours more—something which his avaricious heart eagerly swallowed.

On a blue Monday just like this one, two boys met for the first time once more on a rooftop just like this one.

Again. Like and like created a merger for the second time, or perhaps it was already the third. Or fourth. Or the thousand-eight-hundred-and-sixty-third time this has happened—over and over and over and over.

Fate has a funny way of bringing people together, or maybe it’s just the intrinsic law of gravitation that binds two black holes in a binary system.

Blue Monday. What a silly notion, when the man beneath Kim Dokja is as warm as the brilliant sun.

✦ . 　⁺

Fellas is it gay to pine after your best friend for over ten years and have oddly homoerotic moments with them

✦ . 　⁺

EXTRAS

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire returns from her work and asks what she missed.]

[The Almighty Sun keeps his lips shut.]

[The Abyssal Flame Black Dragon stays silent.]

[The Prisoner of the Golden Headband, perhaps not fearing his imminent hair loss, opens his mouth.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire promptly goes catatonic and explodes.]

141 notes · View notes

steviewashere · 7 months

Text

In the Fire of the Sun

Rating: General CW: A dementia fic, that's as much of a warning as I'll offer Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Future Fic, Wedding Anniversary, Steve Harrington Has Dementia, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Falling in Love Over and Over Again, Yearning, Pining, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Inspired by The Notebook (2004)

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is a fire that never goes out." (in the most metaphorical sense possible)

💕—————💕

Eddie shuffles through the carpeted hallway of this center once more. He comes in right as it opens for visiting hours. Eight in the morning, sharp. Every single day. And has been doing so for the last few years.

Why?

Simple. Steve’s there.

Has been, actually, for the same amount of time Eddie’s been visiting. They’re both in their late seventies now. Time has treated them nearly equal. Aching limbs. Wrinkled and spotted skin. Grey hair. Crows feet. Though, time gave Steve one extra thing that Eddie will fight God about.

Dementia.

It’s ravaging him little by little. And Eddie bears witness. Began with the minor forgetting, always soothed by words and gentle touches, the praise. And then it was bigger things. Confusion and getting lost and mood swings that were almost unmanageable. It all felt so rapid, even if it was slow. But Eddie was there. For every moment of it. And still is there, just…Not in the same house anymore.

He hates coming through the center, though. It’s so clinical and sterile and depressing. Well, technically it isn’t. The rooms are done all nice, filled with furniture and soft blankets and beautiful fake plants that Steve can water if he feels the need to. But it’s not their house, which was painted by the people they love, filled with knick knacks of their lives, photos of their child and their grandchildren and all their friends. Though, Eddie supposes he shouldn’t complain, if Steve is mostly comfortable here. There’s a few things for Steve to interact with, hobby wise. A piano, some knitting circles, board games, but mostly music. It’s nearly poetic, to Eddie, that music is what dementia patients seems to cling onto the longest. It’s especially poetic considering Steve fell in love with a musician.

Sometimes, while Eddie is here, he’ll play music for everybody. The nurses and doctors and patients alike. Still able to share his gift, even in the face of something so…not dark, exactly, but challenging. Because any moment with Steve is pleasant—even if he doesn’t remember most of the time.

Eddie gets his visitor badge. A little sticker for his shirt. He’s taken up to Steve’s room and waits in the doorway for permission to go in. It could be a bad day, but based on the soft smile received from the nurse, it’s one of the better days. Meaning, Steve’s less irritable, still long term forgetful, but lovely.

Steve looks over to him. The hazel eyes that Eddie fell in love with nearly sixty years ago, soft and glistening. His forehead prominently wrinkled. Hair thin, but mostly there, a light silvery grey. He’s got better hair than Eddie—that can be admitted, his hair is just like Wayne’s now, gone with the wind. At least time hasn’t taken Steve’s beauty.

“Hello,” Steve greets, polite and sweet. His voice is slightly garbled, deep and velvety.

“Hello,” Eddie parrots. He holds out his right palm for Steve to take. Smiles softly when he does so. “I’m Edward,” he introduces, “though you can call me Eddie.” He taps his sticker. Loves the way Steve’s eyes still track his every movement, even with something so simple and mundane. The nurse hangs by Steve’s shoulder, nodding at Eddie when they lock eyes. Eddie smiles bigger at Steve, letting their hands drop. His palm tingles from Steve’s ever glowing warmth. “You must be the Steven Harrington I’m always hearing about,” he says.

Steve visibly grimaces, which is a good sign. A great thing. He groans. “That tastes awful in my mouth,” he states. “Though I can’t—How come that tastes bad?” He looks over to his nurse, but doesn’t get an answer.

“Oh,” Eddie mutters. “I’ve heard some people call you Steve, does that sound okay? Shorten your name like mine?”

He nods. Relaxing. “That sounds great.” Steve smiles. And Eddie is like a sunflower in the face of the sun. Yearning to reach out, to touch, to feel and hold. But he knows that he can’t, or at least shouldn’t. “So…Eddie, you’re a visitor?” His finger taps on Eddie’s chest, on the white word: VISITOR. Eddie blossoms. “You came to visit me, I’m assuming. What are we going to do today?”

Eddie bites back his grin. Steve’s finger is still on his chest. He wonders if Steve even remembers putting it there, part of him hopes that he’s doing it on purpose. He hums, thinking. Though he’s got planned, “We’re going to take a walk outside, if that’s okay. I brought some music for us to listen to while we look around. It’s a pretty day outside, a little chilly, but the sun is bright out there. What do you think?”

“I like that,” Steve enthusiastically says. Which makes the good day even better. “Though I don’t know who you are, you have really good ideas. You seem like a really nice guy.”

“Y’know, I’ve heard that before. From somebody you might know,” Eddie says, offering out his hooked arm. Almost dances in place when Steve wraps their arms together. “He’s a good guy, too. Really good looking. Very kind. Think you’d like him.”

“You should bring him with next time,” Steve says. They make their way down to the front doors of the center. Arm in arm.

“Maybe I will,” Eddie says, even though the guy is already there. “I will if it’s a good day.”

The day really is beautiful. Leaves littering the ground, browns and dark greens, many of them bright yellow. A good color. Everything is just…good. There’s a little concrete path on the side of the center. Nestled really nice to a small creek. It’s quiet.

Steve is a comfortable weight at his side. They step in tandem. Feet matching each other. Eddie makes them stop at the end of the path, walking out to a grassy clearing, standing out watching the subtle ripples in the creek.

“It’s pretty,” Steve murmurs. “Reminds me of fish. For some odd reason.”

“Mm,” Eddie hums. “Makes me think of fish, too, funny enough. The guy I told you about?” Steve nods beside him. The slow up and down bobbing of his heavy head. He’s still got glasses after all these years, they’re kind of crooked. Eddie itches to fix them. But Steve stares ahead of himself, at the water, a little crinkle between his eyebrows. An instinct in Eddie says, Soothe. But knows he shouldn’t. Knows he can’t kiss that away, not anymore. He takes a deep breath to reground himself. “Well,” he begins. “That guy is my husband. Or…No, he still is. He really likes to go on adventures. Loves doing things in silence. And when my dad—“ He means uncle, but that doesn’t matter. “—when my dad was still alive, we’d go out and fish. My husband and I, we’re too old to fish comfortably now, but he was always better than me. Earned him my dad’s respect, tell you that.”

“Your husband sounds fun,” Steve says, smiling with it. “Y’know, I have this friend—“ Eddie perks up at this. Usually, there’s nobody that Steve talks about. But if he’s willing. “—She has a wife. I don’t remember much about her, but I’ve heard she’s sweet.”

Robin, Eddie knows. Of course. He can’t wait to go home and call Robin to tell her all about this. “I’ll have to meet them some time.” He moves his palm from where it hangs loose at their hooked arms, brings it up slowly, and settles it on Steve’s bicep, squeezing. Steve doesn’t move away, thankfully. “Do you want to listen to some music?”

“Sure,” Steve mutters. “I just hope you have good taste.”

Oh I have the worst, Eddie thinks, you’ve told me that before. He walks them over to a nearby bench, still staring out at the water. It’s glistening ripples, the few birds that swoop down to rest, some stray leaves. Pulls out his phone, looks at their playlists he’s left the same over the years. Finds Steve’s. And clicks shuffle. “I think you’ll like this one, actually,” he says.

The first song to play is Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are”, their wedding song.

Beside him, Steve hums, settling back into the bench. His eyes are closed peacefully. A small smile to his lips. Face soft in the glow of the sun. Eddie is a sunflower, a sunflower, a sunflower. He aches so bad to trace his fingertip down the bridge of Steve’s nose, on the curve of his lower lip, to kiss him and dance with him and hold him like there’s no tomorrow. Like there’s no tomorrow where he comes back, a stranger.

“I’ve heard this before,” Steve whispers. His eyebrows furrow. He’s still smiling, but he’s focusing somewhere on something. And Eddie wants to comb his fingers through Steve’s brain, pet over the diseased areas, pat the memories, nestle the good that Steve remembers. “I see a face in my head,” he says. Asks, “Can I tell you what I see?”

“Sure,” Eddie whispers as soft as possible. “Tell me all about this face.”

Again, Steve settles. Shimmying further into the bench, taking Eddie with him. They lean back. Like sitting on their couch, watching reruns, eating Chinese takeout, gossiping about their neighbors, gazing at their daughter painting messy pictures of their love—pink and yellow splatters on the coffee table. (Eddie thinks about how those dried paint stains never left. How he never cleaned them. How Steve never complained. He’ll go home tonight and look at them. He will weep.)

“It’s a man,” Steve starts. “He’s white. Clean shaven. Got this bulbous nose and pretty pink lips. Kind of pouting,” he murmurs, chuckling to himself. Eddie snorts beside him. His eyes burn a little. “Dark, dark brown hair. Wavy around his face, kind of frizzy. But it looks like it’s been styled back into a bun, his bangs curled inwards.” Steve takes a deep breath, sighing dreamily. “His eyes…Wow, Eddie. These eyes are probably my favorite thing I’ve ever seen. So deep, big, almost like a deer. They’re shiny with tears. But he smiles at me, I’m warm.”

Eddie squeezes at Steve’s bicep again. He takes a stuttering breath. “The way you describe him…He sounds like a—“

“A painting,” Steve finishes. “He says something to me. Calls me Stevie. Calls me baby. That…I like that.” His eyes flutter open. And he swings his head to the right, looking directly into Eddie’s. “I like that, but there’s also a number there.”

“What’s that?” Eddie kindly asks.

“Fifty. I don’t really know why—Hey, wait a minute,” Steve rushes. He sits forward slightly. His eyes widen. The arm still wrapped with Eddie’s squeezes in a vice grip. “Your eyes…I’ve seen your eyes before.”

Eddie perks up. It’s happening again. Doesn’t occur all that often, especially in the last few months. But sometimes, sometimes his belly flips and his chest flutters and he’s taken back to the clearing that Steve confessed his love in—twenty years old, his eyes alight with passion, hair flopping all over the place. Him beautiful and peaceful. And, yeah, that’s what Eddie sees in front of him now.

“I’ve seen them before,” Steve whispers. He raises a hesitant palm to the side of Eddie’s face. Landing gently. Cupping, warmth radiating from him. He’s still a furnace. He’s the same. The Steve that Eddie fell in love with, he’s here and still inside there, he’s in the palm and in Eddie’s chest. He’s here. Steve inhales sharply. Clarity in his eyes. How he tells a story with just his pupils, the quick darting, the tears that pool in his waterline—Eddie will never know. “Eds?” Steve calls out.

A part of Eddie crumbles to his feet. He hasn’t heard that nickname in so goddamn long. He bites back the sob that wants to tear through him. Instead, places his free palm over the back of Steve’s. Thumb tickling his knuckles. “Hi, Stevie. Hi, baby,” he murmurs back. “How are you, love bug?”

“Eds,” Steve breathes. “I—What are—You look different.” He chuckles, it’s congested, it’s wet. “Is it our anniversary? Please, is it—“ Eddie nods in the hold. Steve sighs, crying slightly with it. There’s so much ache here, it hurts in the sweetest way possible to even have his simple touch. “God,” Steve softly sobs. “I’m sorry that I forgot. Please don’t be mad at me. I promise I tried to remember.”

Eddie squeezes where he’s still touching Steve. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he breathes truthfully. His chest seizes, that sob yearning, creeping. “Just sitting here with you for our anniversary is enough.” I’ll always be here to help you remember, he doesn’t say.

The way Steve relaxes, the relief rushing through him is enough for Eddie. Every single day with Steve is enough. Even in the moments where he’s completely lost in the world, somewhere dark and cold and lonely. Even when he gets angry and lashes out, slamming his palms on Eddie’s chest. Even if every time it makes Eddie physically pulse and hurt. He hurts. He’s a sunflower, a sunflower, a sunflower.

“Okay,” Steve rasps. “Okay, Eds. Okay.” He leans into the warmth of their bodies, sides a single line. Connected. Stitched together by everything, the matter of the universe. “Happy anniversary,” he whispers.

“Happy anniversary, love,” Eddie murmurs.

They’ve got maybe five minutes before Steve is gone again. Back to Steven. To the stranger in his room. A guy who sees brown eyes in his sleep and is unsure who they belong to. They’ve got five minutes, but Eddie will treat them like lifetimes.

He’ll come back tomorrow. And they will remember. And he will ache. But he will love.

“I love you,” he says.

And with the last thirty seconds they have together, Steve sighs, all the emotions under the sun (and Eddie is the sunflower soaking up all that is Steve), “I love you, too.”

💕—————💕

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddielovemonth #day 26 #angst and hurt/comfort #bittersweet ending

172 notes · View notes

gallawitchxx · 5 months

Note

hi beeee!! i hope you're doing okay 💖💖💖

ooohohohoho okay for the kiss thingy: god knows why cuz it sounds potentially very painful but i feel so compelled to request 28 🙏

sweet deanna! i'm hanging in, thanks love! 💖 so you & @lingy910y both requested #28 & i want to fill both of your prompts. but because you were (rightfully) afraid of pain, i gave you one that's a bit strange, but has a promisingly happy ending? you can be the judge! xx

- - - - -

send me a number & i'll write you a smoocheroo 😚

- - - - -

#28: ...as a lie ps. this is inspired by this post about dealer!mickey & insomniac!ian, who have now rotted my brain.

Ian hasn’t slept in days.

It’s happened before—endless energy is one of his tried-and-true symptoms of mania—but this isn’t that. He’s taking his meds, his skin isn’t crawling and his mind is fairly quiet. Quiet enough to frustrate him as he tosses and turns and wonders what the fuck’s going on.

His schedule has been all over the place lately; his normal routine lost to the endless cycles of employment and Gallagher family responsibilities. He’d been hoping to add school to the mix this semester so that he could have other, less hectic options than a rig-riding EMT, but he’d pushed it off. A pity, now that all-nighters are apparently his thing.

Night two, he googles a few things, which is a huge mistake. Who can fall asleep after reading about how even just twenty-four hours without sleep can begin to derail your bodily systems? Sleep deprivation can cause or worsen conditions like Type 2 diabetes, High blood pressure, Stroke, Heart attack—his pulse leaps as his phone clatters to the ground.

Night three, he takes to the streets, running around the Southside until his lungs burn and his knees wobble. As he passes the clinic that gave his seventeen-year-old self a lifetime prescription for antipsychotics, he knows that if this lasts much longer, he should call his doctor. Tell them his nighttime meds aren’t putting him to sleep anymore. Nip this insomnia thing in the bud before it can overthrow the delicate balance he’s worked so hard to maintain.

Night four, desperate and a bit delusion, he pulls up a number he hasn’t used in years, saved under a contact labeled, DO NOT TEXT.

He breaks his own rule: Hey. Still making house calls?

The response is almost immediate: the fuck u care for?

Ian rolls his bloodshot eyes, typing: It’s an emergency.

Three little dots herald a response that makes him laugh: a weed emergency?

He stays strong: Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.

The next text makes his chest clench: u ok?

He decides to keep it vague—I can’t sleep, but it’s not what you think.—and hopes he doesn’t have to explain further and is relieved to read: u want ur usual?

Another clench: Indica

Two texts arrive in rapid succession: what else do u want? can i give u head while u smoke or no?

There it is: the reason Ian doesn’t use this number anymore.

Maybe in another life it would be a blessing to have a weed dealer to lovers arc with your childhood crush, but in this one, it was a curse. A curse that lasted almost a whole year, bringing with it an endless bouquet of blissful fucks and free weed, and a million moments of tenderness Ian knew nobody else was getting out of the guy. A curse that eventually came to collect payment in the form of bloodied knuckles, broken hearts and ego wounds. A curse that still clings to Ian’s psyche, filling his dreams with gentle, tattooed fingers and bright blue eyes and a sweet and savory scent that can only be described as Mickey.

Mickey, now DO NOT TEXT.

On second thought, maybe he should never sleep again.

The knock at the door makes him hard—a Pavlovian response that irks him more than the three sleepless nights he’s suffered so far. Three raps, one right after the other. The last one no more than a brush of his hand.

Ian adjusts himself and answers the door.

Fuck, one look at that smug asshole and he’s immediately right back in it. Lust and like and maybe even a little bit of reckless fucking love fill his body, rising to the surface like sweet cream. A layer of fat on the roof of one’s mouth; a treat to lick later, a reminder that they didn’t end things because they weren’t insanely hot for one another and potentially soulmates. They were just idiots. Stubborn, petty dicks.

Oh Pride, the great slayer of men.

Jesus, he needs to sleep.

“First one’s on the house,” Mickey says as he crosses the threshold, a joint held tightly between C and K.

Hours slip by. They laugh, they smoke. It feels like old times. Ian’s body is loose in a way it hasn’t been in years. It feels good. Like maybe-he-could-sleep-tonight good. And as he melts further into the couch, he starts to get a little horny too. Because Mickey’s yapping on and on about some asshole that frequents the bar he works at, and Ian’s listening, he swears he’s listening, but he’s also staring at Mickey’s mouth like he wants to take Mickey up on that text message and shut him the fuck up with his dick.

Like he wants to taste the stale smoke of his tongue.

Wants him to stay the night.

Forever, maybe.

Mickey finishes his story. His eyes go soft and he drums his fingers against his knee. “Should get outta your hair, Gallagher,” he says. “Letcha sleep.”

That’s the last thing Ian wants.

“Not tired,” he fibs.

Mickey cocks an eyebrow. “You’re not? ’S been days, man. This shit’s gotta be hittin’ ya by now.”

It’s true. It has been days and this shit is hitting him. Or maybe he’s having a sleep-deprivation-induced stroke. He just knows Mickey can’t go.

“Can’t go to sleep without a goodnight kiss.”

Mickey’s already leaning in when he asks, “Then you promise you’ll hit the hay?”

Ian nods as Mickey presses a kiss to his lying lips.

#welp - throws whatever this is at you #alskfjalkj #i realized that both of my kisses are at the very end of the ficlet & aren't actually described #lolol #maybe my next attempt should be 1K words of just describing the kiss #no actual context needed #just tongues #anyway THANKS DEANNA I LOVE YOU DEANNA #shameless #shameless fanfiction #prompt fill #ian x mickey

113 notes · View notes

maxybabyy · 3 months

Text

passions narrow but deep

inspired by this wonderful gif (also on ao3)

By the time she unwraps the measuring tape from his neck, Max is ready to bolt.

She brushes her thumb over his skin where she must have left an indent, over the muscle and just inches from his scent gland. Max barely holds back a flinch, clenches his teeth instead.

“There we go,” she says with a smile that drips with kindness, but Max doesn’t care, would rather be anywhere but here. “It’s better to be certain in these situations.”

Max doesn’t reply.

The woman is a beta, and he knows she’s supposed to be a neutral party in this, indifferent to the dynamic pull from either side. It’s clear too from the almost clinical way that she touches Max, hands ruthlessly direct in how she moves him, brushing over spots that would be intimate – invasive – from anyone else. But still, she has a scent, soaked in someone’s tart, uncomfortable stench that makes his nose itch.

Max pulls up the collar of his shirt, rubs his neck into the sides of it. He stole it from GP during their meeting earlier, and the familiar musk soothes his skin, his nose.

“Here it is, Max,” she says and hands over the strip of leather. The edges are rounded, and it looks like the collar Spyke had worn. Built more for durability than comfort, thick enough that no shirt would be able to cover it, the dark brown always visible on his throat.

“Do you need help to fasten it?”

“No,” he tells her.

He turns to leave, but there’s a touch to his shoulder, an apologetic smile on her face, and Max really fucking hopes it’s the last time he has to see her.

“I cannot let you leave without the collar on, the FIA mandate went into action today.”

He shrugs off her touch, fumbles with the clasp until the leather opens. It takes longer than it should, rough on his fingers, and maybe it isn’t meant to be taken off. Max wouldn’t put it past them.

It’s – fine, how it sits on his throat.

It doesn’t dig into his skin, but he feels it when he moves his head, the subtle strain makes it impossible not to. Max wonders how it will be in the car on tracks with sharp turns and bumpy kerbs, if they had someone test it under duress. If they considered how the collar could impact breathing, track awareness.

He doesn’t know who would have volunteered to test that.

“I think you wear it well,” she tells him kindly. Max wonders if he’s the first of them to come through, if she told the other three the same thing.

“I have written down your measurements if you want to –“

Max slams the door shut behind him.

There’s a box in his office when he comes back to the factory.

It’s neatly wrapped, and there’s a card to the side that Max doesn’t bother to read. He already knows what it is. There have been no recent anniversaries, no wins outside of the usual, no achievements to celebrate – nothing but the fucking FIA-mandated collar.

The collar inside is nice.

The leather is a dyed blue and soft to touch. The colour matches one of his TAG Heuer watches, the buckle the same but without the engraving. Max knows it must have been tempting to keep it, to brand this with the partnership too.

The leather is dotted with gold, no bigger than the holes for the buckle. But as he looks closer, the dots expand and turn into tiny Red Bull logos that span the length of the collar.

Max doesn’t mind it, but he knows Daniel wouldn’t like it.

Even now with a renewed loyalty to Red Bull, Daniel would wince at the sight, would tell him that it’s a bit on the nose. Tacky, he wouldn’t say – not now, not with the dreams he still has – but Max would know that’s what he meant.

He wraps it around his wrist, tries to remember the look of the watch he left at home.

The blue looks nice against his skin, and the bend of the leather is better than what the FIA had given him. The buckle comes apart easier, and Max has it off in a second.

He doesn’t put it on again.

Max’s favourite thing after sex is the smell, how the sheets will be soaked in their shared scent.

He’s spread out on his stomach, head buried in the pillow as he feels the slow drip of come as it escapes him. If he turns his head to the side, tucks his nose into his shoulder, he will smell how Daniel’s sweet scent has leaked onto his skin – the sharp notes of fuel, the contrast of the honey that leaves Max dizzy.

Daniel’s hand is heavy on his back, rubbing over the knobs of his spine until there’s a tug on his throat.

“I thought you didn’t like the collar,” he says, voice soft. His hands are careful, hesitant as he slips two fingers underneath the leather.

The collar sits tight on his throat like this, but Max likes how it strains under Daniel’s touch. His breath hitches, and Max already feels come-dumb, but his heart beats wildly in his chest, and Max never wants it to end. Daniel’s eyes are huge when Max turns to look at him, and he thinks he likes that even more.

“I don’t,” Max tells him and chases Daniel’s hand with his lips.

His mouth closes around the meat of his thumb, sucks the skin between his teeth. He moves his mouth down to the bend of his wrist where Daniel’s scent is strong, licks over his pulse until his mouth is full of it, the tip of his tongue almost numb.

“So why don’t you take it off?”

Daniel rubs his other wrist on his throat, over the collar where the scent will cling to him, staying on until his next shower. Even then Max never washes too well after nights like these, likes the way Daniel stays with him.

“There is a FIA thing tomorrow with Red Bull,” Max says. “The buckle is of course so tricky. It is easier to just keep it on.”

His head falls to the side to give Daniel more access to his throat. The collar strains with the move, and Max moans loudly, fucking into the bed where he’s getting hard again.

Daniel’s hand fiddles with the buckle, the end of the leather slipping out of the tiny metal thing. He pushes the collar down a bit and frowns at the marks it has left. Max usually turns the buckle to the back of his neck. It’s easier like that, irritates his skin less.

“I could take it off,” Daniel offers. His smile is soft as his thumb strokes over the swell of his throat, pressing into his windpipe. “Put it back on tomorrow if you want.”

His head is dizzy, and his body buzzes with heat. His dick chafes against the bed, but even that isn’t enough because he feels so fucking empty as slick slips down his thighs, soaking into the bed. His mouth barely fits around Daniel’s wrist, but it feels right as he bites down, sinks his teeth into his skin.

“Please,” he begs, slurring his words.

Daniel moves quick, strips the collar from his throat and lets his hand take its place, squeezing tightly until Max is loose against the bed. He shakes his wrist free from Max’s teeth and shoves the leather into his mouth instead, “Bite down.”

And Max does.

Max is on the sim when his heat hits.

It’s a rare sunny day in Milton Keynes, so Max shows up in shorts and lets himself be strapped in. The room is stuffy, but it always is, leaving him hot and bothered. Max doesn’t notice until GP touches him on the shoulder to say, “I think you’re going into heat, mate.”

Max squeezes his thighs together and finds a patch of wet between them, bullets of sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

“Oh.”

Since the FIA deregulated suppressants, Max has been working towards a natural heat cycle to let his body rebalance. But that has meant overproduction of slick, scent-sickness and worst of all, flash heats. His summer heat is scheduled for the break when both he and Daniel will be free, not when Daniel is stuck in Italy.

But it’s only a day, and Max makes do. Or at least he does, until Daniel calls him.

Something about hearing Daniel’s voice when he’s half-lucid and sick with heat makes him go wild. Everything that reminds him of Daniel has been left behind, leaving him with half his hand inside him, sloppy with heat and slick as he works himself up to his fist.

“Baby,” Daniel begs him softly. “Be good to yourself, please. For me?”

Max tries, he really does.

But nothing feels good like this.

His body is too big, his skin too tight, his hole is too loose and his hand isn’t big enough. He’s come five times, but his dick hasn’t become soft since he left the factory. His skin itches and when Daniel tells him to touch himself, to make him feel good, Max doesn’t even think as he rips the collar from his throat to wrap a hand around it.

Daniel finds him just after his heat has ended, hand still inside himself and the collar ripped apart by his feet. He’s dehydrated and tired, but he doesn’t want to sleep, and when Daniel tries to make him eat, Max begs him to fuck him.

“Please, Daniel. I haven’t, I can’t –“

There’s still come on his stomach, but it doesn’t count, it didn’t feel good – didn’t make him feel good. Not like Daniel does.

“Okay, Maxy,” Daniel says and fucks him soft, fucks him good until Max’s body feels like his own again.

It’s the same woman who has to make him his new collar.

The same bright smile as she whips out her measuring tape and motions for him to bend down so she can reach, “Better be safe and get the measurements right.”

His jaw feels tight, his feet rooted to the spot, and Max thinks for the first time, that maybe the Red Bull collar would have been just fine.

Carlos is deep in his answer about Monza when Max bends his head towards Daniel, “You are being weird.”

Daniel presses his knee against Max’s with a hum. His eyes are soft when he looks at him, but there’s a furrow between his brows. A note of something sour in his scent, and Max doesn’t like it.

Daniel shrugs, “That’s just me, baby. Race weekend, we’re all a bit weird.”

Max doesn’t let up, stares at him even as he’s asked about the upgrades, about his sim times and the track, how it will fit the car. But Daniel doesn’t budge.

When they let them go, Max shoves him into a side room and locks the door behind them. Daniel pushes him back and pins him against the wall, digging his thumbs into his shoulder.

“Fine, okay. You smell off, like – I don’t know? Are you close to a heat?” Daniel asks. But the frown is still there. He cradles Max’s arm in his hand and pulls his wrist to his nose, breathing in until his senses must be satiated with Max. His face turns soft, but the confusion doesn’t stray. “That’s not – your scent is fine. Could you be getting sick, maybe?”

Max rolls his eyes. He rubs his thumb over the leather of the collar and shoves it under his nose, watches as Daniel’s face transforms with it.

“Fuck, Max,” Daniel says and shoves his hand away. “That’s fucking nasty.”

“That’s Alex.”

“What?”

“The scent. You didn’t put my collar back on before you left,” Max tells him, eyes sharp because it’s not his fucking fault he’s smelling bad. Daniel of course should have remembered it too. “Always it is back at the hotel, so I had to wear George’s spare.”

Daniel leans in to bury his face in his throat and when he stands back up, his face is smoother than before, more confused than repulsed, “Oh.” He rubs his wrist over the collar, and Max already knows George will be furious, upright and prissy about it.

“You couldn’t have asked Yuki instead?”

“Fuck off,” Max tells him and pulls him in for a kiss.

The next time his collar breaks, it isn’t his fault.

It’s a hard-fought win and Max throws himself into his team, soaks in their praise, in their love. Max has always liked how they touch him after, rough touches and tight squeezes, on his back and his waist, his ass – everywhere they can reach.

Someone touches his neck, and Max doesn’t mind it, knows it’s from the rush of the moment.

Maybe it’s one of the newer guys because suddenly the touch turns frantic. They pull back too fast, too hard, and Max feels the snap against his throat as the leather gives away under their hands.

On the podium, he wears the Red Bull branded collar, neck red from where it had been pulled off him.

“Back again?” The woman says.

She doesn’t smile at him now, and the measuring tape doesn’t come out. She looks up his measurements on the computer, calls them out to check with him like Max somehow knows them by heart.

“I will put in the order right away, but it will be a few days,” she tells him, and Max knows then that she hates this too.

When the new collar comes in, it’s different.

The FIA must have changed their leather smith because the new one makes him break out in a rash, his skin red and sensitive. The team doctor prescribes him a round of steroids but even that does little to dampen the reaction.

So Max is back to wearing the Red Bull collar but that digs into his skin, sits awkwardly under the helmet, and GP has to tell him twice to stop fuzzing before he can focus on the race.

He’s spread out in Daniel’s bed, dragging his feet to get ready because that means putting the collar back on, when Daniel wraps his hand around his throat, covering up the marks.

“You know I don’t like this shit,” he says with a frown. His thumb soft on his skin even as his nail digs into sensitive marks. “Like, the collaring is a whole fucking mess. But they should at least make them comfortable for you.”

Somewhere in the box of scratched ‘grill the grid’ videos, some fucking marketing exec had the idea to make the alphas design their own collars as if the mandate had been rolled out for the entire grid, “And then we will make them for you to review later on!”

Mercedes’ invitation for that one had somehow gotten lost.

“This is of course what they have,” Max says with a soft breath. He leans into the touch, and Daniel’s grasp tightens, thumb digging into his pulse point. “I could order one also, but who has the time for this?”

Daniel’s hold becomes loose, and Max whines. Daniel shushes him as he pulls his hand away, kissing him as he goes, “Just a moment, baby.”

Max turns to his side to glare at Daniel, at the clock that is ticking down. Rupert will be here soon if he doesn’t get out of bed.

But Daniel is quick to come back, a familiar square box held between precarious hands, and a heat builds low in Max’s stomach.

“It’s cool if you don’t like it, but. I had this made a while ago, like after the shit with Alex?” Daniel says and hands over the box. He keeps his hands on Max’s and helps him unwrap it, the weight of his gaze heavy on Max’s face. “In case you lost it again, so you wouldn’t have to wear his. But I think this would also –“

Max kicks him gently to stop his rambling, rips the delicate paper off the box.

The leather is black and buttery soft when he pulls it out, an odd contrast to the velvet of the box. The buckle comes apart easily and there’s padding on the back of it, so it won’t dig into his skin. It’s thinner than the one from the FIA, barely a thumb’s width, but already it looks so lovely.

“You like it?” Daniel asks when Max still hasn’t said anything. He takes the collar and flips it over, turns it so the front is facing him instead, showing off the engraving of a golden lion staring back at him. “I had them put this in too. So it would fit with your helmet.”

“Daniel,” Max whispers.

He traces the logo with his finger, the familiar lines. There’s something else on the inside, on the side that will press against his skin, and Max sucks in a breath looking at the ‘3’ printed there.

“I love it. Will you put it on?”

Daniel’s face turns soft, his smile loose and happy. “Always, Maxy.”

Daniel follows him down onto the bed, body spread wide to cover all of Max.

“So fucking beautiful, Maxy,” he whispers and runs a hand over bare skin.

Max shivers underneath him, feels the way the slick pours out of him. Even like this, moments away from being fucked, Max feels desperate. But he always feels like this when Daniel is near, always wants him inside him, on him – close, in any way that he can be.

Daniel's hand wraps around his throat and squeezes, knuckles bumping against the edge of his collar, and Max moans. Daniel shushes him and presses sloppy kisses to his lips, “Soon, baby. I promise.”

Daniel’s fingers leave his skin for a moment to Max’s despair and then they’re back, making quick work of the buckle attached to the leather, pulling the strap free to –

“No! Please, don’t,” Max whines and fumbles to wrap his hands around his throat where the collar has come undone. “What are you doing.”

“I – Max?”

Max twists in his arms, turns on his side to look at Daniel who looks just as confused as Max is feeling. His heart beats in his chest, and Max doesn’t understand why he would take it back now.

“You said – it is my collar, Daniel. You gave it to me.”

“I did, yeah. Of course, I did, baby,” Daniel says, promises. His hands move slowly as they refasten the buckle, pressing the leather into his skin until Max lets his fingers drop. “I just, normally you want it off during sex, so I thought – “

“But it’s your collar,” Max says. “I like it because it’s yours, Daniel.”

Daniel cups his face with trembling hands, kisses him sweetly. “Okay, Maxy. We’ll leave it on.”

Max burns hot with heat, with need and desire.

He’s two orgasms in, and he knows it will happen soon. Daniel won’t tell him – Max asked him not to – but he can feel it coming, the anticipation heavy in the air. And then –

Daniel fucks him into him, a stutter in his thrusts and suddenly, there are teeth in his throat sinking into skin, Max mad with pleasure. The bond snaps into place, and Max can feel how his mind makes room for Daniel, how it relents and pushes until everything fits, already so in tune with each other.

Max is flayed open and bare, exposed. But in the best way possible.

“Did you – is it,” he pants, unsure if he will ever stop feeling like this, all consumed by Daniel. “Did you remember?”

Daniel removes his teeth from his neck, licks at the skin with slow, deep licks until leans up to kiss Max. Max hates the taste of blood, but like this, he loves it. The reminder of why it’s there, what it means.

“Of course, Maxy. Your collar will be here,” he says softly and wraps his hand around his throat, squeezing until Max’s sight goes blurry. He leans in to kiss the skin above his hand, where he bit him, “And your mark will be here, visible to everyone.”

“Good,” Max slurs and lets his head be moved into the crook of Daniel’s neck, biting down when Daniel tells him to.

Max barely comes to races anymore, prefers to watch them from home where no one disturbs him. But Daniel had wanted him there, so Max had come.

It’s only been a year since his retirement, but Max has already forgotten the absolute nightmare the paddock is on race day, chewing up and spitting out everyone they can put a name to, and who’s better than a former world champion?

He’s five minutes deep into an interview with some pundit he doesn’t remember the name of when they ask him about the roll-back of the FIA-mandated collars.

Max has already shared his opinion on it, both after he left the sport, and then again when the roll-back was announced. The shitty apology they had directed at him, George, Yuki, and Oscar for that first year where nothing had worked as it should, and then the five other omegas who had suffered under it.

George who had been fuming at the roll-back, at the lack of retroactive action.

“It was of course bullshit,” Max tells them now. His hand rests lightly on the swell of his stomach where the baby has started to kick, and he has maybe two minutes left before he has to pee again. “I don’t know why they made us wear them in the first place.”

“But haven’t we seen you wear your collar since your retirement, Max?” The pundit asks, and maybe it’s supposed to be a joke, but Max doesn’t know them, and it doesn’t feel like it is. Or maybe he’s just seven months pregnant and overly hormonal, who the fuck knows? “So was it really that bad?”

Max stares him down, rooted to the ground until they shift in their spot, and then he says, “I like Daniel’s hand around my neck too, do you want to ask me about that also?”

The other host cuts in, ushering him out fast and unsubtle, “And thank you, Max Verstappen! Let’s head back to the studio.”

#max being measured for his collar took me out #hopefully you like the gif just as much as me 💜#i couldn't sleep so i wrote this instead 😔#maxiel #maxiel fic #max/daniel #my fic #fic #can you tell i watched raw recently?

100 notes · View notes

blossomwritesthings · 1 year

Text

𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝? 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. | 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

pairing: minho x fem!reader (afab)

genre: veterinarian!minho (this includes a few of the skz members working in his clinic). client!reader. hurt/comfort. angst. fluff. smut - MDNI, 18+ only. reader pov. strangers to lovers au. slowburn romance. lots of pining.

content & warnings: explicit & strong language. very thematic elements. minho is reader's vet. reader's childhood cat suddenly gets diagnosed with cancer, and she has to make a big decision about what to do. this fanfic includes heavy topics like: pet euthanasia, extreme loss/grief, depression, the problems with pet healthcare, and more. there will be some humor/fluff placed throughout, and also smut somewhere along the way. :))

word count: 7.1k

summary: dr. lee minho is known throughout your area as the city's hottest veterinarian, and he's also the very man that's been taking good care of your two cats for the past three years. but one day, you're thrown down a dark path of heartache when the cat that you've grown up with - nyx - is diagnosed with an acute form of bone cancer. burdened with the hardest decision of your entire life, you come at a crossroads of what to do. and throughout it all, minho is the single most person who continually stays by your side.

a/n: i decided to split this fic up into like, 3-4 separate chapters, since i felt like having 20.k+ words for a single 'long oneshot' was kindaa excessive lmao 😂 anyways, i'm excited for the future of this little series and what it's gonna look like exploring the relationship between minho and y/n~ 😉 also, for anyone that noticed, YES- i changed my entire tumblr theme after like, 4 months of having it be rainbow haha, so you might not recognize me on your dash with my new look. but yeah, this is the 'new me' for the next few months... i was feeling super inspired to do a muted levanter theme, since it's one of my fav albums/songs from skz haha so here we are!! ☺️

🐈‍⬛ - ̥۪͙۪˚┊❛ other cool stuff ❜┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌! ࿐ྂ

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋread my rules & guidelines here! ࿐ྂ

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋcheck out my skz masterlist! ࿐ྂ

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋmy wip list! ࿐ྂ

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ skz fic recs [sfw ver]! ࿐ྂ

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋskz fic recs [nsfw ver]! :: 18+, MDNI! ࿐ྂ

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋback to navigation! ࿐ྂ

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ sɪᴛᴇs (ᴛʜɪs ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs). ©ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs ⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

The clinic was incredibly busy as you stepped through the front doors. Looking around the medium-sized waiting room, you noticed how almost every single seat was taken up by a patient. Because apparently, the hot place to be on a Thursday morning was Starry Skies Veterinary Clinic.

You clutched on a little tighter to the carrier at your side, which held your cat Nyx just inside the bassinet. She was an American Shorthair, with a coat as black as midnight and big, ocean-blue eyes. Your parents had gifted you Nyx as a surprise for your sixth birthday, since you had been begging them for a cat all year long. And instantly, the two of you were inseparable. Nyx had been with you for almost every stage of your life - including grade/middle school, high school, and all of university. She was so incredibly affectionate towards everyone, but especially you. She loved curling up alongside you after you’d spent a long, hard day at work and would just cuddle into your skin for hours.

Nyx was your stability in everything - she was one of your only friends, even when you were surrounded by other adults your same age at work. And at the ripe age of twenty-four, you couldn’t imagine what your life would be like if she ever left your side.

But, you weren’t naive, or stupid.

And you knew that at some point, Nyx would have to move on from your world and onto a better, and brighter future.

Which is why you decided to adopt a female Bengal cat after you graduated from university. Taffy had a brilliant orange-and-brown coat with light green eyes. And because she was so much younger than Nyx, she had a lot more energy. But even still, the two cats got along quite well, despite their huge age gap. Taffy was the troublemaker out of the two and liked to get into mischief with all kinds of things.

You took great pride in both of them and the relationship that you had with your two kitties, which is why you regularly took them to the local veterinarian clinic for routine checkups. Usually, you visited every six months, just to make sure that Taffy and Nyx were in perfect health.

And it’s not like you were complaining about the visits to Starry Skies Veterinary Clinic. It was a beautiful and spacious place, with a friendly bunch of staff and an even better doctor.

Doctor Lee Minho had been the continual talk of the town since he had moved into the area three years before, and soon after he set up his practice - which was just a short walk from your quaint apartment - you started going to him for your cat’s regular check-ups. Dr. Lee was incredibly professional with all of his clients, and he had a true knack for animals… but especially, cats. That’s what he prided himself on - knowing the ins and outs of the feisty little beings... since he had three of his own. Some even said that he was a cat himself since he had similar mannerisms to the felines.

It also helped that he was insanely handsome.

Like, drop-dead gorgeous.

You weren’t a fool - you noticed how, every time you visited the clinic, most of the clients were women. And almost every time that you sat in the waiting room, you’d overhear women talking amongst themselves… about how they had dressed up for the occasion, and how Dr. Lee was way too cute for his good.

For the most part, all of the comments passed over your head.

After all, he was just a veterinarian. He wasn’t anything special…

He just took amazing care of the animals that visited his clinic.

And he seemed to adore your two cats.

And-

Perhaps he was kind of, sort of, attractive.

If a woman liked the silent, brooding, brown-haired types of guys- then yeah, he was fucking really hot.

But, you always tried to push those thoughts out of your mind each time they started to bubble up to the forefront of your mind. You didn’t want to ruin the professional doctor-client relationship that the two of you had been cultivating for over three years. He was an amazing veterinarian with a lot of skill and expertise, and you had a feeling that you taking advantage of your closeness with him, by forcing yourself onto him, would just turn him away.

After all, he was always professional and polite with you. Even if he seemed to give you a lot of smiles and laughs each time you had an appointment at the clinic. And even if he seemed overly affectionate with Nyx and Taffy. He was just doing his job, as that’s what was to be expected from a doctor like him.

And besides, a guy like him would never go for you. For starters, you had just recently found out that he was five years older than you, landing him at the mature age of twenty-nine. And older guys of that many years never went for you - never stooped that low. Plus, he was a successful doctor and a businessman with his clinic. Whereas you were a struggling woman who was fighting to make ends meet at her low-ranking corporate job. You sat in a small cubicle all day, typing away at a bright computer screen, and Dr. Lee sat in front of patients and animals, actually making a difference in others’ lives.

There was also the fact that you were borderline poor- since your job barely paid anything compared to the way that the economy was so expensive. You struggled to pay your bills monthly and lived from paycheck to paycheck. Meanwhile, Dr. Lee rolled up to the clinic in his dark-blue sports car and was always donned in all different kinds of designer dress shirts and slacks.

So, yeah, he’d never fall for you. Not in a million years.

“Y/N! Good to see you again!” You heard a bright voice call out to you, bringing you out of your daydreams of expensive cars and fancy clothes.

Your eyes flitted up to the person sitting behind the front check-in desk of the clinic. Chan, one of the two receptionists of the place, was looking up at you with a soft smile adorning his face.

“Oh- hi, Chan… I’m here for Nyx’s check-up.” You mimicked his smile, motioning with a tilt of your head to the carrier where Nyx was situated in.

You were on a first-name basis with the entire staff line of the clinic, as you had been visiting it for so many years. Everyone at the clinic was extremely nice, and all of the staff were Dr. Lee’s friends. Soon after you first visited the clinic, he told you about the story of how he had recruited some of his best friends to open the shop with him, and how the rest was history. Even still, you called everyone by their first name except for Dr. Lee - since you decided to keep it professional with him and always address him by his official title well into the beginning of your appointments at the clinic.

“Sure thing,” Chan began, tearing his gaze away from you and typing away at his computer. “I see here that Jisung jotted down your concerns for this visit’s file. Has anything changed since you called in a month ago?”

You moved your focus onto the carrier at your side, where you saw Nyx resting peacefully just inside it. She had long since gotten used to the clinic and was normally very calm whenever you visited the place. “Yeah, she’s been sleepier than usual, and like- she doesn’t want to eat the food that I’ve been giving her, even though I’ve changed the brand two times already.”

Chan’s eyes darted up to you, studying your face silently before they flitted over to the carrier that you had placed atop the counter at your side. “Okay, I’ll add all of that to the notes so that the doctor can take a look,” you noticed how his lips were pressed together in a grim line- like he didn’t like what you had just told him. “You can take a seat, and Yongbok will call you back when they’re ready for you guys.”

“Thanks, Chan,” you said, offering him a tiny, weak smile before you headed off to find one of the only available seats left in the waiting room. As soon as you got situated, you gingerly took Nyx out of her crate. She was warm and downy in your hands and purred quietly at the feel of you pressing her furry body against your chest. “It’s gonna be okay, girl, you’ll be alright…” You whispered to her, mouth nuzzling into her silky coat as you placed a gentle kiss against her head.

After you placed Nyx back in her crate, you spent the waiting time studying the people around you. Once again, it was mainly women’s faces that your eyes met as you scanned over the entire room. And there were all different types of pets everywhere, from dogs to cats to birds.

“Oh, and apparently, Jungmi’s friend saw him out on the streets late at night last week… like, all alone and stuff.” You heard the woman say beside you. She was sitting close to another woman, and their heads were bent at an angle as they gossiped together. “Some girl came out of this one cafe and was hanging all over him, but it didn't seem like he knew her that well.”

The other woman snorted lowly, “Well that bitch doesn’t matter, because I’m going to be sure to seduce him this time around. I mean, c’mon- who can resist this shirt?” At her insinuation, you realized that they were talking about Dr. Lee.

Even still, you felt the urge to peek over to your side and look at her attire, and when you did, you swallowed down the dryness in your throat. Because holy fuck- she looked like she was about to go to the club. Her shirt had a scoop neckline and was so low, more than half of her tits were hanging out of the loose fabric. It was tight and stretched over her bosom in an alluring kind of way, leaving little to the imagination.

Meanwhile, you were dressed in one of your old, baggy hoodies and a pair of loose-fitting denim jeans. Even though it was the beginning of spring, it was still quite chilly out early in the morning. And besides, you weren’t planning on going anywhere else after you visited the clinic, since you had taken the rest of the day off from work, so there was no use in dressing up. Not like you had any nice, sexy clothes like that to begin with, though.

In all actuality, you really couldn’t afford to take a day off of work. But, you felt like it was needed after the long week that you had had. After the long year you had had.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious while you sat next to Aphrodite herself, your fingers scrambled to yank down the arms of your hoodie as best as you could, trying to let the fabric swallow you up in your seat.

Just then, your name was called over the hustle and bustle of the waiting room, and you peered up to see a smiling Yongbok standing in the doorway that lead to the rest of the clinic - where the examining rooms were.

In a hurry, you scrambled to pick up your tote bag and hoisted Nyx in her carrier with one arm, following right behind the young vet tech as he lead you through the back rooms of the clinic. The hallway was buzzing with movement, as the other Tech’s, Seungmin and Hyunjin, helped vet assistant Changbin calm down a barking German Shepherd so that they could usher him onto a weighing station that was positioned in a corner of the hallway. Dr. Lee was nowhere to be found… yet.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Yongbok started, as he motioned to an examining room just off to the right side for you to walk in. You took a seat in the chair that was positioned next to the desk - where the doctor always sat. “Since Hyunjin is almost always the one who first greets you.” The younger man with light blonde hair and big, expressive eyes sighed in an exaggerated kind of way, which forced a quiet giggle out of you.

“He’s a good tech though… Taffy especially likes him, I think.” You started, your mind already trailing off to what your younger cat might be doing while being left home alone in your apartment. No doubt tearing into the bag of chips that you had accidentally left atop the kitchen counter.

“Mhm- how is she, by the way? I feel like you haven’t brought her in in a while,” Yongbok said, as he slipped on a pair of blue latex gloves. You dragged your eyes away from his form and instead concentrated on unzipping the carrier in your arms, slowly drawing out a lethargic Nyx.

“Taffy is good, just being her usual rambunctious self,” you laughed softly, shaking your head as the affection for your other cat took over your thoughts. “She’s definitely very different from my Nyx here, that’s for sure…”

Yongok wheeled his chair over to you then, gently taking your old cat from your hands and hoisting her up onto the examination table that was nearby. “I saw in the files that she’s been having problems with eating?” He started, voice growing serious as he began his study of your cat.

You nodded slowly, swallowing over the nervous lump that had begun to form in your throat as soon as he placed Nyx on the paper-lined table. You felt your heart beating wildly against your ribcage, and you watched in silence as Yongbok turned Nyx around to thoroughly examine her. “Yeah, and she hasn’t been wanting to play with Taffy either, even though she used to love to.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“About… four months now?”

Yongbok turned to you then, leveling you with a deep frown, “And you’re only bringing her in now?” His tone wasn’t accusatory, but was more on the perplexed side of things, as all of the staff at Starry Skies Veterinary Clinic knew how much you loved your cats and how you adored taking care of them.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, hating the way that he seemed to question why you hadn’t taken care of Nyx’s symptoms earlier. “I-I didn’t have the money for this appointment until just recently, so that’s why I'm only bringing her in now.”

Your gaze snagged on Yongbok’s face, and the way that it instantly melted at your confession... brows furrowing and mouth pressing into a velvety line. The entire clinic must’ve known about your financial situation by now - about how you could barely afford food for yourself, let alone the bills from the clinic - since more oftentimes than not, you’d ask for a grace period from paying for the visits.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I wasn’t trying to insinuate that you’re in the wrong here,” he began, but his slight frown only seemed to deepen as he spoke the words, “It’s just that- these symptoms shouldn’t be ignored for that long.”

At that, your heart started beating frantically inside your chest. Your focus landed on Nyx, who was now resting atop the table, with her eyes closed peacefully. “W-What? What do you mean by that? Is something wrong-”

Yongbok reached over then, giving your shoulder a delicate pat. “I can’t confirm anything myself, but I’m going to take Nyx back to the X-Ray rooms to examine her better. Then, I’ll give the data to Dr. Lee and he can examine the diagnosis.” He gingerly scooped up Nyx into his arms, pressing her against his chest.

“O-Okay, but-” You began, but were soon cut off by the way that Yongbok gave you a slight, reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry about it, Y/N. I’m sure Nyx is just fine.” Is the last thing he said, before he was quickly filing out of the room with your cat in his hold, leaving you all alone.

And as soon as he shut the door closed, you were a nervous wreck. Your knees bounced up and down, hands turning clammy and breath falling out in shaky gasps as your mind raced a mile a minute with countless thoughts.

Would Nyx be okay?

Was she sick?

What was so wrong with her?

The wait time to see the doctor usually wasn’t that long, but this time - this time, it felt different.

It felt like each minute stretched out before you in an endless cycle, sending you down a deep and deeper spiral of anguish as you tried to wrack your brain around the entire situation.

When finally, there was a gentle knock on the door.

You had been holding your head in either of your hands, but upon hearing footsteps against the linoleum floors, you peered up to see Dr. Lee closing the door behind him. He was dressed in his usual garb - dress slacks, a simple white button-down, and his white doctor's coat.

Dr. Lee was silent, as he wheeled his chair over to you. And only then did you notice that Nyx was missing. That he wasn’t carrying her in his arms- like he usually did when he brought her back from the closed examination room.

And you knew the moment that he sat down, that something was wrong.

Because usually, when his eyes caught yours as he walked through the examining room’s door, his entire face would light up with one of those brilliant smiles that women gushed over. Usually, he’d be the first one to crack a stupid joke - whether it was something lame about the weather outside, or about the crazy animal that he just had an encounter with before seeing you.

But this time?

No, this time it was very different.

His proud shoulders were slumped low, cheekbones dark with shadows, and plump, red lips pressed together in a firm line.

He clenched and unclenched his jaw once,

twice,

three times.

Then, and only then, did his eyes meet yours.

And they said all you needed to know.

Just by the way that his dark, chestnut-brown pupils danced with a myriad of emotions; apprehension, fear, compassion, but most of all… sadness.

“What is it?”

The words flowed from your lips before you even knew what you were asking, and almost immediately, you were sitting up a little straighter in your chair.

Spine going rigid, fists growing tight at your sides.

Something swam, cool and deep, inside of you.

Chilling you to the bone, with tense unease.

In the depths of your mind, you felt the pinprick of ominous heartache prodding at the fleshy part of your soul.

The part that was weak and emotional and so very tender all of the time.

“I’m so sorry.”

Was the first thing Dr. Lee said.

You already felt the tears flowing, unbidden and unchecked, warming your suddenly freezing cheeks, at the sound of ‘sorry’ leaving his mouth. Because he had never said such a thing to you before. And you never, ever, wanted to hear it come from him again.

“What’s wrong?” You prodded again, limbs growing a little shaky in your anxiety. Breath hitching in your chest agonizingly, you could physically feel your heart pushing against your ribs.

Aching,

Burning,

Already seeping with hurt, even though you didn’t quite know what was wrong just yet.

Dr. Lee ran a rough hand up and down his face, sighing into his palm, shaking his head once. Then, his fingers were running through his black locks, tugging at the roots just a tiny bit.

Almost like, this crushed him just as much as it was about to pain you.

“It’s about Nyx.”

Swallowing over the huge lump forming in your throat proved very difficult at that moment, but somehow - by some miracle - you did it.

Your tongue felt heavy inside of your mouth- like it was made of hard metal.

For a few beats, you couldn’t manage to form the right words, but when you did, you already felt the stability seeping out of you. Like you were a hot air balloon that had been poked with a sharp needle, with the scalding air and sanity flooding from you in a single breath.

“I’m sorry, Miss. Y/N, I-”

“Just fucking say it, Dr. Lee!” You suddenly exclaimed, voice straining from your quiet sobs. The fat tears rolled down either of your cheeks, leaving angry wet trails in their wake.

He was silent after that, gaze running up and down the length of you slowly. Like you were one of his animals that he assessed daily - like he was testing out your strength and resolve.

Then, his eyes snapped back up to meet yours, and they melted into two puddles of grief.

“It seems as though Nyx is suffering from an acute form of bone cancer.”

And just like, your heart completely stopped.

Each breath you took felt garbled and all wrong.

Your shaky legs and arms wobbled all around you.

The floor crumbled underneath your feet,

Breaking, cracking, shattering irrevocably.

And in that moment, you wished for nothing more but for it to open up completely, and swallow you whole.

Please,

Oh, fuck, please-

Just swallow me already.

Because anything,

Anything,

Would be better than this newfound hell.

“No- no, you’re lying.” You said in a low, gravelly voice. You were clutching onto the arms of your chair, holding on for dear life. Like if you squeezed hard enough, you would be able to wake up and all of this would just fade away into a bad dream.

“Miss. Y/N, I’m so sorry but-” Dr. Lee started in a calm tone, but his face read everything but calm - as his brows wrinkled with concern and his brown eyes were alight with a certain kind of sadness.

“This is a bad dream, it has to be a bad dream,” you cut him off, violently shaking your head from side to side in your disbelief. If you just pinched yourself, maybe then you’d wake up from such a hell. So that’s exactly what you did.

Grabbing one of your arms, you frantically pinched at the skin there.

Again,

And again,

And again.

The tears blurred your vision so much that it was hard to see what was in front of you - hard to notice the angry red mark that started to bloom out across your flesh at your abuse.

Just then, two warm hands took hold of either of yours, fingers sliding between fingers, calloused palms squeezing your own.

The dark-haired figure was kneeling in front of you then, still holding onto your hands. Your heart felt like it was breaking over and over just beneath your ribcage. With each breath that you took, a new piece of it shattered off to swim in the blood flowing through your veins.

“Those symptoms that Nyx has been having are all signs of an acute form of bone cancer, Miss. Y/N. And, they will get worse,” the man said, his low, familiar voice running across your ears and nudging at a tender, warm spot deep inside of you.

“B-But she’ll get better, right? You can heal her, right, doctor?” You asked, throat straining from all of the tears. Through your hazy vision, you clutched a little harder at his hands.

There was a pause of silence on his end after that, which only made you feel worse.

When he finally spoke again, it felt like your world merely crumbled further and further. “Yongbok told me about your… situation, and why you didn’t bring her in earlier. But, because of the wait time, the cancer has developed into an acute case. The only options for helping her at this stage are- amputation and chemotherapy.”

It felt like someone took a bucket of ice-cold water and doused your entire form as soon as his words registered in your mind.

Because if you hadn’t waited so long to get it checked out,

If you hadn’t put it off because you didn’t have the money,

If you didn’t have such a low-paying, shitty job,

Then Nyx never would’ve gotten the cancer in the first place.

Instinctually, you ripped your hands out of Dr. Lee’s grasp. It was the first time you had ever had physical contact with him - and the feeling left you feeling both sick to your stomach and also sent anxious butterflies to erupt throughout your system.

“Oh fuck- it’s my fault,” you said in an incredulous tone, fingers digging into your scalp and tearing at your roots there. “If I hadn’t waited so long, she never would’ve gotten this and she wouldn’t be-”

You felt a heavy hand land atop one of your shoulders, nimble fingers pressing into your skin just slightly. Enough to help ground you back to reality. “I know it’s difficult right now, but I promise it’s going to be okay. You just have to take a few deep breaths and-”

“Where is she?” You asked in a low voice, having the sudden urge to hold your baby in your arms. Maybe, if she just felt you, she’d be healed… “Where is my Nyx, Dr. Lee?”

But you didn’t even wait for him to reply, as you tore away from his hold and hurried to the door, grabbing Nyx’s carrier on the way out. Faintly, you registered Dr. Lee calling out to you from behind, but you paid no mind to it and instead ran through the hallway just outside of the examination room.

“Nyx!” You called out, tone turning desperate. You raced down the hallway, sneakers hitting the concrete at your feet. “Nyx!” The tears clouded your vision, so it was hard to see where you going. But even still, you glimpsed Hyunjin coming out from a room in the back of the clinic, with a black mass of fur laying in his arms.

You cried out in relief at the sight of her, and in an instant, you were running forward and scooping her up and into your grasp. Pressing your face into her warm body, you cuddled her close.

“Y/N-” Hyunjin began, sympathy heavy in his tone. You felt his eyes travel across your face as you looked down at your sickly cat, with fat tears falling down your cheeks and a rapidly-beating heart.

“Let’s go home, my sweet girl…” You whispered so that only Nyx could hear you. And you couldn’t help but notice how light she felt in your arms - she hadn’t had much of an appetite in the last few months, and it pained you so much to know that you hadn’t realized it until it was too late.

Then you were turning away from Hyunjin, not even giving him any attention, as you rushed through the hallway and pressed onwards to the front desk area. Faintly, you could hear people calling out your name from somewhere in the back of the clinic.

But you couldn’t concentrate on any of that. All you could think of was your beautiful cat, who was peacefully sleeping in your arms. “Just a little bit longer, Nyx, we’re almost home…”

The rest of the week passed by in a blur of heartache and tears, as you battled with yourself and your mind to try and come to terms with what was happening.

With what you were going to lose.

It was hard to focus on anything else besides the impending doom that seemed to be right on your doorstep. You were slacking off at your work, which caused your boss to ream you out the next Monday morning. But you couldn’t help it - every time you tried to think about anything else besides Nyx, and losing her, the stormy feelings just came back tenfold.

You had found yourself holed up in your office’s bathroom stalls on more than one occasion already, and by the time it hit a week since you had visited the clinic, it felt like all of the tears had been completely drained from your body.

Every time you looked at her, you wanted to cry. You wanted to, but your body just wouldn't let you. So instead, you took to staying up late into the night and researching remedies to alleviate the pain of cancer - because truly, you hadn’t gotten a solid five hours of sleep since the diagnosis.

After two weeks, you had tried all of the solutions that you could find online - that ranged from implementing natural, whole foods into Nyx’s diet to rubbing lavender oil all over her limbs to try and soothe the pain from standing. Seeing her slowly start to deteriorate in front of your very eyes was possibly the worst part about it all - and how she’d whine and cry while walking around the house. Even Taffy could sense that something was wrong when her friend no longer had the energy to play with her anymore.

Throughout all of it, you avoided the phone calls. And they could be from only one ID - since you didn’t have any friends or family members who cared enough about you to call three times a day. Starry Skies Veterinary Clinic called you without fail, and they were adamant about getting in contact. No doubt Chan was on the other line the whole time, trying to talk some sense into you.

But you just couldn’t do it - couldn’t bring yourself to walk through those doors and face the dark road ahead that most-assuredly lead to death. Because you had already extensively researched the therapy for treating Nyx’s kind of cancer, and it was looking quite bleak. The procedures were so fucking expensive, it baffled you how anyone in their right mind could be able to afford such things.

Everything changed though, when on one Saturday night, you arrived home late from running errands and found Nyx sprawled out on your living room’s small, rickety couch. You scurried over to her side and shook her awake. But she wouldn’t open her eyes. And it seemed like she was hardly breathing. You called out to her again and again, startling Taffy of your presence.

When finally, Nyx awoke. After much pleading and crying, she opened her eyes lazily and stretched.

And so it was decided right then and there, that you’d go into the clinic that night.

You couldn’t afford to put it off any longer, and frankly, you had the feeling that Nyx couldn’t either. It was getting close to eight o’clock in the evening, and the clinic closed its doors for the weekend right at eight, so you made quick haste out of your dingy hell-hole-of-an-apartment.

When you arrived at Starry Skies Veterinary Clinic, the entire place was dark. You peeked through the windows and noticed the empty waiting room. “No, no- no…” You muttered to yourself, checking the time on your phone and reading that it was a little past eight.

You quickly looked around the street, noticing how most of the shops were already closed up for the weekend. Feeling the panic rising inside of you, you began to furiously knock on the glass door of the clinic. If someone was back there, maybe you could get ahold of Dr. Lee and-

“Miss. Y/N?” You heard a friendly, faint voice say from somewhere to your side. Turning around to the sound of it, you came face-to-face with Dr. Lee himself. He had his doctor’s coat off and was dressed in his usual work clothes of slacks and a dress shirt. “What are you-”

You pressed your hands against your chest, trying to calm your heart that was painfully beating against your ribcage. “Dr. Lee- please, it’s… it’s Nyx.”

His brown eyes flashed across the length of your form, the fading sunset coloring his skin in an orange and pink kind of glow. “Come inside, it’s too cold out to be standing around like this.” He said, already moving to unlock the front door of the clinic. After all, it was early spring and the nights tended to grow on the cooler side of things once the sun dipped below the horizon.

“Okay, thanks,” you whispered, following behind him as the two of you shifted through the clinic. Dr. Lee made his way over to a cluster of chairs in the corner of the waiting room.

“Please, sit.” He pointed to the nearest chair and waited for you to get situated before taking the seat just beside you. “So, tell me what’s going on.”

And suddenly, you realized the gravity of the situation. You realized that it was just the two of you - Dr. Lee and you - sitting inside the clinic, alone. There weren’t any other clients around, there wasn’t Chan or Jeongin, or Yongbok. And all at once, it felt rather… intimate.

You squirmed in your seat, your shaking hands beginning to play with the worn hemline of your oversized hoodie. Taking a deep breath, you gathered up all of your courage and leveled your gaze on the nearby front desk that was placed in the center of the large waiting room. “Well, I-I got home today from running some errands, and I found Nyx lying on my couch. But it didn’t seem like she was napping like she normally does… and she, she wouldn’t wake up. I kept trying and trying and-” Your words came out all rushed and garbled, as the tears began to crest over your eyes and you felt your cheeks heating with the flush of emotion.

“Hey- hey, it’s okay… don’t push yourself, yeah?” Dr. Lee’s smooth voice did something to the broken part inside of you - caused something to stir and yet settle at the same time. “That must’ve been a very scary experience for you, so it’s understandable that you would be shaken up about it.”

And just like that, the guilt piled on even higher.

Because Dr. Lee had always been incredibly nice to you and your cats. He had always been there for you guys, through the ups and downs of life, and you felt so horrible for ignoring the clinic’s calls. Because you knew that the team at Starry Skies Veterinary Clinic only wanted the very best for you and your cats… and especially, Dr. Lee.

“I’m so sorry for ignoring the clinic’s calls,” you suddenly blurted out, feeling the blush rise and pool in your ears at the feeling of Dr. Lee’s gaze landing on you - assessing your nervous state. Your thumbs continued to fiddle with the fabric at your waist, pulling and pulling. “I-I just didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to face the issue. But, I now realize how stupid that was- how stupid I’ve been about this whole thing-”

“Don’t ever say that again, Y/N. You’re not stupid, and Nyx having cancer isn’t your fault. This was something that was inevitable and nothing you could do was going to stop it.” Dr. Lee cut through your words. You tried to comprehend what he was saying, but instead, your brain was only repeating the same phrase over and over again.

Y/N,

Y/N-

Y/N.

He had used your name, without putting ‘miss’ before it. He had never done such a thing in the past. He had always kept things professional and addressed you by your proper title - just like you had done for him.

But all at once, you realized that perhaps you didn’t mind it at all. And perhaps, his dropping the honorifics wasn’t so bad.

“Still, I’m sorry for not answering the calls,” you said, shaking your head slowly in defeat. You were desperately trying to battle the furious blush that was slinking up your neck at the way that he had said your name. It sounded so perfect and beautiful on his tongue, like-

“I was the one making all of those calls, and I can assure you that I didn’t take your silence to heart. I understand what you’re going through right now because I’ve experienced something similar in the past with one of my passed cats.”

At that, your eyes tore away from the front desk and landed on Dr. Lee. Your gazes locked, and inside his chestnut-brown eyes, you found so many different emotions there… compassion and gentleness. There was a certain kind of faded light there, as you stared at him.

“I… I didn’t know. I just assumed that it was Chan or Jisung…”

Dr. Lee shrugged his proud shoulders nonchalantly, like him calling you three times a day to try and work out a treatment plan for Nyx wasn’t that big of a deal.

When in actuality,

No one in your entire life had ever tried so frantically to get ahold of you.

And the fact that it was him- behind the phone, waiting for you to pick up, hearing your voicemail click on every time the dial failed… just made you feel even worse.

“But that’s all in the past now, so don’t worry about it anymore,” Dr. Lee began, waving a hand in the air to seemingly try and clear your thoughts away. You watched in silence, then, as his hand slid away from his lap and hovered over yours. In a single beat, his fingers were threading through yours, palm against palm. And his hand was so incredibly warm and familiar. “Now, let’s instead focus on Nyx’s treatment, yeah? The sooner we can give her the help she needs, the better.”

For a few seconds, the thoughts of your dying childhood best friend had vanished from your mind and were instead replaced with the feeling of Dr. Lee’s hand holding yours and the way that his tongue formed your name, and the way he smelled - sitting so close to you - of warm chamomile and sweet cookies.

Immediately, at the mention of Nyx, you felt the tears prick at the corners of your eyes once more. “I-I don’t have the money.”

Silence filled the space around the two of you after that, and you felt Dr. Lee’s gaze studying your form, as you squeezed your eyes shut in embarrassment. “You mean for her treatment?”

“Y-Yeah… I, I don’t make that much. I can barely afford her and Taffy’s regular bills as it is. But, having to pay for the cancer treatment on top of everything else? I-I just don’t think I can manage that.”

You felt Dr. Lee shift in his seat beside you, making your eyes spring open as you watched the pained expression cast over his entire face. It darkened his cheekbones, shooting a look of pity through his eyes.

“The treatment is really expensive, I’m afraid.”

The hiccups started then, as the tears traced down your cheeks faster. Your entire body shook with the cries, “This is why I didn’t want to come here again… I didn’t want to hear the news that nothing else could be done except- except that.”

It was like the fucking jumbo-sized elephant in the room…

The fact that- the only other solution to Nyx’s cancer would be to put her down.

To euthanize her.

Gone, forever.

Just like that.

And even though you weren’t naïve enough to think that your cat would live forever, saying goodbye to her in such a way just felt downright… cruel, after everything that the two of you had been through together. But... what other choice did you have? It's not like anyone else was going to pay for the expensive treatment, and your insurance sure as hell didn't cover pet fees. And on top of all that, you couldn't expect Dr. Lee to drop his prices exponentially just for your specific case. That'd just be downright cruel to his other customers that paid the exact amount.

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Dr. Lee’s words cut through your stormy thoughts. A sharp pain coursed through your broken heart, as you were forced to come to terms with the problem at hand. “If you can’t afford the treatment, then the only other alternative is… euthanasia.”

You found yourself clutching onto his hand desperately, squeezing his fingers to death between yours, as you peered up at him through glassy eyes. “P-Please… just… just tell me you’ll do it. Because I-I don’t think I can handle it if-” Your voice seized in your chest at the thought of some stranger doing such a thing to your precious Nyx. It was already going to be extremely hard for you, but the thought of some other vet doing it just ripped your heart in two even more.

“We offer ethical euthanasia here, so, of course, I’ll do it,” Dr. Lee clutched a little harder on your hand, and the way that his warm, slender digits felt against yours did something to calm a rattling part inside of you. “Do you feel my hand? It is there, Y/N. And it will continue to be there throughout this entire process.”

The breath caught in your throat, forming a large lump there, as your eyes widened his way. Because there it was again, him calling you by your first name… with no ‘miss’ in front of it.

“T-Thank you… so much. I seriously don’t know what I’d do right now if it wasn’t for you and this wonderful clinic and all of the amazing staff here…” Your voice trailed off, as you felt the warmth of a flush creeping up into your cheeks.

“Yeah, well, that’s what we’re here for… to give as much support as we can to our clients.” Dr. Lee’s tone came out soft and quiet, it ghosted over the shell of your ear like an angel’s sweet whisper.

“I like it.”

You heard Dr. Lee take in a sharp breath at your disjointed words, but before he could ask the meaning behind them, you were talking again.

“You calling me by my first name, I mean… I like it, a lot, Dr. Lee.” Your eyes found him in the dim lighting of the room, and for a split second, you could’ve sworn that you saw… something flash deep in those chestnut-brown pupils.

But then all at once, it vanished, and he was giving you an easy smile, pearly white teeth on display. And pink, rosebud lips tugging up- wait, why were you thinking about his mouth?

“Me too,” he said in that delicate way of his, just as he squeezed your palm once more, “I really like it… Y/N.”

To be continued...

taglist: want to be added onto my taglist so that you always get notified when i post a new work? well then, comment below on this post/reblog it, and indicate your interest in my taglist and i'll add you... or, you can simply send me a msg and request to be added that way~

©ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

713 notes · View notes

bellatrixobsessed1 · 5 months

Text

Red Breath

Summary: Azula has been hiding that she has tuberculosis. Her secret comes out during the last Agni Kai.

For @the-mariachi-96 based on this post.

There is red on her pillow.

There is red on the cloth in her pocket.

She tries not to dwell too much upon it.

Today is her special day.

The mirror has no mercy.

No sympathy nor compassion.

It is a cold thing, and—had it a voice—it would speak clinically. Forward. Direct. Brutal.

In its own way it does have a voice and it speaks through images it reveals and the inner monologue that it inspires from the looker. Sometimes it is pleasant, mostly it is mundane and indifferent. These days it has been cruel; it shows Azula that she has been deteriorating steadily and rapidly.

That something that was already well out of her control has spiraled much further beyond it. Either her skin has grown sallow or the palace’s warm lighting is making her complexion look more sickly than it truly is. For certain she has grown thinner, her robes had always fit rather large on her frame for comfort’s sake. Now they are too baggy for comfort. Sleep and illness have put bags under her eyes too.

She touches her fingers to her cheek, the texture of her skin is not quite right, but that could be because she hasn’t been drinking enough. Her cheekbones are more prominent beneath her fingers.

She wants to blame Mai and TyLee.

If they hadn’t chosen Zuzu…

If they hadn’t left…

Since finding out, they have always kept her fed and comfortable.

She grits her teeth. It is her own fault for letting them care for her instead of learning to care for herself by herself.

Even if they were there to feed her, she probably wouldn’t want to eat anyhow. The sickness is getting worse and it is stealing her appetite, her comfort, her strength, her motivation, and, most pressingly, her future.

Her well kept secret is finally unraveling and she is glad that father isn’t around to witness it, that nobody is around to see it, she had made certain of that. And she starts to wonder…

She is always wondering, speculating, or overthinking about something or another.

This time she ponders exactly what is to blame for her fraying mind, the fog within it, and the things that it shows her—the things that aren’t truly there.

Can tuberculosis cause paranoia and hallucinations or was it the loss of Mai and TyLee that has put her mind of kilter. If the former is to be blamed then it might be that she is reaching her last days. And, by the spirits, it seems to have come about so quickly. She knows that she doesn’t want to be alone when she takes her last red, labored breath.

Her chest hurts.

Her lungs burn.

She is afraid to die.

But she is afraid to breathe.

.oOo.

To some degree, she wonders what the purpose is. Of the crown. Of this new title. Of anything really. Azula will be dead soon and she knows it. So why then? Why bother letting them fix the crown into her hair? A sense of duty, she decides, and to make father proud right to the very end. Her nation depends on her, especially now, with the comet barreling towards the world. Her firebending is charged, she can feel it in her core, but she is no longer certain that she could withstand its power.

The Fire Sages hover the crown just above their head, they are just about to decree that she is the new firelord. She closes her eyes and when she opens them, Zuko is in front of her with the waterbender at his side and the bison behind him.

Surely she is delirious with fever.

But no, the Fire Sages are exchanging looks.

Her already burning chest, flares with hatred. Resentment for the person who had taken her mother from her and then her friends. For the person who now wants to steal her crown—the very last thing that she has.

She is in no condition for an Agni Kai, but she will fight all the same.

She will fight to keep what is hers, fight for her nation, and fight for her honor. She will fight for her vengeance. She will fight for her friends—surely Mai and TyLee will understand then, how much they mean to her.

She rises to her feet, her head is already spinning.

Dear Zuzu has already accepted her challenge. Her fate, whatever it may be, is sealed.

She closes her eyes and hopes that her coughing will subside just long enough for her to win this fight.

She takes a labored breath and she takes a stance. She feels that breath, scratchy and searing. Like sandpaper dragging all the way down her throat. She holds herself rigid and ready in spite of it.

Zuko makes the first strike, a powerful blast of orange flames that heat her face from well across the arena. She returns with a burst of her own blue and equally as scorching, if not more so. It isn’t a fair match; not in numbers, not with her state of mind, not with her state of health. She supposes that she has made her share of sneaky, honorably questionable maneuvers. A war is a war and it will not stop because she is feeling ill.

And so she throws blast after blast until the chills start to wrack her body. Even then, she pushes onwards. Even then she wields her fire as she always had. But the more the smoke fills her lungs, the more agitated they become.

She can feel the fit coming on.

“What, no lightning today? Afraid I’ll redirect it?”

It is bait and she should know better.

But it is an excuse; an excuse to end this match once and for all, before tuberculosis ends it for her.

Perhaps this will be the last thing that she does. She wonders if Mai and TyLee will miss her. Or if they will be relieved to know that she is gone. The lightning crackles on her fingers and the fever crackles in her body.

Both will be released, only one will claim its target.

She sends the lightning off as disease rushes forward. Her lightning falls short, it splits the ground with a rumbling crack. It launches Zuko violently towards the other end of their arena. And it launches her body into a violent fit. Her coughs come on with such merciless furocity that it leaves her stomach aching and her body hunched forward.

She can feel the blood behind her teeth. If she parts her lips, it will drip onto the ground. Perhaps not a dramatic spatter, but two or three little droplets.

She glances at her right hand.

It is bloodied.

She glances at the battleground.

At two alarmed faces.

And then she sees nothing at all.

.oOo.

Azula’s vision is fuzzy. There are figures around her bedside and she can’t tell who is who. She thinks that they are probably doctors. The same ones who have been attending her since she’d come home. The ones that Lo and Li had found for her.

Her throat hurts and her head is woozy.

Sounds hurt.

Bright light hurts as it streams through the window. A glorious light spills over her face but she has not earned glory.

The comet has passed and so to has her coughing fit. But the tingling in her throat remains as a souvenir of her suffering and her lungs don’t seem that keen on expanding fully. For it, when her lips part, her breath comes out in a labored hiss.

“Aang should be here soon, he can help with that.” It takes Azula a moment to recognize that voice as the waterbender’s. But of course. She might not be here if not for waterbending. And for the life of her, Azula can’t understand why Katara would help her. Especially when Zuko had also been harmed. Perhaps he hadn’t taken a direct hit but the lightning had fallen at his feet and the shockwaves had thrown him a respectable distance.

Katara likes him better anyhow.

Everyone does.

“Mai and TyLee?” Azula mannages.

“They’ll be here soon.”

But she can’t imagine that they will want to talk to her. They are probably coming for Zuzu, to check on and comfort him.

“I’m cold.” She mentions. But she is also terribly hot, her face has a thin film of sweat.

“You have a fever.” Katara replies. “But I think that you know that. How long?”

“How long, what?”

“How long have you known?” And then she elaborates. “That you were sick.”

“None of your…” she falters into a half cough. “Of…” another half cough. “your…” And then there is the first full cough. Finally another fit comes on in full. Silent tears leak down her cheeks, more so the product of physical strain than any emotion.

Katara hands her a glass of water. “Drink that. After you swallow I’m going to bend that water and try to soothe the inside of your throat. It will probably feel weird, but it won’t hurt…”

It wouldn’t matter if it did, her throat is already sore.

“...And you won’t drown.”

Fleetingly it crosses her mind, that maybe she would be perfectly content drowning. She drinks the glass and Katara takes hold of the water. The sensation is terribly unpleasant, like nothing she has ever felt. Like nothing she ever wants to feel again. But then her burning throat cools and the sharpest of pangs taper off.

Katara lowers her hands. “No more talking, okay? You’ll agitate your throat.” Katara says. “Just rest.”

Azula nods.

“Zuko is in the bed next to you. Both of his feet are bandaged and he’s got a concussion so he won’t be walking for a little while.” Katara informs. “Mai and TyLee and my friends are on their way. You can go to sleep, I’ll wake you up when they get here.”

But she won’t be able to sleep. Her head is too preoccupied with troubled thoughts; knowing that she had failed her people and her father, knowing that she has lost everything including Mai and TyLee, knowing that her carefully guarded secret is now in the hands of the enemy. The enemy that is fixing her blankets for her and putting a cool rag on her forehead.

“Why?” Her voice is so hoarse. Hoarse and whispery, nothing like the elegant silk it had been.

“Because, you don’t deserve to die.”

It is a simple and impersonal answer. But it is just as well.

“I think that things can be different.” Katara adds. “Now that the war is over.”

Different.

She doesn’t particularly like ‘different’.

She thinks that she might be afraid of ‘different’.

Even if ‘different’ could be better for her.

“Get some rest, okay. I’m going to keep waterbending and I’ll have Sokka reach out to this herbalist that we met in Taku; she’s very knowledgeable and she has this troublemaking cat.”

“Miyuki?” Azula grumbles.

“You know Miyuki?”

Azula nods.

“Does that have anything to do with how Miyuki got in trouble with the Fire Nation?”

Another nod.

“That’s a story that you’re going to have to tell.”

“You said no talking.” Azula dodges.

“Later on.” Katara replies. “Right now, just get some rest. We’ll figure out how to treat your tuberculosis.”

Azula nods once more. Perhaps she will get to live a full lifetime afterall. She just isn’t certain of what sort of life it will be.

#avatar the last airbender #azula #katara #zuko #fanfiction #one shot

111 notes · View notes

ladytauria · 10 months

Note

👀👀 meeting in the ER with damitim pls?

thank you!!

this is more urgent care than ER---actually, i'm picturing this happening at Leslie's clinic?---but. still on theme xD it's also heavily inspired by this post, bc... it's just so damian, you know?

“So… you said a cat did this?”

“Ah… yes.” Damian is distracted—not by the distant tug of a needle, in and out of his skin, but rather by the man doing the stitching.

He would not call him the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, but the man is certainly… attractive, with his sharp cheekbones and aquiline nose. Most striking is the pale, ice blue of his eyes; made even more so by the dark circles under his eyes.

Damian can relate.

“It was a kitten, actually,” he admits, somewhat reluctantly.

That gets those eyes on him, the needle stilling. The nurse’s brows raise. “A kitten?”

“She was very fierce.” Normally he keeps gloves in his car for such an occasion, but he had taken them out to wash them, and— Well. Of course he ended up finding the kitten before he got them back into his car.

"I see," the nurse says, a smile tugging at his mouth. "I wonder if I'll be stitching up the next poor person to find her, too."

Damian sniffs. "Hardly," he says. "She's in my car." His emergency kennel, luckily, had still been there. He hated to leave the poor creature out there—on the way over, he had contemplated calling Richard or Todd to pick her up for him. However, neither of them was likely to listen to his instructions to leave her alone. Richard because he would believe he could befriend her, and Todd because he would underestimate the severity.

Pity Cassandra was out of town.

Pity Jon lived two hours away.

“Huh.” The nurse goes back to stitching. “You didn’t let go?” He sounds vaguely impressed. Damian cannot help the way he puffs up with pride.

“Of course not,” he says. “I would hardly leave the poor thing out there to suffer. Fierce or not, Gotham’s streets are no place for a kitten.”

The curve of the man’s mouth turns—soft, almost. It is reminiscent of a look he often sees from Richard, though it incites a different feeling in him entirely. He feels… warm. His fingertips tingle.

“Of course not,” the man echoes, softly. “Do you do that a lot? Rescue kittens, I mean.”

“At nearly one in the morning? No, not typically,” Damian says. “However, I volunteer at an animal shelter, and I am enrolled in the veterinary program at Gotham University. I find myself rescuing many animals.” He also had, vaguely, considered the notion of stitching himself up. It was only the knowledge of Richard and Pennyworth’s disappointed faces that had sent him to the clinic, instead.

“Huh,” the man says, thoughtfully. “So what happens to the kitten now?”

“She is young enough it should be fairly easy to socialize her,” Damian says. “Once she is used to people, I suppose I will look into finding her a home.” He would keep her himself, but— He has reached his limit on the amount of animals he can realistically take care of. His younger self would scoff at this, but part of adulthood was learning his limits. A dog, two cats, a snake, and several fostered kittens were certainly his.

The nurse hums, snipping the thread. He lingers at Damian’s side. “You know… I always wanted a cat. Do you… think I could call you, sometime? Maybe arrange a visit?”

Damian’s pulse quickens. “I—yes. I would be, ah. Amenable to that.”

The nurse smiles. The brightness of it steals the breath from Damian’s lungs. “Cool,” he says. “Hold on just a second.”

The nurse disposes of the needle and washes his hands before snagging one of the brochures from the countertop, by the sink. He withdraws a pen from his pocket and writes, quickly.

When he passes it to Damian, he winks. “You should be good to go now, Mr. Wayne.”

“Thank you,” Damian says, sliding off the exam table. As he walks out the door, he glances down at the paper. On it is a phone number, which Damian memorizes automatically, signed—

Tim Drake. Call me :)

Next to words is a doodle of a cat, wearing what is likely a nurse’s cap.

Damian is impossibly, terribly charmed.

[ send me an au if u like~ ]

#damitim #timdami #asks and answers #waffleinator-inator #tauriawritesfanfic #did i make up a whole au in my head to go with this? ...no ofc not...#thank u for the prompt #this was fun!!!#i almost had this done last night but. i tripped over the end a little bit

132 notes · View notes

marc--chilton · 17 days

Text

(mgv) it is very easy to incorrectly assume that giselle doesn't care outside of herself, particularly when she's small. kids are jerks sometimes, they think they're the only person to matter, that's just how it is and even house accepted that his kid's probably gonna get some asshole behavior from him anyway and doesn't make excuses for her. "of course she's selfish, she's three." etc

and it's not like she's particularly expressive. her default expression is analytical, she's utterly content by herself with a modest little assortment of toys she decides are Today's Toys while the rest are ignored + her little whiteboard that never leaves her side when in the diagnostics office.

then there's a bad pain day. house is at his desk, craving vicodin that he's starting to think he may always struggle with (he's an addict, obviously. but now that he has a pup, he's starting to reassess his stance on him having a problem, too) and giselle is sat at his feet, leaning against his good leg. he pages kutner to collect her -- thirteen and chase are busy doing their jobs and wilson is in a meeting -- and make him play funny babysitter so his kid doesn't have to watch one of her parents deteriorate waiting for his not-good-enough drugs to kick in.

but when kutner reaches for her, she bites him. not a corrective nip like she has before but an actual growl and bite. it's more startling than anything. and while kutner and house are both reeling, giselle scrambles to sit securely between house's legs, back straight, her little baby growls as steadfast as she can manage it, and dark eyes narrowed up at kutner in challenge. he figures out what's up with the sudden behavioral change before house does, mostly because the pain is making it hard for him to think so all he was really doing was blinking down at her in abject wonder anyway.

"i think she's...... trying to protect you."

on instinct, house trills down at her as if to ask if that's true or not, but giselle has tuned them out. now he can see, though, that in moving, she's put herself between kutner and house's bad leg. it throws his hindbrain off, too, since... he's the parent. he's supposed to protect her, not the other way around. not like he can hide the fact that he's very much physically disabled and is constantly in pain, but still he feels like he's failed her if he inspires her instincts enough to put herself in theoretical danger for him.

and kutner proves once again to be smarter than house gives him credit for, because he goes on. "that's not really a bad thing. she loves you and is still too young to realize she's not invincible so if she sees you're having a hard time, it's totally reasonable for her to fend off any perceived threat. like someone outside of the realm of 'family' or 'pack'."

"what were you doing when i paged you?" house asks after letting that perspective Sink In for a second.

"clinic duty?"

"yeah, go back to doing that."

"you sure? 'cuz i don't mind the biting, she didn't even break the skin--"

"go."

one of the hands house had been using to grasp at his thigh starts combing through giselle's curls, idly noting in the back of his mind that she's due for a trim soon. she relaxes a bit, back to silence now that kutner's gone again. he pretends the tears trying to roll down his cheeks are of relief now that his leg pain miraculously dampens to a manageable level. "protect me, huh?" she doesn't respond, only leans into his hand like a cat. "you... really are your abba's daughter, aren't you?"

#mgv #house mgv #having giselle feelings today. aouuguhhh lil Baybee #house never accounted for like. unconditional love #he's so used to conditional that he fails to consider the depth of unconditional love even #(he has a hard time even pulling from what he gathers from his mom bc of her passiveness ->#wrt john's abuse. she's told him she loves him and vice versa but her all but forcing him to ->#give a eulogy for the man who abused him for all his childhood and then some... ->#he couldn't imagine putting himself and giselle in that same place. yes i'm salty about birthmarks okay)

12 notes · View notes

misslavenderlady · 9 months

Text

My name's Bree. How can I help you?💉📒

Shoutout to @hypocriticaltypwriter for the inspiration!

REF/INFO BELOW CUT 💜💜💜

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: Bree

𝐀𝐠𝐞: 25

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫: Female She/They

𝐇𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭: 5'8

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲: ISFJ

Though very shy around others, Bree has a good head on her shoulders and a kind heart. She values the work she does, making sure to help others as best as she can. Not only does she care about her patients, but she also likes to help out her friends and coworkers. Being useful for a greater good is something truly valuable to her, though it can sometimes get the better of her.

Bree struggles quite a bit with stress. She tries to push herself to a point where burnout is inevitable. All she wants is to be helpful, but it can cause her to feel tired and depressed after the long days of work. She feels guilty about the idea of leaving her field of work, as so many patients count on her care. It makes her feel a bit stuck and frustrated. Her biggest dream in life is to become a writer, becoming the next Bram Stoker or Mary Shelley.

She’s fascinated with romance and monsters, inspired to bring such two complex things together. During her free time, she enjoys writing down short stories that she hopes to get published some day.

Bree is used to blending into the background, not really one to get attention from boys in her teenage years. However, she has blossomed into a beautiful young woman, and others are starting to notice her more. Since she’s not used to such affection and attention, it makes her quite bashful~

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞: Bree is often in her work uniform. As a nurse, she wears a light blue work dress with a white collar, cuffs and belt. Outside of work, she prefers to wear more soft and loose clothing. Usually she wears fun sweatshirts and stretchy jeans with converse sneakers. A special accessory she wears every day is her silver key necklace. It has an amethyst gemstone in the center.

Her skin is quite pale, as she has to stay out of the sun, lest she want a nasty sunburn. She’s got a dusting of freckles on her face. Her makeup is plain, often just mascara and chapstick. She can’t do a full face of makeup every day, as it would just end up on her face mask whenever she puts it on.

Bree is more chubby in her features, making her insecure compared to the thin, toned bodies she sees on the Santa Carla boardwalk. However, she’s got several beautiful features and a shapely body. Her hair is flowing and thick with brunette color. She’s got some natural highlights from the rays of the sunshine. She often hides behind her long hair, sometimes too shy to show her face.

𝐉𝐨𝐛: She’s a nurse at Santa Carla Medical Clinic. She works night shifts, as nobody else wants them. Bree is a natural night owl, so it ends up working in her favor. Most of her job is front desk admin work, but she also provides checkups and vaccinations/blood draws when need be.

𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬:

B (Michael, Sam, coworkers)

My dear, Darling, Beautiful, Sweetling (David)

Baby, Babygirl, Little lady (Dwayne)

Mama, Sugar, Pretty girl (Paul)

Bella, Bellisima, Angel (Marko)

Babe, Baby (Michael)

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞?: Bree is in your typical multi-roommate-in-small-apartment setup. She moved out to California with her friends so she could start fresh, and was able to get set up in the basement of the condo they found. Her roommates are usually asleep whenever she’s awake due to their different work hours, which she doesn’t mind. She finds peace in the night time, though she does tend to get lonely.

Though their home doesn’t have a lot of space, Bree has worked hard to make it cozy. It’s not far from the boardwalk, meaning a lot of shops are within walking distance.

𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲:

Bree has always been a bit of odd girl. Growing up, she found herself in the school library quite a bit. She was too shy to talk to other kids, and was afraid of bullies that would pick on her for being extra sensitive (not to mention they were quite unkind to her and her chubby features). She would often switch back and forth between romance novels and scary stories, finding equal interest in love and darkness. The two began to blend together, and she became attracted to the monsters that were supposed to frighten her. She found sympathy in these creatures, as she knew what it was like to feel isolated and tormented for simply being different.

A passion for writing her own stories was born, and every chance she got, she would eagerly write down stories of these monsters in her journal. Ones where they would get happy ending rather than tragic downfalls. It fueled her dream of becoming a writer someday, and even when she pursued a career in the medical field, she never forgot her true passion.

She became a bit more confident in herself when she got older, and ended up making close friends. They were very supportive of her work, and were there for her when her mother got sick. When she finished school and got her degree, Bree found out her friends had their sights set on California. The complete opposite side of the country. She was scared of such a massive change, but her family encouraged it, as she would have more opportunities for her writing to get noticed in such an environment. Touched by their support, Bree took the jump and moved cross-country with her friends.

Until she can fulfill her writing dream, she’s working hard as a nurse. Not only does she provide for herself, but for her beloved chocolate labrador as well.

𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡: She’s torn at the moment. On the one hand, she is infatuated with Michael. He’s kind and gentle and very responsible. She admires the dedication he has to his family and appreciates his sweet nature keeping her spirits up. On the other hand, she can’t stop thinking about the mysterious pack of biker boys that she sees in her office now and then. There’s something about them that draws her in. Something dark and mysterious. It’s like a siren’s call, and she’s powerless around them.

(She wouldn’t mind a poly relationship, but she does have somewhat of an extra fondness for Dwayne, given how good he is with Laddie)

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡: Bree was able to use her degree to get set up at local primary care doctor’s office. It was there that she so happened to meet Michael Emerson, a handsome guy who decided to pursue physical therapy as a study once he got his GED. He worked part time in between night school, and Bree was completely smitten whenever they had the same shift. He was so doting and kind. A perfect gentleman who never failed to put a smile on her face. Sometimes his mother and little brother would stop by for a checkup or to simply say hello, and Bree found herself adoring them too.

Michael explained to her at one point that he had a devastating breakup with a runaway girl he met during a past summer. He didn’t like to talk about what led to their breakup, but Bree never forced him to tell more. She was simply happy to be there for him, and she had a feeling that he was starting to open his heart up to her in return.

However, he wasn’t the only man in her life.

During quieter nights, Bree started to get visits from four mysterious, yet very sexy bikers. They would ask for a walk-in appointment. A cut here, a sprain there, usual stuff. Normally, the office didn’t take walk-ins, but she was happy to examine them on her own. She suspected something was off about them when she found that their bodies weren’t exactly….normal. The stethoscope she used never could pick up a heartbeat. The blood sample she collected looked sparkly in the light. The thermometer always said their temperature was far below what it should have been.

She was frightened at first…..but soon became intrigued.

They were all so mysterious and unusual. The four of them watched her with hunger in their eyes. They’d coo sweet nothings to her, offering to take her out for a date or a ride on their motorcycles. Ask her back to their place for a drink. The more she got to know them personally, the more tempted she felt to listen to their call. Bree had the same fascination in the boys as she did with the monsters she read about growing up.

Little does she know that her indecision between Michael and the Lost Boys is more akin to a fight between good and evil~

#tw medical #tw needles #tw blood #the lost boys #tlb #lavender lady rambles #self insert

27 notes · View notes

riivenant · 1 year

Text

Sofia Moore! Caring more about healing than gold, she runs a little-to-no cost clinic on a DND-inspired roleplay server I’m on. While she is trained in traditional medicines and alchemy, she has also undergone the process of obtaining Life runes (the long, vine-like patterned scars stemming from her chest and down her arms) in order to further expand her healing capabilities.

Unfortunately, despite the multitude of healing abilities at her disposal, she was still unable to save her only son, who had been murdered by a mysterious assailant. In her attempt to bring him back, Sofia over-exerted her healing magics. This left her mutated, with stems of lavender growing from her head, and root-like systems beneath her skin that sap her of almost every ounce of energy she has left.

Today, she still practices medicine. And despite having “adopted” plenty of children since then, she is no more than a shell of the woman she once was, living primarily to heal, drink, and sleep.

Idk where i want to take her plots yet. There’s more to her story than this, but this is the gist of her character as of right now :). Shes just memaw

(also if ur into minecraft rp then join us on Keycraft rp)

#keycraft #sofia moore #riivers ocs #riivart #dnd #dungeons and dragons #dnd character #dnd art #dnd oc #dnd character reference #reference sheet #character design #bg3 #yeah im using the bg3 tag i need engagement #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 oc #i play her on bg3 too so it counts

21 notes · View notes

tarrenterror25 · 1 year

Text

thoughts no one asked for but my mind has no mouth and must scream

Alfred Pennyworth x Vampire!F!Reader

Rating: M

Word Count: 2.1K

Tags: horror, mentions of experimentation/chemicals, medical stuff, vampirism, blood, side effects of vampirism, victims of vampirism, blood withdrawal, biting, found family

Notes: This has bounced around in my head for awhile (as with most of my thoughts) and finally I had a breakthrough with it! Not only do I love vampires, but it was inspired by me thinking about how Alfred might be with someone who needs a different kind of taking care of from the standard illness and cuts and bruises. I hope you guys like it! I wrote most of this in one sitting and it's been in the drafts for awhile so I'm finishing it up, but it's not super cleaned up or anything, just wanted to get it out the drafts finally.

Line in the moodboard is from "I'm Not A Vampire" by Falling in Reverse.

Was it desperation?

Was it curiosity?

Were you looking for a cure of some kind? Jealous of whatever breakthrough he was on the verge? Were you merely clumsy and contaminated yourself?

Whatever the reason was didn't matter anymore. All you know is that you should not have messed with Kirk Langstrom's work.

It changed you.

Altered you.

God, it felt like fire under your skin, in your bones. It's was like you could feel the change brewing in your insides, your blood raced through your body and you could hear it. Your pulse throbbed at the points and it felt like hammers pounding.

You went home hoping to take a few days and get over your sickness, but it only progressed. For days you were sweating, coughing, not keeping any food down, and your body was constantly cramping making you fold and want to cave in on yourself. You asked yourself if this is what dying felt like, you were in so much pain. After a week, you caved, you picked up your phone to call for help. Just before you could finish dialing the emergency number, you blacked out.

When you woke up, you found yourself in a dark alley laying on the damp ground. You sat up and found yourself covered in blood; it was on your hands, your clothes and....your chin.

A bloodied and mangled body lay next to you.

And then the Batman showed up.

You were hysterical when he found you and he explained that you had been on the hunt for weeks now, feeding on the citizens of Gotham, lurking in the shadows, and evading him. You thought he would hurt you, arrest you, but what you didn't expect was for him to help you up and take you back to his home.

The Batman, Bruce Wayne, was and is still convinced he can help you, cure you, it'll just take some time, until then you've been at Wayne Tower recovering from your prolonged frenzied episode of draining Gothamites of their blood.

Enter Alfred Pennyworth.

When Bruce brought you to his home, he set you on a table in the batcave and the butler set aside his cane and immediately rolled up his sleeves to get to work on you.

The first few days at the Wayne home were tough; Alfred watched over you since Bruce was busy moonlighting as a vigilante. The butler set you up in a guest room to recover.

He kept a journal on a nearby end table in your room where he would take notes on your condition. He asked you standard medical questions, jotted down some observations, it was all very clinical and made you feel like....well, like a monster.

"Is...all of that really necessary?" you ask from where you sit up in the bed. "Well, if we are to cure you, then yes," Alfred replies matter of factly. "How come you never ask me anything else?" "What do you mean?" he asks placing his hands behind his back and looking to your curiously. "Like...how my day is? Or about the weather? Just...normal stuff." His brow quirks up a bit and he closes the journal, removing his glasses as he looks to you. He says, "Miss, you have been in this room for the past few days and as the one tasked with watching over you, I know very well how your day is and as for the weather, Gotham isn't known for its varying climate apart from the rain and fog, so not exactly a riveting topic." You actually chuckle at his snark and he smiles seeing that you take to his style of humor. "Then I'll ask about you then," you say.

From then, Alfred would come in, take his notes and make sure to sit with you to chat with you about...well, anything.

As for your vampirism, Bruce and Alfred were able to make note of your symptoms and condition: No sunlight. It won't disintegrate you like in the movies, but some component from Langstrom's formula made you susceptible to it. It hurts the hell out of your eyes, like they'll melt right out of their sockets and it makes your skin crawl, like a violent itch that's inside you. Artificial lights are okay, but it still hurts your eyes so Alfred keeps the curtains drawn in your room and tries to keep the rest of the home dimly lit if you're up and about. This does mean you've become a bit of a night owl. They found that you can see much better in the dark than the average human. In fact, all of your senses were heightened, not to superhuman levels, but far more than the average person. Also, yes, you indeed had fangs. They ache when you hunger and elongate. When they aren't out, they are still quite prominent in your mouth. You practice in the mirror talking in a way that doesn't bare them too much.

You don't have super strength, but you're stronger than you should be. Alfred came into your room and discovered "claw" marks on the wood floors. This was during the end of your first week when your withdrawal was setting in.

Blood.

Bruce and Alfred discovered that unfortunately you needed a sizeable intake of human blood in order to stay sane and lucid otherwise you would frenzy again. The pair was doing all they could to find a decent substitute, but you couldn't keep any of it down.

Finally, Bruce had to cave, you couldn't take it anymore and you needed sustenance. He left to retrieve something for you from the local blood bank. Alfred stayed beside you until Bruce could return.

You skin is clammy, sweat covering your body, your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head as the will to stay conscious and sane threatens to leave you. It's Alfred sitting in the bed with you, holding you, cradling you to him, telling you to fight your urge just a little longer that helps you stay lucid. You weakly wrap your arms around him, in tears because your body aches terribly, your teeth hurt, the root of your fangs throbbing in your gums as they beg to come out and tear into flesh. "I..I can't," you weakly say. "Yes," he says firmly as he holds you against him hoping to stifle your trembling body. "Yes, you can, just hold on a little longer." You look up at him with half lidded eyes. "I don't want to hurt you, Alfred," you plead softly. "You won't," he says firmly. The conviction in his voice, the trust he places in you wills you to hold out just that much longer. Finally, Bruce returns with sustenance for you.

Fast forward to now.

It's deemed that you aren't safe to leave the home unless it's an emergency. Bruce just doesn't want anything to happen to you or anyone else. He's not sure how tempted your condition will be to harm an innocent.

When he's able, Bruce continues working on a cure for you. In the meantime, he has finally managed to make a synthetic blood substitute for you so no more runs to the blood bank.

Alfred came to terms that you would be living with them for awhile so he's taken it upon himself to try and make you more comfortable with your condition.

You have a special part of the fridge dedicated to you. Alfred helps concoct the blood mixture and puts it into drink pouches that conceal the contents. And he was the one who suggested to Bruce to add flavor to them.

He's bought you black out curtains for your room and did his best to soundproof it a little so you won't hear him when he's bustling about doing his chores or work while you sleep.

Since he's the only person you really get to see, the two of you have grown quite close, like really close.

Alfred can't stay up for very long once the sun goes down, but he tries to for you. Since you can't really go anywhere, he's done his best to bring entertainment to you. It's become a hobby to sit on the couch together in the parlor and watch movies complete with popcorn and box candy, well, for Alfred anyways.

Human food was tricky now. Consuming it was off the table. You learned this when tried to scarf down a plate of food Alfred brought to you. It only took some ten minutes before it unceremoniously came back up. It left you in agony for a couple of days. Even tasting it was hard because it made you gag, but you could smell it. Despite not being able to consume it, you asked Alfred to teach you a few things around the kitchen.

You're a decent match at chess and since the two of you have nothing but time, you've convinced him to partake in other board/card games. There's a scoreboard on the fridge with tally marks under the three of you for each of your respective wins at Uno.

You asked Alfred if you could dive into the collection of books in the library since you're up alone at night with nothing to do. He happily obliges and eventually it becomes part of your routine for him to read to you in the morning. He wakes up, gets his morning coffee and eats breakfast just as you settle into bed for sleep. He comes to sit by your side and reads a few pages to you until you sleep.

Cooking, reading, gardening, games, and even some Batman related research, all things you and Alfred started doing together.

You physiology changed and you're kinda curious if...everything else works the same.

It does.

While sitting outside with you, soaking up the moonlight, Alfred looks at you for what feels like a minute too long to be any normal look. You find yourself glancing over at him more than usual, thighs pressing together when he gets close to you.

Alfred started off as being wary of you, but the more time he spends with you, he sees just another person, no matter the "how", a victim of circumstance. It ignites his need and desire to protect. And his kindness towards you where others would be scared has attracted you to him.

When the two of you finally admitted feelings and took things further, that's where it gets dicey.

Your first kiss with Alfred had the hairs on the back of your neck standing up as soon as his lips met yours and when his hand gently found its way to your waist you had to firmly push him away.

"I'm...I'm sorry," he says. "I've crossed a line haven't I?" You just stare at him, your hand still on his chest. Some hypotheticals churn in your mind before you grasp the front of his pressed shirt and tie and pull him to you for another kiss, a little more passion this time. He's taken aback by the strength with which you pull him to you, but responds to you. As soon as his tongue meets yours, you push him back again, hang your head and shake it. "No," you say with a sigh. "Can't do that." It was...awkward to explain to Alfred that your uh, feelings down below made you feel other things as well. "It feels the same like...like when I'm hungry. Like...really hungry," you explain. "I understand," he says with a soft smile and takes your hand in his. "We'll take it slow for now? How does that sound?"

Taking it slow was...difficult.

The two of you spent more time together, did more together, and never went past a chaste kiss or a warm embrace, but in your bones you wanted more. It was started to burn you like fire.

Even when the two of you graduated to soft touches and caresses, your heart pounded fervently. You needed more, but if you became too passionate you'd frenzy. But the slow pace was agonizing and borderline felt like torture.

But Alfred's understanding; the two of you find other ways to satisfy your needs in a way that doesn't compromise either of your safeties.

You jokingly suggested wearing a gag to keep you from biting him and the two of you laughed, but then a silence fell between the two of you. You both looked at each other and blinked, silently both considering the idea.

Some days, Alfred feels thankful for your circumstance as being at the Wayne home can be lonely. He appreciates the extra company to entertain. There's a dysfunctional element to household, but it certainly is starting to feel like the makings of a family.

#thoughts no one asked for #alfred pennyworth #gotham!alfred pennyworth x reader #thebatman!alfredpennyworth x reader #alfred pennyworth x reader #gotham!alfred pennyworth #thebatman!alfredpennyworth

37 notes · View notes

skazoo · 2 years

Text

wrath of the bride.

↳ hwang hyunjin x reader, minor lee felix x reader

anger is better than tears, better than grief, better than the void that's in your heart. revenge is better.

length. 2k

genre. frankenstein!au??, ANGST. NOT A SINGLE FLUFF BONE IN THIS BAD BOY.

warnings/tags. stockholm syndrome, mental instability, manipulation, mention of death and graphic description of murder, blood, violence, mention of sex, language.

networks. @kflixnet

notes. so... yeah... this is inspired by skz mama performance and kinda by overwatch 2's halloween event don't judge me thank you and i hope you like it <3 (i had this song on repeat while writing)

ALSO please PLEASE read the warnings!!! you should not be following my account if you're a minor exactly bc i work with themes like this SO PLEASE MINORS DNI!

i'm desperate for feedback and i love comments with your opinion!

(cross-posted on ao3 only)

navigation

felix was losing his mind.

no, felix had lost his mind a long time ago.

all these past months he’s felt everything. the doctor’s clinical touch on his feverish skin. examining him, studying him, changing him.

he’s smelled everything. antiseptic, a little bitter, with undertones of the artificial fragrance of the cold liquid he’s been trapped in, and the occasional weak trail of the lover’s perfume. your perfume.

he’s seen everything. the doctor’s silver hair reflecting the blue neon of the laboratory, vials, and syringes, some filled with his blood, others with a bright green liquid, your eyes smiling through the protective goggles in your white lab coat and without shoes on, the doctor’s love for you, his betrothed.

and felix has heard everything, but his favorite sounds are the doctor’s voice when he assured him ‘it’s not gonna hurt’, the giggles you let out that time the doctor got down on one knee and swore unconditional love to his one and only, the sounds of your love echoing in the silent lab that same night.

everything reaches his borderline comatose being, and thanks to his captors he feels alive. loved, valued, taken care of.

nowadays his mind doesn’t even wander off to them anymore. they couldn’t keep him safe so they can’t make him question things about the doctor or the lover. they are the big bad wolves in sheep’s clothing and they made promises that in the end, they couldn't keep. felix knows the doctor wouldn’t lie to him so everything is fine. he’s safe.

every now and then he remembers how it was before. the entitled beliefs of his friends. the battles they weren’t supposed to fight against enemies they had made up to clear their own conscience, to create the scapegoat. how sad, how uninteresting.

his dazy train of thought is derailed by the doctor's entrance into his kingdom. the queen is not with him, felix notices and wants to ask why but all that escapes his lips is a small bubble of air making its way up the tall container he’s floating in.

the doctor ruffles his silver hair as he puts on his pristine lab coat over a smooth black tuxedo and throws felix a small wave. “hey, just came to run some tests before i go. nothing serious.”

if he could felix would ask ‘where?’ but the doctor seems to be able to read his mind and with a simple shrug he turns to him with an excited grin on his lips. “don’t know if you remember but today is the day.” the man wiggles his hand in front of the glass of the container. “i get to marry her!” a simple silver ring catches the blue neon lights.

for a second felix is ecstatic. truly. then all darkens and the machines monitoring his vitals start beeping aggressively. “i take that you’re happy for us then.” a small chuckle leaves the doctor's mouth.

but felix just wants to scream, to break the glass and run to him. to warn him, to warn the bride.

everything happens by grotesque coincidence.

the unsuspecting doctor is too focused on the thought of his lover to notice the thin red laser pointing at his temple from the small glass window of the backdoor of the lab.

said lover slowly makes her teasing entrance from the double doors of the underground space where her soon-to-be husband is working.

and everything that was not supposed to happen finds its twisted way into the real world.

the tap of a high heel on the floor. silence. the whistling of a bullet. death. a crash.

the doctor falls lifeless on the ground right as felix’s container gets smashed into million pieces by the same bullet. as the liquid that enveloped his body flows out on the ground taking him with it, felix thinks that he doesn’t like this, gods don’t bend. gods don’t die.

the group of usurpers that he recognizes rush toward him. they whisper sweet reassurances but felix is too concentrated on the fear that has taken him. the anguish, the grief. he’s too concentrated on you.

darkness. when everything you know and love is taken away from you, so harshly, all you think about is anger, hatred, and even revenge. and no one can save you.

the visceral scream you let out is raw, bone-chilling, and is enough to make everyone in the lab freeze.

everyone’s attention is on you. some of them are scared, some are ready to kill you too, he’s reaching for you in worry while the others keep him away by his arms.

but the only thing you can see is the only person you’ve ever loved sprawled on the white floor of the lab —of your home— his white coat is stained with the dark blood slowly flowing out of the bullet wound in his head. white lilies peek out of his chest pocket.

“what did you do!? don’t fucking touch me! you killed him!” felix is sobbing with heartbreak and they don’t understand. can’t understand. “y-you killed him! you’re hurting her!”

the buff man on his left tries to calm him down. “lix, you’re safe now, please calm down-”

“she’s hurting and it’s your fault! you killed the doctor and the lover is sad! you will regret this! i will make you regret this!” at this point he’s snarling, foam at the mouth and tears in his eyes.

“what did they do to you?” the man whispers under his breath then turns to another. “chan, what- what do i do? this is not felix, i don’t-”

“make him pass out, we’ll deal with it when we escape this madness.” his order gets drowned by your screams and wails that are still resonating in the closed space of the lab.

“they saved me!” are the last words your creature yells out before the grip of a gun on his temple makes him black out.

the murderers flee your once pristine realm and you’re left alone with him.

your heart has broken into a million pieces and doesn’t beat anymore. it’s dead, still, silent, harboring plans of hungry revenge.

you're a scientist, you know how it all works. first, there’s clinical death. cessation of blood circulation and breathing, the heart stops its regular rhythm, cardiac arrest.

then in four to six minutes, the light of your life will be unsalvageable —biological death— by normal science’s standards.

you crawl over hyunjin’s body, the white lace dress dips into the pool of blood and absorbs it like a sponge. hyunjin asked you to wear it. he wanted a real wedding with the dress, the cake, the first dance, the honeymoon, married sex. he wanted to give everything he knew you couldn’t even know you wanted. he wanted to make you his bride because he wanted you to know that you deserved to be loved like that even if others thought otherwise.

it’s still warm, his body.

you take his head in your hands and hold him close to your body, hoping you can share some of your breath with him, hoping to have him back just by loving him.

but of course, it doesn’t work and so you do what you must, what your husband would have done if he were in your place. what the doctor would have done.

death, grieving, mourning, they’re all commonplace. science is not. logic is rare, and so you dwell on it.

when felix closes his eyes he enters the void.

he’s floating and he understands who he really is. he knows what’s happened in the past and what’s happening in the present. sometimes he feels like he can see the future as well but maybe that’s just because he’s already decided what to do when he wakes up again. in this state of tranquility and silence he can rationalize all the time he’s spent under the doctor and lover’s careful gaze. or at least he thinks he can.

when he was taken all that time ago he had been scared.

he doesn’t think he feared you as real people, but as otherworldly beings, superior to everyone and slaves of none, above the concepts of time and space. of life and death. he thought he would be gone by the time you started experimenting on him like he knew you would have, but you were not monsters and you let him keep his mind in your act of immense magnanimity.

you were angels and felix was lucky to have been saved by you.

some part of him felt like a kid playing hide and seek, afraid of being found. his seekers were just that close and he wanted to, he had to scream out and let them know where he was. the fear and tension were so overwhelming that anything was better than the suspense of hiding.

his life had been disrupted, it had even been threatened to be lost. but he’d joined the threat and he was no longer at risk. he’d become the monster and the monster was no longer scary. the tension had broken. the brain had accepted it as an epiphany, a victory. aha! this is truth! this is purpose!

he knows that most people live pretty mediocre lives. pathetic. him included. fighting a war against the ambitions of others —the doctor’s ambitions— with his naive group of friends. normal people study. they work to pay bills, to survive in this wretched world, and suddenly they’re caught up with people who do things for reasons. the doctor and the lover. they have drive. they have purpose. the smallest act has meaning. these people are doing real things which they believe are worth living for and dying for, and they scare everyone else.

seven months ago he was afraid of losing his busy and pointless life, now he knows what someone who will gladly die for a cause looks like and he loves it. he admires and wants to protect your angelic minds. he will protect you.

like a lever being pulled, felix's resolve strengthens and his eyes snap open, an imperceptible green glow clouds his iris.

the others have formed a messy semicircle around him as if to keep him away from anything coming from the hole in the rundown shack they’ve chosen to rest in. as if to stop the lover to look for him if she ever decides to. they can’t. no one can if she chooses to take them to their personal hell, felix knows it and smiles.

everyone is sleeping, some more soundly than others. changbin’s hand is preventively resting on the handle of the gun in his pants and every now and then chan tightens his fingers on the knife under the makeshift pillow he’s lying on.

felix walks around his captors like a knight would walk around the enemy lines and in this delicate situation, he really feels like one. a knight in shining armor who faces dangers and monsters only to return to his queen because he owes his life to the crown.

with this in mind the first throat he slits with the piece of glass found in the shack is emancipating. jisung’s eyes widen and he can see the life drain from his body.

the second and the third are silent. seungmin and jeongin die clawing at felix’s hands, foam at their mouths, fear in their faces.

minho manages to live a few seconds longer because felix doesn’t make a clean cut. his blood gurgles in his throat and paints felix’s hands red.

changbin dies loudly just as he’s lived. the gunshot of his own gun echoes through the room and wakes the last of them.

chan looks around in grief. he wants to kill him, felix knows and opens his arms to invite him in.

poor chan, no one told him to not bring a knife to a gunfight.

he thumps to the ground, a bullet hole that matches the doctor’s.

felix smiles and turns to the door. a pale moon shines on his green eyes as he makes his way to you. after all, he’s sure you’ll need help bringing your doctor back from the dead.

#hyunjin x reader #lee felix x reader #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #kflixnet #hyunjin x you #hyunjin x y/n #lee felix x you #felix x reader #stray kids x you #stray kids x y/n #skz x you #stray kids mama #mama 2022

76 notes · View notes

todderwodders · 10 months

Note

Hello! I see so many bits about your Durge and they're so juicy. Changling? PARENT? Can you tell us more about them and their relationships to the other chosen and Orin?

Omg hiiiiiiiii

So. This durge was born from an idea that the Dark Urge could be anyone, would be anyone, and is inherently a faceless entity with no name nor creed beyond death. They are an interrogation of gender, intimacy, and what it looks like to be a child of a god who can peek into your brain at any given time. There’s a darkness inside of you that’s inside of me.

If you enjoy this very long breakdown, check out Libations, which will be updated soon!

Let’s start from the beginning, one more time.

I will clarify some things before hoping into lore: I use he/they in meta because the urge uses he/they pronouns personally, but they almost universally allow other people to assume their pronouns/refers to himself as ‘this one’ or ‘this child’. He appears, largely, as a tiefling male, an ambiguously gendered elven adolescent, and a human woman. All of them are pale, all of them black eyed, all of them closely tied to the urge’s identity. The Urge is roughly in his mid 40s by the time of bg3’s events.

The Urge, was not born, The Urge was planted, seeded in the flesh of a newly sculpted infant and made to bloom under the conditions of puberty and awareness and crushing expectation. The Urge was gifted, in the mysterious ways of gods, to a family of doctors within the Lower City, and raised as one of several adopted children. They were well educated. They were loved. They knew nothing of hunger but everything of the human body and it’s inner workings, and the way to breath through the decay and clinging stench of bloating corpses in the summer, when not even their false father’s cellar could delay rot for long. Even in youth, their genius and calm understanding of the raw, sinew stringy facts of life impressed and inspired their foster parents.

Their entire childhood and young adulthood was virtually a carefully constructed test to measure this ideal by Bhaal himself - or so he claims. This is an aspect of Dead Three lore I really want to play with - the gods are former men, and even if they weren’t, like many living creatures they are stupid and cruel and thoughtless. They just have enough power to make people think otherwise. Bhaal robs The Urge of their innocence in all things, slowly, and has convinced then he is all powerful in doing so.

Killing is easy. It’s hurting that’s hard. They come into their menstruation and their skin splits in ways yet unknown to them, spikes and open mouths. Something bloody slips from their body - they do not recognize it as a living thing until they find bloody foot prints where it fell. They are reminded viscerally of calves or colts or other animal things - which means they are that animal things mother, away backed filly bred too soon. The Urge culls their false family and makes it look like an accident later. Everyone thinks werewolf or beast, not child. They scrub the walls clean themselves. They find a new tutor for their medical training, and they carry on, and live next to the shadow of their new self.

The Urge was summoned for his true purpose years later, when they were more adult than child. They put down his old life’s name and the body and face that went along with it, and embraced The Urge. Primal, refined, savage and clinically precise - a knife in the dark and the hand that wields it.

The twist is is that The Urge is still mortal and still a person because he exists within the context and confines of a mortal world - he prefers his fluid body and murderous faces, but is a man at heart, he bathes in ritual blood and lives in dark places but still retains encyclopedic knowledge of rose care from his adoptive mother and cultivates them in Gortash’s garden, etc. a killer that has lived the good parts of life, and understands the world in a much wider capacity, for good or ill, than most people. Life clings. Life informs.

The Urge was created to be in direct opposition to sarevok and his brood - a kind of built in drama for Bhaal to follow as his own progeny makes their way about the world. He and Sarevok hate each other, and do not see eye to eye on almost anything beyond the service of their mutual lord. The cult is split into two unspoken factions in this regard - a conflict that is repressed so thoroughly that no outsider has any real concept of it’s going on beyond some guesses by astute associates.

The urge is a ranger-rogue, classes that greatly affect their leadership and religious theory as it pertains to the running and organization of the Bhaalist cult. He wants to make them ‘true hunters, not scavengers in the bleak midwinter hoping to nip at the weakest heel available’. Implying scavenging, implying wasteful, implying breeding into oblivion when the circle of blood and prestige eventually becomes too rotten to expand on itself.

A huge snub to Sarevok, who understands exactly what The Urge drives at with their schemes. For someone who is virtually a demigod, The Urge goes out of their way to cultivate a ‘pack’ mentality and ensure the basics of running and organizing of a group of people - the Bhaalists who adhere to his way of thinking are, and I mean this with caveats so long they look like terms and conditions page, good to each other, but everyone else is liable to become prey. They are family, they feed each other and kill for each other. They are soooo good at cult retention rates, it makes Sarevok look stupid.

Which is the point. It’s really hard for sarevok to control this very strong willed, well educated, emotionally unstable individual with very little compunctions about blatantly but slowly edging him out of power. The only one with any real power over The Urge is Bhaal. The urge is terrified of their father even as they act as dutiful son and priest, but does his bidding to the letter.

They have very lofty ways of speaking and very needle meets thread ways of going about things to get what they want. They twist pre existing doctrine to their liking, they grab at whatever they need and do not let go. I personally with the inbetweens of human experience, the middle ways, if you will, and I really wanted to make a Dark Utgr that walks in a strange veil of emotional ambiguity, rather than binary morality, even before the lobotomy. No one can truly understand all of them because he’s just the demigod they cling to, not a real person, and that’s how they want to keep it, that’s how they keep their power over others.

I think consciously, they became aware that escape is impossible very early on, and Bhaal’s influence will never slacken, but there’s always a little bit of rebellion brewing at the back of their mind anyhow. The clever child changes shape until they can slip their hands through the bars and feel the sweet breeze of the world they used to know. Bhaal is always willing to remind him who he is and what he is. Not because they don’t like killing, murder is a genuine pleasure and an easy, modern solution to their myriad of modern problems, they just don’t like being told what to do and they certainly would not be a cult leader in the sewer if they had the choice.

As an example, part of their obsession with taxidermy and autopsy is born out of a genuine fixation with medicine and the humanoid body. They have truly ground breaking notes and papers that could only be achieved through inhumane torture and misery that they guard jealously.

They were born, primarily, to propagate Bhaalspawn, with fate killing off all but the one that was conceived in … dubious circumstances. Which is how a changeling, against the laws of nature and the gods, gave birth to a Dragonborn with a red throat. There are children after that, but within five years of his son’s birth, they meet gortash, are elevated to chosen, and are gifted a new purpose. A sexual magnet. Bhaal Laura Palmer’d them so hard, another click in their choke chain collar. Now they’re just a dark venus in a dark sky.

Orin used to worship them like a mother-father and the urge used to dawn over her until she saw them break down and be human, just for an instant, at which point the hate was fucking real and solid from then on. The Urge - and this is a running theme here - thinks Orin wastes herself on a god who will never love her back. She’s brilliant but dumb, too desperate for approval when she could be making ‘real art’. They also think of Gortash in the same manner, and encouraged him to try to break from Bane at least once, which … wasn’t happening, and by then The Urgr was too obsessed with their friendship to really push it. In their eyes, it’s those such as himself that is designated by fate to kill and cull, and those who are blessed by the gods to create. These two idiots could be artists and inventors and instead they’re playing hopelessly devote child right next to him. It’s almost embarrassing. He’s also too selfish to ever make them turn from him in any way that matters.

And on the topic of Gortash … they are not normal about each other. They’re … ‘friends’ of 15 years and equals and they fuck routinely (‘be my seal wife for tonight, I’ll hang my skin at the door’) and plot to take over the world together but neither can truly possess the other while the other is shackled to his god so they just sit and commit tax fraud together, at the end of the day. Any explosive mutual destruction shit is long past. It is both hilarious and deeply fascinating for me for these two to have done some truly insane shit trying to cling to the other and it’s driven them so insane that they’re now like ohhhhh Enver dear if you must wed the patriar’s daughter I want to watch you fuck her on the wedding night. As your friend. And Gortash is just like sure man okay. Can do. Arguing over Gortash getting new drapes even though the urge doesn’t even live in his house. They aren’t for each other to keep in any substantial way and that’s fine, it’s life, moving on.

Unfortunately he and Kethric hate each other. They think the other is a terrible parent when ladies, you’re both awful in different, delicately flavored ways.

Also he loves pink.

#editing most of some pre existing text this is getting too long #bg3 #the dark urge #changeling dark urge #asks #my oc #resisting posting like fifty wips to go along with this #durgetash #if you think they’re old and amicably divorced #well. ‘old’ as in ‘old love’. old evil love.#also yes I’m bending the slayer lore a widdle. I think first periods deserve a free skin buster moment. my statement #redeemed durge #the urge and gortash in my beautiful post game canon: married to other people and swinging between #‘you were supoosed to stay celibate for the rest of your life you fuck’#and ‘normal. happy. no we aren’t extorting money or scheming’

10 notes · View notes