#but this fucking chronic illness means that i am truly not as sharp as i used to be
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Did the tasks I've been avoiding all week! Didn't do them well or carefully, but. They are done!!
#i used to be a very smart and capable person#and to some degree i still am#but this fucking chronic illness means that i am truly not as sharp as i used to be#i think i did my taxes right? but it was literally like the words were fuzzing together#mental static on the page!!#also I'm so annoyed bc once again it costs more to efile state taxes than what it should#which is $0 btw#anyway there's $10 from my already very limited food and bills money#for NOTHING#in a perfect world i would get myself a little treat for accomplishing this stuff#:((((((
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haerysays hospital records
pt. 2 of eleazar hospital records
dottore x male reader
genre: angst, fluff
warnings: sumeru archon quest spoilers, chronic illness (eleazar), violence, implied human experimentation, various other dottore things :P
a/n: i was excited to write this, i love love love dottore so much
word count: 1,596
"your talents are too valuable to be wasted in a place like this," a strange voice echoed throughout the now empty hospital. zandik didn't hear him approach, but he could tell that the man was right behind him
zandik's head snapped up as he grabbed the nearest scalpel, pointing it at the man's throat. anyone who would've seen him would've thought he was insane. his messy hair, the bags under his eyes, his bloodied clothing...
not to mention the look in his eyes when the man got too close to you.
it was deranged.
"who the fuck are you?!" zandik spat, pressing the scalpel into the man's neck. a small drop of blood trickled down his neck.
his blood was black.
"...what the fuck are you?" zandik asked, a little more quietly this time, studying the man's clothes, his face, his eyes...
he had khaenri'ahn eyes.
"i am the solution to all of your problems."
the trip to snezhnaya was long and boring, most of it spent on a boat. the man, pierro, zandik now knew, was the director of the fatui harbingers. and, apparently, after finding out about zandik's...exploits, he sought him out to recruit him.
but zandik could care less.
all he cared about was you. you were the only thing that mattered to him right now. getting you back was his top priority.
so, when pierro mentioned to him that the fatui had the most advanced research centers and labs in all of teyvat...
well, who was he to decline such an offer?
"so you want me to become an agent for the fatui?" zandik asked, intrigued. he sat at a table by your bedside. "i can become one of your debt collectors if that means that my ___ will be safe."
"agent?" pierro laughed, coming to sit in a nearby chair. "no, no...why would i, the director, come all the way to sumeru from snezhnaya just to recruit a simple agent? no...what you are going to be is something much, much more important."
zandik grabbed your hand out of reflex, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"we have quite the large lab...and it's been vacant for a long, long time. we were hoping that, perhaps...we could put a doctor in there," pierro said with a smile.
zandik couldn't help but laugh at the irony. he, who was performing illegal surgeries, who was expelled from the akademiya and their medical department, a doctor.
it was truly laughable.
"we've seen your work. it's admirable. we could provide you with all of the equipment and specimens that you could ever wish for, not to mention all of the necessary licenses and permits...we can help you save him. all you have to do is say yes."
zandik paused for a moment, pretending to think it through. he grabbed your hand once more, before looking up at pierro with a sharp-toothed grin. he knew the answer as soon as he asked.
"it seems we have a deal, lord pierro," zandik said, extending his hand.
pierro took it, shaking his hand.
"welcome to the fatui, il dottore. i look forward to working with you."
it's astounding how quickly four hundred years pass when you've achieved immortality, zandik found. however, it's also astounding how slowly it passes when the one person you love is gone, stuck in time, comatose in a cryo chamber.
he would keep you here until he had found a definitive cure for your eleazar. he wasn't going to let you go. not ever.
his lab, haerysays, was full of teyvat's best and brightest. and yet, a cure for eleazar was never found, despite their efforts.
zandik didn't understand. he had mastered so much. he'd cheated death, developed the first successful human clones, created a god, but you? your disease? it remained an enigma.
so, he kept you in that cryo chamber, in a secluded room in haerysays. a place where nobody could hurt you while he worked on more...realistic goals. he sent his man-made god to sumeru.
it was destroyed.
in the midst of his frustration at the failure of his project, he almost failed to notice his eleazar patients. more specifically, their full recovery.
"lord dottore, lord dottore!!!" one of his assistants shouted as they ran into his office.
zandik glared at them, making them freeze in their tracks. they dropped to the ground to kneel, and zandik groaned.
"what is it?"
"th-the eleazar patients-- they've recovered!"
the pen that zandik was holding snapped in half, ink covering his table. without a word, he stood up and left his office, leaving the assistant all alone.
your scales were gone. all of your dark eleazar scales were gone.
zandik removed you from the cryo chamber and began checking on you. vitals, physical exam, blood tests...
...your eleazar was gone.
really, truly gone.
you were saved.
he woke you up as soon as he was sure you were safe. he sat by your side, holding your hand, watching carefully.
your eyes fluttered open, and you blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting of the room.
"hello, darling," dottore said softly, his hands shaking as he brushed some of your hair out of your face.
"wh...who...are you..?" you asked weakly, a fearful expression on your face. he froze, before realizing that he was still wearing his mask. he took it off, and saw recognition fash in your eyes. "...zandik?"
"yes, yes, ___, it's me, it's zandik...you've been asleep for a long, long time, but it's okay now...it's okay, your eleazar is healed. you're okay..."
the two of you spent hours talking, with zandik catching you up on all you've missed...and how long you were out.
"...four...four hundred years?! zandik, that-- that's impossible!"
"no, no, love, it's not!" zandik's smile was crazed. "we have a cryo chamber here, powered by the excess energy from the tsaritsa herself!! isn't that just fascinating? come on, you're a fellow scholar, you should be amazed, not fearful! we've conquered death!"
"zandik, that's a cardinal sin of the akademiya--"
"the akademiya abandoned me, ___. they abandoned you. when you were sick and dying, they tossed you aside. why should we adhere to their rules if they decided we were subhuman garbage? we're better than them, ___. what they consider 'sins' should mean nothing to us."
"...they...they did throw us out, didn't they," you said quietly.
"when you came down with eleazar, they made you stop attending classes. they didn't call it expulsion, but that's what it was and you know it. but here...these people won't throw us out. they'll give us the respect we deserve."
you paused, thinking about it. zandik saw the apprehension in your eyes, and knew what he could say to push you over the edge.
"they'll treat us like gods."
your eyes lit up with excitement. the two of you had always been treated like outsiders. zandik for his... unusual experiments, and you for your eleazar. so being worshipped...it was a dream come true.
"this is my lab, haerysays. it's the largest, most advanced research center in all of teyvat. but we won't be spending much time here... we'll be headed to my estate, where you and i will be staying."
your eyes lit up.
"you mean you have a mansion?" you asked, amazed.
"of course, love," zandik chuckled. "i'm a harbinger."
zandik led you to a carriage, which carried the two of you across snezhnaya to his estate. the entire time, the two of you spoke. you would ask questions, and he would answer them. when you ran out of questions, you'd tell him stories from when you were a child (whether he'd already known them or not).
his home was a gothic, castle-like mansion. it was large, made of dark bricks that contrasted against the snowy landscape. the lights coming from inside were warm and yellow, though you could make out a few rooms with blue or even red light. one of the walls was covered in beautiful ivy, and he somehow managed to make the flowers in the garden grow even in the harshness of winter. you even saw a few bird-like gargoyles on the walls.
zandik noticed you admiring the flowers, and he chuckled.
"do you like the gardens? they're some of phi's best work," he said proudly.
"phi?"
"one of my segments," he said softly, grabbing your hand and holding it tightly. "i'm sure you'll get acquainted with him and the others soon enough."
"how many segments do you have?"
"twenty four, but only twelve of them have full personalities. the others are just husks. i'll develop them further later."
"twenty four," you said softly, a light blush blooming on your cheeks. you paused for a moment, deep in thought. "hm...seems that i'll have to make enough room in my heart for twenty five zandiks then, hm?"
you placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, and saw his face turn bright red.
"oh, no, no, no...that won't do," he chuckled, pulling you into his lap. "there's only one zandik...don't forget that, okay?"
he kissed you softly, running his fingers through your hair. once he pulled away, he sighed quietly, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"...i missed you," he mumbles. "and...i...i'm glad you're here."
you smile. and, though he can't see it, the feeling of it makes his heart flutter. you always knew what he meant, even if he didn't actually say it.
"i love you, too, zandik."
a/n: i don't know if this was good but i had fun so that's all that matters!!!!!
#dottore x male reader#dottore x reader#dottore#il dottore#genshin x male reader#genshin x reader#genshin#genshin impact
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I have an appointment with my gynecologist later today and OH MAN I’m nervous but also looking forward to it.
I’ve only mentioned it a few times because up until about a month ago, my mental health impacted my life more than my physical health, but I have endometriosis and adenomyosis. I’m on two separate types of birth control, IUD and the pill, to help with the pain by regulating my hormones and to prevent me from having periods because menstruation promotes the growth of abnormal tissue. Despite this, my pain levels have been increasing steadily since June, to the point that the “suck it up” attitude instilled in me by my father is reeeeeally being tested.
Up until about November, I was dealing with a constant crampy type of pain and about one flare up of intense pain a day. I’d say the old baseline was a 3 and a flare up would be a 6. Now, my baseline is just below what I used to see as a flare up, and the actual flare ups....indescribable. There are four distinct types of pain that I experience most often during a flare up (idk if that’s even the right term to use but here I am throwing it around because I can’t think of a better term) Classic sharp stabby pain, period cramp dialed up to 11, a pins and needles sensation but more stabby, and one that I can only describe as barbed wire being pulled tight around my uterus, but instead of barbs there are knives.
I am so, so proud of my pain tolerance. It’s truly legendary, and I am a sight to behold at BDSM parties. So basically being in so much pain that my legs give out is incredibly frightening to me. Pretty much everyone in my life knows that, if I’m crying because I’m in pain, it means it’s completely unbearable. And shit, man. I’ve cried every day for a month because of this.
I have an unrealistic standard for myself in which I see showing pain as being weak. My brain likes to tell me that I can’t let anyone know I’m in pain because they WILL think less of me for it. I don’t see it that way for literally anyone else, just me. Idk my brain is all fucked up. But because of this, I’m dealing with some mental battles involving not being able to just hide it like I’m used to. Arnold has been trying to tell me I’m a terrible person for showing it and I’m having a harder than usual time getting him to shut the fuck up. I’ve obviously been dealing with mental illness for a long time, and I’m gaining the upper hand over it, but this is causing some issues I’ve never dealt with before. Knowing that this is chronic, and will only be completely resolved with a hysterectomy, sucks. I don’t want to spend the next however many years being in this much pain, and I don’t really know how to combat the effect this has on my mental health. I’m trying to figure it out, but I’m at a loss right now. If anyone has tips they’re willing to share about how to deal with emotions surrounding chronic pain, I’d appreciate it.
But ANYWAY, because my pain is getting worse, this appointment is going to be really important. I’ll be discussing my options moving forward, and I’m happy about that. Any relief is welcomed, even if that means needing surgery.
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Some word vomit for the beautiful @mandakatt that is absolute shit and I truly apologise but I hope you feel better soon honey bee!
Your long groan was followed by a soft click as you shut the door behind you. You leant your weight against it and took a moment to try and collect yourself by taking some steady breaths. With a huff you eventually pushed yourself away from the door only to fling yourself down on your bed.
“Just… Just need a few minutes,” you told yourself, running a hand through your hair. “Get your shit together, you can do this. You’ve done it a million times before, I mean today is no-”
Your little pep talk was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. For a moment you believed that you imagined it, but when it came again your head shot up. Confusion painted your features for a brief second before being replaced by one of annoyance. You weren’t even entitled to one moment of respite? Perhaps if you ignored it they may go away. But then there came another knock followed by that unmistakable gruff voice.
“You alright in there agent?”
“Oh sh-“ you hissed as you fumbled to get up, almost tripping over a fallen blanket on your way to fling open the door. “76! What’s wrong? Has there been another attack?”
“Relax, soldier, everything is fine.” Jack assured you. “Well almost everything at least. To be totally honest I’m here because I’m worried about you. You seem a little…off?” He rested a strong hand on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing small circles as it sat there.
“Oh! Um…Thanks, but I’m fine, don’t you worry about me!” you lied and even managing to muster up a fake smile. But at his age and after all he’s seen, nothing got past the old soldier.
“Sweetheart cut the crap. Something isn’t right, I know that much. I just don’t know what. You can tell me, you know that right? You don’t have to put on a brave face and hide your shit. Not with me.”
You huffed and squeezed your eyes shut. An anxious pause passed before you turned away and beckoned for him to follow you into your room. You perched on the end of the bed, resting your elbows on your knees. Jack’s heavy footsteps followed you and you felt the bed dip as he sat beside you but your gaze was fixed firmly on the wall. You worried your lower lip until the silence between you finally caused you to crack.
“I just want to tell you from the start that I’ll be fine, always am. Life with a chronic illness is… Sometimes some days are just harder than others. It won’t effect my work. I won’t let it. I’m just gonna take five-“
“Don’t,” he interjected. You fired him a quizzical look having expected a tad more compassion from him. He bent over and picked up the fallen blanket before continuing. “Don’t worry about missions or reports or anything. You care too much in a place where people couldn’t give half the fucks you do. That’s that big heart of yours caring too much. Well, care about everything but yourself. So I think you deserve a day. I’d suggest a week but I know trying to stop you is like lighting a cigarette in a hurricane.”
Jack enveloped you in the blanket, securing it by draping his arm around your shoulders and holding you against him. Your head fell against him with a small huff. His free hand reached up to move a stray strand of hair from your face, fingers ghosting across your cheek as he did.
“You’re too good sweetheart. Far far too good. Just… Don’t burn yourself up to keep others warm,” he told you, “That’s an order.”
A small laugh escaped your lips. The light sound made his heart catch a little, though that’s something he’d never admit.
“Yessir!” you teased, giving a half-assed salute.
He playfully nudged you in return. He savoured the feeling of you against him- the warmth you filled him with- and decided that he could afford himself a short break too.
#personal#overwatch#mandakatt#soldier76 x reader#soldier 76#soldier76 writing#so many errors sorry this is so bad and u deserve so much more#this is so short and not coherent at all im so sorry#some of my worst work im embarrassed
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An Ill-Fitting Name: Snippet 17
NOTES:
Snippet 1; Snippets 2 & 3; Snippet 4; Snippet 5; Snippet 6; Snippet 7; Snippet 8; Snippet 9; Snippet 10; Snippet 11; Snippet 12; Snippet 13; Snippet 14; Snippet 15; Snippet 16
Word Count: ~1.4k
&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The sky is an uncertain gray, the hesitant dawn brightening the clouds enough to call it daybreak. A Merlot-red Chrysler older than Isaiah backs out of the driveway and takes off down the street, past where Isaiah has returned, early, sitting in his little stolen truck. Watching the two story house. Wondering what the hell his own intentions are.
The convertible roof is up, and the windows are tinted too dark to see inside the old car as it hurries past, but Isaiah recognizes the sharp, boxy angles of his father’s vehicle. A vehicle even more impractical for a family of six children than his mother’s Buick.
Isaiah looks back down the street, at the cream-colored vinyl siding, the faded gray shingles. At the only car left in the driveway—that stupid, silver Buick. Quietly, Isaiah leaves the truck and slips into the spaces of the shadows, sliding across the threshold until he is in the darkened entryway of his childhood home.
The house is quiet, and Isaiah is quieter as he softly treads down the hall. Little has changed, though he hardly spent enough time here to remember specifics. It just feels like everything is the same, and that’s what matters. Ticking grandfather clock in the hallway. Uncomfortable chairs in the livingroom. Landline phone sitting on a table piled with papers and mail. Isaiah glances at the stack, and sees there on top: medical records. He stops to read—Charlotte James, height, weight, a bunch of numbers and words with more syllables than Isaiah can be bothered to care about. Bloodwork and its esoteric meanings, by the look of it. He flips the page gently, the paper whispering between his fingers, looking for signs of diagnosis. Why else would she be trying to find him? Isaiah saw the way she looked last night, though only a week ago he would have sworn on his life he was never going to see that damned bitch again.
Well. Certainly not the first thing Isaiah’s been wrong about in his life. And now, a new opportunity to see his mother again for the last time, and this time to truly know it’s the last.
There—a bulleted list of diagnoses. Cirrhosis. Cancer of the liver. Chronic pancreatitis. Angina. Isaiah is no doctor, but it’s not surprising. No. It’s satisfying. He lets the paper rest on the table and listens. No sign or sound of her down here. She must be upstairs.
Isaiah takes the stairs by muscle memory, two at a time and his feet remembering exactly where not to step, to silently make his way to the upstairs landing. He doesn’t bother with the door to the room where he once slept. That’s not why he’s here. He walks to the end of the upstairs hallway and soundlessly opens the door of the master bedroom.
Most people, when they sleep, achieve some measure of peace. Even the most ruthless bastard once asleep loses some edge, brows unknitting, the angry lines of the face smoothing away into a false tranquility.
Not so for Charlotte James. Even in sleep, she does not let go of the set line between her eyebrows, the down-turned crease of her lips. She doesn’t even need to be conscious to be angry at the world. To be angry at him. Isaiah, hands twitching, walks up to the edge of the bed and just looks at her.
What could she possibly want with him? Isaiah wonders. This is not a face that will ever apologize. That will ever seek to make anything right, because she never thinks of herself that she’s done anything wrong. Why did he even come here?
His mother begins to stir, and Isaiah’s hands are like lightning—a sigil to bind her to the bed. A sigil to keep her from screaming. Her eyes open, blinking away the sleep, and go wide when she sees the young man, serious-faced and glaring, standing next to her bed.
“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand,” she whispers to herself, trembling. She realizes she can’t move. “Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.”
“I’m not the fucking devil,” says Isaiah, lowering his hands now that the spells are cast, standing up straight again, looking down at her with his one good eye.
Her expression doesn’t soften. She already knows—the sandy curls, the particular shape of his good eyebrow, the dark brown eye just like her own. He was no ghost at the window. No hallucination of her failing brain. He was real. He was here. He was home.
“Where the hell have you been?” she snaps. “Help me up, I can’t move.”
“No,” Isaiah replies. “You aren’t going anywhere—“
“You can’t talk to me like that! You wicked—“
“You will find,” Isaiah says loudly, face darkening as he adjusts the spell, cutting off her ability to speak altogether, “I can do whatever I want, Mother. You’re just lucky I haven’t decided what I want yet.”
Charlotte James is furious, her eyes glaring daggers at Isaiah and his impudence. But she can’t even open her mouth now to register a protest. Isaiah takes a deep breath, closing his eye to think for a moment.
“I could kill you,” he suggests, his voice soft and warm. “God knows how many times I’ve wanted to.” He paces around to the other side of the bed, looking around the room as he speaks. “God knows how many times you’ve fucking deserved it.”
He starts to rummage through drawers, and pulls a liquor bottle from a half-hidden nest of socks, waving the bottle at her, a mocking look of judgment on his face.
“I could…heal you,” he says slowly, putting the bottle back and closing the drawer. “You’re dying, right? Probably quite soon. I’m not the best healer by far, but I’m sure I could get it to happen. Keep you from your fucking god. Make you have to live with your shitty life and the things you’ve done.” He turns to look at her, reading the expression in her eyes. “No,” he decides. “What good would it do? You’re never wrong. You wouldn’t learn anything from it. Just inflict yourself on everyone else that much longer.” He sighs, and continues to pace the room, rubbing his thumb over the clip of the knife in his pocket.
“I could do nothing,” he realizes, stopping to face her again. “I could just do nothing. You’ll still die. But before you do, I won’t give you the opportunity to say whatever the fuck you thought you wanted to say to me. And no one’s going to believe that you saw me,” he says, the realization dawning on him with a grin. “You might not even believe it either. One-eyed Isaiah appeared to you in a dream?” He laughs.
“Yes, I think I like that, don’t you? You don’t deserve the effort of me doing a damned thing. You don’t fucking deserve—“ Isaiah turns away, his emotions starting to slip away from him. No. He will not give her that satisfaction. Playful and wicked, he thinks to himself, not angry. Not hurt. No. Don’t give her an inch of any of that.
“Here, you godawful bitch,” he says finally, walking back over to the side of the bed. “I’ll give you something to remember me by, though you’ll still doubt it could have been real…”
Isaiah takes his mother’s hand in his own, and holds her index finger stiff and straight between his own fingers, flicking open the blade of his knife with his other hand. Terror flashes in her eyes, but all Isaiah does is slowly draw a cut down the side of her finger, no more than an inch long, no deeper than a particularly aggressive papercut. He snaps the knife shut and pockets it, not looking at her. Still holding her hand, he draws a sigil and whispers words she’s never heard, his hand glowing as the cut heals, leaving only the faintest hint of a scar. He brings her hand up to his lips and kisses the scar before putting her hand back down.
“I don’t care what you have to say. Nothing can make you right. Nothing can make the things you did ok. Nothing you could ever say would be worth a fraction of what it would take to forgive you.”
Isaiah steps back from the bed, watching her coldly, but her expression is unreadable. He forces a wicked little smile, imagining her trying to tell anyone about this later, and drops all the spells he’s holding against her as he vanishes through the shadows.
- NEXT SNIPPET -
#an ill-fitting name#My writing#original story#original work#original writing#original fiction#magic fiction#magic murderer#snippets#fictional murderer#difficult family fiction
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