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mrsshabana · 1 year

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Patient!Gyutaro x Nurse!Reader - CHAPTER 1

Chapter 2

✦ CW: 18+ MDNI, female reader. Mentions of mental illness, suicide, and sexual abuse of a minor. This fic has many dark themes, please do not read unless you are comfortable!

✦ AN: The long awaited nurse au is finally here! Sorry it took me so long, but I wanted to make sure it was perfect. Lots of thought and research went into making this fic. There will also be art included in this chapter!

✦ WC: 2,146

This is what you should have expected from a job in the medical field that didn’t require much qualifications. Working at an asylum wasn’t ideal, but they are incredibly desperate for new nurses. As most of them are unable to handle the physical and mental toll that a place like this puts on someone.

It’s your first day at your new job. You were excited until you entered the building. The dreary interior mixed with the groans and screams of unruly patients wasn’t the welcome that you had been hoping for.

You’re young, almost too young to be working at a place like this. The other nurses didn’t take you seriously, and they were going to make the transition for you more difficult than it needed to be. You were being assigned to a patient that is notorious for being difficult to work with. The other nurses use him to weed out the weak. Always shifting the new hires to care for him. They usually leave within the first week, so his care returns to one of the veteran nurses known for having a mind of steel. She’s cold hearted, but that helps you deal with a job like this. The complete opposite of you. A warm young woman, eager to treat and rehabilitate.

Currently you are being led to your new patient. Quickly scanning over his records as you follow the nurse through the halls of the sanatorium.

Rashomon Riverbank Asylum

Patient Record

Name: Shabana, Gyutaro

Identification Data: Sex: Male Age: 23 Height: 6’ 3” Weight: 134

Race: Asian Hair: Black Eye: Blue

Special Handling Code: Code Red; Keep medicated Special Handling Instructions: Keep away from sharp objects

Medical History: Multiple suicide attempts, Complications due to sickle cell anemia, Treated for Congenital Syphilis

Diagnoses: Sickle Cell Anemia Hutchinson’s Teeth Borderline Personality Disorder Antisocial Personality Disorder Depression Insomnia

Current Medical Treatment: Special diet for weight gain Medications given AM & PM

Medications: Wellbutrin - 100 mg twice daily Abilify - 10 mg once daily Carbamazepine - 350 mg twice daily Xanax - 2 mg twice daily Trazodone - 150 mg once daily Voxelotor - 500 mg once daily Adakveo - 5 mg IV infusion once every 4 weeks

Gyutaro Shabana, your very first patient at Rashomon Riverbank Asylum. Looking over his record, this is going to be a difficult one. You’ve learned about a majority of these diagnoses in college, so you have a good idea about the kind of treatment he will require. It’s strange though, he seems to have lost the genetic lottery. And you haven't even seen his face yet, you can only imagine what he may look like.

An asian man with sickle cell anemia is almost unheard of, roughly 0.0022%. And on top of that he was born with Congenital Syphilis. It’s quite frankly amazing that he’s lived past 20.

“Just introduce yourself, then I’ll take you to your other patients,” the other nurse says as she stops in front of his door.

Not wanting to be impolite, you hesitantly knock on his door. There’s no response. You figured that there wouldn’t be, so you open the door anyways.

“Hello, Mr. Shabana?” you say coyly.

When you peek into the room, you are instantly frozen by his icy gaze. He’s sitting on his bed with a book in his lap. His cold blue eyes send shivers down your spine.

“I’m um… I’m your new nurse.” you choke out. He’s feet away from you but you feel as though his hands have a tight grasp around your throat.

“My name is Y/N. Um… If you ever need anything d-don’t hesitate to call for me…”

The expression on his face is unchanging, as he remains silent.

“Well I’ll see you later tonight Mr. Shabana…”

Closing the door, breaking the line of sight that he had on you, instantly you feel a surge of relief.

You go on to visit the rest of your patients, then you come back later that night to give Mr. Shabana his dinner. A high protein meal, specifically for weight gain.

Knocking on the door a few times before you push it open, “Mr. Shabana, I have your dinner.”

He’s in the same spot where you left him, sitting on his bed with a book in his lap. But this time he doesn’t even bother to look at you when you enter the room.

Stepping closer to place the food tray on his table, you inspect his appearance.

His clothes hang off of his frame, enveloping his skeletal body. You can make out lean muscles on his arms, but his face is sunken and his pants hang low on his hips. There are large black marks scattered across his face, and you can barely see one peeking out from below his sleeve. Were these marks from his Congenital Syphilis? Dark circles sit below his eyes, he looks as though he hasn’t slept in weeks.

He’s wearing the standard issue uniform that all patients wear. A plain t-shirt and pants, made of the same material as scrubs. Though his feet are bare, slippers sitting below the edge of the bed. His hair is long and wavy. Black as midnight, unruly in the way it hangs in front of his face. The top of his hair is half haphazardly tied up.

“Got a problem…?” He rasps, drawing out each word.

The venom of his sour tongue sends a jolt of electricity through your skin.

“Huh?” you’ve been sitting there staring at him for too long, “O-oh! I’m sorry sir! There’s no problem, please enjoy your dinner,” you quickly rush out of the room.

As you continue on giving food to the rest of your patients, Mr. Shabana’s voice echoes through your skull.

Got a problem…? Got a problem…? Got a problem…?

A few hours later, you go back to retrieve the tray and whatever food may have not been eaten. Stopping yourself before you open the door. It’s ok. He’s just a patient. Then why does he make you so nervous?

*Knock knock*

“Hello Mr. Shabana, I’m just here to collect your tray,” you chime, masking your fear with a smile.

Walking back into the dimly lit room, the fluorescent lights flickering. His eyes staring into you.

His food has been untouched. The only thing that was eaten was a packaged cookie.

“Not hungry today?” your voice shakes as you try to ignore his harsh gaze.

He remains silent. Watching you as you step closer. The buzzing of the fluorescent bulbs filling the room, filling your brain with static.

“Was it not to your liking? I can have the cooks make something else for you if you’d like.”

“...”

Your eyes meet. His thin eyebrows furrow, the rest of his expression remains unchanging. The pressure of his glare makes the air around you feel heavy. Pressing down on you, compressing your spine, you feel so small when he looks at you. You’re desperate to fill the cold aura with some warmth.

“Mr. Shabana you really should eat-”

*CRASH*

He slaps the tray out of your hand, food splattering onto your uniform, dripping onto the floor.

Silence. You’re stuck staring down at your feet. Watching the pool of meat, vegetables, and milk spread around you. It takes you a few moments to fully process what has just happened, only able to snap out of it when you feel the wetness of the food seeping through your skirt, making you feel cold.

You regret looking up at him. Regret meeting his eyes. Filled with amusement.

“You better clean that up… don’t chu think…?” He smirks. Showing his sharp canines and crooked teeth.

“I-I…” you mumble, looking back down at the mess. He’s right, you should clean it up before it gets everywhere.

Going into the hallway, you grab some towels and return to his room. Not thinking your next actions through as you get down on all fours and start picking up the mess. All you want to do is hurry and clean this up so you can leave. But Mr. Shabana has different plans.

He slowly stands up. Looming over you, looking down on you with a twisted grin. He’s so tall… he makes you feel so small as you look up at him. So pathetic. So worthless.

“You look good down there…” he steps on your hand, “On your knees like a whore…”

His words leave you speechless. Your vision begins to blur and your heart starts to race. He pushes his weight further onto your hand, until you feel a crack.

“I’d like to see you like this more often…” he chuckles, the sound rumbling in his hollow chest.

Every instinct within your body is screaming at you to run. But you feel so trapped. So paralyzed by him. Like a rabbit cornered against a wall by a vicious predator. His eyes. It’s his eyes. No, it's his touch. It’s… everything about him.

You try to speak up, but your words escape you. Coming out in a pathetic whine that makes his grin widen and his laughter intensify.

He’s reaching for you. His hand is coming towards your face. Your mind is telling you that if you let him get any closer you will die. He will kill you. And he won’t even care.

Your body is pumped with enough adrenaline for you to break free from the physical and psychological hold he had on you.

Pulling your hand away from under his foot, you push yourself backwards. Stumbling to stand up on your feet. You run out of the room and through the halls, not risking looking back at him. All you hear as you escape is his laughter on repeat. You can’t tell if his laughter is echoing through the halls, or if it has just been ingrained into your mind.

You keep running until you get back to the nurses quarters and to your room.

Tears running down your cheeks, food staining your clothes, and pain throbbing in your hand. You collapse on the floor and cry.

Why would he be so cruel? You understand that he’s a patient and has a list of mental illnesses, but you were trying to help him! You can’t even remember what you were doing or why you were in his room. All you remember is him and how he made you feel. His stare. His voice. His touch.

Fuck him and fuck this job.

Clambering over to your desk, you immediately start writing your resignation letter.

You don’t get paid enough for this shit. All you wanted to do is help people, and you get repaid with this? It’s just not worth it. Through your sobs, your tears fall onto the page as you hastily move your pen on the piece of parchment in front of you.

There. It’s done. You’re done.

You won’t have to see this place, see him, ever again once you submit this letter.

Looking around your desk, searching for an envelope. You come across a thick manilla folder. The tab on the side reads, Shabana, Gyutaro.

Something compels you to open it. You already skimmed through his information, but you never looked at everything here.

His psychiatric notes? From his psychiatrist? These shouldn’t be in here… you shouldn’t have access to this confidential information.

But if you’re leaving anyways… then there’s no harm. Right?

Shabana, Gyutaro - Dr. Hantengu

August 14

Childhood trauma starting since birth

Single mother, no father

Raised as a female. Mother would dress patient as a daughter. Would cover up his deformities with makeup. (Feelings of worthlessness, not belonging)

Sister born at age 6 (turning point in patient’s life)

Mother cast aside patient for sister. (When he learned he was actually a boy. Feeling of confusion. Child cannot comprehend)

Sexual abuse started at age 10

Mother was a prostitute, would offer children to adult clients.

Patient record, “She would bring men into our house… and let them touch us. (long pause) They wanted my sister. They wanted to do bad things to her. So I… (patient gets upset) I would offer myself to them. I would perform sexual acts for them so they would leave Ume (sister) alone.”

Sexual abuse continued until age 15

Mother died of overdose. The children were left in the home for over a week until someone found them.

Children taken to orphanage.

Patient held in orphanage for 8 months until incident.

Brought to Asylum at age 16

End of first session

You are left speechless.

Reading his records reminds you of why you wanted to be a nurse in the first place. To help people that have gone through trauma such as this. He didn’t lash out at you because of something you did. It’s not your fault. And it isn’t his either. He just needs help.

And you will be the one to help him.

#gyutaro #gyutaro shabana #gyutaro x reader #gyutaro x y/n #nurse au #nurse reader #gyutaro fanart #kny fanart #demon slayer fanart #hantengu

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chimaerakitten · 6 months

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Malaria, Sickle-Cell, and Dragons in the Temeraire Universe

so I've been thinking about sickle cell all day because of the very cool real-life FDA crispr treatment approval news, and also I'm just about done rereading empire of ivory so thusly it is time to write the sickle cell/malaria/dragons/benefits of human-dragon mutualism breakdown I mentioned ages ago.

Standard disclaimer that I am not in fact anywhere near an expert on this, this is mostly recall from ANTH 102/215 classes I took five years ago, the info is very simplified and possibly somewhat out of date. I'm doing some quick checks and I write this but only enough to make this an appropriate fantasy novel fandom post, not enough to make it actually reliably informative. I do have a couple citations, but mostly for the parts I'm lifting straight out of a class assignment I wrote, and they're a short documentary hosted on YouTube and the textbook for the class. also none of my links are live because I want this fandom post to actually show up in the fandom tag lol.

second disclaimer is I'm starting at the basic obvious stuff because I genuinely have no idea how much most people know about this and better safe than confusing.

Intro and Background

So the first thing to know about any of this is that human genetics for the most part to not operate on mendelian inheritance. So the punnet squares in high school biology that did human hair or eye color as basic dominant/recessive one-gene traits were totally lying to you. Like they're a teaching tool for a very simple model that works well enough but they're not accurate. Most human phenotypes are way way more complicated genetically than that.

That said, there are exceptions. Mendelian traits (Characteristics that are influenced by alles at only one genetic locus) do exist in humans, a number of them being related to genetic diseases. The list in the ANTH 102 notes I just dug up was: Wet (dominant) or dry Earwax; Albinism; Brachydactyly (dominant); Blood type (ABO, not the positive/negative part); Hereditary breast-ovarian cancer syndrome (BRCA-1, BRCA-2, unknown genes); Huntington’s disease; Lactase persistence (dominant); and Sickle-cell disease (recessive).

So the sickle cell punnet square looks like this for two parents who both have one copy of the sickle cell gene:

Sickle cell is a very painful and life threatening disease, (That's why the FDA approving a crispr treatment for it allowing patients to be their own bone marrow donors is very exciting.) and from an evolutionary perspective, one that very often prevents people from reproducing. It's also not strictly dominant/recessive, in that people heterozygous for sickle cell can have some symptoms like the possibility a sickle-cell crisis triggered in low-oxygen situations (high altitudes, intense exercise, etc).

So one might think that Sickle cell would be a vanishingly rare disease, since having it can be deadly and even having the trait can in some cases cause problems. Only it's not rare by genetically inherited disease standards, not at all.

And to make a long story very short, the reason is malaria.

Malaria

People who are heterozygous (possessing one sickle cell gene and one normal gene) for sickle cell anemia are resistant to malaria. In areas of the world without a high incidence of malaria historically, there is a strong selection against the sickle cell gene, (Biointeractive Malaria and Sickle Cell Anemia, 9:33) but in areas with malaria, both having sickle cell disease (homozygous HbSS) and not having the trait at all (homozygous HbAA) are selected against. People with sickle cell were historically less likely to reproduce, and people who were not resistant to malaria were more likely to die of malaria and also not reproduce. Because being heterozygous with sickle cell is selected for, the gene persists in the population.

The implications of that are best summed up from this map that I just stole from Britannica.com:

I dunno if the percentages on that second one are accurate tbh, other infographic maps I'm looking at give different ranges. but sill, you get the gist about how common it is in equatorial Africa. In the modern United States Black children are much much more likely to be born with sickle cell than white children—the genes don't just go away when the threat of malaria is removed. (And yeah, that's a historical consequence of the slave trade.)

There's some other stuff wrapped up in here too about bio-cultural evolution: There's indications that malaria was not a “significant problem until humans abandoned food foraging for farming” (Haviland, W. A., Prins, H. E., Walrath, D., & McBride, B.). Humans cleared away the forest, which had kept the soil absorbent. Without the vegetation, more water built up on the surface, forming stagnant puddles which were a perfect environment for malaria-causing mosquitoes to thrive, thus creating the conditions for sickle cell anemia to be advantageous. Farming creates caloric surplus which is great for humans, but it also changes the environment in ways that can be detrimental. Malaria is one way, creating the conditions for other epidemic diseases to thrive is another, etc. etc.

But if you've read this far you're probably going "Chi, you promised this would be a fandom post but so far this has been a serious and kind of sad post about disease. when are you going to get to the dragons?"

The Dragons

So the first time malaria comes up in the Temeraire books is in Throne of Jade, when a bunch of the sailors on the Allegiance come down with "malarial Fevers."

Jane, I must ask you to forgive the long gap in this Letter, and the few hasty Words that are all by which I can amend the same now. I have not had Leisure to take up my pen these three weeks—since we passed out of Banka Strait we have been much afflicted by malarial Fevers. I have escaped sickness myself, and most of my men, for which Keynes opines we must be grateful to Temeraire, believing that the heat of his body in some wise dispels the Miasmas which cause the ague, and our close association thus affords some protection. But we have been spared only to increase of Labor: Captain Riley has been confined to his bed since almost the very first, and Lord Purbeck falling ill, I have stood watch in turn with the ship’s third and fourth lieutenants, Franks and Beckett. Both are willing young men, and Franks does his best, but is by no means yet prepared for the Duty of overseeing so vast a Ship as the Allegiance, nor to maintain discipline among her Crew—stammers, I am sorry to say, which explains his seeming Rudeness at table, which I had earlier remarked upon.

I do not know enough about what people thought about malaria in the 19th century to be 100% sure that this is actually malaria, but I think Novik wouldn't want to confuse her readers by calling something malarial that isn't you know..malaria. So I'm going to assume thats what it is. Google is not giving me figures on malaria survival rates before modern medicines for it which is driving me kind of nuts and means I can't say how lucky Riley and Purbeck were to survive with apparently no complications, but that's not the point here anyway. The point is the comment about the aviators not getting sick.

And not only (mostly) not getting sick, but not getting sick even though they aren't actually always near Temeraire. Laurence for example has been working watch shifts near constantly because he's the only one left on the ship who knows what he's doing. That means probably less read & cuddle time than is normal for him and Temeraire, and yet—no malaria.

We modern readers (and Novik) know that malaria is not caused by "miasmas" but by parasites carried by mosquitos. And lo and behold when we get to Empire of Ivory we get:

Mosquitoes sang happily as dusk drew on, though they did not come very close to Temeraire; the flies were less judicious. The shapes of the trees were growing vague when Temeraire woke with a start and said, “Laurence, there is someone coming, there,” and the grass rustled on the opposite bank.

So yeah, the dragons are keeping the mosquitos away. I know fuck all about why—it's probably not heat since you know, mosquitos like warm blooded organisms, but maybe it's an oil or a chemical or some artifact of the way some of them can breathe fire that's present in all dragons or something, they're described as smelling weird a few times, so who knows. If it's a substance like an oil in their skin that could explain why the aviators don't get sick even when they're not nearby, since they could have some on them from contact, but that's just speculation. The point is not the mechanism, just that it's happening.

The Point

This whole post grew out of a throwaway comment I made about the benefits of mutualistic symbiosis with dragons from the human perspective in that one post about how the series has some interesting stuff obviously going on psychologically/biologically. The point of going in-depth on malaria and sickle cell is to show how this is really impressively solid worldbuilding in relation to the Tswana.

See, Empire of Ivory describes locations that seem like they're in modern day Botswana, Zimbabwe, and Zambia, regions which will have had long-term problems with malaria-causing mosquitos. That's not the densest area for sickle cell, but still definitely in the region where malaria would have exerted selective pressure.

Selective pressure which, in a universe where just being around a dragon is going to drastically reduce malaria rates, is going to leave dragon-friendly populations a lot healthier than dragon-unfriendly ones. A community that has a dragon stay every night and work alongside humans during the day is going to have a lot less malaria even without the sickle cell resistance than a community which has no dragon. And considering that malaria is bad enough that sickle cell genes persist despite it also having a high chance to cause a deadly disease, whereas a dragon that's a fully prosocial member of the community is not going to cause more death and instead will probably help with defense and create more caloric surplus (at the cost of consuming most of that surplus) a dragon is just obviously the better option. From there, it's extremely easy to see how the Tswana in the series could develop such a dragon-centric culture and have it be so wildly successful. The dragons provide fertilizer, the dragons allow for fully domesticated elephants, and the dragons render malaria—one of the deadliest diseases in history—nearly a nonissue. Of course they're family.

Citations:

Biointeractive. (2014, August 26). Malaria and Sickle Cell Anemia - HHMI BioInteractive Video. Retrieved October 3, 2018, from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zsbhvl2nVNE

Haviland, W. A., Prins, H. E., Walrath, D., & McBride, B. (2017). Anthropology: The Human Challenge (15th ed.). Boston: Cengage Learning.

#Temeraire #it’s more bio-cultural evolution #wikipedia claims that malaria may have killed 50-60 billion people through history but I do not trust that citation AT ALL #regardless its still one of the deadliest killers ever #the kitten rambles #malaria #sickle cell anemia #Artemis if you read this I am sorry for the butchering I made of some anthropology concepts

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lordsukunas · 3 months

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songs made by black artists that i think would suit jjk characters. oh my god this took forever to format n link songs. anyway, happy black history month yall!!!! i hope yall like this bc im sick of seeing taylor swift pop up in the list of artists gojo would listen to <33

gojo – starboy the weeknd, daft punk + ghost town kanye west, partynextdoor

for starboy it just gave im that nigga vibes, and for ghost town it's just the entire ‘i alone am the honored one’ scene. but mayb it could also be applicable to current gojo? idk.

geto – like a tattoo sade

fun fact: this is actually the inspo for my user!! the whole ‘broken by the burden of his youth’ and ‘hungry for life, thirsty for the distant river’ reminds me of his whole reason for defecting. he's hungry for life (wanting sorcerers to not have to risk their life to protect non-sorcerers & actually live a long, fulfilling life) and thirsty for the distant river (remember when they kept with the race/hallway analogy? yeah, and geto's goal was always going to be unattainable for him simply bc he didn't have the strength)

yuuji – adorn miguel + crooked smile j. cole, tlc

UGGHHH he's just so lovely. the most supportive boy ever i love my son sm, and that is my only justification for my song choices.

megumi – alone willow + nineteen pinkpanthress + answer tyler, the creator

tbh… idk bros been goin thru it this entire series, but esp recently. for answer, i rlly liked the first couple of verses (idk what to actually call it, but it's before the first chorus) bc it aligns well w papaguro n megumi. ig the stepdad could be gojo…?

nobara – no scrubs tlc + conceited flo milli + apeshit the carters + on my mama victoria monét

she takes nobody's bs n i love that for her!!! i feel like she'd absolutely love flo milli + megan thee stallion.

nanami – lotus flower bomb wale, miguel + i love you more than you know black party, childish gambino

sorry i rlly like him y'all... there's no angsty reason for these songs! n for i luv u more than yk, it's just nanami if/when he goes to malaysia :3

choso – do you like me? daniel caesar

i actually dk for this one... i just thought it suited him! yk since he wants to live as a human n when he loves he loves hard (shown by how determined he is to be the best older brother to his lil siblings)

toji – she will lil wayne, drake + foe tha love of $ bone thugs-n-harmony, eazy-e + crack rock frank ocean

i am a firm believer toji would like 90s + early 2000s rap. it just makes sense idk, also i once saw a post that said he died just a bit b4 no hands by waka flocka came out and... hey! for crack rock, it's just post-mamaguro him n instead of crack, it's his gambling addiction

sukuna – hater's anthem infinity song + hit ‘em up 2pac, outlawz + king’s dead jay rock, kendrick lamar, future, james blake + unbothered ski mask the slump god

he's a hater just for my son. bum ass nigga... and for hit em up: ‘don't one of u niggas got sickle cell or sumn? u fuck around n have a seizure or a heart attack’

maki & toji – worst behavior drake

self explanatory! them n their rebellion against the zenin clan <3

gojo & geto – oui jeremih

cause if weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! sorry but this is fueled by geto saying ‘we are the strongest’... thats it :p

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk gojo #jjk geto #jjk nanami #jjk yuji #jjk megumi #jjk nobara #jjk maki #jjk choso #jjk toji #jjk sukuna #jjk headcanons #gojo headcanons #geto headcanons #toji headcanons #sukuna headcanons

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rainofaugustsith · 1 year

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So in the conversations about cures, there is one thing I'd like to reiterate: It is absolutely bleeding exhausting to have abled/not chronically ill people going on about cures and how they can fix you.

It's often the first fucking thing people do after you tell them what your illness is - they immediately pile on with the unsolicited advice about just how you can fix yourself. And 99.9% of the time, I guarantee you it's absolute trash that shows no understanding whatsoever of your condition.

Prayer. Kale. Juice fasts. Untested supplements not approved by the FDA that somehow manage to cure things like sickle cell anemia. Have you found Jesus (and I specifically say Jesus because Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists - well, just about everyone else - usually will NOT try to convert you or insist you just need to pray harder to their god to be magically cured)? Maybe if you lost some weight or took up yoga? There's this guru I listen to. On and on and on.

And often, if they don't think you are desperately trying everything and anything random people throw at you, why, you must not really be sick. You don't WANT to get better because you're not trying organic lettuce fasts and crystals to cure your genetic disease that isn't even understood well by most doctors.

Most of us get angry about even one unsolicited comment or criticism. We think it's rude when someone snipes about appearance or clothes. So why is it okay to pepper disabled and chronically ill people with your half-baked cures, or think they even want them?

Imagine how you'd feel if the moment you left your house, people started picking at, say, the shape of your eyebrows. Maybe you could bleach them? Shape them? Shave them off? If only you'd let us help you! It comes from a place of love! Imagine that's all you heard all day long the moment someone saw your eyebrows. You'd get sick of it really damn quickly, and you'd probably really resent that people's first instinct was to tell you what they felt was wrong with you and that they were within their rights to tell you how to fix it.

You might feel angry or upset that they were not accepting you as you were.

That's how it goes with cures, folks.

The only time I as a chronically ill and disabled person am interested in hearing about treatments is if it's coming from someone with the same/similar condition and we're talking and comparing notes. But interesting thing, then it's usually shop talk, it's not 'BUT YOU NEED KALE AND PRAYER.' Do I talk to other people with my illness about the meds they take, what works, what doesn't? Sure. But key things: we've both agreed to participate in that discussion AND we both have the condition in question, AND nobody is picking at anyone else to do anything. Those discussions often end "well, that's great it works for you! Good luck with it!" and it's fine.

I'll be honest, if you could tell me tomorrow "Rain, we have a 100% certain cure for something you have" would I sign up? Fucking yes. But am I waiting around for that cure? No. Because most illnesses don't have cures. Some have treatments, and some don't. Some of us know this. I'm doing my best to live my life as it is, as I am, in this moment, and that's what I want people to understand. I want to be accepted as I am in this time, just as we all do.

#disability #chronic illness #just saying

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pscottm · 5 months

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Republican officials insult women nearly killed by abortion bans.

A recent filing by the office of Tennessee Attorney General Jonathan T. Skrmetti, a Republican, captures the dynamic all too well. Skrmetti has been fighting a lawsuit filed by a group of Tennessee women denied emergency abortions under the ultranarrow medical exception to that state’s ban. The women plaintiffs suffered an appalling range of trauma, including sepsis and hemorrhaging, because they could not terminate their pregnancies. The attorney general’s response to their complaint is a scathing, shockingly personal broadside against the victims of the ban. He accused them of attempting to draw “lines about which unborn lives are worth protecting” by imposing a medical exception “of their own liking.” He mocked them for asserting that ostensibly minor conditions like “sickle cell disease” might justify an abortion. And he insisted that the lead plaintiff, Nicole Blackmon, lacks standing, because she underwent sterilization after the state forced her to carry a nonviable pregnancy and deliver a stillborn baby. The attorney general viciously suggested that, if Blackmon really wanted to fight Tennessee’s ban, she could have tried for another doomed pregnancy.

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undertheopensky · 5 months

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Life First

Whumptober Day 23: Alt #12 Broken

Characters: Four, Sky

Trigger warnings: Broken bones, violence to a child, (if you personally consider Four a child)

Read on Ao3!

Merry fucking Christmas.

-----

It sounds like a stick snapping beneath a thick layer of mud.

Four’s back arches, a high, wavering shriek caught behind his teeth. When he slumps, gasping and whimpering, only the whites of his eyes are visible below half-closed lids.

If there wasn’t razor steel at his throat Sky would have already lunged. As it is, he can feel his lips peeling away from his teeth in a snarl, and the tension running through him is definitely making the Yiga at his back sweat a little.

Good. They deserve much worse.

In a flash of red smoke the two grunts pinning Four down vanish. The blademaster, boot still pressed to Four’s thigh, remains, surveying his handiwork. “It’ll do,” he says at last, and steps back.

Four keens combined relief and agony. Sky twitches; feels hot blood run down his collarbone as the sickle grazes skin.

The blademaster laughs.

“Worry not - this is merely insurance. You’d never leave your friend behind, but there’s no way he’ll be able to keep up with you now. If you choose to carry him, you won’t be able to evade us, nor fight should you happen to come across your weapons. Can’t have you leaving before the real Hero shows up.”

Behind the featureless mask, the blademaster gives the impression of a self-satisfied smile.

“And if you do choose to abandon him… well. At least one of you will live to regret it.”

The next instant, he’s gone, along with the blade at Sky’s throat.

The choking clouds of scarlet don’t slow Sky down in the slightest. He ignores their acrid tang in favour of getting to Four, dropping to his knees so fast he nearly skins them, and fumbles for his hand, for some way of helping when he knows there’s nothing he can do.

Incredibly, Four clings back.

“It’s okay, I’m not leaving you, I won’t, we’ll be fine,” Sky says, over Four’s harsh panting.

Four opens his mouth, maybe trying to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled whimper.

“It’s okay,” Sky says again. Useless isn’t a feeling he appreciates; the Yiga had taken Fi, his bags, everything he could potentially have made a splint out of. They’d even taken his fucking sailcloth. “I’ll figure something out. You’ll be okay.”

Scanning the cell, he has to hope he’s not making a liar of himself. Unadorned stone blocks and heavy wood don’t offer much opportunity. Even if it didn’t look like it weighed as much as Koloktos, the gate had ‘clunked’ into place with the resonance of a lock sliding home, and Sky doubts either of them could fit through the narrow spaces between its palings.

He’s not gonna let that stop him, though. He squeezes Four’s hand again. “It’ll be alright. I won’t leave you. I won’t leave you to - whatever the fuck these fuckers -”

“Wha-wha-what’s stopping them, stopping them from doing it anyway? You-you-you need to get-get out of here, S-s-sky.”

Sky ignores this completely in favour of pulling off his overtunic. The white face, the chattering teeth, the stammer - was Four going into shock? Wasn’t there a massive blood vessel right by the bone in the leg? Fuck, he hopes Four isn’t bleeding out right in front of him, Sky thinks. Laying the tunic over Four’s torso as a makeshift blanket, he glances fruitlessly around the cell again, praying for inspiration.

“R-rope.”

Heart lurching, Sky quickly turns back to Four. “What’s that? I’m sorry, did I pull on you?” He starts trying to disentangle his hand, but Four’s tight grip doesn’t falter.

“N-no. The rope. Cut - cut the c-crossbar free.” Four points with one shaking hand.

The crossbar - on the gate, of course. The palings are held together by a long beam near the bottom, if Sky can cut it loose he might be able to force a gap wide enough to escape. Except -

“I don’t have anything sharp, they took all my weapons.” He scans the floor for loose rocks he could shape into a cutting edge.

“I - I do. Boot knife.”

That’s honestly not surprising. The smithy keeps half an armoury tucked away in various pockets; it would have been weirder if the Yiga hadn’t missed one. It sure as hell works in their favour now. “Where is it? Which foot?”

“Luh-left.”

Because of course the knife has to be in the boot on the broken leg. Sky grimaces. “Okay. I’m gonna move slow, okay?”

Sky definitely jostles him more than once working the knife free, though Four doesn’t so much as squeak through Sky’s whispered apologies. Sky squeezes his hand one last time before turning to the gate.

The rope is coarse and heavy, but any blade owned by Four is kept razor-sharp, and Sky makes steady progress sawing through key points. Near the edge, so the shadows half-hide it, in case of someone walking past - not that there’s been anyone since they were first dumped here. It seems like this area of the Yiga’s base isn’t well-travelled. Lucky for them.

Sky gets two logs free of the bar and starts wedging his foot and leg between them. If he can just work them another couple of inches apart -

But they’re thick and solid and not particularly given to movement. He has to stop, gasping for breath, before trying again, the force of it burning through his calf and his hip where his leg is cocked awkwardly out to the side. “Who designed this thing,” he hisses to himself, and braces for another go.

“S-sky,” Four gasps, and he abandons the attempt immediately in favour of scrambling back to him.

“What’s wrong, are you okay -” how can I help, he means but doesn’t ask, because how can he help, with no potions and no supplies?

Four takes a moment to gather himself, breathing shallow and hitched. “Luh-leverage. Y’need… leverage.” Struggling for words through the haze of pain. Sky takes a moment to check his pulse - a little fast, still strong, not too bad. “Th’ crossbar - use it - as a pry. Too strong.”

Sky considers. He’s making no progress as it is. And if he keeps enough of the rope intact -

Aha. “Got it,” he breathes, and moves back into action.

It’s a damn good thing no one’s come down here, because there’s no way they’d miss the mess that he makes of the gate - crossbar down, shreds of rope everywhere, and one serious trip hazard poking out the bottom while Sky wrestles it into place. At one end of it he’d left the rope and bulky knots attached so he can do what he’s doing now: throw his whole body weight into the other end of the rope, looped just once around a paling further down. As Four had said - he needed leverage, and this makeshift pulley system is going to give him that leverage.

Apparently he’d picked up more from Groose than he’d thought.

The rope groans worryingly. Sky hadn’t been entirely successful in leaving it undamaged as he pried it out of its knots; a couple times he’d had to shave the edges a bit to convince it to come free. He can only hope it holds long enough. It’d be a pretty useless pulley system without a connecting line, and he’s not quite ready to sacrifice his belt to the cause.

(He will, if it comes down to it. He’d just rather keep his pants on if at all possible.)

There’s another groan, and then a crack. Swearing, Sky falls back on his ass as the tension goes out of the rope - fuck, he’s gonna wind up doing this escape in just his tunic, isn’t he -

Wait, no. The crack had been the paling giving way. Eager and apprehensive in equal measure, Sky studies the new hole.

It’s… not ideal. The log had broken low, less than a foot off the ground. If he crawls, gets his shoulders low where the gap is widest, Sky can just make it through. But there’s no way Four will be able to do the same, not with his leg busted up. Sky will have to drag him. But would he survive that?

In truth, Sky’s been trying not to think about it. As he worked on the door he’d been wracking his brain for what he remembered about broken legs, and it had just made him more anxious. He’s sure that Four is okay right now - he’s in pain, but breathing steadily, shock staved off temporarily - but that’s going to change as soon as he moves him. In fact, without a splint or something to keep his leg steady, moving him could well kill him.

(But leaving him here would be worse.)

“Four,” Sky says, slipping back to his prone form and taking his hand, “Four, I cracked the gate, there’s a hole now.”

“G-good. Get out of here, S-s-sky.”

Despite his stubborn words - Four’s frightened. It’s in the white of his eyes and his gritted teeth and his knuckles where he clings to Sky’s hand. As his mouth says leave me and everything else says don’t leave me.

“Four, I need you to listen to me, and listen all the way through,” Sky says, unyielding. “Can you do that?”

If Four’s in too much pain to focus – if Sky has to make this decision and then live with the consequences –

Four grunts and cracks one eye. Still clear, still alert.

“Your leg is bad, but holding for now. If I move you, it could kill you. If you don’t want to risk it, and you can swear to me that’s the only reason, I’ll leave you here - briefly - and come back with healing supplies as soon as I can.”

Four opens his mouth, probably to argue; Sky ploughs on.

“If I carry you out of here, it’s a straight run to the exit, as fast as I can make it - we’ll have to come back for our gear, because as soon as I disrupt whatever’s going on in there –” he waves a hand at Four’s leg, disconcertingly swollen – “we’re on a time limit. And if we don’t make it out within that time limit, and find help, you’re going to die. I won’t do that to you without your say so.”

“S’not safe,” Four says. “I’ll just – s-slow you down. Be quicker – if you run without me – an’ get help.”

“There is no option that involves me leaving you behind in this hellhole,” Sky says frankly.

Making a frustrated noise, Four thumps his head against the floor. “Why not – jus’ carry me – t’our gear – an’ heal up there? I know – I’ve got – ‘nough potions – t’ deal with this.”

“Because I remember the way out, but I don’t know where they took our things,” Sky says. “And I don’t know if I could find them in time before –” his throat closes over. Before you bleed out.

Four grunts again. He doesn’t say anything this time, though, and seems to be genuinely thinking it over. Heart in his throat, Sky waits.

He tries one last time to convince him. “S’not safe. Y’d have a – better chance – if y’left me – behind.”

“You know damn well that’s not gonna happen.”

Four whines and flexes his hands like he’d like to strangle him. Then, finally:

“F-fine.”

He takes another shuddering breath; Sky squeezes his hand.

“Take me with you. Let’s get the f-fuck out of here.”

“You got it, buddy,” says Sky.

First is the awkward operation of getting them both out. Sky has to move Four to the exit, as close as possible, then wiggle through himself before reaching back to drag Four through. “This’ll hurt,” Sky warns him.

Four’s already shoving his leather-covered forearm in his mouth, so his response comes out slurred. “Jus’ ge’ on wi’ it.”

Sky grits his teeth, makes sure his hands are secure in Four’s armpits, and heaves.

Four’s howl is muffled by the bracer.

It’s not far to go, thank the goddesses. Sky tries to make it happen in one smooth motion and doesn’t quite manage. But he gets Four’s shoulders close enough to the gap, then very awkwardly crawls over the top of him to wiggle through first. Four’s too preoccupied with trying to breathe to notice Sky doing his best not to knee him in the face.

Time or even Warriors would not have fit through the hole – even Sky had had to worm his shoulders through at an uncomfortable angle. It’s a good thing Four’s even smaller. Sky rolls out his shoulder, grimacing at the twinging complaints – nothing pulled, just cranky. He’s fine.

Now for the hard part.

Sky gets back down on his belly – there’s no other way to reach in – and touches Four’s shoulder. Damn, how is he going to get a decent hold from this angle? “Hey. Brace yourself.”

Again, Four’s scream of pain is stifled in thick leather. Sky cringes, both at knowing he’s causing his brother such agony and at the way the noise echoes off the stone. They can’t stay undetected forever, but the longer they can go –

No use worrying about it. They’re both out of that cell, even if Four’s weeping through gritted teeth at what it took to get them there. Sky gently tugs Four’s wrist free of his teeth to start pulling him over his shoulder.

Shuddering, Four tries to wave him off. “S-stop, wait, gimme a minute –”

“We don’t have a minute,” says Sky, implacable, and hauls Four up.

This time, his shriek weakly peters out. He’s still breathing – Sky can feel the unsteady puffs against his shoulder – but that last effort had been too much for Four. He’s out.

In all honesty, it’s probably best this way. Sky can pin Four’s broken leg against his chest to minimise jostling, without worrying about if it was hurting him.

He just hopes he stays unconscious until they’re well clear of the hideout.

With Four’s body locked in place over his shoulders Sky sets off. He doesn’t know what’s down the corridor to the left and can’t risk it being a dead end, so he heads right, back the way they’d come. Even then, his anxiety rises – he can see the end of it from here, blank and shadowed and featureless, but he swears they’d come this way, there has to be a door or something.

Then, as he comes level with it, a gap in the stone opens up. There’s nothing – magical, or mechanical about it. It was just hidden by perspective and the careful shadows. If it’s all like this he’s going to have to be so careful –

At the peak of the stairs, Sky pauses.

Here the passage turns from stone to wood, wrapping around the second floor of a cavernous room like a balcony – and he can hear metal on metal and grunts of exertion. Cautiously, he peers over the railing.

Down below, half a dozen Yida foot soldiers are sparring. They’re using the sickles Sky is already familiar with and another, full-circle spiked razor of a thing to practice lethal-looking strikes. Even as he watches, one of them muffs a parry and yelps when blood is drawn.

None of them are looking up, and he’d like to keep it that way.

There’s no way they can look like they’re meant to be here, so their best bet is to not be spotted at all. Fortunately the balcony is heavily shadowed, and by sticking to the far wall and moving in a low profile, Sky can avoid attracting notice. He creeps along the edges, trying not to flinch at every crash and ‘ha!’, and nearly has heart failure when an archer teleports onto the top of a nearby platform. Luckily, their back is turned, and they just fire off a few arrows for their fellows to dodge before vanishing again. Sky breathes a sigh of relief and slips out the door.

This next set of stairs, he remembers, open up straight onto the floor of another room. A single, central pillar built up out of wood sits in the middle. He has no idea what it’s for and also doesn’t care, except that he can’t see if the room is clear, and he can’t exactly stand around waiting. Sky gets as far as the pillar itself and cautiously peers around it – and scrambles back just in time to avoid the huge katana that slashes down.

Sky backs away as the blademaster rounds the wooden tower. “You know, I was just thinking to myself,” he remarks, almost conversationally. “If we’re being technical – we don’t even need you alive, really. Your bodies will make a good enough lure.” He raises his weapon for a strike.

Sky can see the path the greatsword will take – observes the ripple of magic along the blade – sidesteps, and lets the razor’s edge of both blaze past him. He doesn’t give the blademaster a chance to recover – as soon as the blow passes he’s racing forward. If he wasn’t carrying Four he’d use the solid force of his shoulder to drive the wind out of them, but instead he sidesteps a grab, feints back, and as he darts back the other way to get past he slams his leg up.

He’ll have a bruise later – his shin had made contact with something too solid to be anything except a protective cup – but for now it doesn’t matter. The blademaster crumples and Sky has a clear shot to the stairs.

No point trying for stealth anymore. Sky takes them two at a time, feeling the burn in his thighs, and hits the landing at a dead run. Round the corner, over the bridge, flashes of colour through the railings –

Hanging floor to ceiling, a tapestry blocks the corridor. For a second panic wells – had he forgotten a corner, gotten turned around, were they lost trapped captured again – before Sky spots the edges fluttering in a breeze he can’t feel and the faint glow of firelight from behind it and remembers –

He doesn’t hesitate, just ducks to the side so the brocade can’t tangle around them, and they’re in a circular room lined by stairs and identical tapestry-covered passages and which one which one he remembers a shift to the right and angles left and thank the goddesses the first tapestry he pulls aside has dunes of gathered sand and the taste of desert ozone.

Scarlet smoke and laughter. Out of time. But – if it had to be anywhere –

Sky leaps back from the exit in time for the heavy fabric to flap back in the face of an archer who’d just teleported in. Others poof into existence, strips of paper fluttering down, and start to circle, to cut off any escape. Backing up, step by step, Sky passes through the line of braziers, and hesitates on the central pedestal as if realizing he had nowhere to run. The raised platform gives him a good vantage point, lets him count masked faces peering up at him – at least eight, maybe more, jeering gleefully as they crowd closer.

Sky waits, tense and ready, until one draws their bowstring back – then he whirls, one leg extended, and sends embers scattering all around the room.

There are screams of surprise and pain. The effect is the same: every Yiga scrambling away from the bite of the flames, while Sky runs through them, unafraid.

The base itself is hewn from stone, but there are enough flammable objects in the antechamber alone to keep them busy. Sky’s gone to the chill place in his heart where only the next few seconds matter, the place that had kept him alive when all he wanted to do was lie down and die. It doesn’t matter that the fire is a short-lived distraction, doesn’t matter that they’ll catch up all too soon – for the next few seconds, all that matters is there’s no hands reaching for him, no weapon’s edges near enough to harm.

The searing heat of desert wind has never felt so much like triumph.

Stone floor gives way to sand. Sky takes a moment to be thankful the Yiga had left them their boots – they’re not even in the sun yet and he can feel the heat of it even through the leather.

Though burning hot, the sand’s not as deep as he’d expected. There’s even bare patches where rock’s been blasted clean, presumably by the wind screaming through the canyon. Darting between them gives Sky a brief reprieve from trying not to slip on the sand, gives him a solid platform to push off from and gain a few precious yards of distance.

As the canyon narrows and closes in Sky’s showered with grit from above – more sand, tossed off the peaks by the wind. He’s got no hands free to shield his eyes so all he can do is duck his head and run through it. Then the path diverges and Sky has to hesitate because he doesn’t remember this, the trip had gone in nauseating flashes of teleportation but he only remembers long and near-featureless stone walls so which way which way –

Down, it had to be down, the left is too open and flat and he’d remember passing quite so many creepy frog statues on their way in, and there’s the slim possibility of cover in the various ledges and outcrops. Up til now the canyon’s offered nothing, and while Sky can’t risk stopping and hiding, he’ll take the opportunity to break line of sight.

He heads down.

Four stirs as he passes the first ledge. His head tilts against the pull of gravity as Sky stumbles.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sky whispers, and his footing fails again and they both jolt with it. “I’m sorry, Four, we’re nearly there, just a little longer –”

He just makes a noise too soft to be a groan and goes still again.

Sky wishes he could spare a hand to check Four’s pulse.

There’s no bare spots now. The sand’s gotten deep, caught between the tall stone walls, and it’s real work for Sky to keep up the pace. At least this is mostly downhill, he thinks, though the slope is too shallow for – oh, nice, as they pass under an outcrop the rock walls start to drop away, and the sand does too. There must be a supporting shelf underneath that the cliffs spring up from, and without it, sand tumbles away in a steep dune that would be awful to climb in this heat.

But Sky’s not climbing today. Making sure Four is still secure, still breathing, Sky steps forward onto the looser sand. One leg stays loose, to push and to steer; the other he locks at the knee, and slides down the sand like his own foot is a sled. The more distance they can get the better – without supplies, the heat of the desert will wear him down fast. Not to mention the still-pursuing Yiga.

A flash of smoke; Sky’s duck sends him skidding forward and the sickle aimed at his shoulder misses completely. The sand makes him fumble. He tries to stand, slips and falls to one knee, stands, takes two sweeping strides and almost falls again. Fuck sand.

Fortunately it’s also hampering the Yiga. The one he’d dodged is still tumbling down the sand dune some fifty yards away now, and a second who’d teleported in had, after firing a poorly-aimed arrow, immediately fallen over with a shriek when gravity reasserted itself.

Sky would probably find it funnier if not for his brother potentially bleeding out over his shoulders.

Still, their inability to find their feet means they’re following the slope of the dune. Sky angles off, pointing himself in the direction of a stone pillar-monument looking thing. Even a few seconds out of the sun will help though nothing can be done for the way his heart is thundering –

He’s far too close when a silhouette separates itself from the shadows at the base of the pillar. Sky kicks up a whirl of sand, hoping to blind them for a few precious seconds –

His eyes catch on blonde and indigo and his brain goes !!!

“Wild!” he blurts out, coming full circle and blinking in disbelief. Wild isn’t wearing the heat-resistant silks – it’s a dark-coloured bodysuit similar to the Yiga, which was why Sky’s instincts had reacted the way they did. His silhouette is near-identical, except his hair is pinned in a bun instead of a scruffy topknot. “You, what, how did you find us? No, wait, nevermind, we need to get to Hyrule now –”

Say what you wanted about Wild’s recklessness and mischief. In an emergency, he’s all business, and quick on the uptake besides. He hooks an arm around the spot Sky is gripping Four’s wrist, so they’re both in contact with him, and taps at the Slate.

They dissolve into blue light.

#whumptober 2023 #linked universe #lu four #lu sky #lu fic #skies writes #featuring first aid for complete fucking morons #DO NOT DO WHAT SKY DID HERE #if nothing else he should have torn up the tunic and used it to tie four’s legs together #not ideal but definitely better than what ACTUALLY happened #if you spot any typos please tell me bc i typed most of this on my phone with no formatting #tumblr ate my formatting and i’m cranky

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realjaysumlin · 7 months

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I do my best to post my views as a scientist, not one who is indoctrinated into believing in pseudoscience, the false ideology that skin colors represent race for humans. The very word negro irks me because negro is demeaned in such a negative way, instead of blanco in Spanish.

Negro means "Black" in the Latin language and blanco means "white" in the same language, so why isn't blanco demeaned the same way as the word negro? Dark skin humans need to start defining themselves and stop following the narratives and the negative stereotypes of people who identify themselves as white.

Dark skin humans are a product of natural selection, a process better understood by the meaning of photosynthesis. Which means how every living thing on earth interacts with our sun.

Pale or fair skin humans are a mutation from dark skin where the UV-Radiation level is low. The same can be said about Sickle Cell Anemia, which I hear as being called out as a Black people's disease, when skin color again don't have a damn thing to do with the cause of Sickle Cell Anemia.

Evolution is a wonderful thing and how all living these adapts to our environment to protect itself from deadly diseases like Sickle Cell Anemia. Sickle Cell Amenia is associated with malaria, which is caused by a heavy population of mosquitoes, particularly a specific type of a female mosquito, in theory.

The human body protects itself from malaria by the cells becoming sickle to prevent malaria; therefore, people with Sickel Cell Anemia is immune to malaria.

#black love #black history #black positivity #black africans #evolution #science #science side of tumblr #sickle cell anemia #sickle cell disease #sickle cell awareness

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mimi-0007 · 2 years

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💪🏾💪🏾💪🏾💪🏾💪🏾💪🏾✊🏾✊🏾✊🏾✊🏾☝🏾☝🏾☝🏾

#black panther party #black history #black tumblr #black history is american history #black literature #civil rights #black excellence #black community #civil rights movement #blackexcellence365 #black girl magic #black archives #black culture #black lives matter #black pride #wic #sickle cell disorder #community

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garbinge · 8 months

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Foldin' Clothes

Steve Murphy x F!Reader For the @narcosfandomdiscord October Prompts. Day 2 - Day of Music: Put your favorite playlist on shuffle and whatever song comes up first, that’s your prompt. Summary: Song Inspo - Foldin Clothes - J.Cole // Steve makes a surprise visit home, but things aren't as picture perfect as either of you would like them to be. Word Count: 3.2k Warnings: All my fics are 18+, regardless of content. Angsty. Mentions of illness, sickle cell disease, blood transfusions, etc. Fighting, arguing, not a happy ending, but not like too too harsh. Slight mentions of smut like blink and you'll miss it type stuff. A/N: First off shout out to Tay's fic inspo playlist for this one!!! Second, it doesn't exactly follow the tone of the song buuuuut it def takes from things said within it!

Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @narcolini

The sun from the window hit Steve’s eyes and stirred him awake. It took him a minute to come to, taking a few seconds to wipe his eyes with his watched hand and sit up to take in where he was. It wasn’t home, he wasn’t really sure if he had a real home these days, he technically lived in Colombia, in a small apartment building that he shared with other DEA agents, it was the furthest thing from home. He sold his house in Miami before leaving for Bogata, but that never felt like home either. This, where he was waking up, wasn’t home, but it was the closest he ever got to it.

He rolled over to find himself on the edge of the couch. Funny how it was probably the most comfortable night of sleep he had gotten in a while. You were pushed up against the backrest of the couch, looking completely at peace as light snores left your mouth. He smirked as he got up, taking a moment to look at the clock. 6:17AM. There was no way he was going to wake you up this early, no matter how much you would argue his ear off when you did wake up. Every minute was valuable since he was set to go back to Colombia tomorrow.

He didn’t think he was going to come visit you, but the minute he landed in Miami he was telling the taxi driver your address.

“Hey, can I use your phone? I need to tell my parents I won’t be able to come visit them on my break.”

Those were his first words to you. Of course you let him in, and he did just what he asked. Said something came up and that he wasn’t able to come home. And then ensued your night of catching up. You did what two people who were stupidly in love with each other would do, you had sex, you talked, you ate copious amounts of food, from all of Steve’s favorite Miami spots, you watched movies, but to say you really watched them was a stretch. Most of the time you were doing the previously mentioned items. You drank a lot of wine, Steve mentioned how it felt like forever since he had a glass of wine, his thirst was generally quenched by some sort of amber alcohol that was hidden in someone's drawer.

It was a great night, but a late one, which is why Steve was going to let you rest. He moved over to the pile of discarded clothes from the both of you and scooped them into his arms. His head moved back to make sure he didn’t miss anything before making his way to your laundry room. He knew his way around here, it helped that he stayed here pretty much daily for a year before he got pulled away to Colombia. Each room had a memory, some good, some bad. The laundry room’s memory wasn’t the best, the first thought that came to his head was his first kill on the job. It was a kid. He came home, and you were quick to meet him at the garage door and grab his things, tell him to disrobe and throw his dirty, bloody, clothes into the washing machine. It was your attempt at erasing every memory of the day that you could but it was too late. His words echoed in his head.

“That was the first person I ever shot, a teenager not even old enough to buy a 6-pack.”

This room was permanently tainted with it. But this time, after the initial thought, it felt lighter, it felt different, like things could be different.

Steve was tossing the clothes in the wash, grabbing the detergent and putting the machine to the right setting and then making his way back out to the kitchen. He saw you still on the couch, but now you were sprawled out completely taking up the entire space. It made him smile to himself, waking up with you, to the sight of you, it was something he’d never take advantage of again. As he entered the kitchen, he began to put together something for breakfast. He was careful in what he chose, wanting to keep the noise level low so as not to wake you. As he opened the cabinet above the fridge, he was met with an array of cereals, he laughed as the memory of you begging him to eat the raisin bran for once over the honeycomb came to his head. Something about the sugar.

As he looked around the rest of the kitchen, he noticed the slight mess of things, dishes in the sink, pots and pans uncleaned on the stove, bags of groceries still on the counter not put away. It would have been nothing if he didn’t know you, how you normally kept things around the house, but the real telling factor was the calendar on the fridge. It was filled with tasks and meetings, but what caught his eye was the amount of doctors appointments. It was constant, phlebotomy appointments, nutritionists, general practitioners, the list went on and on.

The bowl was now empty, just a little bit of milk and the remnants of honey comb still floating in the liquid. It was his third bowl, between the first and second he had made his way back into the wash room so he could switch over the laundry, it’s what caused him to stop focusing on the calendar on the wall trying to figure out what was happening. Now he was sitting there, windows open, looking out the backyard, seeing the palm trees sway from the wind, the clouds were rolling in, which meant there was a likely chance for a drizzle later, typical for Florida. To be honest he missed it, not the rain, or the palm trees, or even Miami even, but this yard, this house. Waking up like this, calm, being able to enjoy these mundane tasks, that was what he missed.

The ding from the dryer had brought him out of his thoughts, he was making his way to the wash room, taking a quick peak at you still to make sure the dryer bell didn’t wake you. You were back squished up against the backrest of the couch, the sight of it made him smile.

Folding clothes. Another thing that brought him back to that night. Folding the clothes that used to be soaked in blood, how easy it was to wash away the evidence of it, but yet somehow the memory was still so permanently in his mind. If he saw a therapist, they’d likely connect it to how that was the jumping off point to everything he’d gotten himself into since then. Colombia. Escobar. The whole thing. But that was the thing he didn’t see a therapist, the closest he got to it was a bottle of whiskey and a few mumbled words to Javier Peña, his DEA partner.

“My dad volunteered to fight in World War 2 because of Pearl Harbor. He laced up his army boots and went to fight. It was his duty. Cocaine in Miami? Kilos in Colombia? This is my war. This is my duty.”

Those were the words he spoke to you when he told you his assignment, where he was going. Before he could think of your response, your voice said something else, but this time in the present moment.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” The sound of your groggy voice brought Steve’s attention onto you as you leaned on the frame of the doorway.

“It was a late night, figured you needed rest.” Steve smiled at you as he was folding the last of the clothes.

“So this is what you came here for? To do my laundry.” You crossed your arms and got comfortable in the standing position you were in.

“Was trying to keep busy.” Steve chuckled as he tossed the last of the clothes in the basket above the dryer.

“Yea, you should have woke me up.” You kicked off the doorway and approached him, wrapping your arms around his middle and bringing him closer to you.

Steve fell into the embrace easily, his arms encasing you, his head resting on yours.

“When’s your flight?” You mumbled, not ready to break the embrace.

“8AM tomorrow.” His mouth was speaking just over your head before he placed a quick kiss there.

“24 hours.” You inhaled deeply as you accepted the fact. You pulled away from him, took a few seconds to look into his eyes, try and puzzle together what he was thinking that he wasn’t telling you.

“A lot can happen in 24 hours.” Steve spoke up, the comment was meant as a tease, as a flirtatious comment, and that’s how you took it, at first.

He leaned down to kiss you, his lips touched yours and his hands moved to cup your face. It was an attempt to bring you closer to him, for him to soak in every kiss, every touch, every feeling. You smelled the honeycomb on his breath and it made you laugh into the kiss.

“If you’re gonna sneak the sugary cereal you should learn how to hide the evidence.” You whispered to him in between kisses.

“Hey, you’re the one who keeps them in the house. Can’t blame me there.” He spoke back to you, his head resting on your forehead.

“Maybe I kept them there for you, you ever think of that?.” Your eyebrows raised and you could see his face change. It was slight, but you picked up on it immediately.

Steve however, pushed right by it and was immediately kissing you. You were propped up on top of the dryer and he was starting to move his hands under your clothes.

Before you even could realize it, he was inside you. Your hand was gripping the back tuff of his hair as he entered in and out of you, your head fell back as you felt every emotion ever get sent into overdrive. This was Steve, your Steve, he was back, he was here, and he was inside you and nothing could beat that emotion right now. Both of you didn’t last long, despite the countless times you went at it the night before, but it had been a long time for the both of you.

Steve had thrown his clothes back on and you were in the process of putting your shirt back on. He was quick to grab the shirt, bringing it down your body and situating it on correctly. He went back to resting his head against yours once you both were settled. You closed your eyes, feeling exhaustion come back over you.

“Tell me not to go.” Between Steve’s voice and what he said, it jolted you awake.

“What?” You didn’t need the clarification, but you did need another couple seconds to get your thoughts together.

“Tell me not to go.” He repeated himself, same tone, same voice.

“Steve.” You slipped by him now, breaking the closeness you had and made your way to the kitchen to grab breakfast for yourself.

He was behind you immediately.

“I’m being serious. Tell me not to go. I won’t go.” He said now with more firmness in his voice, putting that pressure on you.

“You know I can’t do that.” You said as you reached in the cabinet for a bowl.

“You can, just say it and I won’t leave for my flight tomorrow.” Steve was practically begging now. “I’ll stay here and we can eat take out from wherever, and I’ll do the laundry, fold the clothes for you, I’ll eat the fuckin’ raisin bran like you want me to.” His voice was pleading now.

“Steve. You can’t come here, unexpected, and then just throw this decision on me.” The sentence was true, but harsh, which is why you spoke it in a way that didn’t come out mean or strong.

“I’m not an idiot. I see what’s happening around here.” Steve raised his voice now. Your face twisted up and that was just more fuel for him. “You’re fucking sick. You told me that shit wasn’t serious, you let me leave when you knew what it was, you lied to me.”

You didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t wrong. You were sick, you did tell him it wasn’t serious. But you did that for his own good, he needed to go to Colombia, staying back to take care of you would have meant resentment and stress, and fighting. You were never the couple that fought, you didn’t want to become that. The irony.

“But whatever, I don’t care about that. It’s clear you have a lot on your plate and I wanna help. I miss this. I miss waking up calm, I miss the fuckin’ palm trees, doing laundry.” In a quick instant he was back to pleading.

“Steve.” It was the only thing you could think to say at this moment.

“I wanna do the right thing.” His voice was soft and he had tears building up in his eyes.

You approached him, taking his head to rest on your shoulder as he cried. Standing there together you rubbed your hand up and down Steve’s back.

After a few moments of standing there in eachothers arms, you spoke up.

“You are doing the right thing.”

Steve didn’t speak, although you knew if he was going to say anything he was going to argue with you or deflect.

“I miss you.” Deflection.

You weren’t sure which was better of the two, at least with arguing there was a chance of getting down to an agreement or to some type of closure, deflection just buried things deeper. But instead of trying to pull at deeply rooted weeds, you decided to bring a new argument to him. For his own good.

“Can I be blunt?” You asked him, hand still tangled in his hair as you pulled away to look at him.

Steve just gave you a look, one that meant, ‘even if I say no you’re still going to say whatever it is.’ It made you smile, but you didn’t want to chuckle too much because you knew the next statement was going to sting.

“You don’t miss me. You miss normalcy. You miss home.” It was now that you fully pulled away and crossed your arms. There wasn’t anything angry about what you did, because you weren’t angry, you were just being honest. It didn’t hurt you, whatever Steve had going on in Colombia was bigger than anything you could understand. The things he’d probably seen, the things he’d probably done, it made this situation entirely different.

Before Steve got the chance to open his mouth, likely to now argue, you cut him off.

“You didn’t say you missed me once, until two seconds ago. You said you missed this,�� you waved your hand around, “that you missed waking up calm, the palm trees, laundry.” Your head dipped to look directly into Steve’s eyes which were now staring at the floor as he knew you had made your point. “I’m not mad.” You added quickly to let him know, taking your hand to move his chin up to look at you. “I get it, I can’t even imagine what it’s like down there, how the lines blur, how heavy the days must feel, but you’re doing the right thing.”

There was something in Steve’s eyes, maybe it was sadness, maybe it was desperation, maybe it was a mix of both. But regardless you knew the question out of his mouth was coming sooner or later.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were this sick?” His hand was coming up to caress your face now.

“You wouldn’t have gone. I can’t be the reason you stay behind.” It was a easy answer, as hard as it was to get out.

“I would’ve wanted to stay.” He argued.

“You would have resented me, even if it wasn’t obvious.” You were doing a good job avoiding talking about being sick.

Steve scoffed and lowered his head before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “How bad is it?”

“It looks worse on paper than it is.” You turned around now, filling up a glass of water. “I’m at the doctor a lot to monitor my reactions to some new pain meds, sometimes I need the occasional blood transfusion, it’s normal for someone with sickle cell disease. But I haven’t needed one in a while.” You explained.

“You lying to me?” Steve asked, knowing this wasn’t a topic you wanted to stay on much longer.

“Through my teeth.” You smiled and caved. “I’m a part of a clinical study for sickle cell disease, it’s a genetic therapy thing. I know you hated the trials mentioned back–”

“No, no, it’s a good thing. I’m glad.” He was also lying through his teeth, you knew he hated the unsureness of a trial, but you also knew that he was aware he wasn’t in the position to make judgments on your choices.

“I’m okay, Steve.”

He nodded at that. “Can we just forget about the last 30 minutes and just enjoy the time we got?” He said, clearly trying hard to swallow the pain of the last half an hour.

“I’d love nothing more.” You agreed with him.

The next day was like nothing happened, like those 30 minutes of tension and arguing never existed, you weren’t sure if it was a good or bad thing in the long run, but for both of your mental states in this moment, you were glad it happened that way. You spent the day dancing around the house to music, going to the beach for a bit, walking the boardwalk, but your favorite part of the night was the couch cushion fort you two created. You christened the fort, multiple times, before the night was over, you shared laughs, you shared kisses, new memories and old ones until the both of you fell asleep.

Steve woke up, like clockwork at 6AM, and in typical Steve fashion, he didn’t wake you up to say goodbye. He didn’t want a repeat of the morning prior, which he knew it would be. He would have asked you to tell him to stay and you would have said no. He would have said that you needed his help since you were sick, and you wouldn’t have been as nice as the day prior. It wasn’t the way he wanted to leave things, so even if this was a dick move, it was the better move.

He gathered his belongings, and was out the front door, looking back once through the blinds, he saw you still asleep through the front of the couch fort. He smiled and took one deep sigh before stepping towards the taxi waiting for him on the road. Maybe one day he could come back here and fold laundry with you, but he knew today wasn’t that day.

#Narcos #Narcos Netflix #narcoctober #day of music #Steve Murphy #Steve Murphy x Reader

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