I don't want to go to work tomorrow!!!😭 I want to keep writing part 3 "Unforgivable Mistake" and dreaming about Javi and watching movies with Pedro and sighing at all Pedro's boys, imagining how much they love me🥺, but I have to go to bed in an hour so I can survive eight hours at work tomorrow. Noooo!!!
Sunday fic rec for my Pedro Character lovers 🇨🇱👖🐍 forever
VISITING by ladamedusoif on AO3 a Mr. Ben (SNL Pedro Character) Lydia is 42-(😎) about a visiting professor from Europe trying to jumpstart her life at a small college in the Northeast. Professor Ben Morales is her first friend. I love this one so much- I’m new here and haven’t been able to find her on Tumblr so tag her if you know her user name please!!!
Synposis: In the conventional village of Cullfield lived an unconventional woman who served as an apothecary for the townsfolk. Stubborn and set in her ways, the woman of three tens remains unmarried and childless and plans to continue as such for the rest of her life, much to the horror and confusion of the village. But this unconventional woman has some surprises in store for her when an unconventional man named Pero Tovar rides into town, an event that will change both her and his plans forever—and may flip Cullfield upside down too.
Notes: Idk why I kept mentioning poop complications this chapter but I’m sorry and enjoy. It’s been a while but the CHAPTER is here. Please reblog!!!!
General Warnings: minor injuries, slow-burn, eventual smut, blood, childbirth
For this chapter: Non-sexual references to poop, mention pregnancy, murder, implicit brief reference to infanticide or child abandonment, pre-marital pregnancy and it’s complications in the 1400s, religious “morals”.
Chapter 5: Garlic
Last chapter // Next chapter
“When was the last time you passed bowels, Mister Ashdown?” you inquire, pressing on the old man’s stomach knowing you have found the root cause of his stomach issues. He blinks for a moment thinking as he lays on your observation table, before telling you, “quite some time I’m afraid.”
“I see,” you move your hands away putting your hands on your hips, “well, it seems that you just have a case of constipation––burdensome but not something hard to fix or that will have you laying on your deathbed.”
“You sure?” he asks, almost confused, moving to rise up from the table by himself only for you to come to his assistance. You clarify yourself, “Yes, you have many signs that point to it. It can be caused by a lack of competitive foods in your diet and is more likely with old age.”
“I’m not that old,” He interjects, but you compete, “Yes, but you're old enough for a blockage sir––you’ll be glad to know you’ll live to be truly old as long the burden is treated.”
He huffs now in a sitting position with legs dangling from the table, “so what do you have so i’ll shit.”
You huff at his language, “standard garlic will help move the process along, and I’m suggesting you make sure to eat more greens and berries to clear your system.”
You always assumed that you were let free to discuss any matters with your patients when they were the only ones in the shop, as no one else resided in your residence besides you. But that arrangement had changed and you were not the only one that resided in your home, “If my cock and bowels stop working just have someone put me out of my misery.”
You turn rigid and scandalized to see the face of Pero Tovar standing in your back entrance of the shop—entered unbeknownst to you through quiet steps and a lack of clear view. Mister Ashdown has no qualms defending himself, “I’m only five tens and if my cock doesn’t work how is my wife pregnant?”
You want to scream having to hear this conversation and did certainly not want to be reminded of the conversations you were subjected to by Farrah Ashdown. When the woman at four tens and five found out she was pregnant she spared no expense in telling you how it happened. You opted to rush him along before you could get his account of what he does with his wife, “okay sir here’s your supply get going now.”
“Enjoy the shit,” you hear Pero say and before mister ashdown can respond he is out your door. You turn to Pero fury and rage evident on your face as you are prepared to let the flames of hell loose on him. All he has is a stupid look on his face as he lets out the word, “what?”
“You bastard,” you begin pointing your finger at him moving towards him with menace in your voice towards a man that stands unbothered, “you do not talk to ANY of my clients in such manner especially in my shop.”
“Why is that hermosa? I would be rude to that man outside of your business, what makes your apothecary different?” He queries again with that name, only increasing your anger and distaste for him at the moment. With clenched teeth, you answer him, “I don’t care what you say to Mister Ashdown in town, but my shop is a place of respect––a place where anyone can come for health problems even if they are embarrassing. I want people to know they won’t be judged here because if they feel like they will be, they will come when it’s too late and I can’t do anything for them.”
Pero raises his brow at you, but lets you continue your rant uninterrupted, “When my mother was still alive, a young woman at ten and six came to us complaining of diarrhea, something she was embarrassed to talk about because it was gross and she did not want suitors to find out. Turns out she had sickness from a miasma––we took one look down the town well and discovered a deer had fallen in and died overnight.”
“That was lucky,” he comments, still invested in your story despite the vile nature of talking about excretion. You continue, “Yes, and we may not have caught it so soon if she didn’t come to us. The sickness is fast acting, in hours many more villagers could have been sick, but it was only her––and she lived.”
“Lived?” you smile at his question feeling pride at the healing powers your mom had and hope you live up to, “Yes, the sickness causes dehydration quickly but if you keep the person well hydrated and area clean to prevent reinfection––they will live. This summer she gave birth to her third child at my aid.”
“So their trust is important to you?” you give him a simple nod, glad he is understanding what you were asking of him. You turn to clean up the materials you had brought out to examine Mister Ashdown, not realizing that Pero was not done with questions, “Like how that woman came to you the other day crying in distress?”
You freeze––you had really thought the interest in Mariam had ended when William had first asked you about her the day after asking if she was okay. You nodded and told him it was just feminine needs and didn’t serve much interest in men, something that usually turned men away from asking questions. Well not Pero Tovar I guess, “Why was she crying?”
“It’s a complicated matt––”
“Things of safety are something I have to worry about you know,” He interjects, and you turn your head looking at him to see something serious cross his face, “I have to keep everyone in this village safe––you in particular hermosa––and I want to know if theres something you need to tell me.”
“Part of gaining trust is not telling personal information,” you counter, pulling together to formulate a lie, “It’s nothing of safety she was upset about something––she’s a friend of sorts to me.”
You can tell he doesn’t buy it––he can probably pull the full story together even though you doubt he’s heard a single thing about Mariam’s husband beating her––but he accepts, slouching and learning against a table in thought, “William and I may go for a short hunt––there's not much action in this town I’m afraid and we could use some fresh game.”
You nod, “If you catch any pigeon, I know how to handle it so it's not gamey.”
He huffs, “We're not very good hunters I’m afraid, so you’ll probably only get that or rabbit.”
–––––––––––––––––––
Pero Tovar had useful traits to him––like getting you pigeons––but he was mostly an annoyance. His mere presence always had you on edge, as you waited for something, something from him. It was usually something he said but if not it was his scent or stench rather of pine and something that was him. It was also his sloppy manner, the way he seemed raised with no table manners as he ate all your meals. He spoiled Mite, petting him and feeding him table scraps much to your despair. He was also too loud, his boots filling up the cottage and shop with noise, something that never usually happened.
You lent some time today to make more bread for the household, settling at your dining table and working the necessary ingredients for dough together. Mite lays in the corner, not doing his job as per usual and watching you with some sort of interest in the mannerisms of bread making, but he was likely just hoping for more food in the future. Kneading dough you begin to imagine the dough is Pero kneading your frustration into it. You press and it is his stupid broad shoulders that take up too much space. You pull, it’s the curls on the nape of his neck that are too unruly and untidy. You slam it down, it’s that stupid smile that appears on his face when you have entertained him. God you hate Pero Tovar.
“You may want to stop before you overwork the dough sweetheart,” You stop and see Mildred Becker staring at you with an amused look on her face. You huff Jesus, what does she want, “Sorry for my state, I didn’t hear you enter.”
“Don’t worry I understand too well––I always work out my anger into the dough,” you chuckle a little thinking about how a woman with too many children works out anger the same way as you––you definitely hate Pero Tovar, “I just stopped by because I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”
You perk up, “Is Cateline suffering from baby blues again.”
“No, No thank the lord––we’ve been watching over her better this time,” Mildred rounds off, and you remember despite the grievances she gives you, she is a good mother to her children. She was the first to notice that something was wrong with her daughter after the birth and came to you to talk about it. From there Cateline was able to recover and enjoy motherhood, “Something with your house guest Pero Tovar has come to my attention.”
“What did he do,” You ask, prepared to beat Pero Tovar with your broom, but Mildred settles you, “nothing he did, just something someone is doing around him.”
You raise your brow at her beckoning her to continue, “You know Stanislava Rolfe?”
“Of course,” you affirm, surprised she is asking you such a question when you have treated everyone in Cullfield five times over. Mildred continues, “Yes well, She has begun to work at the Inn as a barmaid––she did well with charming Balthasar I guess.”
You were wondering why a poor farmer's daughter’s career path interested you, but you didn’t interject, “I happened to take a quick ale there with my husband, when I noticed something with her and Pero Tovar. You see she appeared extra flirtatious with him––and although barmaids usually are flirty with men in hopes for extra coin, it was more intentional.”
You frown, how could such a beautiful young girl be interested in such a disgusting brute, “Why is she interested in him?”
“Who knows? Many of the girls around Cullfield were excited to see unfamiliar battle-hardened men I supposed,” She ponders for a moment, “all we do know is that she is likely interested in him.”
“I don’t think he is interested in taking a wife,” You contest, brushing aside that Pero would have feelings for the young girl of two tens. Mildred just gives you a hardened stare, “He doesn’t have to be interested in matrimony to want something from her.”
Oh
“Was he showing interest back?” you dig trying to figure out the full extent of what you are formulating must be a whirlwind romance. Mildred hums, “no I suppose not, but sometimes men take persistent interest as a way to have a good time.”
You bite your lip remembering that Pero did not fornicate with prostitutes but barmaids, and feel a ball of ache and pain in your stomach at the thought. Mildred instates, “I came to you about this because I want you to try to stop it.”
“Stop it?”
“Yes, make it clear he is to not have such guests,” Mildred explains, and you can tell by her tone and expression you are in for some sort of story, “You know well enough that things go arigh when an unmarried woman gets pregnant, right.”
“Of course,” you remember the chaos that erupted in families when one of their daughters ended up pregnant, and the hasty weddings that came from it. But Mildred had a different story, “although most of the time it gets swept under the rug with a quick marriage and everyone just chooses to ignore it––horrid things can happen when there's not one.”
Mildred sits down at the nearby table, in clear thought of something dark and you go to sit down at a nearby chair, “When I was about ten and eight, and old enough to understand these things, a girl was taken advantage of by a soldier in our village. She was ten and six, and him far older so he should have had the wisdom not to mess with her. What mattered was after it happened, he left with his troop and was never seen in my home village again. She got pregnant, and tried to hide it at first––her mom was dead and she had no older sisters or aunts to go to, so she was afraid to go to her father. When it became too obvious, hate inspired awful things in the leaders of the village, and by the time she gave birth it accumulated.”
Mildred takes a moment to pause, emotions brewing inside her and you feel yourself frozen in place, “she tried to talk to them, pleading, saying he pressured her––persuaded her, but they all pointed and said witch and condemned her son too. She was burn’t at the stake, and her son––well he was never seen again.”
A pause fills the air as you sit in shock, digesting what Mildred has told you, “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”
Mildred huffs, “I’m sorry too, I made sure to get a husband that would get me out of that village and landed a good one on the way––I had seen what that village did to women and children for the sake of moral value and did not intend to stay so my daughters could see too. Adultery is a two person crime that only one party, the feminine one, receives punishment for.”
“So that's why Pero and Stanislava are of such concern to you?” You assume, and Mildred nods, “Although I think Cullfield is of better standing, I don’t desire to find out what they would do if such a case erupted. The girl may be doing this because she intends to capture a man with a better job, but mercenaries rest for a few women and not those of ten and eight.”
“I can understand her intentions I suppose,” you contemplate, believing that she doesn’t hold much true interest in him, but for a better life. Mildred hums, “so is there a chance you can talk to Pero about it?”
“I already established that he is to not bring guests into my home, and I doubt they would find a secluded enough place otherwise,” you reassure, standing up, “I can even remind him today if you would like.”
“That would be good,” Mildred agrees, joining you in standing and allowing you to guide her to the door, “be on the lookout too if you see her come preying––even though he lacks true interest.”
“I will,” you say, and somewhere in your heart you feel prepared to beat Stanislava Rolfe with your broom instead of Pero.
________________
Gardening was no easy task but it was the most necessary task the runner of an apothecary and a household had. Today your tending to crops was more focused on your food supply rather than collecting the necessary ingredients to keep your shop running. You're pleased to see that the last of your harvest grew well, and know that your winter stock will last even with your house guest. You had already pulled out all the carrots, and beets, and had shucked the vines wounding your house of beans and brussel sprouts. You were now left to work at the tough vines of the gourds and squash, planning on leaving the single pumpkin for Pero to handle––who should be on his way home from helping Balthasar with something at his inn.
Standing up with the final gourd in hand––you see something that fills you with immediate displeasure and sickens you to your core. Pero is walking up to your house pursued by Stanislava. You don’t quite know why you feel this angry at him; maybe it’s because you gave him explicit reminders on conduct or maybe––something else. Seeing the near, and well hearing Stanislava, you attempt to think fast to try to get her to leave. Greeting them both in an unnatural kind manner, “Pero, Stanislava, greetings.”
Pero gives you an immediate strange look while his shadow is oblivious and greets you back, “I was just telling Pero this wonderful stor––”
“Oh I must ask how is your rash healing up,” You feel like clapping your hands over your lips the moment the words fly out of your mouth. Stanislava stops in her tracks staring at you blankly, “what?”
“The one I gave you the ointment for––on your groin,” Oh my God what were you doing.
Stanislava turns bright red, “Good thank you––I––I have things to tend to at home, good evening you two.”
Stanislava hurries off, and an amused smile erupts on Pero’s face, “thank you for finally scaring that crow off––she’s been yapping my ear off with nonsense for weeks––I guess you're my scarecrow.”
“Excuse me?” scarecrow, you were going to kill this man. He smiles, a genuine smile, “Yes you scared off my crow––like a scarecrow would. Plus you're covered in leaves right now.”
“Do not call me that”
“Fine mi espantapájaros”
“I swear I’ll smother you in your sleep”
“Is that a true promise for you? Like how you promised not to tell customers private information yet just shouted about the crow’s crotch rash,” at that your body works on it’s own, taking the gourd in your hand and flinging it at Pero’s chest. It was a magnificent shot, and caused the vegetable to break and splatter it’s internal organs onto Pero’s chest and neck. Pero steps back from the impact and looks down on the goop he’s now covered in, “Now, no good espantapájaros does that.”
You press your palm to your face, “Just cut the pumpkin for me and bring it inside, you could use a good bath anyway, your stench is disgusting.”
“I do not smell,” he retorts, and you ignore him, bringing inside your harvest. You really do hate Pero Tovar.
----------------------
Apothecary’s feelings––hate or nah yall?
Garlic is use to treat a lot of ailments in Arab traditional medicine, including heart disease, high blood pressure, arthritis, toothache, infections, and––as seen in this fic––constipation. Listen, I know the constipation part is true because I ate a pesto made with raw garlic and LORD did I shit. Anything else, not quite sure but hey worth a shot if you are desperate.
It is also seen as an immune booster for colds and coughs––in fact if you are congested from a cold putting a clove of garlic in each nostril can clear that shit OUT.
Garlic is also believed to help asthma symptoms. IDK if it actually is true but that’d be iconic because my mom loves garlic and she has asthma.
Garlic is my favorite seasoning. I put it in my soup. I put it in my eggs. I put it in my ramen. I put it in my burgers. I put it in my cooch––
Word count: 861
Pairing: Dave York x gn!reader (no y/n, no descriptions of reader, no pronouns)
Rating: Teen, 14+ maybe? (let’s be honest, Dave kills people for a living.)
Warnings: injury details, weapon mention, no weapon use, allusions to violence, blood mention, mentions of medical equipment and procedures, fluff, soft!Dave, domestic!Dave, AU (no Carol or kids).
A/N: Domestic!Dave York. A short one shot in celebration of domesticity with our very own suburban murder husband, Dave York. No smut, just softness and fluff.
There’s nothing graphic described, but Dave is a hired killer, hurt on a job, so it’s not suitable for all. No smut, gender neutral reader. Set within my sub!Dave AU.
As always, please don’t steal my work, repost it, or claim it as your own.
You’re not sure what wakes you up suddenly, until you hear the next bang. You turn to the clock beside your bed. It’s 4am, which means it’s probably Dave coming home, but he’s usually better at silently doing so. Usually, he only disturbs you when he slips beneath the covers, joining you in bed.
Another bang makes you get up. You grab the gun in the bedside dresser drawer. Dave had made sure you know how to handle it, taken you to the range multiple times, gotten you to practice. A lot. You clean it yourself when he does all of his.
You walk downstairs with it in hand, safety off, ready just in case it isn’t actually Dave causing the noises in the dark.
The living room and kitchen are both dark and empty, but there’s a sliver of light coming out from under Dave’s office doors. You push the door open slowly, gun raised, and point it at the shape inside. But you hesitate and stare. He’s hurt. Bruised. Bleeding.
“Hey honey, mind putting that down?”
You put the safety back on, laying it on the table as you walk over to him. You cup his jaw and he winces and gasps. It’s a little swollen, but much less than the cheekbone above it. The cheek is starting to bruise, a slight purple-red beginning to bloom under his eye.
“Sorry I woke you up.” He whispers.
You shake your head, “I’d rather you wake me up every night than not come home to me, Dave.” His expression doesn’t change. It didn’t comfort him as much as you’d hoped it would. Guess it was closer than he’d like to admit. There’s a good chance one day he won’t come home, and you both know it. But now is not the time.
You put your mind back on his injuries. His face needs ice to reduce the swelling, but not much else you can do. His hand is bad. Knuckles bruised and skin split a little. Probably broken. He must have dropped the first aid kit that he keeps in his office. The third bang, you think. Those knuckles also need ice.
His abdomen is worse. Slashed, still bleeding. It must be where the blood on his hands has come from. There’s nowhere else on his body bleeding. You open a packet of gauze and press it onto the wound. Dave winces again, but doesn’t make any noise in protest. You take his also-bruised-but-not-broken hand, and make him replace yours, pressing down, as you rush to the kitchen, grabbing a couple of ice packs and towels. Wrapping them, you place them next to Dave before getting a suture pack from the other first aid kit that’s hidden behind some books. Always prepared, your Dave.
You pour him some scotch out from the decanter, place the glass on the desk, and remove his shirt completely before you sit him in his chair and pull over another for yourself.
Dave’s always impressed with your practicality when you do this. The first time he came home hurt had been the complete opposite, and he had to look after you more than himself. But now? You’re sweet, kind, caring, but methodical, focused, and keep your emotions in check as well. He’s proud of you.
You pass him the ice packs, he dutifully takes them and holds them onto his cheek and hand. The gauze on his abdomen stays where it is, despite not being held anymore. You open up the pack, put on the gloves, lay out the various parts on his desk, and begin. It’s not fully sterile, not perfectly evenly stitched, and done completely without numbing, but a clinic or hospital would ask too many questions, call the police.
And Dave likes to watch you work. He likes to see the concentration on your face, the way your eyebrows pull together, and how your lips unconsciously curve downward into a slight frown each time you tie a knot. He loves you.
You finish cleaning the area and cover it up with a dressing before finally sitting back, and looking up at his face again. He thinks he’s probably got a stupid, dopey look on it, but he doesn’t care. He leans down towards you, not minding the protests from his hurt side. He rubs his nose on yours before giving you a slow, deep kiss. When he pulls away, he sees a stern face looking back.
“You pop a stitch, David, I won’t be pleased.” Your tone is serious, but you give him a quick wink, and he smirks, giving a mock salute. You turn and move to tidy away all the used suture pack, collecting everything in the orange bag, the last step being removing your gloves. They also go in the bag and you seal it up, putting it back onto the top of the desk.
You stand, gently checking his hand and cheek, you see that the ice has helped a little. You sigh, everything else can be sorted out in the morning, and you yawn.
“Bed?” Dave asks, trying his best to stop his own yawn, failing miserably.
“Bed.”
Did I just write a 1.1k sub!Dave York smutty oneshot in one sitting?
@ravensmutty @buttercup--bee @alleycat5135 @chasingdreamer @caesaryoulater @my-life-as-a-bird @silverwolf319
