#ThursThreads, week 339

Prompt: https://www.siobhanmuir.com/siobhans-blog/thursthreads-tying-tales-together-week-339

“You’re not even my type.”

“What? You’re dying! You need blood. Who cares if I’m not fuckable anymore?”

“You’re plenty fuckable, Mary, and you know it. Every man and woman here who you’d give the time of day to has gotten a tumble.”

“So what? The world’s ending, I might as well enjoy what I can.”

“I don’t care who you fuck. The days where we put any limits on each other are a long time in the past. But I can’t take your blood!”

“Why?”

“When you got pregnant with Melody, they typed you. You’re A-positive. I’m O-negative. I can only take blood from others with the same type. If I get the wrong blood it’ll kill me.”

“The world’s ending, you got shot, and you’re telling me that we have to hunt for a needle in a haystack to find someone to give you blood?”

“Pretty much. Except you don’t have to – this is my problem. I’ll find someone.”

“You? You can’t even walk.”

“I can yell. Kinda.”

“I’ll help you, you idiot. You’re the only one around here who can help me remember Melody. I can’t lose you too.”

“Thank you. Oh, and Mary?”

“Yes? What else?”

“When you get me better, if you want to throw me a pity fuck, just for old time’s sake, just let me know.”

“If I did, it wouldn’t be out of pity. Not anymore.”

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