Stories about Y/n creating bonds with characters from series and films.
(I don't own the characters)
PG-13!
1. **Language:** Mild to moderate profanity, but not extreme or pervasive.
2. **Violence:** Some intense or realistic violence may be present...
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The sterile hum of the hospital room was a cruel lullaby. Wednesday lay in one bed, her pale skin stark against the hospital gown, IV lines snaking into her veins like the roots of some parasitic vine. Across from her, Y/n rested, her own gown crumpled, her hand still clutching Wednesday's in a gesture that once meant salvation but now felt like a shackle. The kidney transplant had been a success—medically, at least. The surgeons had marveled at the compatibility, a 1-in-100,000 match, their scalpels carving out a piece of Y/n to stitch into Wednesday's failing body. Lupus had ravaged her, a silent assassin born of her own immune system, and Y/n had stepped forward, her decision cloaked in a friendship Wednesday had exploited with ruthless precision.
It started months before, when Wednesday, with her dark charisma and unrelenting will, had used her public platform to pry into Y/n's medical records. The ethics of it were a gray smear—Wednesday's fame had opened doors that should've stayed locked, and she'd learned of their match before Y/n could process it herself. Y/n had wanted time, a quiet moment to weigh the cost of giving a kidney to the friend she adored, but Wednesday's impatience had stolen that from her. "I was anxious," Wednesday had said later, her voice a cold blade, as if anxiety justified the violation. But a kidney wasn't a trinket to be claimed—it was flesh, a piece of someone's soul, and Y/n had felt the weight of that theft long before the surgery.
The operation itself was a brutal ballet. Wednesday's lupus had pushed her kidneys to the brink, their filtration rate dipping below 15%, a death sentence without intervention. Y/n, healthy and compatible, underwent a laparoscopic nephrectomy—five small incisions, a camera guiding the surgeon's hands, her left kidney excised and rushed to Wednesday's table. The recovery was hell for both: Y/n's body ached with the phantom limb of her missing organ, while Wednesday fought off rejection with a cocktail of immunosuppressants that left her nauseous and fragile. Yet in those early days, they'd lain side by side, hands clasped, smiling through the morphine haze, a picture of gratitude—or so the world believed.
But the cracks widened fast. As Wednesday healed, her public persona shifted. She thanked Y/n in interviews, her words dripping with saccharine sincerity at award shows, but the gratitude faded with the spotlight. Months later, in her documentary The Last Six Years, Wednesday spoke of her struggles—her isolation, her battles with fame—and named Enid, her vibrant, golden-haired confidante, as her "only friend in the industry." The omission of Y/n was a gut punch, a erasure of the woman who'd literally saved her life. Y/n saw the clip on Instagram, her thumb hovering over the screen as Wednesday's voice narrated her pain, and unfollowed her that night, the digital snip as final as a severed artery.
The fallout was vicious. Wednesday, sensing the brewing storm, posted a half-assed apology on TikTok: "Sorry I didn't mention every person I know." The fans turned on Y/n, flooding her DMs with hate, calling her ungrateful for daring to feel hurt. But the truth was uglier. Y/n had begged Wednesday to take care of herself post-transplant—less booze, less junk food, a nod to the organ now beating inside her. Studies warned of alcohol's toll on transplant patients, a 2021 Journal of Clinical Medicine report citing a 20% increased risk of rejection with heavy drinking. Yet Wednesday flaunted her defiance: grainy paparazzi shots captured her stumbling drunk at the AMAs, her arms laden with liquor bottles from a late-night run. In the documentary, there she was, sprawled on a couch, shoveling corn into her mouth with a smirk, a middle finger to the life Y/n had given her.
Y/n's resentment festered. She dodged questions about the transplant in interviews, her silence a scream. Her father, in a rare outburst, confirmed the rift: "It's the drinking," he'd muttered to a tabloid, his voice thick with disappointment. Wednesday, meanwhile, leaned into her saintly image, referring to Y/n as "the girl who gave me a kidney" in a radio spot, a dehumanizing label that stripped Y/n of her identity. The fame had changed Wednesday, twisted her into something cold and unrecognizable, and Y/n bore the scars—literal and emotional.
One night, alone in her apartment, Y/n traced the faint scar across her abdomen, a reminder of the piece of herself she'd lost. She imagined confronting Wednesday, her words a blade: "You took my kidney, my trust, and turned it into a fucking photo op." But the fantasy dissolved into bitterness. Wednesday was untouchable, her public image a shield, while Y/n was left to pick up the pieces of a friendship gutted by greed and ingratitude.
The hospital photo remained online, a relic of a bond now rotten. Wednesday's smile was a lie, Y/n's a mask. And somewhere, in the quiet of her recovery, Y/n vowed never again to give so much of herself to someone who'd only take.
