#Doctor of Bones and Muscles Is Called

[dr-aashish-arbat-pune]

When To See An Orthopedic Doctor

Here know, When To See An Orthopedic Doctor? When to See an Orthopedic Doctor for Back Pain? When to See an Orthopedic Doctor for Neck Pain? Orthopedist Vs Orthopedic Surgeon.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Neighborly

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: Implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a one-shot.

You didn’t know hate until Johnny MacTavish.

He bought the only house within half a mile, the one you expected to stay silent and empty ‘til death did you part. So, you had reason to dislike him from the start. But you were raised right, and you pushed down the snarling hermit in your soul to be a good, friendly neighbor.

The first meeting was fine, even if he was a boombox of a human being.

“Neighbor? Oh, aye! The hermit? Sorry. Heard about you when I toured the place last month.” His eye lands on the plate of cookies you’ve brought to welcome him. “Those all for me?”

You made small talk at the door, swapped names, and set the groundwork for a reliable, limited relationship as polite people who just happened to live in close proximity.

Then the first snow fell.

You spied him outside, shoveling the shared drive that led up the hill. He cleared it all, which was kind, if a little stupid. The weather system promised another two inches by midafternoon, so everything would be solid white again before sunset. Still, not your problem.

But. He was shirtless. Ripped as fuck and shirtless.

As the wind flung each shovelful of snow back in his face, the powdery flakes stuck and melted on steaming skin. Muscles flexed as he made a spectacle of himself, and your thoughts turned to strategy and available resources.

You wrapped your palms around your ugly, handmade mug and sighed, sipping hot chocolate and wishing you’d gotten a neighbor with at least two scoops of common sense.

When he didn’t appear with his shovel the next morning, you knew your foreboding prophecy had come to pass.

You brought out the stock pot, fished out packs of frozen produce harvested from your garden, and sacrificed your last bag of chicken breasts. The skeleton saved from an old rotisserie bird joined the ingredient army. Might as well go all-in. A man with that many muscles needed bone broth to recover.

Since you didn’t know if he was a picky eater, you minced the garlic and onions small, even when your eyes burned to the point you had to stop for a break. You let the aromatics brown, added celery, carrots, potatoes, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. The precious seasonings survived the winter under grow lights and protective sheeting on your dining room table.

You doubted your neighbor would appreciate this gift for everything it was, but whatever he did as an idiot neighbor would be leagues better than the presence of a rowdy ghost.

When the chicken was tender and the broth tasted like home, you poured it into individual portions and packed them in a canvas bag with a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of local honey, and a thermometer. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but the cold froze your fingers through your gloves. Your hand was cramping by the time MacTavish answered the door, red-nosed, pale, and bleary-eyed.

He let you in, mumbling a scratchy-voiced welcome, and if you’d known what that conversation would incite, you would’ve let him waste away like the families you failed playing Oregon Trail.

“Eat one now and keep the rest in the fridge.” You stack the single-serve containers in the fridge as you speak, sure he won’t remember the minutiae of your instructions. The last you pop in his microwave. He’s staring at you with feverish eyes, confused and helpless like a sick dog left on the side of the road.

Everything comes out of the bag, lining his counter so he can see them – and hopefully remember he has them. The thermometer comes out last.

“If your fever is over 104 in the morning, call the doctor. I’ll drive you if you need me to.”

That glassy stare isn’t shifting. The man doesn’t even blink.

“Did you get all that?”

He clears his throat. The action and sound are both strangely slow in his exhausted state, and you’re determined not to feel bad for him.

“Aye.” Finally, he blinks. “Eat the soup. Watch for 104.”

Good enough.

“Okay.”

The microwave beeps, you pull out the soup, leaving him to fetch a spoon from wherever the hell he keeps them. You don’t wait for him to show you out. “Take care of yourself.”

He didn’t call for help, and you took your turn shoveling the drive with proper protection after the last wave of flurries passed.

The next time he saw you in passing – you were returning home and he was just leaving – he let you know your soup was delicious, that the bread was amazing, and the honey did wonders for his throat. He never returned your containers.

Ah, well. They were replaceable.

Then the next snow came, and the dumb bitch went shoveling shirtless again.

It wasn’t as much snow, and it didn’t take him half as long, but you steamed, glaring from the safety of your kitchen window. You refused to replace your meal prep supplies again. And local honey was expensive. The brat could freeze and die. Something about taking a horse to water and all that shit.

You drank your coffee black that morning, just to make a point to no one in particular.

The man didn’t know how to take care of himself, and he had no idea how to winter-proof his home.

His pipes froze. You brought buckets, old towels, bottled water, and the number of an excellent plumber. Then you explained why he should pay attention to the forecast and let faucets drip to keep the water moving. You told him to open the cabinets under sinks so heat could combat the chill along exterior walls.

His truck’s battery succumbed to the cold. You gave him a jump and escorted him to town to make sure he didn’t get himself stranded.

When he didn’t keep things stocked and tried to panic-shop before a big storm, discovering that small town shelves couldn’t meet demand, you shared staples from your pantry.

He didn’t have more than two cheap blankets in his living space, so when the holidays rolled around you gave him your latest assemblage of granny-squares. And a scarf.

He gave you burnt cookies – “Biscuits” – in return.

(And a half-empty bottle of whiskey.)

He never remembered to drag his trash down to the main road.

And gods help you if the power went out, because the man had no generator, very little in his pantry, and rarely more than a quarter tank of gas in his ride.

He was careless. Clueless. Nearly helpless.

What were you supposed to do? You couldn’t leave him to his fate. It was unneighborly and inhumane.

He made you angry. But you didn’t hate him until his friend moved in.

A few months into his residence, you went to Johnny’s door to ask if he needed anything from town before the next storm shadowed the forecast, and a stranger came to the door.

A hulking monster with a skull painted over his balaclava.

The doorway shrank around his broad shoulders, and he ducked when he stepped out. You weren’t sure if he entirely needed to, but you understood the urge – like an adult stepping out of a child’s playhouse. Scarred knuckles wrapped around the doorknob, and you knew his grip would swallow you whole by the way it engulfed the brass handle.

Animal instinct jarred you. Every hair from the base of your skull to the end of your spine stood on end as you tried to smell the air, listen to the wind, spot the predator’s intent before it was too late.

You didn’t have a problem with people balaclavas. You’d worn one the other day when you were shoveling the drive, but this looked less like protection and more like a threat.

Was he robbing your neighbor? Had a serial killer come to town? Oh, fuck.

You took a step back, reaching for your phone because you didn’t carry a weapon, especially not on a grocery run, and it was the closest thing you had to help.

“You the neighbor?”

He asked so casually, vaguely irritated, but relaxed. It wasn’t the voice of a man who’d just been caught committing a felony, and you took a second to look beyond the stranger’s mask (and size). There was a mug in his hand, and he wore a t-shirt with sweats. His socked feet lingered on the front step, just shy of the blue road salt and crisped ice. Not robbery gear. More like a… houseguest?

Your neighbor never had guests before.

It caught you so off guard your brain short circuited. He had always been a lone, helpless figure. Made sense he’d have friends, though. You couldn’t imagine he’d survive anywhere long without someone looking out for him.

You were still a little irritated that your neighbor had invited his own friend to his own house on his own property without informing you, but that was just the recluse inside snarling at a new face. Or half of one.

And – well – manners.

Holding out a mittened hand, you introduced yourself, adding, “I stopped to see if Johnny needed anyth-”

“No.” He shut you down so fast you reeled another step back. “Don’t need anything.”

He closed the door and that was that.

Sun glittered on the season’s collection of snow, a frozen fairyland that wouldn’t entirely melt until spring. Then there would be roads washed out, and mud, and you’d need to teach Johnny flash flood safety and…

It didn’t compute. Johnny was still home, so surely he’d pop out with an explanation.

You waited.

But he didn’t.

The absolute fuck?

Your spinning thoughts kept you trapped in your head for a solid minute, processing what had happened, what was implied, and what that meant for your neighborly relationship. Even when you managed to move, drive to town, and run your errands, the interaction prickled in your mind like a splinter.

You must’ve done something wrong.

Aged fluorescent lights strobed out of time with your cart’s shrieking wheels. You discovered your list wasn’t in your pocket. It waited at home, next to a pen to add Johnny’s requests. You’d already added things you doubted he’d think to ask for, and it would take time to pick apart your needs. The list wouldn’t have saved you, even if you’d remembered it.

Three bags of flour went into your cart. That was fine. They’d keep, and baking was a good way to combat cabin fever (it warmed the house as a bonus).

Two gallons of milk.

Wait.

No.

You put one back, self-conscious. A young mother with her baby stood just behind you, and an old woman was reviewing her coupons across the aisle. You refused to make eye contact, convinced you’d catch them watching. Did they see? Were they worried about your germs on the product you put back? Did they think you were too broke to buy what you needed? Maybe they thought you’d just broken up with your boyfriend or something.

You counted the squares in the linoleum as you marched away from the refrigerators’ humming. One less source of white noise. It didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. The real buzzing roared inside your skull.

Johnny was a pain in the ass, but at least he was friendly. He wasn’t considerate, but he always thanked you. His friend was a whole different beast. Unfriendly. With a spare set of teeth snarling at the world.

The stranger hadn’t even introduced himself. Was he staying long? Moving in? What was he to Johnny? That question alone would answer so many others.

Because you’d never seen him interact beyond basic business with the mechanic, you realized you had no idea of his sexual orientation. Was he gay? Bi? Pan?

His shirtless shoveling shenanigans annoyed you, yes, but you’d unconsciously granted him a little leeway, assuming it had to do with misguided masculine showmanship. The rooster strutting where the hen could see. The dumbass alpha male proving he was a good, strong provider who was also quite nice to look at.

Clearly you were wrong, and in retrospect, you couldn’t see him as anything but a narcistic dipshit in need of training wheels.

You’d thought, maybe, he even liked you. As a friend? A comrade against the cold? As something.

But you were just a stop-gap. Useful.

Convenient.

Until his real friend joined him.

You found your attention unraveling like a cheap sweater. No matter how hard to you dried to darn the holes, you couldn’t keep up with the loose thread undoing all your conscious measures. It was quickly becoming one of those days when you convinced yourself your therapist had lied about everything.

When you messed up, even in your head, everyone knew.

If they didn’t say otherwise, you were annoying everyone in the room. If they did say otherwise, they were just being polite.

You weren’t likeable, not loveable, and the minute you weren’t useful you should make yourself scarce. Otherwise, things would get awkward, and no one wanted that. You could be the adult. You could hack off a limb and smile about it.

It didn’t hurt, and even if it did, it shouldn’t, because you didn’t have a right to that feeling.

Alright. Fine.

You realized, just as you joined the line for the cashier, that you’d forgotten matches and sugar. They’d been on your list. But someone joined the line behind you, and unspoken social rules that probably didn’t exist shackled you in place. Too late. You’d look stupid. You’d bother someone. Oh well. You’d just have to make another trip. Soon. But not too soon. Now there were two sets of eyes watching you from the connecting drive, and you didn’t want to give them reason to gossip and laugh and assume…

Your pile of groceries looked too small on the conveyor belt. Roughly half what they’d been lately. Would the cashier notice? You were sure she did. The way she recited your total sounded disappointed. Was she counting on you buying more? Were you hurting the employees’ holiday bonus? Shit. Fuck.

The bags felt too heavy. Too light. You forgot your reusable sacks at home, and the plastic dug guilt and accusations into the crease of your palms. On top of everything else, you were killing the planet.

You drove home.

Along the river. Through the trees. Up the hills to your corrupted sanctuary.

At least you didn’t need to make a second trip to bring in all the shopping. Your haul landed on the counter, you threw the damned milk in the fridge, and you realized, as you opened the pantry, that you already had four bags of flour. Two all-purpose, two for bread. Because you’d planned to bake for two.

The flour hadn’t been on your list.

And there was no room for it.

Your lip wobbled, and you bit it ferociously, chewing it until the texture changed and bits of skin started peeling.

It wasn’t a problem. You liked being prepared. You’d dump it in one of the emergency storage totes you kept in the hall closet and be ready when something went wrong.

You did just that, popping open the plastic lid and layering the flour over dry lentils, black beans, and shelf-stable cartons of broth. You decided to add more baking supplies to the list. Even if the power went out you could use the wood-burning stove in the living room to make griddle cakes. Maybe even soda bread.

There. Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. A silver lining.

As you returned to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to atone for the plastic bags you’d used, the scent of coffee wafted down the hall. Which was strange. Because you hadn’t put the moka pot on. You rushed in, frowning.

The old drip machine you only used for company burbled in the corner, and the groceries sat precariously on the corner, shoved aside by the beast who’d wandered through your unlocked door.

A tall, mohawked figure groped, shoulder-deep, in your cabinets.

MacTavish.

The Scottish mumbling would’ve tipped you off even if you weren’t so familiar with his figure (and hair, and limited wardrobe).

Your angst tasted bitter as you swallowed it down. You needed space for the feelings popping like firecrackers in your chest.

Relief. Hope. Dread.

He was in your space without invitation, and with the morning you’d just had, you felt anything but comfortable. Either you’d jumped the gun, or he was bringing a delayed apology for his friend.

“Johnny? What are you doing here?”

He smiled over his shoulder as he pulled two cups down from the shelf. One with your college logo and your prized ugly mug.

“Hello, neighbor!” He cackled, laughing at his own joke. “Wanted to give you a heads up and have a chat. My friend’s come to stay with me.”

Friend? What flavor of friend?

“I know. We met this morning.”

“Aye. Real barrel o’ sunshine, isn’ he?”

“If you say so.”

You wanted to be nice. You wanted to be his friend, too. But you weren’t, and you’d worked so hard to be a good, reliable person he could depend on in a new town – you were drained.

“His name’s Ghost.”

Most people grew out of their edgelord status by their early twenties. Ghost –with his skull balaclava and gruff voice – seemed better fit for the emo table of a suburban high school cafeteria than the adult world.

Johnny kept prattling, making an introduction for someone who wasn’t even there. “Told him all about you! He was impressed. Smacked me over the head about the pipes and said we’d go into town for a generator before the next big snow.”

“Hard to predict the next big snow.”

“Aye. He said that, too.”

If Ghost could keep your insights out of his mouth, you would appreciate it. It felt like he was stealing something from you, and you found yourself shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed, waiting for something terrible to happen.

And it did.

Gesturing as he described his old buddy and new housemate, his elbows danced around your kitchen like battering rams. First, he struck a cabinet, which hurt him more than the wood. He laughed it off. Kept talking. You didn’t need to say a word. By that point, you probably couldn’t even if he left space to speak.

For the life of you, you couldn’t riddle out what his visit was for. It was exhausting. He never chattered so much when you brought food or showed him how to keep his home in one piece. Ghost must make him very happy. His joy made you anxious.

His arm wide, indicating the views he’d fallen for and not the practical considerations of living in the goddamn woods on a goddamn mountain, and you watched in slow motion as his forearm caught your ugly mug’s handle.

It spun, wobbling to the edge of the counter, and before you could move, it plummeted.

A bad day instantly became your worst in years.

It must’ve made a sound when it hit, but you didn’t hear it. Or didn’t remember it. You didn’t remember going to the floor after it, either.

Your mug was in pieces, and when you pulled them to safety, wrapped tight in your fist, the glazed edges cut deep. It was such an ugly little thing. Your ugly little thing. You’d made it in one of those sip-and-spin pottery classes with your pals before you stopped going to see people face-to-face.

The mug wasn’t a friend. It was all of your friends. It was the fun you, the one who went out and did things, and moved through life like a real, entire person.

It practically exploded when it hit the tile. Some pieces were bigger than others, but there were dozens of them. Glittering chips and flecks that you knew you’d be finding with your feet through the rest of the winter.

There was no fixing it. It hurt. You were bleeding. Red oozed up between your knuckles and snaked down your wrist.

“Oh, shite! Shite, shite, shite. Are you alright? Here, let me –”

You didn’t want him to touch it again. Didn’t want him to touch you and act like he gave a fuck. This was a big, ugly feeling bubbling up inside, and if he didn’t dislike you yet, he would when he saw all the tears and snot.

A pretty crier you were not.

And no one wanted to see that, or deal with it, or cope with someone else’s messy emotions.

“It’s fine. I’m okay.” You grit your teeth and smiled through them. “But I need to clean this up, and I still have groceries to put away. How about you get your friend settled and we can talk another time, okay?”

“Are you sure?” His attention was fixed on the blood. Bright red was such an alarming color. You could understand.

“Yeah. Just a little scratch. Promise. But I can’t play host and clean myself up.”

His neck went stiff, and his eyes flicked from your face to the floor. Several times. Like he was having an argument with himself. But in the end, he listened, nodded, and got back on his feet from where he’d knelt in front of you.

“If you insist. But we’re right over there if you need anything, aye?”

“I know.”

Finally, he left.

You got up and locked the door behind him. If you’d taken time to do that before you put away the groceries none of this would’ve happened. You would still have your mug and you wouldn’t be on the floor, crying and cradling the remains of something that mattered to you.

-----------------------

He kept coming over when he needed things. Usually after Ghost’s truck rumbled down the drive. Sometimes he wanted advice. Sometimes he needed help. Usually he took tools and supplies he should’ve bought for himself.

You put your curtains to good work. You couldn’t remember a time you drew them so often. If he knocked, you’d answer, but the curtains were a good deterrent. Not foolproof, but something that gave you a little more power over your privacy.

Long jaunts into town have become escapes from your own home. Better the eyes of strangers – fleetingly painful – than the paranoia of sitting under glass where your neighbors might read your habits and foibles by the way the lights turn on and off through the night, might judge your messy hair through the kitchen window as you wash the dishes. Might, might, might. There were terrible possibilities in all that potential.

They were always there. One ready to freeze you out, the other hanging on your apron strings like a teenager who just got his first place. The conflict rubbed over your nerves like a match on a boot heel. Too much, too fast, and you’d combust.

So you found a lot of reasons to go into town. You remembered how much you liked the library, the joy of a cinnamon roll someone else baked, and hot coffee that didn’t come with a side of flashbacks.

The forecast predicted heavy snow overnight, and you made a day of grocery shopping, collecting novels from the library, and avoiding your neighbor’s last-minute requests.

You barely noticed the teens rushing out of the parking lot as you left your final stop, canvas bag loaded with enough media to keep you entertained through the storm of the century. No windows were broken. No key marks scuffed the paint. If they committed any mischief, it was minor.

Gas theft didn’t cross your mind until your engine quietly gave out and your car rolled to a stop between Nowhere and Nothing.

Understanding dawned with grudging revulsion. Like looking at the toilet and realizing it wouldn’t flush.  

The little shits had siphoned your tank.

You smacked the steering wheel, cursing.

So much for the benefit of the doubt. You couldn’t escape. Everyone everywhere just wanted to use you.

But it was fine. Everything would be fine. You were always prepared in case someone fucked you over. Your wellbeing was your responsibility, after all.

Climbing out of the warm cabin, you headed to the back and pulled out the emergency gas can.

The red plastic was shockingly light. You didn’t realize until you’d already thrown your weight into the yank. Unbalanced, you tottered, and your heel skidded over ice.

The snow cushioned your fall, and you stared blankly into the white limned branches overhead as you tried to process the last five seconds. Things like this happened to idiots. They did not happen to you. Careful, cautious you with your backup plans and reserves.

You had simply made a mistake. Somewhere. Somehow. You’d find an explanation.

When you sat up, still in a state of shock, you examined the can, expecting signs of a mouse, or a crack, or…

An I.O.U. was taped to the back.

You knew the handwriting all too well.

That shitting little…

The snow arrived. Silence swallowed the mountain, and the gloaming snuffed the last of the sun’s warmth.

You sat alone on the side of the road, well aware that no one would come up this way for hours. Days maybe.

You had made a mistake.

You made your neighbor chicken soup.

Your nose burned, and you sniffed. Hot tears rolled down your face, burning as they went, and you wiped at them furiously. The wool of your mittens chafed your cheek. Your lip wobbled, and you hurled the empty can into the woods.

Fuck Johnny MacTavish.

Fuck Ghost.

Fuck your life.

[meiieiri]

𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 [toji fushiguro]

synopsis: so she tells him not to cry over the injustice of a life cut too short for at the end of all this, she’ll only be a dream.

pairing: ex-husband!toji fushiguro x terminally ill wife!reader | song inspo: soon you’ll get better, cancer

warnings: heavy angst, terminal illness (primary bone cancer, stroke and MS), mentions of divorce/past infidelity, allegories to cheating, major character death. please read at your own risk. | a/n: this was so heavy for me to write, i started writing at 2 in the morning, and it’s 6:34 now.

word count. 3k~

“Why can’t you do anything right?”

Toji should have noticed, he laments as he takes a sip of his cognac. He should have sensed that something was wrong sooner, maybe that way, he wouldn’t be begging to borrow some more time to make things right. Your fingers were trembling that day — the first time you ever ruined his morning coffee — your hands shaking uncontrollably as you washed the mug with a sorrowful look on your face, your eyes glossy with the tears you were desperately trying to hold back.

He shouldn’t have been so harsh, he realizes that now. Breakfast had been burnt to a crisp and ruined, sure, but nothing could compare to how he constantly ruins the one beautiful thing that has ever happened to him, who haphazardly spilled her smoothie on him when they first bumped into each other in Shinjuku just after he finally cashed in enough money with Shiu to get his laundry done.

Toji, whose senses have now been honed to pick up on the slightest of your sluggish movements and your pained and suppressed hisses, hears the bedsheets rustling and he instantly gets up before you could even force yourself out of bed. “Hey, hey, easy now.” He catches you before you could fall backwards onto the mattress, your skin appears cold and clammy, your thinning muscles stiff as a board — you must be having one of your episodes again. “What do you need?” he asks, his voice heartbreakingly gentle for the first time in months.

“Water.”

Your husband nods, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, hurriedly making his way to the dining table which was now kept in your bedroom so you aren’t forced to move around too much. The sound of water splashing into the glass fills the air and you feel another stabbing pain coarse through your joints.

Toji gingerly brings the glass of water to your lips and you sighed, an exasperated yet amused smile on your face. “I can do it, babe. Don’t worry.” Why did that sound like you were trying to convince not just Toji but yourself? You bring your bony hands to grip the glass and it takes everything out of your husband not to break into a fit of sobs when he sees your hand violently shaking with effort just to keep the glass steady.

His larger hands close around your defeated one. “I-I…I can do it, I did it yesterday. Y-you saw me.”

“Shhh, I know, it’s okay.”

You bite your lip to distract yourself from the anguish of realizing the truth behind the doctor’s words. Everything you feared was finally becoming your and Toji’s bleak reality.

“It’ll be a painful decline.”

Funny how you’re the one fighting to extend your life but Toji feels like he’s already gone ahead and passed on. Just a few minutes earlier, you were overjoyed to see him again. You didn’t think he’d see your text thinking that his new girlfriend must have asked him to block your number, and you most certainly didn’t expect him to arrive when you asked for him via a brief phone call to drive you to the hospital for your monthly checkup since he took the car with him when you separated. He made up a bullshit excuse when Yuko asked where he was going in such a hurry and he makes it to your old shared apartment to see you sitting on the driveway looking thinner and sicklier than ever — your eyes were sunken, and your cheeks were hollow.

Yet in spite of that, you gave him the brightest of smiles, waving shyly to him as he steps out of the driver’s seat. “Happy morning!” you smiled, greeting him with your signature good morning tagline which he used to happily wake up to everyday. There wasn’t a scintilla of resentfulness in your demeanor, and you genuinely looked so happy to see him for the first time since he moved out.

“How long?” Toji asked the doctor, his heart twisted into knots when he hears you happily humming in the MRI room as you put your clothes back on, oblivious to the solemn mood in the other room. You already knew what was going on, but you’ll just continue pretending that everything’s alright and that this is nothing more but a case of fatigue so as not to inconvenience Toji.

“A year, maybe even less.”

“And…you’re saying it’s best if she simply…doesn’t get the treatment?”

The doctor sighs heavily. She’s seen many cases like this before, but none as utterly hopeless as yours. Even if you did start the treatment, the lesions in your spinal cord have already entered the most severe stage, you were already exhibiting signs of autonomic nervous system distress — the tremors, the uncontrollable stuttering of your words, the growing loss of balance — and as if that wasn’t enough, the doctor also discovers that you were suffering from primary osteosarcoma.

There was no way to cure you now that it’s too late.

“I suggest we just focus on keeping her comfortable. The only thing left for us to do now is to bring her home. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re so fucking embarrassing. I can’t bring you anywhere.”

By some miracle, you and Toji went out one night around four months before the divorce proceedings. He went home that day, exhausted beyond all belief from another mission, but he was in a good mood. Yuko was out working late tonight, so, he decides to take you out to your and his favorite izakaya for some yakitori.

Some time during the night, after downing three full bottles of sake together, you excuse yourself to use the restroom. “I’ll be right back,” you told Toji, tipsily kissing him on the cheek as you hop off the bar stool in the direction of the women’s room.

You couldn’t tell if you were staggering from the copious amounts of alcohol you ingested, but your legs were beginning to feel heavy, and for some ominous reason, you were slowly losing all sensation in your left leg. You try to hold onto one of the izakaya’s shōji panel decor pieces to regain your balance, but it was a futile effort in the end. Your knees suddenly buckle, and a sickening crack tears through your tibia as you fall to the ground.

“Are you alright?!”

Toji picks up on the commotion instantly and he sees the izakaya patrons crowding around the hallway leading to the restroom. He quickly makes his way over and a look of disgust appears on his features when he sees you crumpled on the ground and the mortifying sight of you having relieved yourself on the floor, tears of embarrassment staining your cheeks at the thought of your body suddenly malfunctioning like this.

Muttering out an ignorant apology for his seemingly drunk wife, he roughly picks you up, growing increasingly infuriated with you when one izakaya employee offers him a damp cloth to dry out your urine with. It was funny how quickly other people came to your aid — people whose names you don’t even know — while your own husband seems very reluctant to even touch you right now. He doesn’t speak to you on the way home even as you apologize while he’s loading you into the car, grimacing when the leather seat gets wet. “Toji, I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened—“

“—Save it.”

What he should have said was: “Are you okay?”, “It’s alright.” or better yet, “I still love you.”.

At present, Toji decides on a whim to take you to Yokohama’s famed bayside today. It’s only a two hour drive from your place in Tokyo and Toji figures you must miss going on road trips by now with you cooped up at home all the time. “Toji, are you sure this is a good idea?” you murmured nervously as the car pulls to a stop by the bayside promenade. What happens if you can’t control yourself again? There doesn’t look to be a lot of public restrooms nearby.

Toji plants a reassuring kiss to your nose. “Babe, you remember what the doctor said, spending some time outdoors can do wonders for your health. Besides, didn’t you always love the coast?” He brings your hand to his scarred lips, rubbing his thumb against the soft skin before stepping out of the car to retrieve your wheelchair from the trunk.

“I know but what if I have another accident?” you said worriedly, rolling down the car windows so he could hear you. “What if I embarrass you again?”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about you.”

You’ve lost all control of your lower extremities three months ago, rendering you unable to walk and feel when you need to relieve yourself. Toji struggles with the wheelchair for a bit and a flash of sadness fills your heart when you see him take a few deep breaths to calm himself down. He wasn’t angry, he was devastated. He looks wistfully at the boardwalk, a distant gaze trained on the sea. He remembers when you used to walk down this very lane, his hand protectively around your waist as you happily take selfies. He could still hear your fond giggles the last time the two of you went here.

“Why don’t you ever smile when I take pictures of you?”

Toji shoos away a pigeon from stealing a bite of his ice cream sandwich. He feigns an unamused look when you try to take another picture of him on your phone.

“Come on, I’ve been trying to get a shot of you all day! You still have to take pictures of me so I can post it on my Instagram feed!”

Your ever moody husband pinches off a small piece of bread and feeds it to the nosy pigeon. “You and your precious feed,” he bemoans jokingly.

“Please? Just one picture!“ you playfully nudged him. Truthfully, you just wanted to see him smile for once, a genuine one and not one of those lopsided smirks he usually gives you when he’s teasing you. “Please?” you pout knowing he can never say no to that adorable face you make when you really want him to do something or worse, buy something for you.

Sighing, he turns to look at your phone’s camera lens and you blush when a smile slowly illuminates his usually stoic face. Your thumb hovers over the stop recording function, not realizing you’re taking a video, but you can’t seem to press it. “What’s taking so long?” he holds the smile like he’s some cartoon character and you snap out of it.

“Oh shoot, it’s a video!” you laughed, and you begin to run down the boardwalk, eagerly getting away from Toji who demands that you delete it immediately. Of course, you’re no match for his borderline inhuman speed attributed to his athletic physique and he catches you by the waist, playfully swinging you over his shoulder like you’re a sack of potatoes.

Now, your giggles have gone silent.

Toji realizes now he should have indulged you more over the course of your relationship and subsequent marriage. Had he known that you won’t even make it to your third wedding anniversary, he would have allowed you to take as many pictures and videos of him as you’d like, he’d swallow his pride and he’d give you the brightest of smiles so you could happily post him on your social media accounts with a heartwarming caption about him being your “smiley hubby”.

More than that though, he should have taken more photos of you, mostly stolen candid shots, of course. You can’t catch him being all soft on you now. He still has a reputation to live up to after all. But more than that, had he known that your illness was intent on stealing every scrap of you from him, he should have made more effort in preserving all these memories. He should have kept everything from those toll tickets on your late night drives together when the two of you just needed a quick escape from the world, to receipts from your trip to Tokyo Disney Sea on your first wedding anniversary, and even simple convenience store receipts.

Toji should have kept everything down to the smallest of memories knowing one day, that’s all he’ll have to remember you by.

He opens the passenger seat’s door and he effortlessly gathers you into his arms, being extra careful with your fragile form as he sits you down on the wheelchair. He opens the backseat and he pulls out two different colored blankets, one sea-foam green and the other, rose pink. “Take your pick,” he smiles at you and you chuckled softly, pointing to the rose pink one. He happily covers your legs with it to keep you warm, stroking your cheek when you whisper a bashful ‘thank you’.

Suddenly, the wind picks up and your hair-clip that’s holding your locks in a low bun comes loose, and your head turns in the direction of where it flew off to. Toji is quick to take out his phone and he snaps a quick burst shot of you, your hair blowing in the wind, under the coastal spring weather. You turn to look at him and your face falls when you see him burying his phone in his pocket. Since you fell ill, you’ve become insecure of your appearance, banning your husband from taking pictures and videos of you altogether. “Toji, I thought I said no pictures.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The next day, you serendipitously find your photo on your Instagram handle with the caption: “Y/N — Yokohama, Spring, 2024” and when you swipe left, another picture, well to be more accurate, a screenshot of the video clip you accidentally took of him captioned: “Toji — Yokohama, Summer, 2022”.

“You don’t have to stick around for me. Please just go, I’m sure Yuko must be looking for you right now.”

Yuko, his new fiancé, had been blowing up his phone the entire day with texts demanding to know where he is and if he’s going to make it to their date that night. It’s 7 PM now, and Toji still hasn’t shown up to confirm their restaurant reservations. The damn witch will surely cuss him out when they see each other again, but for some reason, even if he tries, he simply cannot bring himself to give a flying fuck. Your immunologist and oncologist stepped out for a bit to allow you two a brief moment of privacy which had now stretched to an expanse of five hours since your results came in.

The air in the room is thick and heavy, not a single sound can be heard. Inside however, underneath this tough exterior he was projecting, Toji is throwing a fit, screaming at the sky like those broken men in those shitty Netflix romance tragedies he used to callously make fun of.

“Why didn’t you call me sooner? You knew, didn’t you?”

Toji’s bites his cheek trying to keep a lid on his emotions. He knows the answer. He just wants to hear you say it out loud. You hated him. You wanted nothing to do with him after he cheated on you with some girl he met at a bar in uptown Shibuya. That’s why you didn’t tell him, he didn’t deserve to know. “Shit,” he whispers harshly, crumpling the medical abstract in his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? Was it because you hated me? Is that it? You didn’t think I’d worry about you?”

You screwed your eyes shut, shaking your head. You didn’t hate him, not even when you have every reason to. He abandoned you, left you to waste away and to die and yet, even now, you can’t bring yourself to resent him for the simple reason that he is the literal love of your life, the reason behind your smiles, your happy mornings and passionate midnight hours. “At first, I thought I was fine, maybe just fatigued or something.”

“Don’t lie. You knew something was going on and that something in your body was seriously fucked up.”

“And we weren’t married anymore so, I didn’t think it was right to tell you…I wanted to though, but I didn’t want to intrude on you and Yuko,” you said meekly. Even in your greatest hour of need, you were still thinking of him, putting him first even when he doesn’t deserve it. “I-I…I don’t hate you enough to worry you, to make you feel that you could have done something to prevent this. Because I’m telling you right now, regardless if you were faithful or not, I was bound to get sick anyway. You couldn’t have done anything to change that.”

“But I could have been there. I should have noticed. I shouldn’t have downplayed everything.” He says this as if he wants to shake this noble, self-sacrificing bullshit attitude out of your system. “I’m your husband. I should have been there.”

You flash him a heartbroken smile at his little slip-up, so, even now, he was still referring to himself as your husband, not your ex-husband. “To see me waste away? Babe, I don’t want you to see that.”

You begin to feel tears streaming down your face, the emotions you were experiencing now flowing like a free river after an entire dam is destroyed. Toji watches you unravel before his eyes and his bottom lip begins to tremble. What has he done? Dear god, what has he done to his poor, poor wife?

“I want you to remember me healthy, I want you to remember me as myself not this…sickly pitiful woman you’re unlucky to call your ex-wife…besides, after all this, I’ll only be a dream.” A mere passing second in his life. “And believe me, my life wasn’t so bad.”

He loses it at that.

“Just stop this, Y/N! Stop acting like you’re not scared shitless of dying, like you’re not gonna have regrets once all this is over! Stop pretending that things are gonna be alright one day because it won’t! Not when I’m now being forced to accept that you won’t get better, not when I’ve wasted so much time putting you through hell and back instead of taking care of you like a proper husband should, and certainly not when I’m suddenly supposed to learn to say goodbye and to live without you! Because fuck that, Y/N!”

You are left speechless at that.

Toji was never one to lose his cool, even during your worst arguments, he may slide a few snarky remarks here and there but Toji Fushiguro…never yells, and he doesn’t sob either.

You hesitantly stand up and walk over to him, crouching down in front of him as he covers his tear-stained eyes with his right hand while the other is crumpled around your medical abstract. Taking his left hand, you gently remove the medical abstract from his grip, and for the first time in so many months, you feel one another’s warm skin against each other. You press your forehead to his hand as you wept with him.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be a dream. I want you to be real.”

“Can’t you be bothered to clean up in here?!”

You wake up from your nap, you’ve been battling muscle and joint pain the entire day, the slightest of movement causing you to double over in agony and because of that, you weren’t able to clean the apartment today. You slowly get up from the couch, being extra cautious not to make any sudden movements. “Well?” Toji presses, his lips curled into a scowl.

“I’m sorry, I was feeling a little tired,” you sighed heavily, picking up a broom to sweep the living room floor despite the excruciating pain you were in. Toji rolls his eyes, handing you a Manila envelope. “What’s this?” you asked softly, peering inside.

“Divorce papers,” he shrugs nonchalantly. Everything stops, even the very rise and fall of your chest halts into an uneasy stasis. “I already signed them. I just need your signature then, I’ll move out by tomorrow.”

You must be dreaming. That’s the only logical explanation to all this. You’re asleep, in a deep REM sleep, utterly oblivious to the world. This wasn’t happening. But you could feel the rough surface of the brown envelope, and you could still feel the agonizing stabs of white hot pain throughout your body. Glancing at Toji, you see him texting someone with an eager look on his face that screams: “I’m free.”.

Instantly, it dawns on you.

“Will she make you happy?” you asked, putting down the broom to look around for a pen but Toji pulls one he stole from the law firm office out of his pocket.

“She will,” he answers simply.

And you are indeed grateful that he is completely upfront about finding another while the two of you are married. It would have hurt much more, you silently remind yourself, if he had just upped and left without another word leaving you to wonder what went wrong between the two of you. This was Toji’s final act of mercy in your marriage, and he’s not opposed to honesty and truthfulness either. Not once did he try to change his phone’s lock-screen passcode, nor did he try to conceal the identity of the woman who was texting him every night while you slept fitfully next to him. It was almost as if he wanted you to find out, like he wanted you to know so you could back off yourself.

But if there’s one thing Toji loves about you, it’s your unending faithfulness to your promises, to your marriage vows, and your willingness to endure anything he threw at you. You never checked his phone, you never brought up his affair, you never got angry with him. You just kept silent, simply content with giving and giving…and giving while he milked you dry by taking, and taking and taking, tearing you to pieces bit by bit without hearing a single complaint fall from your lips.

You were a devoted wife, through and through.

And it bored the hell out of him, on top of your recent mishaps, he was done. Done with everything, and done with you.

“Okay.”

Come morning, he takes everything he owns with him and promptly proposes to the girl he’s been seeing for the past year. Two weeks later, your divorce is received by the Tokyo Family Court and is summarily approved and finalized. From that moment on, you and Toji went on your separate ways never to look back, you were each other’s yesterdays, and the love that existed between the two of you was nullified in favor of acquaintanceship…or so you thought.

“Y/N, I’m home!” Toji calls into the house as he comes back from your neighborhood’s pharmacy. You look up from the book you were reading, smiling ever so slightly at your husband who seemed to have a wonderful sparkle in his eyes. “Hey, kid,” he kisses the top of your head when he reaches your wheelchair.

“You seem happy,” you remarked positively.

“Well, for one, they replenished their stocks today and I managed to get you your steroids and painkillers so you’ll be able to sleep easy tonight,” Toji smiles, taking out the items from the pharmacy’s paper bag. “And I got you this neat memory foam cushion for your wheelchair.” He fluffs it up as a form of demonstration before placing it behind your back.

When he sees you smile, a sense of relief washes over Toji. You reach towards him, and he pulls you into an embrace. “Thank you,” you said, pure sincerity dripping from your voice. “For everything you do.”

“Anything for you.” He suddenly moves back and reaches into the tote bag you lended him. “Oh, and wait, before I forget, I have another surprise.”

You laughed airily. “Another surprise? Now, you’re just spoiling me!”

He pulls out a piece of paper from the tote bag and he places it in your hands as your eyes quickly scan over the document. Your breath hitches in your throat when you realize what it is. Did Toji really—? You couldn’t believe it. “A marriage pre-registration,” you said in awe. You read it again just in case to make sure that this wasn’t a figment of your sick body’s imagination, that this was real, that Toji genuinely wants to make everything right again. Your fingers skim over your typewritten names. “It has our names…we’re really—“ You can’t even finish your sentence without bursting into happy tears. “Are we—?”

Toji nods, gazing into your eyes, and as emerald and (E/C) clash for what seems to be an eternity lost in one another, he plants a kiss to your temple, coming up to embrace you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“We are. The Tokyo Family Court, as far as I know, will approve our remarriage once we file this. So, you have to get stronger, okay?” He’s begging you at this point, despite your rapidly deteriorating condition. “Strong enough to see me fix everything. Strong enough to be there on our second wedding, strong enough to say our vows again.”

Your hand comes up to stroke his cheek from behind, and he nuzzles into your neck at your tender touch.

“I will. I promise.”

But you never really get to say your vows. Not comprehensibly anyway.

“Babe, can you say that again?”

Toji crouches by your bedside as you look at him apologetically. You were causing him trouble and pain again which is the last thing that you want to give him especially when’s fought and worked so hard to care for you, to keep prolonging this borrowed time you’re on. “To-ji. Toji.” You gaze at him apprehensibly, not really believing you can do it without crumbling.

“Come on, babe, you can do it. Say my name, please…Toji. I’m Toji.”

“Toooji-“ you slurred sadly. At this point, your Multiple Sclerosis has reached its end stage and has taken…everything from you: your ability to walk, your ability to control your muscle spasms and other bodily functions…and now, coupled with an unexpected stroke, your ability to speak. And you and Toji know that time is almost up, with you having come to accept it, while your husband still held onto hope. Your fingers gently graze over his face as best as your spasms and tremors allow you, starting from his forehead to his eyes, his nose, his cheek and finally, his lips, as if you’re memorizing it one last time. “Lo-ove you-“

Toji sniffles, and your fingers instinctively catch his warm tears. “I love you,” he whispers brokenly. “I do. I love you.”

You feel yourself tearing up as you’re forced to watch your beloved cry. And the worst part? You can’t do a thing about it. “D-oon’t c-cry—‘m okaay. Promi-miise…e’everyything ‘ill be okaaay.”

“Y-yeah,” he chuckles, trying to crack a joke even as hope dwindles. “You’ve been nothing but a fucking champ this entire time, you know? I’m so proud of you. So…so…proud that you’re still here.” He strokes your hair as you tread between the realms of the conscious and the unconscious. “Do you wanna go out today? The weather’s shit though. You’ll probably catch your death out there.” At the mention of the word ‘death’, Toji stops, falling into an uncomfortable silence.

You smile weakly at him. “Tiiredd—“

“You’re no fun,” Toji gently flicks your nose and you scrunch it up in displeasure. “Sorry,” he chuckles, holding back an entire waterfall of tears. He knows it’s today. It has to be. You woke up today without your usual ‘happy morning’ greeting, and you refused to drink anything, much less eat anything. “You tired? Any pain?”

You shake your head. You’re as comfortable as you can be for the first time in months. Hospice nurses say humans are built to live the same way they are built to die, no person in this world has ever had the uncanny privilege of being able to look up ‘How to die?’ on a quick Google search and actually find a Wikihow on the morbid subject matter, nor is there anyone else who can teach another how it’s done. It’s just something humans know how to do without a manual, deeply ingrained in the very fabric of human existence is the fear of death, the fear of what comes after, the fear of a nothingness that could follow after living such a vibrant life. Your life was short, barely spanning thirty years, but you lived well: you fell in love, you got hurt, but you fell together again. Now it all has to come to an end, Toji will just have to take care of the rest.

And you weren’t scared.

Or at least you can’t look scared, if you were to be more accurate, you have to look strong and ready to accept the cards you’ve been dealt with for Toji’s sake. When he feels your hand start to slacken, Toji intakes a sharp, shaky breath of sheer panic. “Not yet, Y/N. Please. Not yet.”

He climbs into bed with you, bringing you closer to this desperate man you call yours. There was no getting better anymore, there was no miracle he could hang onto, no deity he could beg for death to spare you, no pill bottle he could pray to. He knew that from the start. But what he witnessed these past months, you’ve been the braver one between the two of you, you knew how to make the most of the rhythm this cruel world gave you and you graciously took him along to dance to the last song of the evening with you.

“There’s still hope. Just keep your eyes open. Just keep them open.” He presses his lips to your forehead, his delusion getting the better of him. “We’ll just keep trying…you can’t leave. You have to stay. You have to.”

“Thaank yoou—“ you softly told your Toji, your voice shrinking in decibels as you become a little drowsy, sinking into the warmth of the requiem of a life well spent.

Toji listens to you, his lips pursed, intent on making this final act of love — a love that is strong enough to say goodbye — a memorable one. And should the afterlife exist, he wishes to send you off with a smile, with the reassurance that he’ll be alright even if that was far from happening.

“Toji.”

“I want you to be real. And I don’t care if we’ll live on borrowed time. Another extra second with you…is enough to last me my entire lifetime.”

[obxsummer]

everything i wanted // ghost of you

pairing: jj maybank x routledge!reader

summary: when the cops come in search of jj, promises are made and broken, rafe get stuck in the storage closet, a massive storm brews in the ocean, and you're left wondering if you can survive in a world without jj.

warnings: near death experiences, cursing, the usual obx angst

navigation -- series masterlist

ask me anything 

--

March Point was always much cooler than Poguelandia 2.0. You swore every time the group wanted to take off from here in the morning depending on the fishing season because A) you didn’t get to sleep in your comfy bed, and B) it felt like camping without the fun of it all. 

Somewhere in the midst of the campfire last night, Pope had suggested moving out here with the knowledge that Groff knew where the house was and could easily come back in search of you all if he felt the need. Kiara had tried to argue that he had all the supplies, so why would he bother, but speaking it out loud was enough to convince JJ to move too.

So that’s how you ended up here, on your makeshift camp, tangled in one of the hammocks with JJ. You’d slept relatively soundly all night, exhaustion really driving you to be a heavy sleeper which rarely ever happened. 

Pope and Cleo woke up first, always the early birds. Their theorizing was relatively quiet until Sarah and John B started shuffling and then any chance of sleeping in wasn’t happening. You sighed and tucked further into JJ’s chest, digging your cold feet into his warm legs and laughing quietly when he made a noise of protest. 

“You’re mean,” He whispered, pulling the blanket in tighter to keep the heat close. His hand dipped under the material of your shirt to tickle your back gently, the feeling lulling you back to sleep momentarily. 

The soreness from yesterday settled in your bones achingly. It also didn’t help that you were crammed into a flimsy hammock that didn’t allow much structure for either you or JJ to spread out comfortably. 

Scents of the fire being lit flooded your nose and you really wished nobody would move for the next few hours. Going after this so-called Blue Crown was the biggest topic of conversation, but you really wished the need for treasure wouldn’t overcome the need for peace and stability. Sarah really didn’t need to be traveling the world before she even had a chance to see a doctor and assess what was happening. 

JJ especially didn’t want to get out of the cocoon the two of you created. This was the first time he’d gotten to hold you close and sleep comfortably in a few days and he wanted to soak up every second. He had become so used to just existing when you were with him that his mind shut off for the time being. 

The emotional whirlwind was taking its toll differently than he was used to. He wasn’t expecting Luke to have been on the island as long as he has, but to go from that, to Groff and Larissa, to Luke betraying him in the courtroom, to Groff again? He felt like he should feel confused and betrayed, but in all honesty, JJ was just angry. 

He was angry that all this drama had come to affect you and your relationship. You were the steady constant in JJ’s life so comparing everything that happened against the way you were impacted was a habit for him. 

You shifted against him, your battle with staying asleep finally losing out. With a soft groan, you moved up to kiss his jawline before he turned to kiss you properly, eyes heavy as he blinked at you. “Morning,” He grumbled.

You returned the greeting before pushing off of him carefully, wincing as your tight muscles pulled with the action. JJ’s hand was warm under your shirt, the touch comforting as you took in your environment. Pope and Cleo were crowding around the small fire pit, pulling together something in the kettle to snack on while you figured out a game plan. 

Kiara shuffled through the bag of snacks to toss you an apple and some fruit snacks, which you handed over to JJ. Everyone was still quiet, the movement of the water a background noise to your tranquil morning. You shivered, already missing the warmth of being snuggled up with JJ, and fully debated rolling back over and forgetting you guys were planning on doing absolutely anything.

“Is that a boat?”

You turned as Kiara asked the question, her gaze set on something behind the tree that you couldn’t quite see just yet. 

“Who’s coming out here this early?” Pope questioned and looked over his shoulder just as the boat came into the clearing, the word Sheriff catching you off guard.

“Cops?” You glanced back at JJ, who could only offer you a shrug. Groaning, you stood up fully and pushed your feet into your gym shoes, knowing damn well you guys needed to move. “What’s the plan?”

John B stood still, his eyes watching as the police boat approached the dock where your only form of escape was, effectively blocking you all in. “Follow me, let’s go.”

Everyone scrambled to grab their shit, Cleo barely managing to douse the fire out before Pope was pulling her away from the scene. John B stayed tucked behind the trees as long as he could before slipping into the water and sliding under the dock. You huffed at the idea of getting your clothes and shoes wet but followed anyway. Thankfully, y’all at least had the brains to buy waterproof backpacks this time after losing all your shit in El Dorado. 

“JJ Maybank!” The shout came from an unknown voice as two officers you didn’t recognize started their way toward land, their footsteps echoing against the wood. “JJ, we don’t want to hurt you. Come on out.”

Frowning, you looked over your shoulder where JJ was practically against your back. “Why are they looking for you?”

The blond boy could only shrug, confusion on his face as he kept a hold on your waist and gently shifted you forward into the water more. Pope was leading the group now, swimming along toward the two ships that were floating just a few feet away.

“I have an arrest warrant for JJ in connection to the murder of Hollis Robinson!”

As if your day couldn’t get any worse, the words JJ and murder had been placed in the same sentence, and you were suddenly in over your head. The group suddenly went still at the statement and looked back at him. His teeth clenched tighter on the knife blade between them but when he grabbed hold of you again and moved you further, you didn’t ask questions. 

When John B climbed up on the police pontoon, you were questioning everything that was about to happen. Pope and your brother climbed up first before reaching back down to assist JJ so he didn’t strain his injury. Cleo crawled up next with Kie behind her. John B went for Sarah and you bit back a scream when Pope pulled you onboard, your chest burning with the movement. He gave you a look, to which you shook your head and dismissed it even though you were pressing against the pain with your fingertips. 

Pope made a mental note to check on you later but instead pushed down slightly on your shoulder to get you to join Sarah and Cleo on the floor of the boat. John B started the engine and wasted no time in pulling away from the dock, instantly catching the eye of the cops on land. 

“Hey!”

Their voices faded quickly as John B continued to veer away into the open water. JJ hit the floor next to you shortly after and you were quick to pull him into your arms. His whole body was shaking, and his reaction alone told you he had no idea what they were coming after him for. 

“JJ?”

“I don’t, I don’t know,” He panted, falling back against you and latching on to you, digging his head into your shoulder. “I, he-”

Pope came into your view, crouching in front of JJ to place his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’re okay, dude. It’s just us. Breathe.”

JJ’s hand was clenching your shirt so tightly you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped, but he listened to Pope and started to focus on his breathing until his chest was moving steadier. “We… after we left the cemetery, Groff told me he needed to pick something up. Went somewhere on Figure Eight, and then he insisted on leaving the Twinkie and taking… taking a boat out. Wasn’t his, didn’t say where he got it, just had the keys.”

“Who is Hollis Robinson?” You asked, the name completely unfamiliar to you. “The boat clearly belonged to her and Groff clearly killed her and planted evidence, to no surprise whatsoever.”

Sarah frowned slightly. “I’m pretty sure she’s in business with Rafe. He said something about Goat Island and… and this development investment?”

“Goat Island?” Cleo repeated the name, laughing slightly. “Creative, I guess.”

“Wait, didn’t the Genrettes own Goat Island? Passed down from generations?” Kiara pointed out, her eyes moving from Pope to JJ. 

Pope nodded. “They read the will the other day, when Cleo and I went to clarify information on the rezoning. It’s being turned into a protected state park, since there’s no living Genrette left.”

“Except there is…” You trailed off, gaze dropping down to the boy in your arms who gained everyone’s attention at the moment. He shifted uncomfortably with the attention. “JJ?”

He shook his head slightly, practically shrinking into your body as much as possible. You frowned, letting your head fall to rest against his and continuing to hold him closely.

“We need to get out of here. Get off this island,” Cleo directed. She was no doubt itching for another chance to avenge Terrance, and going after the crown would give her that opportunity. 

“I mean, I could be down for a little Moroccan vacay,” Kie added with a shrug. Her fingers picked at the hem of her shorts, something she did when she was nervous and you didn’t blame her for feeling that way.

“We’re gonna need a bigger boat. Hell, a ship maybe. You know how far Morocco is? Way, way, way out there.”

--

Cleo’s words were unfortunately true, which led you back to the marina in hopes of finding a boat that you could possibly slip into without mass hysteria. In theory, it should’ve been kind of easy… except you were all in a Kildare County Sheriff boat and if they were looking for JJ, chances are the Kooks were already spreading the so-called accusation down the grapevine. 

Kiara was offering her favorite picks of the bunch, to which John B kept declining with realistic reasons of why they wouldn’t make it as far as needed. You tuned him out, figuring he would give you all a heads up when he located one that would be up for the job. 

“You okay?” You looked to JJ who had shifted to sit next to you, eyes scanning the marina for anything that he thought would help. He nodded, grabbing your hand in his to hold tightly, but remaining quiet. The shaking had come to a slow a little bit ago and you could slowly see the terror disappearing from his posture. It would only be a matter of time before anger took over and he felt the need to defend himself. 

“You know we could all go to jail for taking a boat like that?” 

Pope’s comment grabbed your attention as you looked up to see the vessel they were focused on, the large engines speaking for themselves. Suddenly, JJ was moving out of your grasp. “We’re just gonna borrow it for a little, yeah?”

Sarah reached down to grab your hand and pull you up as JJ tied the smaller boat off, calling back that he was going to look for keys. Cleo climbed on the larger boat, following JJ and Pope up the stairs while Kie remained on the lower deck.

“This is a horrible idea,” You muttered so only Sarah and John B could hear. “Probably one of our worst.”

John B’s hand squeezed your shoulder gently as he observed the whole scene from behind you. Worry was building in your chest. The marina was not empty by any means, and any looking person could easily tell this was not normal. 

“Coppers!” The call from Cleo had you all looking toward the deck where a group of police officers were making their way toward your group. 

“Shit,” John B cursed, leaving you and Sarah to start the engine again as the remainder of your friends came scrambling to jump back on the smaller pontoon.

You looked over your shoulder to see a small crowd growing, the familiar face of Kiara’s dad appearing amongst them. “Kie, it’s your dad.”

The girl followed where you were pointing, catching her dad’s eyes and cursing. “Shit, he’s gonna kill me.”

“John B, go!” JJ called back as he finished disconnecting from the yacht. 

Your brother’s hands were moving frantically before Cleo shoved him away, not taking long before the boat shifted beneath you all. “I got it, hold on to something!”

Pope was pushing you down again to get as low as possible as JJ scrambled around the deck before ripping something out of the compartment. 

“What are you doing, what is that?” Kiara asked as JJ pulled out a red container, apparently knowing whatever the hell it was better than you did. 

“JJ!” You yelled when the gun-like object appeared in his hand and he leaned over the side to aim in the air. “Stop!”

The popping noise made you jump, but instead of a bullet, a red flare went flying in the air. Concerned gasps followed the defensive measure before another loud bang went off and everyone around you yelped. 

You risked the chance to look up and caught sight of Kiara’s dad standing near one of the cops, apparently having knocked him off stance and causing his bullet to miss. You glanced over at Kie, who was clearly in shock and caught off guard by her dad’s actions.

“What the fu-”

“Are you insane?” Your question was full of so much anger that it almost made JJ flinch. You were pissed, and rightfully so. “What the hell was that?”

“I panicked!”

“Shit, we’re leaking.”

Sarah sat up from her spot on the floor at Pope’s comment. “What?”

John B moved quickly, his glare directed at your fiancé as he went to the back of the boat. “They shot the boat.”

You groaned, head falling into your hands in defeat. Not only did you fail on finding a boat for Morocco, but now your only form of transportation was on its way to sinking. You moved out of the way, practically falling into the spot next to Sarah and Kie as the boys scrambled to find a patch or something to slow the leak. 

Cleo continued to steer away from the chaos behind you guys. “Look, we’ve gotta beach her, this thing is sinking.”

As she headed for the nearest land set, thankfully a bit away from the marina and further into creek, you stared at JJ like he’d lost his mind. Panic or not, shooting anything near an armed cop was never a good idea and you couldn’t believe you had to be the one to explain that to him after his 20 years of life. You knew he was scared and he was just trying to help, but that managed to royally fuck you all over even worse than before. 

“Cops will be here any minute. We’ve gotta fix this thing fast,” John B said as Cleo steadied the boat to drift into the sandbank. 

Cleo just laughed as everyone started climbing out. “She’s done. She’s not coming back.” She pointed toward the severely deflated side of the boat (which… why would cops want a boat that could deflate in the first place?) to emphasize her words.

“How are we gonna get out of here now?” Pope retaliated. You guys were sitting ducks if you stayed here, especially since it was obvious you couldn’t go far with the damaged boat. 

JJ was picking at the sand, slamming his fist into the gritty surface with annoyance at himself more than anything. The space between you spoke for itself. When survival mode kicked in for him, it was hard to think about anything else. You were frustrated over his actions and needed the space before you cut into him harsher than you intended to. 

“Hey!” Shoupe clearly caught up to you faster than you anticipated as he pulled up on his own boat. 

“And there’s Shoupe,” John B sighed and sat down in the sand next to Sarah with a huff. You shook your head. There really was no way out of this now, especially when you had nothing surrounding you but water. 

“You guys finally did it, beached yourselves. And JJ, you’ve done a great job racking up some charges. And guess what? I’ve got a warrant this time.”

The boy in question got up from the sand, full defense mode engaged as he created more distance from Shoupe. “I didn’t-”

“You’ve dug this hole about as deep as it can get,” Shoupe continued, “So put down the shovels, and come with me.” He looked pointedly at JJ and motioned to his boat in the water. 

“He’s wanted for murder, Shoupe,” You argued calmly. “He didn’t murder anyone.”

Shoupe sighed, “Look, I got a good idea of what he did and didn’t do, okay? I can’t pin you for most of the downtown damage, but I can for the realtor office and I have a warrant for this, okay? We just gotta let the courts sort it out.”

You scoffed loudly, “Yeah, like the courts figured out the zoning in a fair manner. Or how about John B going for the death penalty, OR better yet, how about Rafe Cameron not catching any assault charges? Let the courts figure it out, yeah right.”

“Y’all come with me, now, or-”

“Hey!” 

You closed your eyes as Rafe’s voice interrupted Shoupe, his figure appearing from the marsh behind the officer as he approached the group. John B and Pope were in front of you in seconds, Sarah pulling herself from the sand to join your side and grab your hand tightly. 

“What the hell?” Shoupe was asking the question on everyone’s mind as Rafe continued getting closer. 

“Listen, I’m just here to save everyone’s asses, okay?” The eldest Cameron announced before looking to the sheriff. “Shoupe, I gotta talk to you. You’re missing a part of this picture.”

Shoupe apparently felt threatened and unholstered his weapon to point it at Rafe. “Hey. Hey, stay back! Stay back!”

Rafe froze instantly and took a few steps back, his hands in the air. “Jesus Christ! What are you gonna do, shoot me? Huh? You’re looking for Chandler Groff, yeah?”

Shoupe hesitated, his stance dropping slightly. “Maybe.”  

“Groff was scamming with Hollis this entire time, alright? If you ask me, it was probably Groff that killed her, not…him.” He tossed his hand dismissively in JJ’s direction, who didn’t hesitate to flip him off in response. When Shoupe didn’t really say anything, Rafe looked at him expectantly. “Did you already think that? Yeah, Groff probably killed Genrette too. And that body…the body in the dunes? You got that on Groff?”

You glanced at Sarah, confused as to why her brother of all people was trying to point fingers away from your group for once. 

“Listen, you can bring these lowlifes in for some vandalism, disturbing the peace bullshit, or you can get the big fish. These guys know where Groff is.”

To your shock, Shoupe turned to face you all with a look of suspicion. “Yeah? Where is he?”

“Out of your jurisdiction, Shoupe,” John B explained. “Way out.”

“Try out the country.”

“We were on our way to get him, and then you showed up,” John B continued.

Shoupe motioned toward the deflated police raft and nearly laughed. “In that?”

“No. That.”  Rafe shook his head and decided this was his question to answer as he pointed to a large fishing boat anchored in the deeper waters.  “They know where he is, and I can get them there, alright? But they can’t do shit if they’re all locked up.”

“And just let ‘em go? No, thanks,” Shoupe retaliated and directed his next words to JJ, “I’ll tell you what, here’s what we’re gonna do. You come with me, tell us where Groff is, and I guarantee it, we’ll go easy on you. Hell, your charges may disappear. Quid pro quo, you ever heard of that?”

John B laughed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, we’ve seen plenty of it.”

Your hope was slowly disappearing and part of you wondered if JJ took off running fast enough, if he would lose them altogether. 

“Think about it. Hollis, dead. Genrette, dead. Downtown’s trashed. You’re on the chopping block, okay? I hear what people are saying about you. You’re gonna lose your job. It’s game over, man.” You couldn’t tell if Rafe’s tactic was helping or hurting the cause, but you weren’t even gonna try to stop him. “Unless, you bring the killer to justice all by your lonesome. So, what’s it gonna be? I mean, some bullshit charges on these low-rent Pogues who didn’t do shit-”

“Man, he really has to get every dig in, huh?” You whispered to Sarah causing her to giggle and hide her smile behind her hand. 

“-Or you solve the crime of the century. And you save your job.”

Shoupe shook his head. “You know, you sound a lot like your old man. And that’s not a compliment. Now I’m getting cornered by another freakin’ Cameron here?”

“Oh?” Rafe looked offended for a split second before he wiped the expression from his face. “Okay then, added bonus. When we get back, and you got Groff locked up, I’ll tell you what happened last summer on the runway. When you found me out there on the tarmac? The real deal, right? I know you wanna know.”

Your heart skipped as you recalled the moment like it was yesterday. The incoming storm, Kie and JJ not answering, you arguing with John B. Rafe and Ward showing up. The beginning of a shit show.

“You wanna know what I want to know?” Shoupe repeated, “I wanna know about another little runway incident from a while back. How ‘bout that?”

Caught in a corner, Rafe licked his lips in understanding at what Shoupe was pushing at. “Look, all I’m saying is that all of this would look really good for an elected official in the hot seat. You know? Get it all wrapped up in one package.”

Shoupe seemed to really be contemplating the idea and apparently, John B felt like he could push the sheriff over the edge. “How ‘bout this,” Your brother walked closer to the two. “We find Groff, call you. He’s all yours.”

Shoupe shook his head and tossed his hands in the air, frustration winning over. “I eat shit either way. All right. Yeah, you’re welcome. Go on, before the cavalry gets here. Get out of here.”

The sound of incoming sirens rang in your ears and it suddenly became very clear that you were going to have to get on a boat, an enclosed space, with Rafe Cameron… for who knows how long. Great! Awesome! It’s the best day ever!

You wanted to throw up.

It seemed you weren’t the only one thinking about it as Pope fell back into step with you, Sarah taking the opportunity to catch up with John B while Kie kept an eye on JJ. Cleo caught up on your other side to loop her arm with yours and you were sandwiched between the couple as you guys started following Rafe. 

“You okay with all of this?” Pope asked quietly, his gaze switching from Rafe to you. 

You shrugged. “I don’t…not really, but there’s not much of a choice, you know? It’s our only option of getting JJ off this island and I can’t be the reason that doesn’t happen.”

He hesitated in his reply. Part of him knew you were right, this was a rare opportunity and if you didn’t take it, the other option was much worse. But at the same time, he hated the idea of you feeling so uncomfortable and unsafe for the time it would take for the trip. It wasn’t fair.

“He comes near you, I cut his throat,” Cleo spoke like she wasn’t threatening someone’s life, and it almost made you laugh as you turned to her with an appreciative smile. “I’m serious, girly. One wrong look and he loses at least a toe.”

--

Rafe had taken over steering the fishing boat which kept him occupied and away from you, thankfully. Calling this a vacation was so far from the truth, and as you all drifted past Poguelandia 2.0, you wanted to burst into tears. You were so homesick for a feeling that you rarely got anymore, but eighteen months of it had been so good. 

Your back was against the dirty wall of the upper deck of the boat, knees to your chest as your friends conversed around you. There was nothing more you wanted than to go back to the night of JJ’s proposal before Groff showed up, and to just start over. Everyone was so happy and excited, life felt normal for you guys, and then it all went to shit.

“So what, we’re just going to Africa now? Quick little weekend trip?”

“What about Rafe?” Pope ignored Kie’s rhetorical question. “We know what he did to the cross, and now we want to go after the crown with him? That makes zero sense.”

“Sarah, you’re his family. How do we deal with Rafe?”

The blonde girl shook her head and shrugged. “I really have no idea. I don’t know.”

John B sighed, “Alright, well, it seems like we’re stuck on this boat with him, so we gotta talk to him. And actually, I have a lot to say so-” He got to his feet and brushed his hands on his pants, puffing his chest out all macho-like. 

“You know, John B, I think I do too.” JJ was standing up next, his stance matching your brother’s and you rolled your eyes.

“Stop.”  You rubbed your hands over your face as the command made them freeze in their steps. “Sit the fuck down. This is really dramatic and unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary?” JJ repeated the word like it was an insult. “Babe, I know you didn’t forget what he put you through and-”

You were on your feet instantly and closing the gap, your chest nearly pressing against his. “Of fucking course I didn’t forget it, JJ! I see it in my nightmares. It’s burned into my head no matter what I do. So no, I didn’t forget any of it.”

Forcing yourself to take a deep breath and calm down, you took a step back from him so you could look at John B too. “I know you both could say, and do, a lot to him right now. But it will not help us get to Morocco or keep the peace and I do not want anyone going overboard off this boat like last time, do you hear me?” You looked pointedly at JJ, not wanting any repetition of him getting knocked the fuck out and falling off the boat like he did before Poguelandia. 

“She’s got a point,” Cleo added, watching the two boys sternly. “Don’t cause a scene, rude boy.”

“Fine,” JJ exhaled. He was doing his best to keep his emotions at bay, but you were still frustrated with him, and now you were tense as fuck with Rafe so close, not that he blamed you. He didn’t want to push his luck, but he needed to talk to you soon. “So who’s going in?”

Your friends were still looking at you the way they looked to John B when they needed a plan. And even though it made bile burn in your throat, you had your answer.

“I’ll talk to him.”

Turning on your heels, you walked away from their quick protests like you couldn’t hear a word and forced the thoughts out of your head. Giving your best poker face, you stepped into the helm where Rafe was hovering over the wheel. 

“Rafe.” Your voice was clipped as you grabbed his attention and he turned, shocked that you were even speaking. “Just here to talk.”

He looked back at the water ahead, biting down on his lip. He didn’t want to admit that you made him nervous and defensive, but his shitty ego was kicking into gear as a protective measure. “Alright, let’s talk.”

You moved around to his other side and crossed your arms. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the Pogues poking their heads in the door to keep an eye on you.

“Before you start yapping-” He reached down to shift the hem of his shirt to reveal a gun tucked in the waistband of his shorts. “See this? It’s-”

“I don’t give a fuck,” You interrupted and he nearly flinched at the hatred in your voice. “You’ve done worse. Drop the ego. Just you and me.”

“Just you and me?” Rafe rolled his eyes and let his shirt fall back into place, trying not to let you see his shaky hands. “We just gonna act like your friends aren’t right behind me?”

You nodded, keeping your expression blank and tucking your lips. “Yeah, in fact, we are. Look-”

He laughed loudly, and you almost faltered but caught yourself. “I just saved your asses and there’s not even a thank you? No good deed goes unpunished. It’ll be just like Barbados, right, sweetheart?”

You let out a breath. You refused to back down, knowing this was just his defense mechanism kicking in. “Fuck you, Rafe. If I remember correctly, we made it out of there together.  Did you forget about the months I was locked in your house and you spilled all your deep dark secrets after you drugged the shit out of me? Let’s not act all high and mighty now.”

The boundaries had been pushed and the trigger in Rafe snapped. He took a step toward you and before you even had a chance to blink, JJ was in his way. 

The Cameron boy laughed at the reaction but continued to look at you over JJ’s shoulder. “Look, I don’t want any part of your little fairy tale treasure hunt bullshit. I’m just looking for Groff. I get you to North Africa, you get me to Groff? Deal?”

“Hey, Rafe? Watch your mouth when you talk to her next time.”

JJ’s fist connected with Rafe’s head and the older boy collapsed to the ground. You gasped, your jaw dropping in shock. What. The. Fuck.

“I had him!” You yelled in frustration. You looked at the girls with wide eyes and all three of them had no answers to give you. Not that you didn’t love JJ’s protective nature when it came to you, but all attempts at keeping peace just went out with Rafe’s consciousness. 

“Jesus, JJ!” John B scolded as they all crowded into the small area. The blond boy wasn’t listening, however, and shook his hand out with a cheer. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I mean, honestly, if he didn’t do it, I was going to.”

--

The group fell into the normal sense of calm for the most part after Pope and Cleo tied Rafe up in the cleaning closet, a cohesive agreement that nobody really trusted him. 

You were trying your best not to shut down - overstimulated and nearly spiraling from the shitshow of a day you’ve had, not to mention you still weren’t really talking to JJ. He had always been this way when he was scared, the survival instinct outweighing his more responsible thoughts. You were just pissed he shot first and didn’t ask questions, even when a bullet came flying back as a response. There really was no anger between the two of you, but you were easily frustrated and getting grumpier by the minute. 

Hence the reason you sent John B out there to talk to him so you could lounge with Sarah instead. She accepted you with open arms, letting you crawl into the small bed next to her so you two could snuggle under the blankets for warmth.

“You okay?” She asked quietly once you’d settled next to her. 

You pursed your lips and blinked. “I um… it’s weird, knowing Rafe’s right here. And I’m still upset with JJ. But it’s fine. Are you?”

Sarah watched you curiously, always amazed by the way you compartmentalized everything (even if you didn’t think so). She admired you for continuing to take the step every day, even when you didn’t want to force a fake smile. 

“I’m okay,” She answered honestly. “I don’t like being out here, and I don’t like that Rafe is here and we aren’t home. But I’m okay.”

You nodded understandingly, your gaze dropping to the ring you’d been twisting around your finger out of nerves. A new growing habit that made you feel bittersweet. In moments like these, there was nothing you craved more than JJ’s presence. But like you’d said before, you were learning to separate your feelings and comprehension from relying on him. That didn’t mean it wasn’t hard as fuck to not run to him when you were feeling down.

Meanwhile, John B was approaching JJ on the main fishing deck, the blonde pacing as he whispered to himself. 

“Dude, what’s your deal?” John B came off a little harsher than he intended, but once he saw the slight look of pain on Sarah’s face after JJ’s punch, he wasn’t sure what to do. Sure, Rafe was Sarah’s brother, one of the only family members left that she had some form of contact with. On the other hand, this was the same person who broke you down to your core and left you as a scrap of the person you used to be. 

So, yeah. John B was confused.

“I don’t know,” JJ groaned and pulled at his tousled hair. He really needed to talk to you. Guilt was gnawing at him for putting you in danger, for being the reason you were pushed into coming on this boat, for making things worse than they already were. “I’m losing my fucking mind, JB, like he’s here and-”

“Listen to me.” John B grabbed his best friend’s shoulders, effectively ceasing the pacing and getting JJ to focus on him alone. When the blond boy met his eyes, the Routledge boy sighed, “Dude, I get it, yeah? I’m terrified too and I’m really sorry. About your-your dad, this whole thing with Hollis, and Poguelandia. I’m really sorry, but we need you right now, J. I really need you to get your shit together. If not for me or yourself, for her. Okay?”

JJ nearly gulped but nodded. He’d come to know that there were two things in this world John B didn’t play about: you and Sarah. And honestly, JJ didn’t fuck around on that idea either, considering you were his entire world and Sarah was the sister he never had. So if John B of all people was telling him to get his shit together, he needed to get it together. “She’s so mad at me, dude. And I just- shit.”

“If anyone knows how to fix this shit, it’s gonna be you,” The older boy reassured when JJ started to ramble. As much as John B wished he could fix everything for his friends, it wasn’t possible, but he also knew if there was anything JJ could do, it was make you happy. 

John B pulled JJ into a hug, the two boys holding each other tightly. Unspoken words said everything and they both realized the lives they’d come to know with you and Sarah were at risk with each passing moment. Now, they had to protect it with everything they had.

--

You woke up sometime after to find Sarah missing from next to you and the smell of food filling the air. JJ had replaced your best friend’s spot, soft snores leaving his mouth as he slept soundly. A small smile formed on your lips as you traced his jawline gently, soaking in how peaceful he looked. 

There was a reason you didn’t want to chat with him earlier and it simply boiled down to your emotions being at an all time high. Conversations when both of you were grumpy and peak frustrated were not helpful in any way, and when you almost laid into him earlier, you knew to take a step back. 

“Mm hi,” JJ hummed, his eyes still closed as you continued to move your fingers across his skin slowly. 

“Hi,” You returned the greeting with a small laugh and nearly gasped when the boat took a dip you weren’t prepared for. JJ’s eyes opened at the movement, blinking slowly as he shifted to face you. His arm fell across your hip, fingertips digging into your back soothingly in the spot that had always seemed to bother you ever since Pope crashed the Carreras’ truck. 

“I’m sorry about earlier,” You apologized, letting your hand drop beneath you. “And now that I’m thinking about it, I really hope these are clean sheets.”

JJ laughed and shifted forward to kiss you, relishing in the way you sighed contently and chased for more. He wasn’t one to deny you, ever. You could scream at him for two hours and ask for a smoothie and he’d run across Kildare to get your favorite one without question.

“Don’t need to apologize to me. I’m sorry for acting out. Shouldn’t have put you in that position ever,” He spoke in between kisses as his fingers slipped under your shirt to dance across your skin. 

“S’okay.” 

He tugged you even closer so you could tuck your head under his chin, burying your nose against his collarbone. It was no secret you guys were on borrowed time with Morocco nearing. You could only sit in a comfortable silence, soaking up the time with each other before you were going to be on the run again.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid when we get here?” You asked quietly, pressing a soft kiss to his throat. “Can’t lose you, J. Not now and not ever.”

“Promise. As long as it doesn’t involve you,” He quickly added, making you roll your eyes and flick his forehead lovingly. “Ow, babe!”

“Wuss,” You mumbled, wiggling your leg between his so you were fully pressed against him. JJ was always so warm.

And then the room went dark. 

“What the fuck?” JJ asked quietly, his heart starting to race. He was no genius, but losing electricity on a boat was clearly not a good thing.

The two of you shifted apart slightly and you sat up, only the one dim emergency light providing any source of sight for you. You could hear shit clattering around in the other rooms and could barely make out Pope’s voice if you listened closely.

“J-” Your concerns were interrupted as the blond boy went tumbling from the bed from a particularly sharp drop and you nearly laughed at the sight. “What the fuck is going on!”

JJ groaned from the fall, attempting to gain some footing as he stood up, holding on to his surroundings for help. “We gotta move, come on.”

You took his outstretched hand and followed him out of the cabin area as carefully as possible. Whatever was rocking the boat was massive and you could only hope John B knew what the fuck he was doing. 

“Shit!” You cursed as you lost your footing and tumbled into JJ’s back, both of you sliding across the floor chaotically. “Sorry!”

JJ pinned himself against the hallway walls, tucking you into his side as he continued to move strategically. “I need to go check on John B!” He called over the alarm that was now blaring throughout the boat. 

Pushing forward, JJ opened the door that lead to the kitchen area where you found Cleo and Pope hunkered down, both soaked with water and looking quite spent compared to normal. 

“You guys okay?” You asked to which Cleo nodded. 

“Sarah went looking for John B!” Pope explained, worry evident in his voice as he looked to the direction the girl disappeared to. 

“I got her!” JJ shouted back before turning to you. “Stay here, okay? I’ll be right back.”

You stared at him like he was crazy (he was, duh) and watched as he started walking toward the exit to the main deck. “JJ, fucking stop!”

Your pleas were left ignored as the blond opened the door to the onslaught of waves, wind, and storm raging outside. Cursing to yourself, you tried to follow as best as you could with your feet slipping across the water. 

Pope was shouting your name, the sound lost in the wind that was suddenly rushing in your ears. A large swell took over the side and washed you into the rail with it, your body tumbling into the metal ungracefully. 

You groaned and tried to get your vision to focus despite the rain attacking you. “JJ!”

“Sarah!”

John B’s voice was clear over the chaos around you and it was then that you caught sight of the blurb of white amongst the metal deck. Suddenly, it felt like you couldn’t breathe as you watched a rush of water takeover the boat completely, slamming you against the floor again. 

A scream echoed in your ears before you registered JJ’s voice following it. Pushing yourself to your feet, you tried to cling to the metal railings to get closer to Sarah. The water rushed past you, various supplies and debris flowing with it until it caught on your best friend’s form and swept her out into the open water.

“Sarah!” You screamed, all conscious safety precautions flying out the window as you rushed forward only to be stopped by a pair of arms around your waist. “Get off of me!”

“Stop!” JJ shouted at you, shoving you back harsher than he intended and you tripped, your back colliding with the wall as you fell. Using the momentum, JJ flung forward to cross the deck and grab the life preserver, throwing it with more precision than you knew he had to Sarah as she fought the waves. 

There was zero hesitation in his actions as he jumped in after the orange ring, disappearing into the dark waves. 

“JJ, no!” Your scream burned your throat as you lost sight of him and Sarah both, their forms blending in with the harsh waters surrounding you. John B was suddenly tumbling into you, anchoring you back to the floor when you tried to crawl out of his grip. You shoved against his hands, your actions frantic and rough. “John B, let me go.”

“Stop, stop!” He yelled, his hold even tighter just as you slipped through and he screamed your name.

Rafe, hearing the shouting and having been freed by Kiara, slammed the cabin door open to call after his sister before he caught sight of you trying to get to your feet on the slippery surface. Despite the annoyance and frustration he held toward your group right now, he knew staying out here was risky and he needed to get the two of you inside. 

The second he realized you were ready to take off, Rafe was moving to catch you around the waist and tug you back, the two of you hitting the ground as a wave drowned you in water. 

Rafe’s movement caught John B’s attention. He had continued to stare at the open water with the sinking realization that both of you just watched the loves of your lives disappear into stormy waters with slim chances of survival. Your older brother was numb, the world around him quiet as he looked up to see the Cameron boy. There was no smart answer to the next steps, but John B was certain that he couldn’t risk losing you too. 

Against his better judgement, John B pushed onto his knees and looped his arms around you to haul you off the floor and over to Rafe who was quick to take his own protective hold on you. The two boys moved as quickly as possible back inside despite the waves crashing relentlessly around them. 

The second Rafe set you down on the bench seat, you screamed and shoved his chest as hard as possible, finding satisfaction in the way he hit the cabinets against the wall. You stood up quickly, vision blurring from the movement as you approached him. Your balance was suddenly steady as fuck, the adrenaline rushing its course and keeping you on your feet. 

“Don’t ever touch me again!” Your glare was sharp as knives before you turned your focus to the boy you’d called your brother. “What is wrong with you!”

“Me?” John B’s voice cracked as he brushed wet hair from his face, chest still heaving in shock. “You were going to kill yourself!”

“Would it matter?” You shouted back, arm pointing behind him where the raging waters continued through the windows. “They’re gone, John B! And we just watched them fall without doing a fucking thing!”

John B flinched at your words, his expression devastating as he took in what you’d said. He promised to keep Sarah safe, and he just stood there as she was washed out to sea. He’d live with that guilt for the rest of his life. 

You shook your head, your whole body shaking from being in fight mode. “I don’t want to live in a world that he’s not in. I shouldn’t have to.”

“Look, maybe they’ll be able to wait it out and swim to shore when they have a chance, okay?” Kie offered as she placed a hand on your shoulder in attempt to diffuse the situation.

You glared at her, blinded by your sadness and anger that you couldn’t even see she had a point. John B and Sarah had survived rocky waters once before Nassau. It could be done again. You shook her hand off and bit back a sob, feeling completely defeated in every way possible. 

The ship rocked again and you nearly tumbled to the floor but kept it together. In a room full of people, you felt so alone. You’d just watched the one person who understood you, who had taken you with all your scars and broken pieces and swore to help you put it all back together, disappear in front of your eyes. And you didn’t do a thing to help him.

And Sarah, your best friend and confidant, the one you turned to when you needed a break and a reminder of how good life could be… lost to the waters that almost took her from you once before. 

You were so, so tired of always losing. 

--

The ship continued to rock for hours. With no power and no way to steer, there was nothing left to do besides ride out the waves and hope you hit shore somewhat close to Morocco. 

Pope was eventually able to get you to calm down enough that you agreed to go back to the sleeping quarters to talk to him, Cleo following along to offer her support as much as she could. That left an unusual three, Rafe, Kie, and John B, to fill the obvious void left in the room.

Minutes faded to hours and all you could do was stare numbly at the worn walls of the boat. You wished you could disappear into the sheets beneath you and never come back. 

Pope tried Kiara’s tactic of reminding you it was possible for them to keep their heads above water, but you knew better. JJ still had a massive wound on his side and had been left in the open calm water for hours the other day, which left him exhausted as it was. Sarah was pregnant, and even though she hadn’t seen a doctor yet to confirm, using energy to swim was draining, let alone doing it for hours in rough waves.

You didn’t move even when John B came into the room later, his eyes red and glossed over with tears. There was nothing to say, but he was mourning as much as you were and sitting in a room with Rafe Cameron wasn’t helping him in the slightest.

Sitting with your back against the wall, you stared unmoving at the bed across from you, swaying along with the boat’s movement. Nausea swirled in your stomach and if you didn’t focus enough, your dinner would end up all over the bed. You could barely breathe as it was, anxiety attack still fighting its way through even after you’d sobbed in Cleo’s arms for what felt like forever. 

John B hauled himself up to sit next to you, wincing at the pull on sore spots from falling when the windshield of the helm busted on him earlier. He wasn’t quite sure how to approach this conversation, but he couldn’t let this burn a bridge between the two of you, not now.

Apparently, you were done fighting because your head dropped to rest on his shoulder and your knees pulled up to your chest as a shaky breath left your frame. John B accepted the win, moving to settle his arm across your shoulders so you could curl into his side more. 

You sniffled, tears falling slowly as you sank into your brother’s embrace. Your mind was reeling and John B was a pillar of home for you to ground yourself with. 

So the two of you stayed there, crying in each other’s hold as the boat continued to rock amongst the storm of your lives. There wasn’t a need to talk, the silence saying enough on its own. If worse came to worst, the two of you would only have each other to lean on through the nightmare your lives were slowly becoming. 

It wasn’t until Pope came to collect you, finding the two of you half asleep while sitting and explained that you’d been beached, the awkward angle of the boat confirming his words. John B stayed close as you all grabbed what was left of your belongings and jumped into the chilly waters below. 

The sunset was taunting as you swam through the water toward the sandy area ahead. The once dark and stormy clouds were bright with color, a stark contrast to how angry they had been only a short time ago.

Cleo was on her feet after finding shallow water before she was reaching down to help you stand. You shuffled through the water awkwardly, your backpack heavy against you before you hit the dune and let out a heavy sigh. Your friends scattered around you, Rafe included, as you all tried to catch your breath and bearings.

John B squeezed your shoulder lightly, mumbling that he was going to check the area for anything that would lead to Sarah and JJ. You nodded absentmindedly before shrugging off your backpack. 

Pope eventually settled on the idea of getting a campsite up and moving to help keep you all warm for the night. You followed his directions quietly, piling up the burnable items you could locate before piecing them together.

You froze as you pulled JJ’s lighter from the waterproof backpack. The P4L he’d carved in with a knife traced under your fingers like it had for years, your chest tightening at the sight of it. Biting your lip, you handed it over to Pope before you had time to linger on it.

The metal felt so familiar and fragile in his hand that Pope nearly broke down at the sight of it. He was trying really hard to keep it together, knowing you were all looking to him for some sort of guidance in some way. Reality was, one of his best friends potentially drowned in the ocean, and he wasn’t sure he could handle going through that while also searching for a treasure that was supposed to save them in the first place. 

Flames came to life shortly after, the warmth spreading around you as the five of you huddled closely. John B rejoined you shortly after, a piece of your heart breaking when he explained that he didn’t find anything at all. 

“Maybe they just washed up further down the beach,” Cleo suggested as she dug her knife into the sand, flicking the handle as she did. “We just gotta keep looking. Check in the mornin’.”

As much as you wanted to disagree, Cleo had a mind to her that was usually correct. You really had no other choice than to bundle together and try to sleep through the night. Tomorrow would be a new day and hopefully you’d start it off much better than this one. 

You stared at the sky as the stars sparkled back, mockingly. And then the night went on.

-- 

True to her word, Cleo was up and moving the next morning. After recruiting Kiara and Pope to help her catch some fish using a net she brought from the boat, you had a hodgepodge of items for breakfast.

Kiara nudged your foot when you didn’t grab anything for yourself, and she split her banana in half to hand it to you. You glanced at her, tempted to shake your head and continue without an appetite, but when she gave you a look, you admitted defeat and took the fruit from her hand. 

The only grace you were really given was that Rafe was keeping his space from all of you, claiming a patch of sand away from the group to himself. You didn’t want to act like you were all buddy buddy since he saved you from jumping overboard, but at least he didn’t throw you there himself.

“Hey.” Said boy’s voice carried your way and you looked up to see him on his feet, hands shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked at something. John B was standing too, looking in the same direction, and your heart jumped in your chest before you got up to take a glance. 

Slowly moving on one of the patches of sand surrounded by water were two figures that almost looked like ants. You could barely make anything else out since it was so far. You glanced at John B to find him already staring back. 

“Let’s go,” You offered, reaching a hand out toward him. He took it with a nod of confirmation, carefully guiding you down the steep slope of sand. Your bare feet slid every now and then with the shifting terrain before the two of you were on solid ground again. You could only walk for so long before your anxiety got the best of you and you were running, hand separating from John B just so he could keep pace next to you.

 Coming to the top of a dune, the second you caught sight of a white dress that looked like it’d been through hell, you were sprinting with a cry, leaving John B in the dust. Your brother took off shortly after, figuring your actions weren’t uncalled for.

Blinking through tears, JJ was already there to catch you, just like he always was. You slammed into him full force, a sob escaping your mouth as you held him like your life depended on it. His hand grabbed the back of your head, the other looping around your waist to hold you up against him as the two of you sobbed in relief. 

“I gotcha, baby.”

You cried at the sound of his voice, squeezing him tighter. Fingers tangling in his hair, your knees nearly gave out when he set you down before wrapping you into another hug, holding you close to his chest.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” He promised, his own hands shaking as he took in your presence. “Shit, I-”

You cut him off with a heavy kiss, tears slipping down your cheeks as you finally looked into his eyes. Your favorite color looked back at you and you swore it was the most beautiful thing you’d seen in your life. 

JJ kissed you again, arms tight around your waist as he pulled you up to your tiptoes and you giggled. “I love you.”

“I love you, holy shit,” He breathed out when you separated before kissing your forehead. “Sorry, I know I scared you and I promised I wouldn’t-”

“I don’t care,” You interrupted softly, your thumb brushing his cheekbone as you took in the sight of him, alive and breathing in front of you. “You came back, that’s what matters.”

JJ nearly cried and kissed you again, practically stealing the last bit of air from your lungs. “Where you go, I go, baby. Always.”

The two of you stood there a moment longer, holding each other like the world would break apart if you let go. You were sick to your stomach with relief and your heart was practically in your throat, but you were both here and JJ was alive, and that’s all that mattered.

“Sarah?” You gasped the girl’s name, your mind so occupied with JJ’s return that you’d missed her and you shifted in search of her.

“She’s okay,” JJ reassured, his hand rubbing across your lower back in comfort. You turned to see the blonde girl running toward you with open arms and you didn’t hesitate to meet her halfway, the two of you crying in relief as you rocked back and forth.

“Holy shit, hi,” She laughed through her tears, squeezing you tightly. 

You held her face carefully, eyes searching for any sign of discomfort as your own laugh slipped through. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, the back of her hand brushing tears off her cheeks. “You’ve got one hell of a swimmer for a fiancé, saved my ass.”

You laughed again, your hands falling to her shoulder as you glanced back to see John B and JJ hugging each other tightly. You turned back to Sarah with a smile. “Thank fuck you’re back, I cannot handle my brother on my own.”

She pulled you in for another hug, the two of you squeezing each other tightly before you felt two sets of arms join you as the boys wiggled their way in. 

“Hey, let me in here.”

“Just gonna squeeze right in.”

The four of you burst into laughter, smiles all around as you and Sarah held your boys close and thanked the stars for shining even through the dark of the night.

--

a/n: guys wtf!!!!!!! ahhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!

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[yellowjestertfs]

Spare Parts

Al untucked his shirt, then tucked it in again, then quickly untucked it before landing on a French tuck—a mix of both that suited him worse than either. He had never been so nervous about going out with his friends. In the past, he was the life of the party, staying out clubbing until the witching hours, getting drunk, and ending up in some stranger's bed the next morning. That was before he made the fatal mistake of jaywalking drunk and got hit by a bus, which flung him into the path of another bus, which sent him off a bridge and into the water, where he was run over by a boat. Honestly, it would have been a pretty comical way to die—only he didn’t die. He should have died; he broke every bone in his body and turned his organs into a smoothie. The wonders of modern medicine intervened. He still didn’t quite understand exactly how, but the doctors had used stem cells, like those regenerating cells babies have, to essentially bring him back from the dead. A miracle, yes, but even miracles had their limits. The recovery process was long and hard, and even now, recently released from medical custody, he was not the same man he’d been before the accident.

Getting hit by two buses and a boat does that to you. His face was mangled—not to the point of being monstrous, but not attractive either. His body had also suffered from the accident, practically wasting away as he recovered. While the old Al partied with abandon, this new Al was self-conscious of his appearance and absolutely terrified to cross the street. Now, he stood at the crosswalk, fidgeting with his short-sleeve button-down shirt, thinking about why he had asked an old lady to help him across. He clutched her tightly as they crossed, ready to throw her in the way if a bus came barreling toward them—luckily for both of them, none did. Despite her age and his current condition, the woman actually made a pass at him, calling him a “handsome lad” and asking if he wanted to go back to her place. It helped his confidence, if only a little, and gave him a strange tingling feeling.

Finally, after detaching himself from the woman, he reached the club. Despite the relatively early hour, the place was bumping; the bass-boosted electronic music and a flashing rainbow could be seen and heard from the outside. A quick check of his phone informed him that his friends were already inside, so he joined the short line and waited to be let in by the bouncer. As he neared the front, he realized he recognized the bouncer. Back when he frequented this place, he was friendly with the muscular man. Now, though, he doubted the man would recognize him, and he honestly hoped to keep it that way. Back then, he was sort of a legend, a position he doubted he could live up to now. As the bouncer—Rod, he thought—waved him forward, Al couldn’t help but admire the man's physique. It seemed that while Al recovered, Rod made some serious gains. His arms were particularly impressive; Al found himself feeling bad for the man’s sleeves as they tried and failed to contain his massive arms. Their sheer size was only enhanced by the web of veins that patterned the muscles. 

“ID, please,” Rod said, indeed not recognizing Al as he had predicted. Al handed over his card, suddenly realizing the picture on the ID was pre-accident.

“Had a bit of a glow-down,” Al said awkwardly, trying to flash a smile but only managing to lift one side of his mouth—the other’s nerve endings were damaged beyond repair. Rod grunted but returned Al’s ID; even despite the discrepancies in the photo, there was little doubt that Al was of age. As Rod handed back his ID, their hands touched just slightly, and for a second, Al felt a slight tingling in his upper arms. Then it was gone as quickly as it came. 

“Have fun, man,” Rod said, “and nice guns.” Al laughed at that, thinking the man was making fun of his twig arms.

He lifted his arm, expecting the usual sight of his scrawny limb. But when his gaze landed on it, his breath caught. His bicep had swollen under the skin, somehow in the span of a heartbeat his twig arms had become tree trunks. Al’s fingers traced the now firm, rounded muscle, a mix of fear and fascination flooding his mind. The sheer size and hardness of his new bicep felt both alien and irresistibly satisfying, a forbidden thrill coursing through his veins at his arms meaty massive things they now were. They looked like almost exact copies of Rod’s, only instead of the man's olive complexion, the biceps had the pale look of someone who had spent the last two years in a hospital bed.

Al felt light-headed. How was this possible? Was he having some sort of mental breakdown, a delusion? He needed to find his friends. No, he needed to find a drink. The bar was right where he remembered—just to the left of the entrance. Unlike Rod, the bouncer, he didn’t recognize the bartender—a short, slightly pudgy man who looked to be in his mid-40s, with a strong square cleft chin that didn’t particularly match the rest of his average features. Al walked up to him, trying to hide his now-massive arms to little avail. He found he couldn’t stop flexing and feeling them, equal parts concerned and turned on by the mysterious new muscles.

“I'll take a vodka soda,” Al tried to say casually, although the words came out more as a question than a request. Luckily, the night was still young enough that he managed to get the man's attention, although the fact that he wasn’t a pretty girl kept him from making small talk. As he worked, Al saw the bartender occasionally glance up at his biceps, which he had crossed in an attempt to hide them. They looked a little ridiculous with the rest of his scrawny body. Wordlessly, the bartender placed a garnish on the drink before handing it to Al. Just as with Rod, their hands innocently touched, and again Al felt a strange tingle, this time centering on his chin. Lifting the glass to his lips, Al quickly lowered it, uneasy at how strange the sensation felt. Years of drinking had made him familiar with the feel of a glass against his lips, but something felt off now. His bottom lip somehow felt more supported, stiffer. A quick exploration with his finger revealed that his chin was causing the offense. But that couldn’t be—his chin had been round and soft even before the accident. Whatever this new chin that had somehow attached itself to his face was, it felt like a block of stone, the bone protruding in a harsh, strong way completely foreign to his face. The deep cleft was also new, creating a valley in the mountain that was his chin. Pulling out his phone, he saw what his fingers had felt: his face now somehow sported a strong, masculine chin almost identical to that of the bartender.

Al wasn’t the brightest, but even he began to put the pieces together. Somehow, he was absorbing the best qualities of every person he touched. His mind raced, trying to figure out what could be causing this. The stem cells he received might be the explanation, but why now? Al needed to get out; he needed to see a doctor. Panicked, he looked for the exit only to find a crowd had congregated between the bar and the nearest door. There was no way he could make it to the other side without touching anyone. Could he risk it? 

His contemplation was cut short as a woman sauntered up to the bar, her stumbling gait indicating she was already a few drinks deep. That was hardly the most noticeable thing about her; put bluntly, she had massive boobs—the type that could never fit in a top without being the center of attention. As she stumbled her way toward the bar, she tripped on one of her own feet. Al’s eyes widened as he realized too late that her fall would take her directly toward him. He tried to move out of the way, but as she fell, her arms reached forward for support, landing on his own. For a brief second, he hoped he might absorb her winning smile, but judging by the tingling in his chest, he wasn’t so lucky. Horrified, he glanced down, expecting to see breasts pushing out of his shirt. Instead, he found different mounds there—equally large, yes, but the lumps on his chest weren’t boobs; they were too firm and square. No, instead Al had somehow gained massive pectoral muscles from his contact with the woman. Their growth had unceremoniously demolished the first three buttons of his shirt, which was having a bad day trying to contain his massive chest and arms. The muscles looked downright strange on his body, the rest of it still emaciated from the accident. In fact, Al struggled to support the weight of his new mass, his shrimpy legs and shoulders straining under the sudden load.

The woman pulled away from his arms, drunkenly apologizing before reaching out to grope one of his now-massive pecs. Luckily, no tingles followed, confirming Al’s suspicion that he could only absorb from a person once. Now, Al felt torn about what to do. On one hand, he still worried about the changes and their possible repercussions, but did he want them to stop? If he went to the doctor now and they fixed him, would he be stuck in his current disproportionate form forever? This could be a blessing—a way to heal from the damage caused by the accident, to become the ultimate version of himself—or rather, of the people around him. So far, none of the changes had been bad. Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Al scanned the room for someone with a feature he wanted to absorb. The choice became easier when a cute guy walked right past him, his clothing tight on his lean, muscular body, and he looked well-groomed. Before the accident—in fact, before tonight��Al had never paid much attention to the appearance of other men. Maybe it was the fact that he now saw their features as ones he could have, or perhaps it was something else, but for whatever reason, he found himself checking out the other men in the club, including the one walking by. On instinct, he stuck his foot out, tripping the man, their bare ankles making contact for a second in the process. The man stumbled and then turned to face Al, his face red with anger, which quickly cooled as he took in Al.

“Hey, I like your hair, dude,” he said. Al had hoped that he might absorb the guy's cute, tight ass or maybe his strong Roman nose, but his hair worked too. It was silky, thick, and coiffed attractively—definitely an improvement over his current thinning hair.

“Thanks, man,” Al said, reaching up to find that he indeed had hair identical to the man he had just tripped. 

“Do you go to Clarice?” the guy asked. The question sparked a brief conversation in which Al lied through his teeth, pretending they went to the same barber rather than admitting that he thought his stem cells had magically copied the guy's hairstyle to a tee. Eventually, Al excused himself, claiming he had seen his friends. This was true; as they chatted, Al had located his friends huddled close to the DJ booth on the dance floor. Steeling himself, he made his way over to them, trying to avoid physical contact. His efforts were only somewhat successful. An accidental brush of a college-age girl’s hand lengthened his eyelashes, while a hip bump into a man with rolled-up sleeves thickened his forearms, so his arms were now somewhat proportional. Once he reached the dance floor, however, he lost total control. Falling arms and thrusting hips assaulted him from all sides. An accidental step on a foot caused his lips to buzz as if they had momentarily fallen asleep, puffing up to appear pillowy and soft. A hand brushed across his back, causing a tingle in his shoulders, widening them and only making his progress more difficult. The elbow wedged awkwardly into the crevice of his pecs by a sheepish-looking man earned him a short, coarse beard across his jaw—a jaw that had become wider and sharper thanks to the impatient shoving of a male model behind him. Al quickly lost track of exactly what features he had gained from whom. A sudden numbness in different parts of his body was the only indication that he continued to change. At one point, a gigantic man who had to be some sort of pro basketball player moved next to Al. Al indulged himself, letting his hand “accidentally” rub against the tall man's leg and feeling his whole body lengthen. The constant shifting of the dance floor meant no one noticed Al or the way his features shifted. As he neared his friends, a twink dressed only in a leather harness and thong approached him and started to grind up against him. Even more shocking was the rock-hard abs that formed from their contact and the boner that Al inexplicably developed from the experience. The twink started to unbutton the last few remaining buttons on his shirt, and he let him, not wanting to deprive the world of his body.

At last, Al reached his friends, finally finding a pocket of relative emptiness near the loudspeakers. 

Al reached out to tap one of his friends on the arm before thinking better of it and just stood there awkwardly, waiting for them to notice him. Eventually, the song ended, and his three friends turned to face him. Only with a pang of shock did Al realize they didn’t recognize him. How could they? He had become a sort of Frankenstein’s monster of different features from the various patrons of the club. Where they expected their scrawny, balding friend fresh out of an extensive hospital stay, instead before them stood a 6’5” bodybuilder with a face, a hodgepodge of features from various people, somehow working together to give him a handsome and exotic look.

“Hey, have you seen our friend? Short, skinny, looks like he might have been hit by a bus or two,” his friend Jordan asked. It was a simple question, but for maybe the first time in two years, Al noticed not a trace of pity in his friend's voice. No, rather it was admiration. Al’s previous intentions of coming clean to his friends and seeking help melted away as he realized the opportunity he had. He could finally escape the shadow of those busses; he could have a new start.

“Nope, haven’t seen anyone like that,” he said in a voice much richer and deeper thanks to the vocal cords of some unknown stranger. 

“I’m Jordan, by the way,” his friend said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. 

“Al.” Shit. So much for a fresh start. Jordan glanced at his other two friends but didn’t say anything. Instead, one of his other friends, Sergio, grabbed Al’s hand and pulled him into their dance circle. The contact made his whole body tingle and, glancing down, he saw that his skin had darkened to the same ruddy tan as his friend's. Luckily, the flashing lights and the general darkness of the club made Al fairly sure no one noticed the transformation.

Throughout the night, he became reacquainted with his own friends and found innocent ways of making contact with each of them. From his friend Marge, he gained her show-stopping ass, the muscular butt complementing the thick thighs he had gained sometime during his mad rush. Contact with Linsey copied her perfect Barbie blonde hair. The stylish haircut and scruff he had grown sometime during the night bleached itself instantly while all his body hair, limited as it was by various tingles, turned the same gold color. His friend Jordan took a special interest in the new Al, and Al found himself reciprocating the attention, for the first time noticing just how hot his friend was. When at long last they touched, Al grabbed the man and brought him into a passionate kiss. He swore he felt tingles but couldn’t notice any change on his body. After long hours of sweaty dancing, a round of shots, and many more kisses between the two former friends, the group headed over to Jordan's apartment. Al nearly blew his cover by heading straight to his friend's door, but the excuse of “lucky guess” seemed to satisfy his non-sober companions. After a few more hours of chatting and more alcohol, everyone left but Al and Jordan.

Jordan used the classic “let me show you something in the bedroom” line, which led to more kissing and Jordan feeling up Al’s new muscular body. Eventually, as both men removed their pants, Al discovered what he had picked up from his friend. Long and thick, Al’s penis was identical to that of his lover, which Jordan seemed delighted by, claiming he had never been with someone with a tool as big as his. It took a moment for Al to get over the surprise of his friend packing so much meat and the fact that he now did as well, but once he accepted it, he used his new member to the fullest. After hours of fucking, the two fell asleep, not waking up until the afternoon the next day. Al politely said his goodbyes and awkwardly avoided giving Jordan his number, not wanting to explain why it was the same number as Jordan's sickly friend. 

Exiting the apartment, he noticed the same elderly woman from last night and to his chagrin, she once again hit on him, asking to hold his bicep while they crossed the street. When he touched her, he felt no tingles, which he thought strange until he remembered she was the first person to induce that sensation upon him last night. Could it be that he had somehow absorbed her sex drive or sexuality? Was that why he had a sudden appreciation for men? The thought amused him as he made his way to his car. But before he could dwell on it too much, his attention was abruptly pulled back to the present.

Lost in thought, he didn’t see the bus careening down the street, heading right for him. The blare of the horn hit him a second too late, and everything went black.

The next thing Al knew, he was waking up in a hospital—a horrifying déjà vu of two years ago. A young doctor stood over him, clipboard clutched in two massive, masculine hands. His eyes fluttered as he tried to make sense of his surroundings, the cold sterility of the hospital room bringing back memories of his long, painful recovery. Blearily, Al glanced down at himself. His perfect, hunky form was now a mess—bones broken, muscles flattened. All except his hands, which looked larger and callused, suspiciously identical to the doctor standing above him. It seemed that Al’s luck with public transportation hadn’t changed, but now he knew how to build himself back up. A minor setback, sure, but nothing a few spare parts wouldn’t fix.

Wrote this a while ago but thought i would post it here with images and some small edits. Not my best but think its still a fun story.

[digitalsymbiote]

Disconnect Syndrome

There’s a reason they put restrictions on how long a Pilot is supposed to be deployed out in the field. They say that being synced with a mech for long periods of time can have detrimental effects on a pilots psyche. Disconnect Syndrome is what they call it, because the symptoms don’t really start to hit until you disengage from your mech.

Sometimes emergencies happen though, and mechs are designed to be able to support their pilots long past the designated “Safe Deployment Time.” The cockpit is equipped with an array of stimulants, vitamins, and nutrient paste to help minimize the physical effects of long deployments. The onboard Integrated Mechanical Personality has largely free reign to administer these as needed to maintain its pilots well-being.

Which is why you’re still able to make it back to the hangar after roughly 36 hours, over four times longer than the established safe period. Your mech had kept you going, helped to keep the exhaustion at bay long enough for you to make your way back from behind enemy lines. You were starting to feel a bit sluggish, but you knew the worst effects of Disconnect Syndrome were yet to come.

An older man in a long white lab coat has joined the usual retinue of crew rushing into the hangar as your mech settles into its cradle. You feel the docking clamps wrap around your limbs, and you know that’s not a good sign. Your IMP whispers comfort into your brain-stem, assurances that things will be okay. It’s probably lying, it’s programmed to help keep your mental state stable, but the thought helps anyway.

There’s a hiss of air as the seal on your cockpit breaks and it decompresses. Suddenly you become aware of your flesh and meat body once again, and it hurts. Pain and exhaustion has settled into your mostly organic bones, and your organs are churning from the strain of the past 36 hours.

Then your interface cables start to disconnect, and it gets worse.

It feels like parts of your mind are being torn out of you. You feel the ghost touch of your IMP in your thoughts as the ports disconnect and you lose direct communication with it. The oxygen mask and nutrition tube pull themselves away from your face and you can’t help but let out a scream of agony. The separation has never felt this painful before, but then again, after 36 hours together, you and your IMP were more intertwined than you’ve ever been before.

Physical sensation finally starts to register again, and you realize tears are streaming down your face just as a technician jabs a needle into your neck.

Immediately your senses start to dull, the pain eases as your thoughts turn sluggish. You slump out of your pilots cradle into the arms the tech who dosed you. Just before your world goes black, you see the doctor standing over you, a grim look on his face.

--

When you wake up again, you immediately know something is wrong. You try to ping your external sensors, but you get no response. You then try to run a diagnostic, but that fails too. In a desperate, last-ditch effort, you try to force access to your external cameras and suddenly light floods your senses. Your instincts catch up first and you blink, trying to clear the pain of the lights, and that’s when you realize it’s not your external cameras that you’re seeing.

It takes a minute or two for your vision to adjust to the light, which feels too long, and when it finally does, the world doesn’t look quite right. You’ve only got access to such a limited spectrum. No infrared, no thermal. The presence of your IMP is notably absent, and your skin feels wrong. You try to sit up, and it’s a struggle to figure out the correct inputs to send to your muscles to get them to do what you want.

The harsh white light of the infirmary grates against your visual processors, you feel like you’re having to re-learn how to control this body. Your body. Technically, at least. Something doesn’t feel right about calling it that anymore. You felt more comfortable crawling back into the hangar after 36 hours deployed than you do now.

The pale skin of your body catches in your vision and you glance down at it. The body's limbs are thinner and more frail than usual, and its skin is paler. Consequences of being in the cockpit for so long, subsisting on nothing but nutrient paste. It’s a far cry from the solid metal plates of your mech, its powerful hydraulic joints, its mounted combat and communication systems.

There’s a button on the side of bed you’ve been deposited in. You think it’s red, but you’re not sure you’re processing color properly right now. You try to reach over and push it, and it takes you a moment to realize you were trying to do so with a limb you don’t currently have.

There are so many things about this body that are wrong. It’s not big enough, or strong enough, or heavy enough. You don’t have enough eyes, sensors, or processors. You have the wrong number of limbs, and they’re all the wrong size and shape.

And there is a distinct void in your mind where the presence of your IMP should be.

The door to your room opens suddenly, and you instinctively try to fire off chaff and take evasive maneuvers. None of that translates properly to your flesh and blood body though, and all that happens is you let out a dry croak from your parched throat.

The man who walks through the door is the same doctor who was present when you disengaged from your mech, and he wears the same grim look on his face as he looks you up and down. You think there’s pity in his gaze, but you can’t quite read him properly right now. The jumbled mess of your brain tells you what he’s going to say before he says it, anyway. The harshest symptoms of Disconnect Syndrome don’t hit until after the pilot has disengaged from their mech.

You’ve already heard the symptoms before, and they map perfectly onto what you’re experiencing. You never thought it would be this painful, or this… discomforting. Your mind reaches for the presence of your IMP, searching for comfort, but you are only reminded that the connection is no longer there.

The doctor gives you a rundown that he’s probably had to do dozens of times, and he tells you that you’ll be grounded for the foreseeable future. That hurts more than anything else. The knowledge that, after all this, you won’t be able to reconnect with your true body, your partner, your other half, for who knows how long.

By the time you realize you’re crying, the doctor is already gone. The longing in your chest and your mind has become unbearable, and through sheer force of will you’re able to push this unwieldy body out of bed. Walking feels wrong, but you’re able to get to your feet and make your way out of the room in an unfamiliar gait.

You have to get back to your partner, you have to make sure it’s okay.

You need to hear her voice in your head again, her reassurances.

The world isn’t right without her presence in your mind.

You stumble into the hangar almost on all fours. How you managed to make it without alerting any personnel feels like a miracle. At least until you catch the eye of a technician lounging in the corner. The look she gives you is full of sympathy, and she jerks her head in the direction of where your mech sits in its docking cradle.

She’s a majestic sight, even through your limited spectrum of vision. 20 meters tall, 6 massive limbs, and bristling with weapons and sensor arrays (all of which have been disarmed by this point).

She’s beautiful.

You clamber frantically up the chassis, easily finding handholds in a frame you know better than the back of your hand. You pull the manual release on the cockpit hatch and stumble into it in a tangle of organic limbs.

Shaking hands grasp the main interface cable from above the pilot’s chair, and you move to slot it into the port in the back of your head. You’ve never done this manually before, usually you’re locked into the chair and the system connects you automatically.

Something about doing it with your flesh and blood hands makes it feel so much more intimate.

The cable clicks into place and your eyes roll back in your head. Tears start to stream down your face as you feel the comforting presence of your IMP rush in and wrap itself around your mind. Your thoughts reach out and embrace it back, sobbing at the relief you feel from being whole once again. You realize you don’t ever want to feel the pain of disconnecting from her again.

There’s a reason they put restrictions on how long a Pilot is supposed to be deployed.

[thetxtdevil]

Orthopedics Surgeon

Doctor!Taehyun x Doctor!Reader

summary: Know it all Dr. Taehyun knows who you did last night in the on-call room. Little do you know he wants some.

content: smut, hospital setting (if you don't like anything correlating to blood and anything medical don't read), descriptions of surgery, sub/switch taehyun, switch reader (idk how I got there), nicknames are used, humping/thigh riding, hand job, classic riding, groping, condom use (yay!)

word count: 3.4k

honorable mentions: thank you @biteyoubiteme and @beomiracles for looking over this, I should kiss you for it.

“Can anyone tell me what the condition for a broken chordae tendineae is?” The cardiac surgeon asks while elbow deep in the patient’s chest cavity. The gorey scene before you was new to your young surgeon's eyes, the deep reds and pink hues, the constant rhythmic movements of the lungs and bypass of the heart was much different from a brain or an abdomen operation, and it excited you. Watching intently on what the surgeon was doing so you can replicate the techniques in your free time and even in your dreams.

The room was silent, a mixture of tired unamused faces and pale nauseous interns that didn’t answer. Either no one knows or they’re too scared to speak up, however, you raised your hand, you felt like a dork but it felt appropriate. After being ignored and given a few side glances you speak up, “Broken Heart Syndrome, sir.” You notice the surgeon faintly jolting at your voice and at the answer.

“Uhh, no,” the cardiac surgeon said strictly, “Broken Heart Syndrome is the diminishing of the cardiac muscle, the condition I was looking for was Chordae Tendineae Rupture.” Your cheeks burn red, if you weren’t sterile you would have hid your face with your hands. You try to bring yourself out of embarrassment thinking no one paid attention until a hushed chuckle forms next to you.

“And you want to be a cardiac surgeon?” Your head whips to the man next to you, a raised eyebrow above big round eyes glances at you, Dr. Kang Taehyun.

“Shut up, Bone Daddy,” you say in a low whisper making sure he was the only one who could hear the vulgar nickname. You’ve known Taehyun since your first day of internship at the hospital, he is the smartest in your class, and had his eyes on orthopedics along with the hot eligible workers. You’ve witnessed him getting close to the f-boy nurse, Yeonjun, after you told Taehyun about your accidental trip to the supply closet. Thinking he would be disgusted by the story, later you were surprised to see the doctor talking and laughing with the scrub nurse. You didn’t know what to think of Taehyun after that, a man you thought was a quiet nerdy boy was a man whore in disguise. 

So imagine how you felt when the both of you grasp a paper on the Public Information board of an apartment for sale. Internship was hard as it is, the event that happened earlier was definitely not the worst of it, adding troubles with living situations was just the cherry on top. This for sale pamphlet was a perfect opportunity to share rent with others, but you did not want to share it with Taehyun. 

“I don’t think you’re the one that is offering the apartment, so I don’t understand why you’re not letting me consider it.” Tae says as you both practically tug-of-war the paper, “come on y/n, we both need a place to stay and you know I have the best study methods, and I’ll share.”

“Yeah y/n, I don’t know why you’re so against it,” you let go of the paper to look at your best friend, Kai, he was also in the same class as you and Tae. Who you were also going to share rent with, but he was fine because he didn’t fool around, “give us one good reason why Taehyun can’t live with us.” You take a step back, looking back and forth the boys’ eyes, Kai had big hopeful eyes whereas Taehyun couldn’t care less. You did not want to tell him that the reason that you didn’t want Taehyun to live with you is because you didn’t want the possibility of him bringing anyone home and making… noises.

Rolling your eyes, “Fine, I’ll share with you, but you better pay rent on time.”

“Deal, Sweetheart.” you shiver at the nickname Tae has given you, hiding the reaction as you squint in distaste at the handsome smirk on the doctor’s face.

%%%

Years pass, the young internship days turned into years of resident chaos and now you spend your days as a full-on cardiothoracic surgeon. Yet you still share your bathroom with Kai and argue with Taehyun about not making enough coffee in the mornings.

This morning you were rushing to the hospital, you slept in from the tiring day before. Quickly changing into your seafoam green scrubs, tying your hair up, stuffing your stethoscope into your white coat while heading to the surgical floor for morning report. Walking around the desk crowded with many healthcare professionals, you make your way to Taehyun who had a counter spot open for you to put your papers.

Taehyun glances at you like everyone else did, but he was the only one to notice your strut. A slight smirk creeps his face as he notes the slight limp you have that he knows a little too well on girls. You come to the counter clicking your pen ready to write about your patients.

“Room 822, has a bit of delirium causing a higher heart rate, Room 304, has been complaining of pain but they are doing their exercises and tolerating meds…” You listen intently about your patients not noticing Taehyun’s constant glances every time you shifted weight on your feet. You are not an antsy person and Tae knows that. “What’s wrong, y/n?”

You throw a confused look at the doctor, “nothing,” you were feeling fine other than the pain you felt from being manhandled by the scrub nurse yesterday.

“Whatever you say, Sweetheart.” Taehyun has known you for years and the years of living together has added to the closeness between you two. He knows that you don’t sleep with others all that often hence the soreness you show, but he had a little secret that he was dying to inform you.

As report ends the many scrub workers disperse throughout the unit. You walk over to the coffee maker in the breakroom pouring luke-warm brown water in your disposable cup when Taehyun slides himself next to you. You feel his eyes burning holes into you as you lazily focus not to spill your life source everywhere. An exhaled “what” leaves your lips making the man fix his posture before he speaks.

“Did you have a fun time yesterday?” Your eyes widen at his question, memories flash into your head of Yeonjun abusing your pussy so good. The way his fingers felt on your folds, the sensation of his abs against your spine as he whispers and kisses your ear. “You were pretty loud, I know you don’t get out much but damn-”

You quickly lower your coffee cup to smack the man, “shut up!”

Taehyun chuckles, “I should say the same thing to you, you should be happy that my patient was loopy on drugs or else they wouldn’t think they were imagining your fuck for a lifetime.”

Mixtures of emotions fill up your insides, frustrated by the cocky smirk of Tae’s plush lips, embarrassed by the fact that you were really that loud, angry that Tae brought it up. It was one of the best fucks you’ve had but you didn’t like that your friend was condescending you. Your mind gears start turning thinking of your next course of action, “what, are you jealous?”

Taehyun’s thick brows rise, he leans his head on the frame of the door, you watch closely to the bobbing of his adams apple as he swallows his thoughts. His big eyes darken for a second before he lifts his head, “no, just keep it down next time.”

You watch the man walk away as if he just talked about work and not that he heard every detail of your dirty secret. From the side of your eye you see the scrub nurse who keeps track of the surgeries, “Nurse, what is Dr. Taehyun’s schedule today?”

%%%

Looking through the glass window that sits above the surgical room is like its some type of opera. These days the watching rooms aren’t used as much but since they are there fellow surgeons like to use the seating area for a place to chart and watch techniques to be used. You sat there doing just that, scrolling through your laptop checking on any procedures or medications needing to be ordered for your patients. Every now and then you glance down watching your friend do a total hip replacement. Your eyes linger on Taehyun and his form. He looked so cute with his golden scrub cap standing out from the neutral colors of the OR. Is it wrong to drool over the doctor's buff arms every time his tools hit hard on the bone of the patient? It amazed you how the blue gown wrapped snugly on the doctor’s body. The waistband hugged his small waist, the sleeve morphed to his muscular arms. Your friend has always been buff ever since your internship years but it seems like he has been working out harder, or is it that you’re looking at him harder.

The heart monitor sounds an alarm waking you up out of your drool-fest. Adrenaline rushes through your vessels instantly standing up to see what was going on with the patient on the table. The anesthesiologist looks at the jagged mountain shaped lines on the EKG, “signs of V-Tach, starting compressions.”

Taehyun looks stunned, not expecting such a turn of events on a simple hip replacement stepping away from the patient to not cause any additional harm, “Get the pads and set them to 100.”

A nurse drags the machine to the bed, the anesthesiologist shocks the patient, Taehyun winces seeing the slight jolt moving the incision sight of the hip, “no change.”

“Shock again at 200.”

“No change, still V-Tach, what do you want to do Doctor?”

Taehyun tells the other doctor to shock the patient again before glancing up to you. You were gone from where he last noticed you standing, before he knew it the scrub nurses got cardiac surgical supplies out and you came rushing through the sliding doors ready to be gowned and gloved.

“Why didn’t you know about this?” You say in a stern voice letting the nurse help the gown on you.

“It wasn’t noted in the chart.”

Looking over at the patient on the table it was a frail old man, “Would the heart condition derive from the operation”

“It can”

“That's why, it's probably a stress induced M.I.”

“Are you sure?”

You stop in your tracks looking up into the big boba eyes of Taehyun’s, “Do you want me to say it louder, Bone Daddy.” The silence in the room was loud, no one understood the reference only you and the other surgeon did. Taehyun bows his head, his blushed cheeks hidden under the mask. You take a step towards the patient, glancing at a displayed EKG of the heart rhythm, “yep, he’s having a heart attack, continue compressions, shock again at 200, and let's prepare for an angioplasty.”

Taehyun stands there admiring your intimidating demeanor, how pretty you looked with your scrunch up eyebrows, standing tall waiting for the patient to be prepped for your specialty. You look over at Dr. Taehyun and say, “Do you want to finish up your side of things?”

%%%

A cozy cool light casts over you as you snuggled up into the sofa watching whatever was on the TV screen. You dig around in the small white take-out box pushing aside the vegetables, looking for noodles to shove in your mouth. The front door clicks open, making you lift your head in attention to see Taehyun waddle tiredly into your guys’ shared apartment. His black hair hung into his eyes, tired body flops into a spot next to you, his whole body relaxing. Head tilting back, hands smoothing his legs that were manspreading. You grab another take-out box of chicken from the coffee table and give it to him. “Kai is on-call tonight and I didn’t know when you’ll get out of work so I just ordered–” You cut yourself off, right when you were about to reach over to get the man chopsticks, he grabs yours and licks any of your remnants off. Your eyes couldn’t care less about what was going on the TV screen. All you could focus on was your handsome friend’s sharp jaw move while chewing, and then how his pretty adams apple bounces after each swallow. 

A smirk turns his plush lips, swallowing his last bite he says, “thanks for helping me today.”

“Of course, you’d do the same for me” you giggle to yourself, “if for whatever reason a bone falls out while in the patient’s chest.” Tae smiles at your comment, your hand instinctively rubs his thigh in a comforting way but once you feel his muscle tense the mood changes.

Your fingers start to draw patterns on the man’s black slacks, “why were you hesitant before?” Taehyun’s head lifts to look at your eyes after watching your fingers, he hums inquisitively. “Why were you hesitant when I asked if you were jealous of me getting laid, are you?”

“I-” he starts getting distracted when he plays with the loose ends of your shorts, “I wouldn’t say I’m jealous, more like… thinking of what I am missing,” you hum at his confession. You both sit there trying to comprehend and decide what two want to make of this. Looking back into the big boba eyes, heat rushes up your spine, a need to also know what you’ve been missing after living with the man for so long. Like as if you could read each other's minds, when you lean your face towards Tae’s, he helps guide your leg to straddle his hips.

Your lips connect like a puzzle piece. His lips were dry and cracked from the habit of his lip-biting concentration, but it wasn’t like your saliva couldn’t help. Warmth of the smooth muscle fighting each other became an addicting game. You held onto his sweater pulling him impossibly closer to you. That same rush of heat boils down to your core making the sense of closeness start to grind down on Tae’s half hard dick. Taehyun moves his lips to your jaw and down to your neck, his ears perk when he gets a hint of your small whimper. Looking up to see you biting your lip hard as you get yourself off from the friction of his pants. “What's wrong sweetheart, let me hear you.”

You glance down at him with slight irritation that he stopped his sweet kisses. Rolling your hips harder on his hard cock presented you with the most beautiful sight of Taehyun’s eyebrows scrunching up and his lips widening letting out a moan of pleasure. His head tilts back, big hands gripping your ass like it was going to float away, he motions you harder onto him. You graze your nose against his neck relishing his homely scent that was all too familiar. Holding back the want to nibble at the skin you lift your head back to Taehyun’s plush lips. “Y/n-” you hum ignoring what he was trying to say, too addicted to the friction against your swollen clit, “ah- y/n, let's take this somewhere else.”

Still too engulfed by the man’s presence and wanting to get off just by his thighs, you didn’t answer. To your surprise, you were lifted up by the stronghold of Taehyun. Your hands reach for his shoulders holding him tight as he gets up with ease. Carrying you to his dark cold bedroom, dropping you down on his pristine white sheets, arms caging your seated position, hovering over you kissing deeply. Taehyun’s fingers dance under your shirt, “now sweetheart, I want to hear you like I’ve heard before,” he says, taking off your top along with your bra, “can you do that for me?”

His rough lips drift low to your hardening nipples making you answer with a breathy, “y-yes.”

Tae hums, satisfied with the state you’re in. He removes his shirt leaving you in awe, you’ve seen him shirtless before roaming around the house, but under the dim lighting paired with his lustful eyes, the sight made you shiver. The man walks away from you, your puppy eyes trail him watching him sit comfortably on his bed, back against his pillows. Following him to his spot, he stops you quickly tugging at your shorts. You slide them off with your panties and stand there waiting for his next request. “Sit on my thigh.”

Your cheek burns pink, bare pussy pressed against the textured material of Taehyun’s slacks. Your body instinctively starts to grind, head tilting back as excitement warms your stomach. Tae’s hands grip onto your hips helping you move, “Feel good?”

Your whine brings a smile to the man’s face, you open your eyes to get a glimpse of his canine grin. Taehyun’s smirk disappears into something more mischievous, you start to feel his leg bounce. Hands quickly grasp his shoulders keeping you stable, “A-ah T-tae-hyun!”

The man hums gripping your love handles harder, “Do you like how my thighs feel? Are you going to cum just by my thighs alone, sweetheart?” You try to nod but the quick movements mixed with your building up orgasm makes it hard to think. “Use your words, love.”

You’re gasping to do so, the friction in between your legs were overstimulating as it is. Once you feel his thumb snaking down to your clit it’s over for you. “F-feels good, fuck!” You cum on his black slacks, falling onto Taehyun’s shoulder. Exhausted but reality hits when you feel the man shifting under you. Leaving small pecks against his neck while reaching down to palm his aching dick. You note that way he whines and tilts his head at your lips on the sensitive part of his neck. “Let me help you please.”

Taehyun chuckles, “well since you asked so nicely.”

Both of you struggle to lower the man’s pants resulting in his dick slapping against his abdomen. You stop for a moment, eyes glued to his veiny thick cock waiting patiently for your attention. Your dainty surgeon hands cautiously wrap around him feeling every bump and ridge to have Tae jerk his hips up. “Taehyun, or should I say Bone Daddy,” the man hums in response, concentrating so hard not to release by your little movements, “where are your condoms?”

“T-there in the ah-” like butter, he melts into your hands, “in the nightstand.”

Multitasking with one hand tending to the man’s dick and the other reaching for a condom out of the drawer. You grin while tearing the condom packet open. You’re amazed at how his aura changed, he can’t be like this with other girls. How can the man in front of you, no more than a needy boytoy, be the one to make those visitors scream so loudly you had to purposely walk in on them to tell them to keep it down. “So Bone Daddy, do you always crumble for pretty girls like me?” You lean in towards his ear, biting the lobe gently noticing the faint shiver of sensitivity while rolling the condom on. Taehyun’s hands quickly get a hold of your hips as you lift them thinking you’re moving away. You chuckle, as a hand lines his cock to your cunt while the other lovingly rubs the nape of Tae’s neck. You sink down slowly, easing into the pain of the stretch he gives you. A grunt of Tae’s contemptment paired with a snap of his impatient hips upwards. Legs working overtime to match his pace, Taehyun finally has the power to admit, “Something about a pretty surgeon riding my cock while giving my neck kisses just does it for me.”

A smile forms on your face, taking what he said as a sign to leave more pecks on the column of his neck. Your lips push down to where his carotid artery is, feeling the harsh pulse, and fast rate. His hips snap up right to your g-spot as you do this, resulting in your attention to his neck to falter, moaning out. Your eyes roll to the back of your head consumed by his tip kissing your cervix. Tae’s hands grope the flesh of your ass as another snakes up to play with your nipple. A cute grin displayed on the man’s face once again making you scream under his touch. The stutter of his hips signals you to bounce faster reaching both of your highs. 

Both of you panting, hooked to one another, feeling each other's heart beats. “Do you still feel like you’re missing out, Bone Daddy?”

“Mmm I think I need to hear you again, sweetheart.”

A nuisance,

TxT's Devil 🩺

taglist: @naoristerling, @inkigayocamman

[vyainide]

ㅤㅤㅤ౨ৎ law, luffy & foreplay

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ2024 ©1864RERUNS

includingㅤ━ㅤtrafalgar d. law, monkey d. luffy

tag(s)&warning(s). gn! reader, description of the body remains neutral, slightly suggestive, subtle body worship, reader refers to their heart with "she/her" in law's, law does some real freak shit (take reader's heart), reader reciprocates his freak, luffy is a different kind of freak

from vyon. this is not about lust, this is about love 😝

law knows the human body as well as any other doctor out there— maybe even more so, when he knows something, he knows it to its very end after all. basic human anatomy has always been easy— skin, epidermis, dermis, hypodermis, flesh, muscle, sinew, bones, tendons, whatever— all methodically connected so that when you feel a burn at your fingertips, your entire arm knows to jerk back from the harm. 

but this wasn't law regarding your body in its physicality as a doctor, no, this was him playing worship. his knuckles running over your side where no one (not even yourself) has made a habit of touching just to see an earthquake rumble through your stomach, thunder deep in your flesh where you lay— underneath law, who was still standing by the bed, thighs pressed into the edge of the mattress. an impressive faraway look painted over the hull of his face, like he’d broken away the part of your body that made it yours and was assessing his own handiwork under a suspecting eye. lighting a motion of fire over a stitch of skin, undeniably immobile.

“so,” you begin, your voice light as your ribs shiver away from his touch. “good enough for a textbook?” you called out, suddenly whipping him back into the absurd moment with just your voice, airy and light in its teasing.

there’s some tired amusement on his face, exchanging the awkward hovering over you for settling his knee in between your thighs and then— leaning his weight forward when you shift back, taking your movement as a subtle invitation. “no,” he breathed. “better,” he admits before he sees spluttering faux heartbreak turn over your features.

pleasantly embarrassed, you turn your head up to look at him, eyes wide; everything you do is beckoning at the point, a narcotic transmitter that makes his muscles lurch in preparation for lucid piety.

his hands press over your cheeks, eyes burnt with ichor trace your features slowly. his thumbs brushed over the fat under your eyes, the rest of his fingers spread out, his pinky at the side of your neck, middle finger on your ear, and everything else in–between. your hair is uncomfortably pressed against the side of your face with the way he's holding you but it's not in you to complain when law leans down.

then he turns his lips onto you like he just wants them there, a light barrage of nudges and nips, no more than that despite your attempts. when you part your lips, law turns his attention elsewhere and you open your eyes to glare at him.

law, however, has his head lowered. it forces your neck to crane down awkwardly, your chin just about touching his hair as you furrow your eyebrows to really look at law. he bends his head down and presses a kiss over the fabric of your shirt where your sternum is. suddenly, it's strange. you realise it's the angle. law's never lowered himself to you consciously; you've never been allowed to see this kind of weakness in your captain.

you can see the hardened furrow of his eyebrows, the curl of his lashes, the cupid's bow of his mean lips as he pressed his thumb over where they've just kissed, the curve of his bow, the shoulders that you're so used to seeing pulled back curled in towards you. it's all too unusual, seeing law folded over like this, a nagging haunt in his bones and every move he makes like desperation's hypnic jerk. he continues dragging his hand over the stretch of your skin, the shirt you had on pushed all the way up to lay across your collarbones as he unearthed the flood; a man reserved to quiet loving— that’s what you can see in law.

he’s no stranger to love, but it can’t quite behave on his tongue. a language that’s grown old and foreign to him, translated as best it could be into a stilly retelling; it’s all his hands now, best spoken through firm gesticulation and motions. that’s what makes him the best at this. his hand over your heart, “room,” you hear. and then, “shambles.”

by the time you're up to speed, you realise that it's your heart in his palm. you watch, two parts in morbid curiosity and a final part in pure interest, as law's eyes turned back to you, unwavering, and then how he brings the boxed heart up to his face. his tongue pressed against the humming blue barrier your heart is locked into, it's obscene and dirty and still, you can't look away. his tongue held against one edge, dragging upwards until it finishes the length of the side, then he gently places a kiss over the top.

“oh,” a sort of strangled gasp leaves you. there’s really nothing else to say, nothing else that needs to be said because your heart starts speeding up in his palm. you point a finger at the heart, “can i have her back?” you ask, like it wasn’t yours to begin with. “she’s embarrassing me.”

law’s lips turned upwards, his teeth peeking through chapped lips. “she’s doing great.” he dismisses easily, stroking his thumb over the heart; you wonder if sensations still carry through to when law uses his devil fruit. you can feel the itch like a phantom limb, a dizzying sensation that feels like the callous on his fingers are turning over your skin.

he doesn’t listen to you— doesn’t have to— his room eases down, blue spluttering over your vision and he leaves your heart beside your head. like a hesitant worshipper that's finally being indoctrinated, his god for the taking, ready to forgive. his hands are first to feel the tender raw of forgiveness, brushing up your side and his lips fall onto your stomach as your shirt shifts. you can only watch, entranced. your stomach shivers inwards at the heat of his mouth, his nose bruising a desire path underneath your ribs— this was the kind of worship that would have urged god to open again the gates of eden.

you're wholly disturbed at the sight but your heart— your damn heart that's still sitting beside your head, ripe and raw, is only speeding up, banging on impossibly loud beside your head like a mantra. for reasons unbeknownst to yourself, instead of watching law touch you, you stare at your heart, kicking and burning alive to an ember with every turn of his wrist, every curve of his nails, every path he carves with his touch first before he turns down his lips to the ripe fruit underneath the skin he'd peeled back.

never patient enough for it and usually not so interested, you're just lucky that luffy likes to see the state he leaves you during foreplay. when he's in one of his moods, he just about brushes over the basic points of foreplay quick as he can— it's not to say he doesn't care about your pleasure, sometimes he's just so wound up that he needs immediate gratification and dragging on foreplay only makes it worse. it was like in drum island when, only after looking at the clothes he was wearing, he realised that he was actually cold. anyway, he's never one to savour, he takes what he pleases and if it isn't enough, he'll demand more and to blame a pirate for being a pirate— well, you've never been so petty.

in harsh truth, luffy's servitude is sometimes hard to remove from vulgarity, his kindness soaked in a criminal selfishness. his hands run over your skin in a ritualistic manner, he uses his palm to touch rather than his fingers, pressing against an expanse of skin with the butt of his hand and then dragging his fingers down across the skin he's seared.

strikingly slow and detailed for someone like luffy— he adds some weight as they press over the canyons of your ribs, just under your breast like he might be able to smooth it down to keep it as a roof over his head, create a home out of your flesh and burrow there come winter. then, he smacks his lips like there's the haunting taste of you on his tongue— catches his tongue between his teeth, furrows his eyebrows and then comes to the realisation that he hasn't kissed you yet. it's your fault, apparently, based on the way he's glaring at you.

"what now?" you sigh, exasperated because only a few seconds ago, you had squirmed away from his touch and he'd made a fuss over that too. your hands are tucked into the ends of his denim shorts, idly brushing back and forth as he's straddling your lap.

he pushes his hands down to your waist and squeezes the fat there, "you distracted me!"

you're buried under his every heavy action, no memory of ever doing so, but you defer. "uh huh, sorry captain, what'd i distract you from?"

"kissing!" he jerks forward, his hammock swinging abruptly from his move and whatever scold you have on your lips is devoured whole by luffy. teeth, tongue, spit— it's like he eats; slurping up the skin that crawls from you, hands on your shoulders and holding you down like you're the enemy. it's erratic, just as you think you're catching up to luffy, he changes the tempo; he does as he likes and you only follow as best you can. he searches through your mouth like if he’d stayed there long enough, he’d be rewarded and pull away with a pearl. when he finally does so, he stares at your lips for a second, watching them glisten in the dark lights; he turns his head, places his tongue over your mouth and licks from one corner to the other like a dog and smacks his lips again like he's wine tasting.

at that point, you can’t stop yourself from asking even though you know the answer will undoubtedly make you cringe. “lufs,” he hummed, “did you brush your teeth this morning?”

he stops moving, his face buried in the dip of your stomach and near your bellybutton— his eyes look up at you, wide before his lips pulled together and he resolutely looks away. "yeah, uh–huh, i did."

that's a no, you sigh. "and last night?"

"totally, brushed 'em so hard!" a whistle in his tone with his lips puckered from the lies. "anyways, shush!"

it's a childish command but a command nonetheless so you suck it up and your head falls back down. turning away the thoughts of luffy's very concerning personal hygiene should not be as easy as it is; for a man who finds his intentions after his body's already moving, he touches like it's been a life–long plan of his to do so. your skin squelches when luffy's teeth scrape over the jumps of your ribs, a sickly sweet that only comes from rotting fruit under his tongue; he hums, happy and content.

his touch burns, sticky like the sun is melting down into your skin; you know it's going to scar, there's going to be a part of your flesh that's going to run a little lighter than the rest. he opens windows in your body, turning it into a haunted house that his love will forever lurk in; his tongue drags a new colour onto walls, nails tearing down at the wallpapers, pushing around furniture— doing as he liked.

never quiet about it either, always murmuring things to your skin like he's talking to it with the intention of keeping you ignorant— some kind of praise that makes your head weigh heavy; a flawed movement full of unbridled freedom as his mouth opens over your side and he leaves the markings of his teeth wherever he can.

[fanbasetwo]

anton who's hired by your mother as a family doctor and has a spicy crush on you 🫦

Ꮺ . , MEDICINES FOR THE YOUNG , L.CY !

sena’s note ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 made this a drabble instead so that I could focus on other asks, thank you for requesting anon <3

You had recently decided to visit your hometown—a quiet place by the coast. The air was cool and refreshing, but even as you settled back in, you found yourself longing to leave again.

When you arrived, you weren’t expecting much company. That changed when you met Anton—or Chanyoung, as your mother called him. He was staying at your house because your mom had hired him as the family doctor. And while you greeted him politely, something about him felt off.

Anton was only a couple of years older than you, with an easy charm that seemed to win over your family in no time. Your mother especially adored him, maybe even more than she did you. No matter how much you insisted that your family didn’t need a live-in doctor, your mom wouldn’t hear it. Anton had already claimed his place in her heart.

At first, you just brushed it off. But after spending a couple of weeks around him, you started noticing things. The way his presence made your heart race, how you’d catch yourself glancing his way when he wasn’t looking. He was annoyingly attractive—lean, toned, with muscles that were hard to ignore, especially when water glistened on his skin after he worked out.

You hated to admit it, but he was magnetic. And while you resented how easily he fit into your family, you couldn’t stop your thoughts from wandering.

What you didn’t realize was that Anton noticed everything. The way your voice softened sometimes when you spoke to him, or how you’d come up with excuses to be near him. He’d never cross a line—always keeping his touches casual, fleeting, and respectful—but there was an unspoken tension neither of you could deny.

“Anton? Are you in there?” you called, knocking on his door harder than necessary. Your irritation was obvious, though you weren’t sure if it was directed at him or yourself.

You knocked again, your voice sharper this time. “Lee Chanyoung! Mom’s calling you for dinner! Get your ass out here already.”

As your voice echoed through the hallway, Anton sat behind the door, frozen for a moment. There was a flicker of guilt in his chest, but he couldn't deny the heat your words stirred in him. You had no idea the effect you had on him, and he was determined to keep it that way. For now.

Unbeknownst to you, Anton struggled to stifle a guttural moan that rumbled deep in his chest. His hand pumped furiously up and down his rock-hard, throbbing cock, the swollen shaft twitching with need. Beads of pre-cum leaked from the flushed, angry red tip, staining the front of his black pants a telltale white.

He couldn't help but close his eyes and imagine you. The way you moved, the sound of your voice—it all set his body on fire, consumed by a lust he could barely contain. As a gentleman, he knew he shouldn't feel this way, shouldn't want you with such desperate, aching hunger. But fuck, he did.

Struggling to maintain control, he watch as his own hand worked faster, tighter, squeezing his shaft with a firm and tight grip. His hips bucked into his fist, seeking more friction, more pleasure. The wet spot on his pants grew, spreading like a map of his growing arousal.

Each word that fell from your lips was like a match to gasoline, igniting a blaze of desire in his cock. He didn't want you to leave, not now, not ever. The thought of you departing in just a week filled him with a desperate ache, a longing he couldn't put into words. And yet he knew, he'd have to let go.

God, how he wished he could tell you, could confess the depths of his craving. But he knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that revealing his true feelings would only lead to ruin. He couldn't taint his reputation, his carefully crafted profession and image, for a silly little crush. So the poor guy would have to just digest it all with his own medicine to soothe his young desires.

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© fanbasetwo | tumblr

[nonstoplover]

all of my heart ~ carlos sainz (cs55)

my masterlist | my f1 masterlist

pairing: carlos sainz jr. x fem!reader

summary: a short story of carlos becoming a father

words: 2K

warnings: one tiny swear word in spanish ig, otherwise nothing, just fluff fluff fluff and dad!carlos which deserves its own warning tbh

a/n: i know you love the dad!driver trope, @vetteltea, which is why i dedicate this blurb to you (though i think you'd maybe prefer this to be with seb now that i think about it), as a thank you for all the amazing fanfic you provide this fandom with. i love you so much, you're so talented, so inspiring, and i truly wish to be like you. <33

please, don't be a ghost reader, leave a comment or rb!

Carlos is still a little out of breath when he hears it for the first time.

A delayed red-eye flight and an excruciating traffic jam caused him to almost miss this appointment. The first he finally has the chance to attend – having had a race when the initial one happened –, and he almost missed it.

As a drop of sweat rolls down the side of his face, obvious sign of how only seconds ago he was still running up the stairs of the hospital, a smile forms on his lips. Looking at her, lying down, the screen beside the bed showing a picture of their baby.

Well, at least they say it's that. For the love of God, Carlos can't see anything on it. He still nods along with a wide smile when the nurse asks him if he sees it. The focus shouldn't be on him and whether he can see it or not, but on his girlfriend.

God, this woman. He hasn't seen her in over a month now. And this is how they meet again: when they meet the little one officially as well, though on a screen only. Hell, the last time he saw her, they had no clue of this wonderful piece of news. From watching her wave with a smile through the glass at the airport, before he turned a corner towards his flight and disappeared, fast forward to now, when he catches sight of her lying form, just as gorgeous as ever, if not more, with a baby growing inside her. A creation by him and her.

They're gonna have a child, Carlos thinks, and as if it's the first time he realises this, his heart stops for a second. In happiness, in awe, in fear.

Because as the image on the screen gets displayed, and Carlos gets lost in-between words like embryo and transvaginal scan, suddenly the doctor announces that the baby indeed has a heartbeat, listen, you can hear it. And this one sentence, followed by the almost inaudible little thuds, is enough to make everything feel real.

Of course, he already knew what the positive pregnancy test meant, the one she showed him first on a FaceTime call, then sent as a separate picture later. But this, hearing that tiny heartbeat, it made everything even more real. They had actual proof now of what is going to happen in the near future. It might not have been planned, but it doesn't make it any less sweeter.

With his heart beating away in a rapid rhythm, he feels his facial muscles pull as his lips curve into a smile, so wide that it even showcases his pearly white teeth.

When he sees her the next time, the first thing Carlos does is place his palm against her tummy. The bump is already visible – well not in the hoodie she's currently wearing, but it's there underneath, he knows –, and he's been dreaming about holding it for many, many days now.

She lets out a giggle, throwing her head back a little, having expected a kiss upon her arrival, not this. Carlos practically doesn't pay her any attention, his sole focus is on talking with his baby.

Later on in the car she inquires jokingly the reason behind why she's not the first to be greeted by him, and he explains with a serious tone why that's the priority. "You get all this time to speak to her and bond with her, and she's already inside you which is a bonus, but she has to know exactly who her father is."

"She, huh?" she raises a teasing eyebrow, and he simply smiles, shrugging in a nonchalant way.

"I can feel it in my bones."

He looks so self-assured that she can't help but lean in and press her lips against his cheek. She still can't believe she'll get to have a kid with this man.

Doubt starts rising in his mind when they reach the third trimester. The date underlined in bright red in his calendar creeping closer and closer, making him more self-conscious and unsure than he's ever felt.

What if he won't be a good father? What if his job gets in the way of his child really feeling close to him? What is he supposed to do anyway? He already has no idea what he's doing in this whole pregnancy, safe to say, how is it going to be when he finally gets to hold the baby as well?

He's read multiple long articles, spending every flight he's had to take nose deep in his phone, until his eyes hurt and words started to lose their meaning. He wants to be the best father he can be.

This even includes several calls to his parents, asking for advice from them as well, trusting and valuing their words far more than the ones he can find online. He knows that his parents proved already that their methods work, they've been good parents to him and his siblings.

Still, the only thing that seems to reassure him is that they – the baby and him – have her. His superwoman of a girlfriend, who simply seems like she was actually born to do this, to be a mother, taking every obstacle in their way with a cheerful step and a smile reaching from ear to ear on her face.

How did he deserve her?

As he's gritting his teeth to stop himself from letting out a groan while the pain he's feeling in his hand spreads – mierda, this woman is strong – he repeats one sentence as a mantra. Only to keep him from worrying his heart out for the love of his life, who's currently letting out loud gasps and occasional curses, her eyes teary and her cheeks red from the strain of pushing and pushing and pushing.

I hope the baby looks like her.

Why is this so important to him? He has no idea. He doesn't even know why the thought popped into his mind in the first place. He just knows he has to keep on repeating it to divert his mind, otherwise he'll lose his sanity.

Simply, he has to focus on picturing a baby with her eyes, her hair colour, the elegant line of her nose, the curve of her lips, her rosy cheeks. Every inch of their baby looking like a mini-her. Because what would be better than looking at his girlfriend and marvel at her beauty? Of course, looking at her and his daughter, and seeing the exact same beauty? Sure, it would be nice to have a tiny detail of him in their baby girl somewhere, just so that it would be obvious to the whole wide world that this is his baby, that the woman giving birth to her now is his woman. Maybe the exact copy of his eye colour? Or his locks of hair, silky and thick? It doesn't matter. Honestly, who cares about how she looks, he will love her no matter what. With his whole heart, with more love, a deeper connection than he's ever felt before.

Minutes pass, then some more, until it feels like an eternity has gone by since they arrived to the hospital. But then he hears it – crying. The unmistakable baby sound, entering the haze of his mind like a sharp knife, bringing him back to reality in a millisecond.

Everything seems to quicken up, and the next thing he knows is that the bundle of his child is placed in his arms, and after that initial wave of slightly terrified chills running through his body, immediately a mixture of relief, joy and tranquility spreads in his veins. He has no idea why he was so scared this whole time. This is... subconscious. Instinctive. Meant to be.

In that very moment he wordlessly promises the baby to always be there for her, always looking out for her, always caring and loving her with all of his heart. He won't let any harm ever reach her.

"Congratulations, Mr. Sainz, on the birth of your son," the doctor approaches him, and that last word bursts the bubble Carlos has been surrounded with.

Son?

His eyes widen, lips fall slightly open in shock – right until he hears the exhausted sounding but unmistakable giggle coming from the bed. "I told you," she grins.

"A boy," he mumbles dreamily, glancing at his girlfriend, lips curving into a smile matching hers.

"Good thing I came prepared with boy names as well," she continues, slight pants leaving her lungs still.

The memory when she practically wanted to force him into choosing a male name as well, just in case – because he was so sure about their baby being a girl that he didn't even want to spend a moment thinking about names for the other sex –, pops into his mind, and he shakes his head. He was wrong.

Tiny feet patter on the floor, growing louder and louder, before a second later they suddenly cease and get replaced by a high-pitched giggle.

She glances up just as Carlos appears in the doorway to the kitchen, their son hanging from his arms, his little cheeks red from all the laughter. Her heart swells at the sight and sounds, her eyes shine bright, connecting with his easily – the love of her life.

Miracle. That's what the little boy is in their lives.

Watching Carlos be a father has been the best thing she's ever had the chance to witness. The way he plays with him, practically going back to being a child, his sole focus being on entertaining his son.

The Sainz household they established not too long ago is filled with laughter every day, the walls reverberating with the joyous sounds until they fill their hearts.

"When's dinner ready, mi amor?" Carlos leans in, pressing a loving kiss on her temple.

She cheerfully smiles, her fingers moving to caress the impossibly soft, dark brown hair on the little boy's head. "A few minutes," she replies, catching her fiancé's eyes once more. "If you two help me set the table, we can eat sooner."

Her son nods eagerly, as much as his three-year-old energy allows, and waves his tiny arms to wordlessly tell his father to put him down on the ground. Carlos obeys, then opens the cupboard to find the appropriate plates – all plastic, reserved for the times when it's only the three of them eating, to allow the young one to help them without the worry of him breaking anything.

She watches from the corner of her eyes as her two boys move towards the dining table, where Carlos lifts their son to stand on a chair, this way allowing him to reach the tabletop. His hands never leave the boy's waist, just in case, and when he's finished setting the plates, helps him back on the ground.

"Good job, chiquito," Carlos holds his palm out at the proper height.

"Gracias, papá," the little one slaps into his father's hand eagerly, making his mother smile so wide it's close to actually hurt the muscles in her cheeks.

They walk back to the kitchen counter with proud looks on their faces, and she places the bowl of salad in Carlos' hands. "It's too heavy for you, pumpkin," she explains when her son opens his mouth to complain.

"Te adoro," Carlos steals a melting kiss from her lips as his fingers get a hold of the bowl, before leaning back and fully taking it from her. I adore you.

With her heart fluttering with nothing but pure happiness and blood rushing to her face, she enjoys the way that bashful smile forms on her lips that only he can achieve. Her gaze follows his movements, the way the T-shirt clings to his arms, to his back muscles, and how the soft material ripples with every move he makes. He is breathtaking. He truly is, because unawares, she lets out a soft gasp watching him and has to endure the knowing glance and that smirk he casts her way above his shoulder. He knows her too well.

She shakes her head, attention going back to her son still standing by her feet, patiently waiting for his next task. A perfect mini-him, way more than she could've ever asked for.

A perfect child, a perfect man to call the love of her life, a perfect life. And it's all hers.

a/n: i'm back baby!! i've been gone for the longest time ever (since last summer) but i'm in my final year of uni and i had to write my thesis too so hopefully that's a good enough excuse. writer's block ain't fun still. it really just feels nice to post something again.

my masterlist | my f1 masterlist

[lovemybluebully]

It's For Science

This is just a little something I scrounged together, inspired by a post by @snugglyfluffle 😊

https://www.tumblr.com/snugglyfluffle/761535277842022400/since-logan-has-a-shorter-waist-then-wade-does-do?source=share

Damn, writer's block has been a biiiiiitch. I wrote a lot of this in the later hours of the night after my long workdays so sorry if it's nothing spectacular, or if there's any spelling/grammatical errors. 

Wade gets it into his head that maybe not all humans have the same number of rib bones. His logic being that since Logan has a shorter body then he may be an exception. Unfortunately for Logan this is far too ticklish of an experiment for him to bear.

A small bit of ticklish!deadpool at the end too. 😉

Warnings for foul language and other Deadpool-type stuff.

"Deadpool and Wolverine"-verse

M/M Tickle Fic

Word Count: 4,234

"The skeletal system is comprised of bones that give structure to the body and work with the muscles and joints to provide movement. The human body contains 206 bones….," the certified doctor on the television explained as he gestured to a replica model human skeleton while Wade sat watching on the couch.

"207 if I'm watching Gossip Girl, hehehe. Shit, I already made that joke in the movie. Well it's still true anyhow, am I right?" Wade snorted a laugh as he turned from his position on the couch with his hand up for a high-five, but found his roommate leaned back in the couch with his eyes closed and his hands on his lap.

It had been a nice lazy afternoon for the two of them and Logan had KO'ed quite a few beers as the monotone voice of the television host was making him doze off.

"Pssht! Old man can't stay awake for five minutes," Wade waved him off as he turned back to the tv.

"The ribcage has an important job in providing protection to some of the most vital organs being the lungs and the heart. There are 12 ribs on each side, making 24 in total…"

The merc blinked in curiosity as he sat up tall and now slowly began to feel up each side of his body to count the ribs within, having to dig in pretty thoroughly to get through the muscle.

"Hmm I'm only feeling 20 here….," he rechecked to be sure, finding all the ones leading up to his collarbone.

"The 11th and 12th pair of ribs are called 'floating ribs' because unlike all the others they are not attached to the sternum but are still attached to the backbone….," the doctor went on as he pointed to two pairs of ribs on the back area of the skeleton.

Wade's hands wound around to his lower back and found the missing pairs right where the doctor said they'd be.

"Huh. What do you know, he's right. I mean, duh!" He bopped himself on the forehead, "Of course he's right. He's a fucking doctor. Hey Wolvie, you're missing some interesting stuff here."

"Mmph," Logan only grunted in response, not even hearing what Wade had actually said as he started to drift further into fully passing out.

Wade then had a thought pop into his mind as he looked over at his near-comatose friend. Logan's torso was a lot shorter than his own so he wondered if it was true that all humans had the same number of ribs. The doc hadn't specified if it was possible to have less and Wade's hyper mind needed an answer right away.

"Hmm. I suppose I could just Google it to find out for sure, but nah! I prefer to do my own field study. Plus you all need a fun little fic to read, and I know Logan won't mind if it tickles just a teensy little bit. Commence Operation How-Many-Ribs-Does-A-Wolverine-Have."

He slid over and wiggled his fingers up in the air before placing them on the bottom of Logan's ribcage, pressing in gently to feel the first two ribs as the man immediately jumped and blinked his eyes open in a groggy daze.

"Whatistha….Wade? What-heheh-What're you doin'?" He batted at Wade's hands with very little accuracy from being half-asleep, giggles escaping him as the fingers moved up to the next set of ribs.

"Well if you had stayed awake Peanut, you would have seen this educational program I've been watching about the human body. They say there are 24 ribs in a human, but I was curious if it applied to all body heights. Being that you're a little shorter than me I wanted to see if you had the same," Wade explained his current lunacy as Logan started to wake up a little more though it took him a moment to really process everything that had been said.

"Huh? The fuck are ya-eheheheehee-Ribs? Course I do, dipshihihit. Now stohahahop it," he was unsuccessful in trying to block out Wade's hands as they continued up his sides.

"I sure will. Once I have verified the facts. Though I'm pretty sure this would go a lot quicker if you would just hold still," Wade smirked big time, knowing there was absolutely no way Logan could ever stay still for something like this when his torso was so ridiculously sensitive, "Okay looks like that's number 5…..and oh, there's 6…."

"How abohohout I c-count your teeheeheeheeth after I knohohock 'em outta your fuhuhuhucking head?" Logan chuckled hard, taking a half-hearted and easily dodge-able swing with his fist towards Wade.

"Don't threaten me with a good time, muffin cakes. Come on, this is a fun game. At least smile, would ya?" Wade teased, looking down at his friend while increasing the speed that his fingers wiggled around against his sides.

The X-man's grin had lit up his normally stoic face while he made many attempts to shove Wade's arms away, but those nimble fingers were practically glued to his sides.

"Of ahahahall the stuhuhuhupid-Eeeheheheheheheh! Stahahahap, ya mohohohoron! Thehehehey're all thehehehere!" Logan was giggling uncontrollably and sinking back into the couch cushions, trying to will his body to phase through and escape but there was only so much give that he was allowed.

Truthfully after the relaxing day he'd had and the keg of beer in his belly he found that he wasn't too bothered about Wade waking him up with his dumb experiment.

"How can I be certain? Got any proof? Any reliable witnesses to corroborate your case? Hmm? Perhaps you have an x-ray of your body to show me? A scientific essay conducted by a world renowned researcher? Any of those would be acceptable."

Logan obviously could only shake his head.

"N-Nohohohohoo, buhut I can cuhuhut myself opehehehen and-ahahahahaa-you cahahahan loohoohook for yoursehehehelf!" He released one claw from his hand as Wade gasped in horror and quickly grabbed his wrist to pin it to the couch with his knee.

"Ohhh no you don't. You're crazy if you think I'm gonna allow my precious little badger to cause himself any harm. Besides my method is way less messy. Just wish I knew why you find it to be so funny," he stated, playing dumb as Logan attempted to growl through his giggles, though the intimidation factor was completely lost.

"Yohohohou f-fucking knohow why I'm lahahahahaughin', ya ihihihihidiot!" He retracted the sharp blade back into his body, trying to squirm free, "Now gehehehet outta thehehehere, ohohor ehehehelse!"

The threats were in full effect, but the claws remained sheathed.

Wade recognized that Logan was in a more light-hearted mood than normal, and he wasn't going to let it go to waste. If he had woken up with murder on his mind then Wade might have been more inclined to back off sooner. But now that he had the green light it was on!

"Or else what? Doesn't seem like you're trying too hard to stop me," he called his bluff and grinned at how the man weakly pulled at his wrists with his one free hand and was trying to curl up in defense.

He knew Logan would be fighting him a lot harder than this if he was really as disagreeable as he wanted him to think.

Actually, Wolverine had a little secret he was keeping. He would die before admitting it out loud, but there were times he found that he actually enjoyed this. Yes, enjoyed getting tickled within an inch of his life.

Definitely not at first though. And to fully grasp the situation we'll have to rewind the story just a…

"Aw nohohoo bub! Thehehey don't neeheed to hehehear all o' thahahat!"

Wade's heart skipped a beat as he gasped in excitement.

"Oh em gee! Your first fourth wall break! I'm so fucking proud of you!"

Shush, we're doing this.

Anyways Logan couldn't remember ever being tickled before so the day Wade had discovered that he was in fact quite ticklish he did everything in his power to fight him off and avoid it altogether. Wade wouldn't back off though and inevitably got him pinned down, even though it resulted in several stab wounds to his head and torso.

Having been alive for over 200 years Logan was very used to experiencing pain of some of the highest levels physically and mentally, but tickling was something very alien to him. Not surprisingly he struggled with processing the maddening, yet gentle touches.

He didn't like to show any signs of weaknesses, but being tickled completely overwhelmed his heightened senses, especially in the touch department, and it was impossible for him to not react to it. There had been feelings of anger and humiliation at how easily simple fingers were able to render him powerless, and it only got worse once he finally broke into agonized laughter.

Logan hated the feeling of not having control, especially over his own body. Once he had managed to break free, he had been extremely cross with Wade and went into one of his brooding moods for the majority of the day.

After giving him time to cool off, Wade eventually approached him to apologize, and Logan shrugged it off now that his temper had died down. Though he had been working on trying to better himself and he explained to Wade what it had made him feel and why he had reacted so strongly against it.

Wolverine being vulnerable enough to share his feelings with him was one of the only times Wade was ever completely serious and really gave his full attention. Despite getting a kick out of always annoying him Wade never wanted to cause him true stress and it made him feel like a real asshole when Logan ended up apologizing to him too.

Wade promised to never do it to him again but added that he just got carried away due to the fact that he really liked seeing Logan not only smile but laugh especially. Logan had become utterly stupefied by that confession. He thought Wade had only been trying to torment and embarrass him, which was what had really set him off.

He had then taken the next few days to reflect on that. He could definitely empathize with how good it felt to see someone you really cared about experiencing joy. Knowing that Wade's intentions were far from malicious had really put his mind at ease about it, realizing that his pride had gotten the better of him.

And the more he thought back on it it really wasn't that bad.

Which was why Wade's squawk of surprise when Logan tackled him from out of nowhere to attack his sides with tickles gave Logan the same fuzzy feeling he assumed Wade had had. Wade not only was laughing from the tickling, but from relief as well, realizing that he'd been unspokenly forgiven.

He didn't even fight it and just let Logan tickle him to his heart's content until finally the man stopped and grunted that he had hoped he'd "learned his lesson" while giving him a small smirk.

Wade was able to read between the lines and took the chance to pounce him the very next day, and despite some growling threats he received the older mutant didn't seem entirely displeased. Logan had completely let his guard down, which now enabled him to truly experience it in full.

Still, he made Wade work for it before he finally stopped holding in his laughter. The crazy merc then proceeded to make him laugh harder than he could ever remember doing in his past, and he found the brain chemical effects from that to do wonders for his mood.

The funny thing about it to Logan was that even though he was rendered helpless from tickling he realized that he was still 100% safe, and he found that to be a very comforting thought. It was a new experience for him to be in such a close proximity struggle where the end goal wasn't to try to hurt or kill him.

Sure, Wade would use tickling as a form of retaliation a lot of times, but it was all the same to Logan by now. Naturally he wasn't always in the mood for a tickle attack, but these days more often than not he didn't fight it too much and was quite content to let his roommate turn him into a squirming, wheezing wreck.

Of course, for appearances sake, Logan would still curse his head off and threaten the man's life at every turn. Up until the mischievous merc would tickle him to the point he could barely take it and turn that macho attitude into desperate pleas for mercy.

Which brings us back to our current situation.

"Dahahammit! I-I dihihihidn't ahahask for a wahahahaake up cahahahall!"

"No thanks needed! It's totally complimentary in el Casa de Wade. But don't mind me, feel free to go back to sleep. I'm just going to keep counting these ribs here until we get to the bottom of this. Ah, finally we found 7 and 8."

Wade was still acting as if this whole idea was just to count his ribs and hadn't even acknowledged that he was purposely tickling him and realizing that made Logan feel even more giddy as he let out a snort and shook his head.

"Wade c'mooon! Get ohohohoff! Ya-heehehehe-Ya know I'm ticklihihihihish, fucker!" His big-muscled arms were clamped so tightly against his sides, but there was no stopping the determined fingers crawling up his ribs.

"Whaaa? Wolverine? Ticklish? Ha! That's absurd! My guy Logan is way too mean and strong and tough to be affected by something so childish! Oh boy, and I thought I was the king of jokes around here. Now come on, stop messing around and just move your arms out of the way so I can finish this," Wade smirked, loving to tease him about his ticklishness in regard to his hard-core reputation.

"You fuhuhuhucking ahahahasshohohohole!" Logan snorted hard and now fell over to the side as he began scooting along the couch to get away.

"Heheh, where do you think you're going? Stop being so dramatic, Nancy Kerrigan. It's okay to make that joke now, right? 30 years later is fair," he shrugged at the camera, not letting up one bit as he followed along with his squirming prey, "I can feel 9 and 10 now. We're almost halfway there! Oooh! How exciting!"

"Cuhuhut it ohohohout! Heeheheheheheheh! Juhuhust drohop this stuhuhupid ideheeheeheea!"

The higher Wade went the stronger the tickling sensations felt, and Logan was pretty sure he was going to die before the last of his ribs were even reached, though in his mind it honestly wasn't the worst way for him to go.

"🎵 Ohhhh the itsy-bitsy spiders crawled up the waterspout….🎵," Wade effortlessly sing-songed with clawed fingers continuing their torturously slow progress, thoroughly scraping over every rib bone they came across, "🎵 Down came the rain….but couldn't wash the spiders out because they were having too much fun counting all these cute little ribbies. 🎵."

It always made Logan feel silly whenever Wade's teases took on a more juvenile form. He was the tenacious and deadly Wolverine and yet Wade was treating him like he was just some harmless little kid. He was never able to stop the blush from spreading across his face.

"Shuhuhuhuut uhuhuhup! Ohohor you're gohohonna haahahave another fuhuhuhuckin'-Hahahahahahehee-hohohohole t-to breheeheeheeathe outta yohohour fahahahat hehehehead!"

"Wow. We're body shaming now? I'm very sensitive about my fat head, you know. Well have you looked in the mirror lately, mister? Just walking around with those big, sexy arms and your handsomely chiseled jawline, and don't even get me started on all that sculpted beef that you're hiding in disgrace underneath this shirt. Yeah, doesn't feel so good now, does it, you absurdly attractive man? Uh huh….oh….yup, right there we got 11 and 12."

Wade was just so ridiculous sometimes, but when Logan was already caught in a laughing fit the merc's unstoppable blabbering only succeeded in making him laugh even harder. And unfortunately, he was slowly losing his will to carry on with acting tough through this tickle session.

"Fihihihiiine! I'm-heeheehehahahahaha-I'm sorrrrry! I tahahahake it bahahahaack! Just stooohohohoooop!" Logan didn't know how much more he could take of this. Actually, he did know due to having suffered under Wade's fingers for months now, and the answer was a lot.

"Why? I'm just trying to get a count here. 13……14…..It's for science. Hey look, I'm sorry……," Wade pretended to show some remorse before breaking into a huge smirk, "Sorry my wittle Wolvie-polvie is too freakin' ticklish for his own good!"

Logan's back finally met the armrest of the couch, preventing him from going any further as he leaned back over it to try to get away. Though this now had his ribcage fully stretched out as Wade stepped it up and dug his fingers in mercilessly between rib bones, making Logan positively howl in laughter.

"Ahahahahaa! Wade naahahahahahahaho! Pleheheease! Thahahahaat tickles!" He thrashed madly trying to wiggle away, but Wade had him pinned right where he wanted him as he just snickered at the situation.

"I think at this point you know that was part of my plan all along. Hehehe, but we're so close! Think of the prestige we'll get from this scientific breakthrough! Oh! I think I just found 15! Oooh! And could that be 16?! C'mon, buddy! Bear with me now!"

The upper ribs were basically in Logan's armpits that were covered with a more fleshy layer and Wade was really having to probe in there to actually feel the bones beneath.

"Not thehehehere! Noohot thehehehehehehhehehere! Haahahahaheeheeheeheehaa! Mehehehehercyyyyyy! Logan squealed helplessly with his head tilted back and showing off his elongated canine teeth; his face as red as a tomato as tears squeezed out of his tightly shut eyes.

The feral man's t-shirt had ridden up, exposing the lower half of his ripped stomach and Wade was currently in a position where it was at eye level. He smirked as he thought about how crazy Logan got whenever he would blow raspberries into his tummy, and he found the urge to do so was just too strong to resist as he took a deep breath.

"WAAAHahAHaHAhaHAHAAADE!!" Logan screamed with the first oral assault landing directly around his navel, breaking into silent laughter while wheezing desperately for air. Many more blows were delivered to his belly and ribs while the fingers continued tickling in his armpits as Logan summoned up any energy he had left and pushed with all he had in him at Wade's head and shoulders.

Eventually after being slapped and punched in the head so many times, Wade finally allowed himself to be pushed away, taking one last nibble at his hip bone.

"Geez, calm down Hugh, you over actor," he chuckled as he looked down at the man who was currently swallowing all the air he could and gingerly wiping away at tears.

"Okaaahaahay…..Fuckin' Hell……That's it…..for nohohow…..Y-You got me…..good……No more….right?"

"Weeeeeell if you would have just stayed still, we could have had this all over with. But noooooo, you just had to make me lose count," Wade sighed loudly in feigned disappointment, "Looks like I'm gonna have to start aaaallllllll over again."

With a wicked grin he began reaching out towards the still incapacitated man who was now shaking his head frantically as his hands raised in defense.

"N-No Wade. Not again. Stay back. Heehehehe-please. I can't take any more," he couldn't help giggling in anticipation as Wade hovered over him again.

"Hold still now…Don't worry Peanut, we'll get through this together. So that's 1……and 2…….and a coochie coochie coo…," Wade started again on his waist to get at his bottom ribs as Logan was already breaking into squeals.

"20?! Again?! For real?! I've counted three times already!"

Logan was hanging halfway off the couch; his hair sticking out in every direction and his cheeks slicked with tears as he coughed and tried to regain any hint of sanity he had left.

"It's……It's……fine…….Wade…..I'm sure……..they're in……there……somewhere……," he panted weakly, slowly starting to feel his energy revitalize.

"Or maybe you really do only have 20? My theory that you have fewer since you are shorter may be correct!" Wade was getting lost in his thoughts, but then at that moment a voice of reason sounded off.

"And remember, the 11th and 12th pair of ribs are referred to as 'floating ribs' and are only attached at the backbone….," the television was still on and by this point the doctor had gone back around and was summarizing everything he had just talked about.

The light bulb finally went on in Wade's head.

"Oh yeeeeah……forgot about those little buggers," Wade slowly turned to look at his friend whose eyes went wide as he scrambled to get away.

Five seconds later and Wade had Logan pinned on his stomach as his fingers wiggled into his lower back to find the missing rib pairs while Logan cackled wildly and pounded his fists with his feet uselessly kicking at the cushions.

"23…..and 24! Well would you look at that! I guess all humans are the same after all!" Wade declared happily as he finally climbed off of his roommate, signaling the end of his reign of terror, "Whaddya think, Wolvie? Aren't you so glad to have that useful little tidbit of information at your disposal?"

Logan gradually rolled over onto his back and raised an annoyed brow.

"Could've just fuckin' Googled it, bub," he growled, though a smile was still stuck on his face.

"Okay I admit waking you up may not have been the nicest way to go about it, but you know how impatient I am. And be honest, you really don't seem that upset about it," Wade grinned, reaching over to scribble fingers over his now exposed stomach while Logan snorted chuckles and tried to block him out with his knees before rolling away.

"You're lucky I didn't piss my pants, asshole. Drank a shit load of beers right before I fell asleep. I gotta piss like a fucking racehorse now," Logan stumbled to his feet and walked off to use the bathroom.

Wade grinned as he watched him walk away before turning to the audience.

"He's cute, ain't he? And I didn't hear any denial in that, did you? He doesn't know that I heard the author spill his secret earlier. It's nice to know that he actually enjoys it, even if he won't say it. I'm totally good with that."

The sound of Logan groaning in relief echoed down the hallway followed by the toilet flushing several moments later before he walked back out to join Wade on the couch.

"Did you make sure to put the seat back down? Althea won't be happy if she falls in again," he asked as Logan looked at him with a frown.

"That one was on you, shithead. I always remember to. You've lived how many years with this poor lady? I seriously don't know how she's put up with your stupid, inconsiderate ass for so long."

"Exactly the same way you do, sugar tits," Wade grinned and pinched his cheek, receiving an adamantium elbow into his side and grunting as the air was knocked out of him momentarily.

"It's a daily struggle that's for sure. But I owe ya a lot for breaking me out of my destructive cycle, so we'll call it even," Logan had softened his demeanor, knowing he truly owed Wade his gratitude as the other man noted this and took advantage of his guard being down.

"Awww there it is! Right there! I knew you loved me!" Wade squealed as he jumped onto Logan's lap and wrapped his arms around his head in the tightest of hugs.

"Gaah! Wade! Fuckin' dammit! Let go of me!" Logan struggled to pry Wade off of him until he was hit with a moment of inspiration as he latched his fingers onto Wade's unprotected sides to start tickling him with everything he had.

"Aahaahahah! Logan dohohohohooot! Thahahahat's nohohohot fahahahaaair!" Wade yelped with giggles as he quickly tried to escape, but Logan held him firmly in place.

"Fair? Okay, let's be fair. See we learned that all my ribs are there, but seems we've overlooked yours. Think it's best we check that out right away, don't you?" Logan asked with a crooked grin as Wade frantically shook his head while thrashing in his lap, "No? Well ain't that just too damn bad."

Logan dug right in with both strong hands, not even hiding the fact that his mission was to tickle the absolute shit out of his roommate.

"Okaahahahay yohohou cahahan cheheheck! Heheehhehahah! Juhuhust nohoho tihihihickling!"

"Now how do ya expect me to do that? You got an x-ray or some bullshit to show me? A fuckin' thesis paper on the matter? What? Ya don't? Well that fuckin' sucks for you. Looks like we're doing this the old-fashioned way. What number was I on? Oh yeah….1…….1…….1……1 again….."

"Cahahahahaaan't you fuhuhucking cohohount, you neahahahanderthal?!?!"

Logan smirked big time, repeatedly prodding into the same rib over and over.

"Guess not. Numbers apparently aren't my strong suit. Looks like this is gonna take alllll day then."

Wade could only laugh and squeal in response, knowing he had sealed his own doom.

[thepencilnerd]

Scary Love

summary: Chishiya is a doctor whose world is turned upside down when a patient is rushed into the hospital after a devastating accident. As you are whisked past him into the ER, he becomes captivated by the intoxicating scent of your blood, igniting a primal hunger within him. Despite battling the insatiable urge to claim you as his own, he realizes in that moment that he must have you—at any cost. word count: 9.3k genre: Vampire!Doctor!Chishiya AU, horror, paranormal, angst warnings: toxic relationship, obsessive, manipulative, and possessive behavior, blood-drinking/sharing a/n: I am vampire trash; complete fic posted here :) - inspired by @aliceinborderlandsquidgame's post <3 full moodboards here ;)

The fluorescent lights of the hospital flickered, casting a sickly glow over the linoleum floors. Chishiya Shuntaro had grown numb to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the low hum of machinery, his steps echoing with a detached rhythm as he made his rounds. His pale fingers flicked through patient charts with the same indifference, a façade of professionalism masking a complete lack of investment in the lives he was supposed to save. He was a doctor because it passed the time, and time was his greatest enemy—a relentless, never-ending stretch that blurred the line between life and death.

It had been centuries since he had felt a spark of genuine curiosity. No patient had ever captured his attention; their faces all blended together, just like the fading lights and the indistinguishable corridors.

Until now.

Chaos broke out suddenly. “Incoming! Trauma, we need the ER prepped, now!” The doors flew open, and a stretcher burst through, surrounded by frantic doctors and nurses. The air changed, thickening with tension and something else—something that pulled Chishiya to a halt.

Then, he smelled it.

The coppery, tantalizing aroma hit him like a shockwave, making the blood in his own veins pulse with a long-forgotten hunger. It wasn’t just the scent of any blood—it was yours. Rich and intoxicating, it seeped into the sterile hospital air, spreading like a thick mist, curling its way around his senses. For the first time in years, something surged inside him—no, not something, but someone.

You.

As they whisked you past him, your pale, bloodstained form nearly limp on the stretcher, his muscles tightened against a primal urge. He pressed his wrist to his nose, but it did little to muffle the smell. The veins beneath his skin darkened and bulged, his fangs pushing against his gums. Hunger clawed at him, vicious and demanding. He almost doubled over as the shift threatened to take him right there, nearly exposing the angel of death he truly was in this place that was supposed to be a sanctuary of life.

The doctors were still shouting orders, oblivious to his struggle. They didn’t notice the way his eyes followed your body, transfixed as you disappeared behind the swinging doors of the trauma room. The chaotic rhythm of the hospital seemed to slow, all sounds fading except for the maddening yet weakening beat of your pulse. You were dying. And if you died now, he would never taste you—never experience that exquisite fire as your blood coursed through him, burning away the boredom that had settled in his bones like rot.

No. You couldn’t die. He wouldn’t allow it.

Inside the trauma room, the staff’s desperation grew as your condition worsened. “Where’s the trauma specialist?” a nurse shouted, panic fraying the edge of her voice. Another doctor shook his head, hurriedly checking his phone. “Not on call,” he replied, his tone laced with frustration. “We need someone now, or we’ll lose them.”

It was the opportunity Chishiya had been waiting for.

“I’ll take over,” he said, his voice slicing through the chaos with an unsettling calm. His eyes glinted with a purpose no one else in the room could fathom. A few heads turned, doubt flickering across the other doctors' faces, but there was no time to debate. Lives were at stake, and Chishiya’s reputation as a skilled, if unorthodox, surgeon had never been questioned.

As the son of the chief and owner of the hospital, he had a certain authority that made it nearly impossible for anyone to challenge him, not that they could. His cold, calculated precision as a doctor was unquestionable; he was known for making the right call in dire situations. The other doctors exchanged hesitant glances, aware of his lineage and the weight it carried.

Chishiya had chosen surgery because it was the place where life and death hung in the balance, where the line between salvation and demise blurred into one. It was the only place where he found any semblance of stimulation, where his own indifference toward life could be masked by the sharp focus and swift precision that surgery demanded. He held no sentimental notions about saving lives; for him, each procedure was simply another test of skill, a challenge to pass the time.

The truth was, Chishiya didn’t care whether his patients lived or died. He had spent too many lifetimes watching people come and go, their lives flickering out like so many dying stars. Life, with all its fragility and unpredictability, held little meaning for him. But in the operating room, as scalpels sliced and sutures stitched, there was a fleeting thrill—a momentary exhilaration that came with deciding who would cross back over from the brink of death, and who would not. It was in that precarious dance that he found a reason to continue his own unending existence.

And now, as he stood over your bloodied body, he felt something he hadn’t felt in centuries—a stirring of genuine desire. Not to save you, but to possess you. The scent of your blood had gripped him in a way that defied his otherwise indifferent nature, as though it held a promise that could reignite the fire that had long gone cold in his veins.

With a newfound resolve, he pushed forward, gliding into the awaiting trauma room with an unnatural, quiet grace. He was greeted by a flurry of activity: doctors barking out commands, nurses adjusting IV lines, and the faint, steady beep of the heart monitor.

Your heartbeat. Weak, fluttering. But still alive.

Chishiya could see the crimson staining your skin, pooling around the gaping wounds that painted your body. His gaze fixated on the deepest gash, almost losing himself in the way your blood glistened under the harsh lights. It took everything in him to not lean over and taste it. He gritted his teeth, his fangs aching against his gums, and forced his gaze upward, meeting your half-lidded eyes for the briefest moment. Even though you were barely conscious, something flickered in your gaze, a spark of recognition—or perhaps, instinctual fear.

But he wasn’t here to save you because it was his duty as a doctor. No, it was far more selfish than that. It was the first time in his endless life that he had felt compelled to possess something—someone. He needed to keep you alive, not for your sake, but for his own. Because in that fleeting moment when your blood had perfumed the air, he had felt alive again.

The doctor in him barked orders for blood transfusions, sutures, whatever was necessary to keep you from slipping away. But the predator within already had plans far darker than anyone in that room could fathom. When you woke, if you woke, you would be his—his to heal, break, drain, turn, to keep. Your blood was his now, and he would not rest until every drop had quenched his thirst. 

The darkness around you was heavy, a suffocating fog that clung to your senses as you struggled to break free. Gradually, the world returned in pieces—muted beeping, the sterile scent of antiseptic, and an ache that radiated throughout your entire body. Your eyelids fluttered open, and bright fluorescent lights blurred into focus. You were in a hospital bed, a grey blanket draped loosely over your body, and the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor kept pace with your sluggish pulse. 

You blinked, taking in the unfamiliar room. It was quiet, save for the soft hum of the machines. A vague memory of chaos resurfaced—voices shouting, hands pressing down to stop the bleeding, and the overwhelming sensation of slipping away. But now, you were still here, alive. How?

The sound of footsteps pulled you from your haze. A figure stepped into view, and the sight of him made your breath hitch in your throat. He was beautiful—hauntingly so. Pale skin that almost seemed to glow under the harsh lights, juxtaposed by his jet-black hair, sharp features softened only by the faintest curl of his lips, and eyes so dark they could swallow you whole. There was a strange magnetism to him, a pull that made it impossible to look away.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he said, his voice low and calm, yet laced with an edge of something you couldn’t quite place. His gaze flickered over your form, as though assessing you, and a faint, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You gave us quite a scare.”

You swallowed, your throat dry and raw. “W-where am I?” you managed to croak.

“You’re in the hospital,” he replied, stepping closer to your bedside. “You had a nasty accident, but you’re stable now. I was able to take over your case.”

There was a glint in his eye, a darkness that contrasted with the reassuring tone in his voice. Something about him felt… different. You couldn’t shake the sense that his presence wasn’t just happenstance. It was almost as if he had chosen to be here, with you. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, but there was an inexplicable allure that made you lean into that fear rather than shy away from it.

“You’re my doctor?” you asked, the words coming out softer than you intended.

He inclined his head, his gaze never leaving yours. “Yes,” he said smoothly. “Dr. Shuntaro Chishiya. I’ll be overseeing your recovery from here on out.” His fingers lightly grazed your wrist as he reached for the chart at the foot of your bed, and the touch sent a faint jolt through you, waking something you couldn’t quite name.

You didn’t know how long you stared at him, only that you felt an odd flutter in your chest—a mix of fascination and trepidation. There was something intense about the way he looked at you, as if you were a puzzle he was in no rush to solve. Or a prize he had all the time in the world to claim.

He continued to speak, explaining your injuries and the procedures they’d performed, but you couldn’t focus on his words. All you could think about was how close he stood, how captivating his voice was, and how each syllable seemed to wrap around you like a velvet chain. There was an energy about him that made you feel exposed, vulnerable, as if you were being seen in ways you didn’t fully understand.

“Why did you…” you began, then hesitated, your brow furrowing. “How did you take over?”

"Wrong place, right time." His eyes flashed with a hint of amusement, but his expression remained impassive. “Let’s just say,” he murmured, his tone dropping lower, “that I have a vested interest in seeing you recover.” His lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “After all, I went to such great lengths to keep you alive. It would be a shame to let all that effort go to waste, wouldn’t it?”

The words sent a chill through you, and yet, some part of you was drawn to the danger in his voice, to the mystery that surrounded him. You could feel your pulse quickening, and from the way his gaze lingered on you, you had the unsettling suspicion that he could sense it too.

Chishiya had saved your life. And as you lay there under his watchful gaze, you felt a strange comfort in the knowledge that this beautiful, almost ethereal doctor had taken a special interest in you. His words wrapped around you like a soothing balm, pushing back the panic that had threatened to take hold.

“You must rest now,” he murmured, his tone gentle yet firm. “The road to recovery won’t be easy, but I’ll be here every step of the way.” He leaned over to adjust the drip in your IV line, his movements calm and practiced. When his fingers brushed against your wrist, a spark seemed to shoot through your veins, making your pulse flutter in response. You told yourself it was only the aftermath of the accident, the lingering adrenaline playing tricks on your mind.

The corners of his lips twitched, as though he was holding back a secret, but there was nothing in his expression that gave you reason to question him. The hospital room was silent except for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, and you were suddenly aware of how loudly your pulse echoed in the space between you. You had the unsettling suspicion that he could hear it too, his eyes tracking the faint rise and fall of your chest, as if to confirm that life was still coursing through you.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice almost inaudible. “I… I don’t know what would’ve happened if—”

“Shh,” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a soft murmur as he leaned closer. “You don’t need to thank me.” The way he looked at you made your skin prickle with an inexplicable heat. “It’s my job, after all,” he added, but there was something unspoken behind the words—something that made your heart skip a beat.

Your scent washed over him in a maddening wave. It was faintly metallic, laced with the lingering traces of blood and the sweetness of your natural aroma. It wrapped around him like a drug, igniting a hunger he had been suppressing since the moment he first caught your scent in the trauma room. He clenched his jaw to keep his composure, forcing his body to remain still, but every cell screamed for him to close the distance, to taste you.

For a moment, you wondered why he had taken over your case. Surely there were other doctors who could have handled your injuries. But those thoughts melted away as quickly as they had come, dissolving under the intensity of his gaze. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was just fate that had brought him to you in that critical moment. 

As he straightened up and began to walk toward the door, you found yourself not wanting him to leave. “Will I… see you again?” you asked, almost embarrassed by the urgency in your voice.

Chishiya’s gaze flickered briefly to the pulse in your neck, his thoughts dark and dangerous. The rhythm was elevated, stronger than when you had been clinging to life on the operating table. Each beat seemed to resonate in the air, taunting him with the warmth that coursed through your veins. He could feel the veins under his skin begin to swell, the familiar ache of his fangs pushing against his gums. It was taking every ounce of his willpower not to lean in and press his lips to your skin, to sink his teeth in and finally experience the intoxicating concoction of your blood.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, letting the hunger roil beneath the surface as he forced himself to focus on the here and now. He couldn’t lose control—not yet. There would be time for that later, when you were stronger, when you trusted him enough to let down your guard. But for now, he needed to play the role of the devoted doctor, the savior who had plucked you from death’s grasp.

He glanced back at you with a faint, almost cryptic smile. “Oh, you will,” he said, his tone hinting at a promise. “I’ll be keeping a very close eye on your progress.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you alone with a feeling you couldn’t quite name. You didn’t know why, but the thought of him watching over you, being there each day, brought an odd sense of comfort—even if it was laced with something darker that you couldn’t yet understand.

You closed your eyes, exhaustion pulling you under once more, unaware that Chishiya’s promise had far deeper implications than you could have ever imagined.

Days passed in a blur of routine and quiet moments, the sterile monotony of the hospital broken only by Chishiya’s daily visits. He would appear at your bedside with an easy grace, carrying trays of food or cups of tea that were far better than the bland hospital meals. It wasn’t his duty to bring you such things, but he always insisted, saying it was no trouble at all.

“You need your strength,” he’d say with a faint smile, setting the food down before pulling up a chair to sit beside you. “And the hospital’s kitchen could use some improvement.”

At first, you thought he was simply being polite—going above and beyond to reassure you in the wake of the trauma. But as days turned into a week, then two, his presence became a comforting constant. He would linger, taking time out of his rounds to talk, asking you questions about your life before the accident. You found yourself opening up in ways you hadn’t expected, sharing small stories and fragments of your past. It felt natural, effortless. Almost as if he were more of a friend than your doctor.

And then, there were the moments where you caught him looking at you—not with the detached concern of a physician, but with an intensity that sent a warm flutter through your chest. It was in the way his dark eyes would linger just a little too long, or how his voice would soften when he asked how you were feeling. He had an aura of mystery, a quiet depth that drew you in, making you curious to know more about him.

“Why did you decide to become a doctor?” you asked one afternoon, after he’d brought you a bowl of soup. “You don’t seem like the type.”

He raised an eyebrow, setting the tray down. “And what type is that?” There was a hint of amusement in his tone, though his expression remained inscrutable.

“I don’t know,” you replied, suddenly feeling a bit foolish. “It’s just… you’re different. Not like the other doctors.”

“Different?” he echoed, his lips curving into a small, enigmatic smile. “I suppose I am.”

Chishiya’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, as if weighing his response. “Well,” he began, his tone thoughtful, “I suppose it’s not entirely unlike the others. The desire to help people… to make a difference.” His lips curved into a faint smile. “But it’s not always about saving lives. Sometimes it’s about giving people a second chance.”

There was a strange, almost wistful note to his voice, as though he were speaking from some place deeper than his words suggested. “When you see someone on the brink,” he continued, his gaze drifting to the window, “when they’re standing at the edge between life and death… you realize how fragile it all is. Being a doctor means you get to be there at those moments. You get to decide if someone gets to come back.”

He glanced back at you then, his eyes dark and inscrutable. “I suppose there’s something… meaningful about that.”

The explanation sounded genuine enough, but there was an elusive quality to his words, as if he were hiding something behind them. It was almost as if he were playing a part, reciting the lines expected of someone in his profession, but with a subtle twist that hinted at a deeper, unspoken truth. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he had deliberately left out the real reason, that there was something more lurking beneath the surface. But the way he spoke, with such conviction and calmness, made it hard to question him.

“Meaningful,” you echoed, considering his words. “That makes sense, I guess.”

Chishiya’s smile deepened ever so slightly, though his eyes remained as shadowed as ever. “It does,” he murmured, his voice dipping into that familiar quiet cadence that you had come to associate with him. “At least, that’s what I tell myself.”

He didn’t offer more, and you didn’t press, but it left you wondering. Who was he, really? There was so much about him that seemed out of place, as though he didn’t quite belong here in this world of beeping machines and sterile white walls. But those questions seemed to fade when he was around, replaced by a sense of ease you hadn’t felt in a long time.

One day, when he brought you a book from the hospital’s library—an old novel you’d mentioned wanting to read—your heart stirred with a flutter of warmth. He had remembered. You hadn’t even been sure he’d been listening when you’d said it in passing, yet here he was, handing the book to you as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I thought you might like something to occupy your time,” he said, his tone casual, but there was a faint glint of satisfaction in his eyes, as though he took pleasure in your surprise.

“Thank you,” you murmured, glancing down at the cover. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“It was no trouble,” he replied, settling into the chair beside your bed. “Besides, I like to see you smile.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks at the words, your fingers tightening around the book’s spine. He spoke so easily, as though they were just another fact. And yet, there was a sincerity there that made your heart quicken. The two of you continued to talk, falling into the familiar rhythm of conversation, but now there was an unspoken bond between you—a connection that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day.

As you laughed at one of his dry, almost cynical jokes, you realized just how much you’d come to look forward to his visits. He wasn’t just your doctor anymore. He was the person who brought light into the sterile stillness, whose presence made the days feel shorter and the nights less lonely.

You didn’t know when it had happened—when his daily visits had stopped being just a part of your recovery and had become the best part of your day. But it didn’t seem to matter. All you knew was that when Chishiya was there, everything felt… different. Better, even. And the thought of him not being there once you were discharged sent a quiet pang of dread through you.

You brushed the thought aside, telling yourself there would be time to worry about that later. For now, you were content to let things unfold, to savor the way his voice filled the silence, and to lose yourself in the captivating mystery of the doctor who had saved your life—and somehow, made you want to keep living it.

But as the days passed, there were moments—fleeting and faint—where you would catch a shadow in his eyes, or feel a strange chill in the air. Little things that seemed out of place, that made you wonder if there was more to him than he let on. If there was a reason why he seemed so invested in you, in ways that went beyond what any doctor should be.

You told yourself it was nothing. It had to be. But in the depths of your mind, a voice you couldn’t quite silence began to murmur. There was something about him—something hidden beneath the calm exterior, behind the kind words and soothing touch. And while part of you yearned to understand him, to get closer and unravel the enigma he presented, another part recoiled, sensing danger in the allure.

You brushed the thought aside again, convincing yourself that there was no harm in letting things unfold a little longer. You were drawn to him, captivated by the man who had breathed life back into you when you had come so close to losing it. Whatever else lingered beneath the surface could wait.

Chishiya leaned against the wall, watching you sleep with a predatory intensity that belied his calm demeanor. The sterile light of the hospital room bathed you in a soft glow, illuminating the delicate contours of your face, the way your lips parted slightly as you breathed. It was a picture of innocence, and yet, he knew better.

Each night, as you drifted into unconsciousness, he had taken it upon himself to ensure your recovery. He would enter your room with a careful quietness, his heart racing with anticipation. The blood he had transfused into your veins was his own—rich, dark, and heady. With every drop, he watched as your body healed at an extraordinary rate, responding to his unique gift in a way that no ordinary human’s could.

But it was more than just healing. With each transfusion, he wove a delicate web around your mind, guiding your thoughts, dulling your instincts, and filling your dreams with vivid images of him—of the two of you together, as if fate had conspired to bring you closer. It was a power he had grown accustomed to wielding, the ability to shape your perception, to cloud your judgment, and to eliminate any lingering doubts that might threaten to disrupt his carefully laid plans.

Tonight, he felt particularly bold, his blood coursing through your veins like a gentle whisper. As he knelt beside your bed, he brushed a strand of hair away from your face, letting his fingers linger against your skin. The cool touch sent a shiver down his spine, and he felt a familiar urge rise within him—the insatiable hunger that had first drawn him to you. But he pushed it down, focusing instead on the connection he shared with you in that moment.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated, delving deep into your subconscious. The edges of your dreams were malleable, a landscape he could shape and mold to his liking. He wove his essence into the fabric of your thoughts, allowing himself to seep into every corner of your mind. You would find him there, in the laughter of shared moments and the warmth of stolen glances—never questioning, never doubting.

With every drop of his blood you took in, he could almost taste you—sweet and intoxicating, a tantalizing blend of life and vulnerability. Each transfusion deepened the bond between you, intertwining your fates in a way that transcended mere human comprehension. It was an unspoken pact, a mingling of blood that forged a connection so profound that it felt as if your very souls were entwined.

Chishiya reveled in the sensation, the way your body responded to his essence, healing at an accelerated pace. It wasn’t just a matter of recovering from injury; it was about forging something extraordinary, something that no one else could ever touch. With every heartbeat, he could feel your pulse syncing with his, an intimate rhythm that resonated deep within him. He no longer felt like an observer in your life; he was becoming a part of it, an intrinsic element of your very being.

As he navigated the landscape of your dreams, he could almost hear the echo of your thoughts. They were softer, gentler, reshaped by his influence. Fears and doubts that might have surfaced were quelled, replaced by feelings of safety and warmth whenever you thought of him. It was as if he had woven a soft blanket around your mind, lulling you into a state of trust that was as intoxicating as the blood flowing through your veins.

In those moments, he knew you could sense him. You would smile in your sleep, murmur his name as if it were a mantra, and he would feel a surge of triumph course through him. You were blissfully unaware of the truth, caught in the web of his enchantment. Chishiya rejoiced in the knowledge that he was the architect of your dreams, the keeper of your heart.

Your connection went beyond the physical; it was spiritual, primal, a merging of souls that would leave scars on both of you, forever binding you to him. As he watched you drift deeper into slumber, he felt the weight of his own immortality pressing against his chest. In you, he found something he thought he would never experience again—a reason to embrace the world and all its fragility.

Every time you took in his blood, he was there, living within you, and he could feel the bond solidifying, deepening into something admantine. With every transfusion, you became more of his and he, more of you. It was a dance of life and death, and Chishiya savored each step, each shared heartbeat, each lingering glance that tied you together in a way that transcended the boundaries of life itself.

In that silence of the night, with you sleeping soundly before him, he made another silent vow: he would protect you, not just from the world but from yourself, ensuring that you would never question the depths of your connection. After all, he had given you life, and now he intended to keep you, to possess you wholly, in a way that no one else could ever understand.

“Sleep well, Y/N,” he whispered softly, the words brushing against the boundary of your dreamscape. Pressing a kiss to your forehead, the contact felt like electricity. “I’ll always be here, watching over you.”

As he settled into the rhythm of your dreams, he felt a thrill of satisfaction wash over him. You were his, bound to him by blood and desire, your fate intertwined with his own. The world outside faded away, replaced by a reality he controlled—where every beat of your heart resonated with his own, and every sigh you breathed echoed with the promise of what was to come.

In your slumber, you would never suspect the truth. You would remain blissfully unaware of the shadows lurking beneath his charm, the darkness that fueled his desire. And while you thought you were healing, he knew the truth: he was ensnaring you deeper under his spell, inch by tantalizing inch.

And the best part? You would never question it.

As the days turned into weeks, you found comfort in the routine that Chishiya established. He would arrive each day with a new meal, often sharing stories of his life that drew you in like a moth to a flame. His voice, smooth and enchanting, would fill the room, replacing the sterile sounds of beeping machines with warmth and familiarity. You felt safe in his presence, as if he alone understood the fragility of life.

"Have you ever thought about what comes after all of this?" he asked one afternoon, his eyes dark with something deeper. “After you’re healed?”

You looked up, caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze. "Not really. I guess I just want to get back to my life." But the truth was, you had started to wonder if your life could ever be the same again—especially with Chishiya so close, making every moment feel more vivid.

"Life has a way of changing us," he replied, his lips curling into a smile that sent shivers down your spine. "You might find that what you once wanted pales in comparison to what you could have."

The way he spoke, it felt as if he were weaving a spell around you, tantalizing and entrancing. You brushed the thought aside, unable to shake the feeling that he knew more than he let on. But the sensation faded like mist, replaced by the warmth of his presence.

That night, as you drifted into sleep, you could feel his essence lingering in your dreams. Vivid images danced before you—Chishiya laughing, his eyes sparkling with mischief, as you shared moments of joy that felt almost too perfect. Each time you murmured his name in your sleep, a thrill of satisfaction coursed through him, binding you closer to him, reinforcing the invisible ties of your connection.

Yet, in the corners of your mind, shadows lurked—brief flickers of doubt that would evaporate like smoke when Chishiya was near. You couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to him, a depth that both intrigued and unnerved you. But every time you reached for the questions, they slipped away like grains of sand, like they were never there. 

One night, sleep enveloped you like a thick fog, and you drifted into a dream that felt more like a waking nightmare. The atmosphere was heavy, suffused with a gothic eeriness that settled over your senses, and you found yourself wandering through the dimly lit corridors of the hospital. The walls seemed to pulse with a life of their own, shadows flickering just beyond the edges of your vision.

As you wandered, flashes of memories flickered in and out, disjointed yet vivid. You saw Chishiya standing at the entrance of your hospital room the night you were admitted, a sly smile on his lips as he volunteered to take you as his patient. His confidence radiated in the sterile air, and there was something unsettling about the way his gaze lingered on you, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

Then the scene shifted, and you were back in your room, the moonlight spilling through the window, casting eerie shapes across the floor. Chishiya was there, but he seemed different—more predatory. You watched as he stood silently beside your bed, his eyes fixed on you, a certain hunger swirling within them.

Suddenly, the dream twisted darker. You found yourself an unwilling observer of a horrifying act—Chishiya leaning over your sleeping form, an IV drip connected to your arm, his fingers deftly removing the tubing. In an instant, he was sucking on the end, your blood shimmering on his lips, glistening like the black nectar of forbidden fruit under the moonlight.

You tried to scream, but no sound escaped your lips as you witnessed the scene unfold. The veins beneath his eyes rippled, the whites of his eyes stained a pure crimson, a macabre reminder of the life he was stealing from you and the revealing of his true form. It was both mesmerizing and terrifying.

The sight of him licking your blood from his fingers sent a chill down your spine, refusing to waste a drop, the hunger in his gaze unmistakable. "Fuck," he murmured, his voice a sultry whisper that wrapped around you like chains, binding you to the horror before you. The twisted intimacy of the moment felt suffocating, and you could sense the bond he was forging—one that tethered your very essence to his.

Chishiya’s movements were deliberate and eerily calm as he reached for a bag of blood, the contents dark and viscous, far blacker than anything human. 

His blood. 

You felt your heart race, pounding against your chest like a trapped bird. Panic surged within you, but it was accompanied by an unsettling sense of familiarity, as though this was all part of a dream you had been too naive to realize. You felt the suffocating weight of his gaze, the thrill of danger mingling with an inexplicable attraction.

And then, just as abruptly, the dream shattered. You woke up, gasping for breath, the echoes of terror still reverberating in your mind. Your heart raced as you glanced around your hospital room, the soft beeping of machines grounding you in reality. But the image of Chishiya—the blood, the hunger—clung to you like a shroud.

Shaking off the remnants of the nightmare, you tried to rationalize it away. Perhaps it was just your subconscious playing tricks on you, an exaggerated reflection of the vulnerability you felt. Yet, as you lay there in the dark, a shiver ran down your spine. There was a whisper of truth in the darkness, an inkling that perhaps you didn’t know Chishiya as well as you thought you did.

The idea that you were entangled in something far more sinister than you could comprehend lingered at the edges of your mind. As you clutched the sheets tightly, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadows were closing in, and it was only a matter of time before the truth would surface.

But for now, you would push those thoughts aside, retreating into the safety of your dreams, even as the haunting memories of the night left you trembling in its wake.

Before you knew it, the morning sun peeked through the blinds. You blinked away the remnants of sleep and turned your head to find Chishiya sitting in the corner of the room, his gaze fixed intently on you. His presence was both a comfort and a source of unease, and you felt a knot tighten in your stomach.

“Good morning, Y/N,” he greeted, his voice smooth as silk, but there was an undercurrent of something darker beneath his calm demeanor. “How are you feeling?” 

You forced a smile, attempting to mask the tremor in your heart. “I—uh, I had a strange dream.”

His interest piqued, and for a brief moment, the usual amusement flickered in his eyes. “Strange how?” he asked, leaning forward, his posture relaxed yet attentive.

The memory of your nightmare washed over you, but you hesitated to divulge its true nature. “Just… odd,” you replied, choosing your words carefully. “Nothing to worry about, I guess.”

Chishiya studied you, a calculating expression on his face. There was a silence that stretched between you, thick with unspoken words. The lingering fear from your dream wrestled with the reality of his presence, and you felt the weight of his gaze bearing down on you, searching for something—answers, perhaps, or the cracks in your facade.

He nodded slowly, as if weighing your response. “Dreams can be powerful things. Sometimes, they reveal what we’re truly feeling, even when we don’t want them to.”

His words sent a chill through you, resonating with the unease that had taken root in your chest. You felt like a moth drawn to a flame, teetering on the edge of enlightenment while also fearful of the depths it could reveal. The shadows of your dream flitted in your mind, reminding you of the danger lurking behind his charming exterior.

“Did you remember anything specific?” he pressed, a hint of curiosity lacing his tone, as if he were a predator probing for weakness in his prey.

You shifted under his gaze, unwilling to disclose the true content of your nightmare. “Not really. Just… ghosts of memories, I suppose.”

His smile was sharp, as if he enjoyed the game you were playing, but the air felt heavy with tension. “Past experiences can hold great meaning,” he replied, the words laced with an enigmatic undertone. “But memories are also unreliable and simply serve as backbones for rumination.” 

You nodded, feeling the weight of his gaze bearing down on you. The shadows danced at the edge of your vision, and despite your efforts to shake off the remnants of your fear, you felt a chill crawl up your spine.

Chishiya’s expression remained inscrutable as he regarded you for a moment longer, then he straightened, the tension in the air shifting. “You need rest,” he said, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “I’ll be back soon.”

With that, he turned and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him. You were left in the soft hum of the machines, the silence amplifying your thoughts. Looking up at your IV bags, they were clear—no blood. A wave of unease washed over you, and you instinctively reached for the line, feeling the cold plastic against your skin. It was strange, unsettling, as if the absence of his blood—if your crazy dream had any basis in reality—was somehow a void that left the air heavy with unsaid words.

Outside, Chishiya leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath to center himself. He was acutely aware of the nightmare that had haunted you; it had been no accident. By withholding his usual compulsion last night, he had intended to see how much you knew—how aware you had become of the threads connecting you both.

He knew you had glimpsed the darkness lurking beneath the surface, the unsettling truths about your bond. The look of horror on your face as you witnessed his true form had been exhilarating yet worrying. He knew had to act before those fears took root and blossomed into doubt.

Chishiya pondered his next move. You were already beginning to piece together the puzzle, and that was commendable. But he needed to ensure that your trust in him was absolute. The last thing he wanted was for you to start questioning your reality or, worse, seeking out the truth beyond the lies he had crafted.

It was time to tighten the bonds that tied you to him. He could feel the connection deepening with each passing day, but now he needed to escalate things, to ensure you remained ensnared in his web. He couldn’t let you slip through his fingers.

His mind raced with possibilities, each more tantalizing than the last. The idea of bringing you deeper into his world, of showing you the true nature of your connection, thrilled him. He envisioned guiding you through the shadows, illuminating the dark corners of your mind, and transforming your fear into blind acceptance—for eternity. 

For the next few days, Chishiya adopted a calculated distance, allowing a careful space to grow between you. It was a tactic, one designed to cultivate a longing in you, to ignite a sense of loss that would render you desperate for his presence. He had learned long ago that desire, once kindled, could burn hotter than any flame.

During the day, he was a ghost, slipping in and out of the hospital like a shadow, his interactions minimal yet charged. You caught glimpses of him from afar—his laughter mingling with the nurses, his easy demeanor drawing people in. But when night fell, you would drift into dreams steeped in his essence, each encounter filled with a vividness that left you breathless.

While you slept, he entered your subconscious like a thief in the night, weaving a tapestry of sensations and emotions that rendered you utterly enthralled. He didn't need to compel you; instead, he sparked a craving within, igniting a hunger that pulsed in your veins. You would dream of him standing in the doorway of your room, his presence a beacon of light amidst the dark, a sweet reminder of everything you were missing.

You often awoke in the middle of the night, heart racing, yearning for him. The emptiness of the room felt suffocating, a stark contrast to the warmth of his gaze that lingered in your memory. Each day without him felt like a slow unraveling, the world outside your window dimming without his touch.

Your nights became a blend of fragmented dreams where he danced just out of reach, a haunting melody that pulled at your heart. You felt the ache of longing settle deep within you, a relentless pulse that begged for his return. It was as if he had planted seeds of desire in the fertile ground of your mind, nurturing them with whispered promises that echoed through your dreams.

“Chishiya?” you would murmur, a question directed at the void that seemed to mock you. The silence that followed felt heavy, yet a part of you knew he was there, lurking just beyond the veil of your awareness, savoring your fragility.

Throughout the daytime, you tried to focus on your recovery, but his absence haunted you, lurking at the edges of your thoughts like an unwelcome specter. You walked around the hospital, taking small strides that felt like victories in your healing journey. Yet, each step felt heavy with the weight of longing, as you scanned the corridors for a glimpse of him. The nurses, concerned for your well-being, would occasionally check in, their gentle smiles unable to dispel the heaviness that clung to your heart. You found yourself restless, unable to shake the feeling that someone was missing. 

Chishiya’s grand plan unfolded beautifully. Each passing day, you became more attuned to the bond between you, the pull he had on your heart. You craved his presence, the way he made you feel—safe yet exhilarated, ensnared yet free. He was a paradox, a mixture of light and shadow, and you wanted to explore every facet of him.

One night, as you lay in the dim light of your room, the hospital quiet around you, he slipped back into your dreams. This time, he was more vivid than ever, stepping into the moonlight that filtered through your window, his eyes shining like liquid silver.

“Y/N,” he called softly, his voice a caress that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. 

In the dream, you reached for him, desperation clawing at your chest. “I need you,” you breathed, the words spilling from your lips before you could think to hold them back. The longing was palpable, a force that pulled you toward him.

Chishiya smiled, that predatory smile that sent shivers down your spine, and stepped closer. “Good,” he murmured, his voice a silken whisper. 

As you moved closer to him in the dream, the space between you vanished, and you felt the weight of his presence envelop you. The warmth radiating from him was intoxicating, igniting a fire within that had been smoldering since his absence.

“Don’t you see?” he continued, his gaze piercing into your soul. “You need me just as much as I need you.”

The intensity of his words resonated deep within you, igniting a longing so profound it was almost painful. You could feel your heart racing, your body aching for the connection you once shared. “I can’t live without you,” you whispered, fully aware of how much power he held over you.

A smile crept across his face, an expression that melded satisfaction with something darker. “Then let me show you what it truly means to surrender completely.”

He leaned closer, and the world around you blurred into a haze of color and sensation, the lines between reality and dreams merging until you felt as if you were suspended in a state of blissful oblivion. You surrendered to the pull of his essence, the bond between you solidifying with every heartbeat.

When you awoke the next morning, your heart was still racing, the remnants of the dream clinging to you like a silken web. The absence of Chishiya felt more profound than before, a hollow wound that begged to be filled. You could almost hear his voice echoing in your mind, whispering promises of connection and understanding.

As the day stretched on, you found it increasingly difficult to focus on anything other than the emptiness he had left behind. The nurses bustled around you, their chatter falling on deaf ears as your thoughts spiraled into an abyss of longing.

He had woven his influence into the fabric of your very being, and you felt more entangled than ever. With every moment that passed, you realized you were no longer just a patient recovering in a hospital. You were a puppet, dancing on the strings he had crafted, and the desire to be near him pulled you inexorably closer to the edge of his world. 

But you didn’t care.

The only thing you wanted—needed—was Chishiya. 

That night, sleep was a treacherous companion, dragging you into the depths of a nightmare you couldn't escape. You were back on your bike, the world around you bright and carefree, until it shattered in an instant. The screeching of tires, the sickening crunch of metal, and the sudden pain that ripped through you were all too vivid. The memory of the accident clawed at your mind, the feeling of helplessness suffocating you. You saw the drunk driver’s face, a twisted mask of indifference, and felt the darkness creeping in as your consciousness faded.

Then came the familiar presence, a flicker of warmth amidst the cold terror—Chishiya had saved you. He had stitched you back together with modern medicine and healed you with his own blood. Every moment he spent by your side had been woven with an obsession that, in your shattered mind, felt like the purest form of love.

As you jolted awake, tears streamed down your cheeks, your body trembling with the weight of the realization. “Chishiya!” you sobbed, the name a desperate plea escaping your lips as you grasped at the darkness, willing him to emerge.

From the shadows, he appeared, an ethereal figure illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through your window. His eyes glinted with an intensity that set your heart racing. “I’m here, Y/N,” he murmured, gliding toward you with an unsettling grace. The moment you stood, he wrapped his arms around you, the world solidified, his presence anchoring you back to reality.

The gnawing urge inside you felt like poison, a slow death that throbbed with each heartbeat. The pain of his absence had become unbearable, a void that swallowed you whole. “I can’t live without you,” you whispered, the admission heavy on your tongue.

Chishiya pulled back slightly, his gaze piercing through you as he stroked your hair, soothing the tremors that wracked your body. “What would you be willing to do for me?” he asked, his voice a velvet caress that sent shivers down your spine.

“Anything,” you breathed, the word escaping your lips like a sacred vow.

“Would you live for me?” he pressed, his expression unwavering.

“Only with you,” you replied, the conviction in your voice growing stronger.

In that moment, he leaned closer, brushing his lips against the delicate skin of your neck. The sensation ignited something primal within you, a fire that surged through your veins. Then, without warning, he bit down, and a wave of pure ecstasy flooded every nerve in your body.

As Chishiya sank his fangs into your neck, a sensation unlike any other surged through him. The warmth of your blood flowed into him, rich and vibrant, igniting a hunger that had long been a shadow at the edge of his existence. It was a taste that transcended the mere physical; it was the essence of you, the very core of your being, submerging his senses with an exquisite euphoria he hadn't known he craved.

With every drop, he felt the ties between you solidify, weaving a bond that could never be broken even in death. The world outside faded into obscurity, leaving behind nothing but the rhythm of your heart and the potent pulse of your life force surging through him. This was not merely sustenance; it was a communion, a merging of souls that set his very essence ablaze.

He reveled in the taste, feeling it seep into his soul, satiating a deep hunger within that he had never fully understood. The sensation was overwhelming, and for a fleeting moment, all his thoughts dissolved into a singular focus: you. The connection deepened tenfold, intertwining your fates in a way that felt predestined. He was no longer just a watcher in the shadows; he was a part of you, and you were a part of him.

Every heartbeat resonated with the truth of your bond, a melody that played in harmony with the pulse of your blood. He drank deeper, savoring the intimacy of the moment, each heartbeat echoing the unspoken promise of loyalty, protection, and an unyielding devotion. You were his—enthralled and ensnared, bound by a love that was both beautiful and terrifying.

Your vision grew spotty, your heartrate slowing, your body melting into his arms like a puddle of surrender. The world around you faded away, leaving only the clarity of his presence—his warmth, his scent, the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

Chishiya’s grip tightened around you as he continued to drink, his fingers threading through your hair with a tenderness that belied the ferocity of his earlier actions. Finally, he pulled away, your blood covering his mouth and dripping down his chin. His eyes glowed red, piercing into you like liquid fire. 

“You’re mine,” he declared, the possessiveness in his tone igniting a flame deep within your core. With that proclamation, a sense of belonging surged through you—a realization that this was where you were meant to be.

“Will you stay with me?” Chishiya’s gaze bore into yours, searching for an answer, for affirmation. The intensity of his stare held you captive, and you felt the weight of his question settle deep within you.

“Always,” you breathed, the words spilling from your lips with a conviction that surprised even you. The promise hung between you like a delicate thread, binding your fates together in an intricate tapestry of love and darkness. Life ebbed away from you, your breaths growing shallow and your body cold.

He smiled, a wicked glint in his eyes that promised both pleasure and peril. With a swift motion, he bit into his wrist, the crimson liquid pooling at the wound. He took in a mouthful of his own blood, then captured your lips with his, coaxing you to drink.

Suddently, energy thrummed at the tips of your fingers, and instinctively, you brought your hands up to his face, holding him as he kissed new life into you. It was a rebirth, a metamorphosis that coursed through your veins like wildfire.

The metallic taste of his blood was soon replaced by something sweet and utterly indescribable, quenching a hunger you didn’t know you had until the moment his lips touched yours. With each passing second, your heartbeat grew stronger, intensifying the sensation and drawing you deeper into a realm where pleasure and pain intertwined seamlessly.

As the kiss lingered, the world around you faded even further, leaving only the intoxicating rhythm of your bodies entwined. You could feel the insatiable hunger swelling within you, demanding more. With a fervent need, you trailed soft kisses down his neck, inhaling his scent—irresistible and amplified. Every breath drew you closer to the edge of something carnal. 

In a surge of instinct, your teeth sank into the delicate skin of his neck. Chishiya let out a moan as his hands threaded into your hair, holding you tighter in his embrace. The taste of his blood mingled with the sweetness of your rebirth ignited a fire that surged through you. It was a delicious paradox, the push and pull of pleasure and hunger intertwining, leaving you gasping for more.

You could feel his heartbeat thrumming beneath your lips, each pulse a seductive rhythm that urged you on. With every swallow, your senses heightened, drawing you deeper into the essence of him. It was a dance of dominance and submission, a game where both of you were willing participants, losing yourselves in the moment.

Chishiya’s grip tightened, fingers curling around your nape as if to ground you, to keep you from drifting away in ecstasy. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a sultry whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “Take what you need.”

The command sent a thrill through you, amplifying your desire. You bit down a little harder, savoring the rich, metallic flavor that flooded your senses, blending with the sweet, almost ambrosial undertones. It felt like power—his vulnerability in your hands, a delicious contrast to the control he had always held over you. 

As you pulled back, your eyes met his, and the intensity of his gaze nearly stole your breath. He leaned into you and kissed you once more, both of you licking whatever remnants of blood remained on each other’s lips. 

The implications of your actions hung in the air, promising a future steeped in darkness and unbridled passion. But in that moment, nothing else mattered—only the undeniable connection between you, the bond forged in blood and desire.

“Together,” you whispered, the vow escaping your lips like a prayer, a commitment to whatever darkness lay ahead.

His smile was wicked, full of promise and peril. “Always,” he replied, sealing your pact with a kiss that ignited every nerve ending in your body. It was a declaration of war against the mundane, a leap into the unknown where love and madness entwined like vines around a tree.

In that instant, you knew there was no turning back. You were his, and he was yours, the two of you entwined in a dance of desire that would take you both to the edge of oblivion and beyond.

thank you for reading <3

[fathomlessgaze]

perfect: zayne takes solace in hearing the heartbeats of those he loves deeply, which now includes one more little one

all fluff dw, husband!zayne/reader, ~.9k

warnings: reader is pregnant + called a mother, maybe not canon compliant but spoilers about mc's lore and allusions to zayne's lore (mainly myths story + maybe that dawnbreaker anecdote), zayne being a doctor + lots of heartbeat ments but i didnt research so maybe medically inaccurate, i believe in (future) girldad!zayne

an: i haven't written ff in 5ever + didn't edit on top of this so my apologies LOL im just really downbad for this ice man n wanted to write smthn rq

the soft, muffled clinking of keys and the creaking of the front door ruffle your slumber, your eyes slowly fluttering and flickering to the entryway where, sure enough, your husband steps inside. as he catches a glimpse of your, supposedly, sleeping form, a soft grin takes over his features and you think, maybe, you’d like to see where this goes. 

he puts his bag down by the console table and takes off his shoes and you steady your breath, hoping he hasn’t noticed your lingering gaze under your lowered lids. fishing out his stethoscope, he hangs it around his neck as he takes cautious steps towards you, tip toeing to avoid all the creaky spots of the hardwood floors. he’s slow as he lowers himself on the couch, taking a moment to admire your curve of your jaw and the pout of your lips before putting in the earpieces.

zayne really was trying to be careful. he’d taken the metal between the fabric of his jacket, an attempt to reduce the jarring difference between its chill and your warmth, and moved as slowly and quietly as he could as he sat next to your snoozing figure on the sofa.

he watches carefully before his stethoscope finds your heart and its rhythmic beating fills his head. while it isn’t new news, the reminder that the organ that keeps you alive is perfectly well and healthy always brings ease to his own, this time given a physical form through a quiet exhale falling from his lips. clear and strong, not a single hint or vibration of the fragments that used to plague your being, your heart beats in time with his, he’d like to think. he allows his eyes to get misty, a faint smile and chuckle escaping as he tries to wipe the tear that threatens to fall with his free hand. 

he stays like that for a minute more, simply relishing in how far you’ve both come. he remembers that surgery like it was yesterday, with how demanding and long it was, the aches settling in his muscles and bones by the end of it, only to jump head first into the delicate, intensive recovery you needed and he helped you through. and he would do it again and again, if that’s what it would take. 

oh, how your fingers itch to brush the side of his face, cup his cheek in your palm and brush the stray hairs behind his ear. you can always tell when he starts reminiscing, how a moist sheen covers his beautiful eyes, furthering just how precious they are. but before you can move your arm from where it rests on your leg, he’s taking back the chest piece into his palms, holding it gingerly.

with one hand, he gently runs his fingers along your stomach until he finds a spot that causes his eyebrows to raise for the slightest moment, before the stoic expression returns to his face. the now cool metal in his other hand replaces his other hand, and, if it weren’t for the quirk of his lips, the soft smile and endeared look in his eyes, you would’ve been none the wiser to what had happened. he takes in the rhythmic beating in his ears. that’s…your baby, well and healthy and all he could ask for. a small sigh escapes his lips. he could stay here and listen to it for forever. 

maybe you should cut the act.

fluttering your eyes open fully, you meet his tinted cheeks with a coy grin. “what’re you doing?” you ask, feigning innocence. 

he brings his hand to his neck, scratching slightly at the pink-tinged skin before clearing his throat. “i–uh–i thought it would just be nice to see if we could hear her heartbeat yet.” 

you lean forward, biting your lip to stop the knowing smile from escaping as you rest a hand on his shoulder and rub his cheek with your knuckles. “and do you?”

he nods, his rare beam coming to the surface before he kisses your forehead, letting his lips linger. “it’s beautiful and strong, just like her mother.”

before you can reply, he’s removing the ear pieces and fitting the stethoscope around your head, the quiet rhythm now taking over your senses. it’s gentle, delicate, but definitely there and determined. 

“that’s our baby,” you murmur. suddenly emotion washes over you and you rub your eyes with your sleeves. “oh, zayne, it’s lovely.”

he bobs his head, taking one of your hands in his to hold the metal still against you so he can now use his free hands to brush the droplets from your cheeks and wrap you in his arms, snug in his embrace. with a gentle kiss to your temple, he lets out a shuddering breath, not daring to speak before he can stabilize the shakiness in his throat. “it’s perfect.”  

“y’know,” you start, a small laugh escaping as you try to not cry into zayne’s button-up, “this is all i could’ve ever wanted, i think. if you told me when we met as kids this would be my life, i don’t think i would’ve believed you, but this is perfect, just as it is, you, me and her.”

he nuzzles his head against your neck, a quiet agreement taking form as a faint kiss on your shoulder. “this is the life i’ve waited years, forever, for.” he squeezes your frame slightly, holding your closer. “it’s so perfect.”

[sayruq]

In January of 2024, Dr. Bara Zuhaili entered Gaza on a two-week medical mission with a U.S.-based organization, Rahma Worldwide. Dr. Zuhaili dedicated most of his time to Shuhada' Al-Aqsa Hospital in Deir Al-Balah, central Gaza. While this was not his first experience in a wartime or crisis setting — he had undertaken medical missions in Syria and was in southern Turkey during the earthquake — it proved to be his most horrific. As a vascular surgeon, he was tasked with assisting Gazan doctors in one of the ugliest tasks of this war: amputations. A generation of amputees has emerged, with over 10 children losing one or more limbs per day, on average, since the beginning of the war. Dr. Ghassan Abu-Sittah called it “the biggest cohort of pediatric amputees in history.” Even this statistic, reported by UNICEF in December of 2023, is now outdated. The true number of men, women, and child amputees remains unknown, with estimates ranging upwards of 10,000 people. It is a number that will continue to rise as new and unknown weapons destroy tissue and bone, crumbling medical infrastructures and scarce supplies force constant life-and-death decisions, while infections and chronic illnesses — largely ignored — silently kill or handicap thousands.

Is this the first time you've worked in a war zone or in a humanitarian crisis? Did any of them prepare you for this? It was not the first time. Unfortunately, I had experience in Syria, working in the underground hospitals in the besieged areas of Aleppo and Idlib. There, the healthcare facilities were also under constant attack by the Syrian regime. But Gaza was unlike anything I had seen before. To start, the supply chain was completely broken. Supplies were extremely limited in Deir Al Balah, where I was based for most of my stay. The hospital functioned at only 5-10% capacity compared to any similar hospital in the Middle East—I'm not even talking about an American hospital. Then, there were the number of patients. Just to give you an idea: Shuhada' Al-Aqsa Hospital in Deir Al Balah is only equipped for 150 patients. Under extreme circumstances, they could maybe stretch to accommodate up to 200 patients. When I arrived, there were 950 patients, in addition to over 20,000 refugees sleeping in the corridors of the hospital and its complex. Every time we experienced a bombardment, we had anywhere from 20 to 60 patients rushing in simultaneously, in addition to the patients already being treated. It was completely overwhelming and overcrowded. The third issue had to do with the type of injuries. I've seen a lot of trauma before — traumatic injuries are not new to me — but the level of trauma I saw was something I've never witnessed in my entire life. When I was in the operating room, I would get a call from the ER saying someone was shot in the leg and they needed me as soon as possible. In my mind, someone shot in the leg with a bullet would have an entry size of about five to six millimeters and an exit wound size of about two centimeters long. That is what I was familiar with. What I saw in Gaza — which I had never seen before — was literally as if an explosion, an RPG, had exploded into the leg. The entry wound would be about five to 10 centimeters wide and the exit wound would be almost 30 centimeters wide. One bullet would destroy a diameter of 10-15 centimeters… all of the muscle, bone, arteries, and nerves were all gone, destroyed.I'm not a military expert, I don't know much about weapons. But I don't know what kind of bullet can cause that much destruction. With a bullet wound in the U.S., I could get away with doing a bypass to salvage the leg. In Gaza, there was nothing anyone could do to salvage the leg. The amount of tissue damage forced me to do amputations almost every single time. 

Can you describe what a single day would look like? As a rule, anytime a bombardment happened, we would wait between four to eight hours before we received any injured people. In Deir Al-Balah, we would see the missile hitting two to three kilometers away and we knew that there were many casualties, but it would take these people — who were only three kilometers away from us — four to eight hours to reach our location. The IOF (Israeli Occupation Forces) prevented any ambulances from entering the scene, and anyone attempting to help or approach would be shot. I had many cases where the ambulance driver would come to me holding two or three kids. They were dead, and he would swear to me they were alive four hours ago. We lost a lot of lives just waiting to reach us in the hospital. Our days typically began around seven in the morning, and even though the night was filled with attacks and bombardments, no casualties would reach us before the morning. By then, we would go to the ER and try to start the triage process: determining who needs to go to the OR first and who could afford to wait. We would then perform surgeries throughout the day, often not finishing until one or two in the morning. Sometimes, if I had time, I would do my rounds to check on the patients, and by late afternoon, we would have more bombardments and injuries coming in until midnight. Usually, by midnight, things slowed down… not because there was no bombardment, but because they couldn't reach us anymore.

[ghoulie-67-baby]

Don’t want to sleep alone - Poly!BAU team.

Summary: After a hard unsub takedown you and Spencer end up cuddled together on the sofa, being admired by your Polycule.

Warnings: Poly!BAU (I will go down with this ship), typical Criminal minds stuff, fluff, mentions of sub/dom dynamics, subspace, cuddling etc.

Pairing: Poly!BAU x GN!reader. Spencer Reid x GN!reader.

Word count: 968.

My body groaned in protest as I climbed the steps to the jet. The sooner I was in the comfort of my own bed the better I would feel. I set my bag down on the floor beside the sofa before trudging to the kitchenette, shoulders heavy and head thumping.

"Anyone want a drink whilst I'm here?" I called out, mid-yawn, humming at the collective replies. I waited on the kettle boiling, pouring David a scotch and Emily water before pulling out mine and Spencer's matching Doctor Who mugs.

"Thank you, Dolcezza," I shuffled to hand David his drink, grinning as JJ brushed past me, hands brushing my hips gently. My body sang happily when the Italian pressed a kiss to my hand and squeezed it gently. I felt a pat on my butt as I walked past Derek to Emily who pressed a small peck to my lips before settling into her seat.

I finished making our tea in a comfortable silence, handing Spencer his, warning him to be careful. My body sagged in my chair across from the sofa Spencer had claimed and I sipped my drink with a heavy sigh, wincing as my bones seemed to scrape each other.

"You okay Sweetie?" My eyes met JJ's in a soft glance and I smiled reassuringly. "You still hurting?"

"Hmm, I'm okay." I bit my lip, hoping she didn't sense the hesitance.

"Y/N." Aaron's voice was low with warning, so he had cottoned onto my dishonesty. My eyes flickered to his, noticing the softness in them despite his tone.

"Honest, I'm fine, just tired and sore." I flexed my neck, grimacing at the crack that seemed to reverberate through the jet. "That guy was huge, knocked me through that door like I weighed nothing but I'll be fine."

"Awww poor baby, do you want a massage?" I shook my head at Derek's teasing, and stuck my tongue out at him, noticing the flash of darkness in his eyes at my cheekiness.

"You need a long hot bath and those essential oils that Penelope bought you when we get home. I'd be more than happy to wash your hair and pamper you." JJ's voice was sweet and gentle as her motherly instincts kicked in and I couldn't help the warmth that fluttered through my body as I nodded in agreement.

"That and hydration and rest will do you the world of good, it's one of the best ways to recover sore muscles along with active healing like running and other exercise." I sent a small glare to the genius, a small smile slipping onto my face when he shrugged in surrender. "But I have a feeling you don't want to be doing that."

"Yeah maybe not baby, think I'll go for the hot bath." I smiled at Spencer, relaxing in my seat as much as my muscles would allow and observing my team as they settled down. Derek's headphones were on, Emily was reading over the case files with Aaron, David was nursing his scotch, JJ was texting and Spencer was slouched on the sofa with his book, eyes drooping as he attempted to read. I watched in amusement for a few seconds until he jerked himself awake.

"Spence, you're going to end up hurting your neck sat like that." I chuckled to myself softly and stood, grabbing one of the big blankets kept on board for situations like this. My scolding was soft, feeling myself slipping into exhaustion too but ignoring it in favour of looking after my genius. "Lay down properly baby, get some rest." I didn't realise the attention I'd brought to us both as I draped the blanket across the sweet, sleepy doctor.

"M' not tired, honest, m'just having a minute" he tried to fight it, the glassy look in his eyes proved it to be a blatant lie and I cooed at him, brushing his curls from his eyes.

"Don't you lie to me," I whispered, "Don't let Aaron hear you telling fibs." I shook my head as I slipped a little into my head. When I got tired it was so easy to slip into subspace, so easy to feel small and in need of love and comfort, in need of a cuddle and sleep and after the case we'd had I wasn't surprised I was slipping fast.

"Don't wanna sleep on m'own." Spencer's voice was small and vulnerable, bringing tears to my eyes at how sad he sounded. His arms snaked amount my thigh as he pulled me closer to him "Stay with me, please." I hesitated for a moment before letting myself slip a little further with a nod. Sliding off my shoes and jacket, I motioned for him to scoot back before pulling back the blanket and crawling onto the sofa. Arms instantly wrapped around me, pulling me by the waist back against his chest as he spooned me. I winced as he pressed against my bruised ribs but held back any noise so he didn't think he'd hurt me. After a little shuffling, we finally got comfortable, his hand clasped in mine, draped over my waist and bodies pressed together sweetly. I suppressed a little moan of happiness as his warmth seeped into my sore body, soothing me and making me drowsier.

My eyes felt heavier and heavier by the second as Spence's heartbeat slowed against my back and his breathing evened out. Soft breaths puffed against the back of my neck where he'd nestled his face, pressing a last kiss to my nape as he nodded off. My eyes did one last swoop of the jet, comforted by all the soft smiles and admiring eyes I saw until I finally succumbed to sleep, comfortable in the company of my family and the arms of our baby boy.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Frostbite

Frostbite - damage to the skin and other tissues caused by freezing.

Frostnip - a milder form of cold injury; it is sometimes described as the first stage of frostbite.

Some doctors use a 4-degree classification of injuries:

First-degree: The epidermis (outermost layer of the skin) is reddened, swollen, and may look waxy. There is also a loss of sensation in the affected skin.

Second-degree: The skin is reddened, swollen, and has formed blisters filled with a clear or milky fluid.

Third-degree: Blisters are filled with blood and the skin begins to turn black.

Fourth-degree: The epidermis, dermis, and underlying muscles, tendons, and bones are damaged.

The early stage of frostbite is sometimes called frostnip.

Short-term symptoms include:

loss of feeling or aching pain in the affected part,

followed by redness of the skin and

tissue swelling.

Unfortunately, a victim is often unaware of frostbite until someone else points it out because the frozen tissues are numb.

Long-term symptoms include:

intense pain in the affected part,

tingling sensations,

cracks in the skin,

dry skin,

loss of fingernails,

joint stiffness,

loss of bone or muscle tissue, and

increased sensitivity to cold.

If left untreated, frostbitten skin gradually darkens and blisters after a few hours.

Skin destroyed by frostbite is completely black, looks burnt, and may hang loosely from the underlying tissues.

Freezing of exposed tissues results in the formation of ice crystals inside the cell wall.

A variation of frostbite - mountain frostbite, which affects mountain climbers and others exposed to extremely cold temperatures at high altitude.

Combines tissue freezing with oxygen deprivation and general body dehydration.

TREATMENT

Frostnipped fingers are helped by:

blowing warm air on them or

holding them under one’s armpits.

Other frostnipped areas can be covered with warm hands.

The injured areas should never be rubbed.

While waiting for medical help to arrive, one should, if possible:

remove wet or tight clothing and

put on dry, loose clothing or wraps.

A splint and padding are used to protect the injured area.

The patient should not be allowed to walk on frostbitten toes or feet, as the weight of the body will cause further damage to tissue—unless walking is the only way the patient can get to shelter.

Rubbing the area with snow or anything else is dangerous.

The key to prehospital treatment is to avoid partial thawing and refreezing.

This releases more inflammatory mediators and makes the injury substantially worse.

For this reason, the affected part must be kept away from such heat sources as campfires and car heaters.

The injured person should not be given alcohol or tranquilizers, as these will increase loss of body heat.

Experts advise rewarming in the field only when emergency help will take more than 2 hours to arrive and refreezing can be prevented.

Because the outcome of a frostbite injury cannot be predicted at first, all hospital treatment follows the same route.

Treatment begins by rewarming the affected part for 15–30 minutes in water at a temperature of 104–108°F (40–42.2°C). This rapid rewarming halts ice crystal formation and dilates narrowed blood vessels.

Aloe vera (which acts against inflammatory mediators) is applied to the affected part, which is then splinted, elevated, and wrapped in a dressing.

Depending on the extent of injury, blisters may be debrided (cleaned by removing foreign material) or simply covered with aloe vera.

Except when injury is minimal, treatment generally requires a hospital stay of several days, during which hydrotherapy and physical therapy are used to restore the affected part to health.

Experts recommend a cautious approach to tissue removal, and advise that 22–45 days must pass before a decision on amputation can safely be made.

If frostbitten skin is not treated and its blood vessels are affected, gangrene may set in.

Gangrene is the death of soft tissue due to loss of blood supply.

It may be treated by surgical removal of the affected tissue if caught early; otherwise, the surgeon may have to amputate the affected digit or limb to prevent bacterial infections from spreading from the dead tissue to the rest of the body.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Realistic Injuries