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someonexsomeone · 1 year

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Street By Street

Title: Street by Street

Author: SomeonexSomeone

Word Count: 3.5k

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Reader

Summary: It's really hard to love someone with everything you have when they have already lived.

Authors Note: guys!! its the first fic of Laufeyfest! I really wanted all of these stories to be love stories, but sometimes love stories are too easy. instead, how about a story that hurts mwahahaha

Miguel O’Hara was a man of a million expressions and emotions, but very few words. Though intimidating at first, it didn’t take long for anyone to listen to his short, clip sentences to realize that his care was beyond the measure of any normal person. His heart, despite being hurt, thumped with care for his city and its people, and his actions were always first and foremost to help those in need. It was, admittedly, that care that put you in his path.

It wasn't often that a civilian drew his attention. To be fair, most of his life had been surrounded by astounding people, whether the other geniuses that surrounded him in school, the classes he took at university, the capable scientists that worked alongside him at Alchemax, and even now, with the best the multiverse had to offer (though, he refused to admit that out loud to anyone but LYLA, the only other person who knew his complete plan). But, there was something about the way your eyes shinned in dedication, the absolute fury he saw on your face when the city treated its people poorly, the pride in the way your shoulders sagged after making progress in a corrupt city, that had him returning for more, whether it was stopping by to monitor you while you worked in a way so uniquely you, or to personally meet you in the lobby to once again say no, he didn’t have time to do a meet and greet at the Rec Center despite how great it was that you were fighting for union workers working the steam lines. He wanted to, more than he cared to admit, just to see that blinding smile he saw only occasionally thrown around whatever new project you were working on, but things were unstable right now. The dread in his stomach at the thought of being away from his computer long enough to let a world-destroying anomaly get away was too much, even for you. He did, however, feel his resolve slowly chip away whenever your posture slumped a little, despite the countless times he said no already, and bid a pleasant farewell with a promise to visit again soon.

“Don’t bother coming back”, slowly turned into, “I look forward to it” faster than even he could believe, and it surely didn’t help that the more Spiderpeople joined HQ, the more were there to witness his pathetic wave and gentle hand on your back as he lead you back to the front door.

“You know,” Peter B remarked one day, appearing behind him with a giggling MayDay. Only a few months old and she was already a little ball of energy, squealing and making more noise than Miguel ever wanted to hear at work. “She really seems like a nice woman. You should give her a chance.”

“What would you know?” Miguel growled, spinning on his heel.

“I’m just saying, man. You got this whole miserable brute thing down pretty good, but it wouldn’t hurt to let yourself live a little.”

“I’ve done that already, and look how that turned out!” Peter B stepped back, whether for his own sake to escape Miguel’s wrath, or to protect MayDay he didn’t totally know. Miguel huffed, shaking his head once. “You know my story already. I’ve lived plenty, and we can’t afford any distractions while the Multiverse is falling apart-”

“I’m not saying you should give everything to go on a coffee date,” Peter B interjected, ignoring the glare Miguel sent him. “I’m just saying that you lived a life that wasn’t yours. Why not give this world a chance to make you happy? You know there won’t be any chance of anomaly here.”

“You don’t know that,” he snapped. Despite his annoying tendency to bring his child to work and butt in when he wasn’t needed, Miguel didn’t know if his frustration was from Peter B’s interference in his personal life…or the fact that he desperately wanted him to be right.

“Coffee. You can do that, can’t you?”

“And who will be here if something goes wrong? You?” Miguel huffed in amusement, nearly missing the slight smug twitch in his fellow spider’s smile. Peter B placed a hand on his larger companion's shoulder, willing himself to keep it there despite every nerve in his body twitching to take it away.

“Sure, I can do it, if you want.” Miguel eyed the hand on his shoulder. “You also have LYLA and Jess and even Ben.” They exchanged a single, pointed glance. “Okay, not Ben, but you do have people you can trust to notify you if anything goes wrong. And, besides, it’s not like you have to hide who you really are, unlike the rest of us..”

So, in a rare instance of trust, Miguel approached you and asked you out for coffee.

Well, he really swung by while you were working downtown, scooping you up in his arms and bringing you to the quiet cafe inside HQ, demanding you tell him all about the fundraiser you approached him about last time. And, in a rare instance of admitting Peter B was correct, he didn’t have any regrets, not after your smile lit up your face, pulling out a folder from your bag to show him the plans.

Miguel was…to be honest, there wasn’t any word that could describe him better than odd. After a near year of being treated like every other average citizen to seeing him nearly every day to spending most nights together was a pattern you never expected to happen. Even more, you thought the unusual behavior was just that, unusual, but you had never met someone who could keep you on your toes so much. And, if you were honest with yourself, you loved every minute of it.

Yes, his demeanor would flip at the drop of the hat, but his morals never swayed from the dedicated man you loved. In a day you watched him badger a teenager before demanding they visit the medical ward for their injuries, pulverize a criminal on the street before swooping in to give you a gentle kiss, and throw a table across the room immediately after taking a selfie with his close digital companion. If you didn’t know him any better, you would be concerned for his health with the fluctuation in his mood, but there was something always stopping you from being afraid.

That thing? The simple adoration in his eyes when they met yours.

Being in his arms was always a pleasure, but you could stare into his eyes for hours without break, running your hands through his hair and just drinking in his entire being. Work would pass in a haze until you returned to his arms, and days off were spent walking around the HQ with him, staring longingly at him, and helping out where you could, which primarily meant distracting him when he started to bounce on his toes with impatience.

(Multiple Spiderpeople have caught you two sprawled on the couch in his office, you laying on top, just staring into his eyes and giving him gentle kisses every couple of seconds. It was the reason he now has a crude ‘Do Not Disturb. Idiots in Love’ sign outside his door that LYLA puts up near daily.)

So, when Miguel had to leave suddenly one morning, you thought nothing of it. HQ was needing him at any hour of the day, and being the protector of the multiverse was more than a simple 9-5 job. He planted a heavy kiss on your lips before departing, like he did every time (a silent apology for waking you up), and jumped from the landing outside your window. One glance at the clock, blinding numbers far too early to even comprehend, you rolled over and drunk in the scent he left behind on his warm side of the bed. Not seeing him that night was also not unusual, though you typically for some sort of message from him, just to let you know he was okay. Despite this, you tucked yourself into bed after a long day, ready to see him in the morning.

Then the morning came. By lunch, you still hadn’t heard anything. Dinner came and went. Then, two, three, four days and still not a word from Miguel. Now you were getting worried.

“LYLA?” you called into the watch on your wrist, legs crossed as you sat on your bed. A gift from Miguel if you ever needed something when he wasn't there, but you haven’t really had to use it recently. In fact, it took you over a minute just to clasp it around your wrist and find the button to turn the damn thing on, since it lived in your bedside drawer most days. Why have it on you when you were glued to Miguel’s side anyway?

“Hiya!” Her sudden appearance made you jump, a titling laugh escaping her digital lips. “What can I do for you?”

“Have you seen Miguel? I haven’t heard from him recently.” At this, her eyebrows furled.

“What?”

“Is he on a mission or something?” When she didn’t move, you clenched your fingers nervously. “I know I’m not really supposed to know any details but I figured maybe you could tell me if he’s okay or not. That’s something I’m allowed to know, right?” She continued to stand still like her model was completely frozen. “LYLA?”

“Sorry!” Her entire being glitched, bouncing up and down before swaying like she gave herself an electric shock. “I was just trying to see where Miguel’s watch was to let you know.” She gave you a pleasant smile, but there was something making the corners twitch suspiciously. “He’s currently at the cafe at HQ. I thought he was here with you this whole time.”

“With me? But he left five days ago and hasn’t come back. This is the first time I’ve heard anything.” Her smile turned completely.

“He hasn’t been with you? I thought…your watch is usually here so I didn’t even think to check…” She looked at your earnestly, before glitching again.

“LYLA? Is something wrong?”

“It’s just…he hasn’t let me come into the office recently, so I thought…And he hasn’t really been on duty since we had a minor anomaly warning the other day in the underbelly.” Your confused look turned to alarm. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe he just found … something?”

“But wouldn’t he tell you?” When she didn’t say anything, you jumped up, practically throwing the watch around while you threw your jacket and shoes on.

“Woah, woah, woah! What are you doing?”

“LYLA, he’s acting weird. Weirder than usual. If something’s going on…I need to know.”

“But you shouldn’t go out right now! It’s really late, and you have no one here to-” You smiled gently at her.

“I’ve lived here my whole life. Dedicated myself to it. Don’t worry, LYLA, I’ve walked these streets long before the protection of my Spiderman.” These reassurances didn’t do much to stop her from practically begging you to stay home and wait until the morning. You could hear her telling you she was threatening to send messages to Miguel that you were coming, threatening that she wouldn’t let you in the building so there was no point in going, even going as far as to activate the beeping notification on your watch that sent Miguel your location. You didn’t care. If something was bothering Miguel, you didn’t want him to be dealing with it alone, not after learning all about the near-debilitating, self-destructive depression he went through after losing his daughter.

HQ wasn’t close by any means, and your body was nearly frozen by the time you arrived at the front of it, too worried about Miguel to do anything about your pajamas. The building was burning like the brightest beacon, still managing to catch you in a moment of awe, before you approached the front doors. When you pulled on them, they rattled but didn’t open.

“LYLA?”

“I think you need to go home.” Her serious tone alarmed you.

Raising your arm so you were eye to eye, you stared at her. “What? LYLA, seriously what’s going on?” Her body glitched in and out on your wrist, her eyes flickering between you and the door. “If it was a mission or some Spiderman-related thing you would have just told me, so what’s really going on?”

Her mouth opened and closed, before deciding on, “He’s in there with a woman.” Your eyebrows raised.

“Okay? A woman I know?” LYLA flinched but didn’t say anything. “LYLA, seriously. He’s a grown man, not some hormonal teenage boy. What woman?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

“What?” She hesitated, then circled her hand in a motion you didn’t recognize. Beside her holographic body, a screen appeared. Miguel and a woman sat side by side, so close together that her side completely lined up with his. He was holding her hand gently, and her eyes were batting up at him, the HQ cafe’s sign brightly lighting up their faces so you could see their dual smiles. It took a double take to realize that, while you didn’t exactly recognize her, you did recognize her features. Your knees gave out, hitting the ground hard enough to bruise.

LYLA didn’t say anything, taking the photo away from your searching eyes.

“But...but…but…” Your brain couldn’t process it. What was Tempest doing here? You tried a few more times to form words, but your brain and your mouth refused to work together. Finally, they managed to form, “I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t want you to know.” Your eyes narrowed, mind stilling.

“You knew?” LYLA’s eyes widened.

“No!” Your skepticism was clear on your face. She winced. “Okay, I knew. But I promise that I didn’t know what was really happening.” You scoffed. “Miguel returned back from the investigation like he had seen a ghost. Then he asked me to replay the footage from the surrounding streets, and that’s when we saw her. He didn’t know that there would be a Tempest here! He left almost immediately after that, and when I saw his signal head towards you, I assumed…”

“But that doesn’t-”

“He brought her back to HQ later that night. He asked me to run scans on her and said he was going to distract her while I ran an analysis. That was it.”

“But it wasn’t, was it?!” Your furious tone made her flinch. Your eyes widened. “This is what you meant, wasn’t it? When you said he found something.”

“The scan came back negative for anomalies. She’s supposed to be here, she belongs in this world.” Your heart stopped.

“You mean…he has a chance…?”

“Any time I tried to get in contact with him that last couple of days, he told me he was off duty and that I should only contact him if there was an emergency. I thought…I was hoping he was spending it with you.” Your body was burning, the cold mixing with the chill that settled deep in your bones. Miguel, who you thought was the love of your life, had found something to bring back Gabriella, a second chance at the life that was cruelly taken from him. The happiness he had that, while he was very happy with you, didn’t stop you from catching him staring longingly at the only photo he had left of his daughter. “He loves you, you have to know that-”

“But why would he?” You ripped the watch off your arm, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “I just…I want him to be happy, more than anything. And I can’t…I can’t give him Gabriella.” LYLA started to protest, but you just shook your head. “Just…take care of him for me, okay?”

“No! Wait!” You placed the watch gently on the floor of the building. She continued to shout, the familiar ding of Miguel’s notification blasting rapidly. “Don’t leave! Please!”

You smile sadly at her, turning on your heel, taking the short walk back to the sidewalk with her voice slowly fading away. Despite your best efforts, tears spilled over, too large to allow you to see beyond your feet as they dragged along the pavement. Hiccuping sobs made your steps stagger, nearly crashing into the hedges that ran along the length of the Spider Society HQ. With a huff, you finally had to sit down, allowing the painful weeps to bubble over. Your heart was breaking into a million pieces, and your hands were shaking too much to catch the pieces.

“Hey! You there! Are you okay?” The voice was faint, barely audible over the whirling thoughts that muted everything around you. A figure crouched down in front of you, but it was still too hard to make out any features. ”Woah! Wait, what are you doing here? Where is Miguel?” The figure’s hands came into view, but they didn’t get close enough to touch you, only just enough to see that they hovered awkwardly in mid-air.

“...Peter?” you said softly after a minute, blinking rapidly enough to barely make his face. You pushed the heels of your hands into your eyes, wiping away as many tears as you could. “What..what are you doing here?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” He finally settled on patting your head, though you could tell it did not come as easy to him as it did when he did the same to his daughter. “Why are you out here?”

“I, um…” You huffed. “I was just leaving.”

“Leaving?” You nodded.

“Yeah. I, uh…,” Think brain! Come on! “...am about to start a new project at work that will take me away for a while so I just wanted to say goodbye to everyone. I didn’t realize how late it was though.” Finally clear-visioned, you made eye contact with the Spider person you had come to know the most, smiling gently at him. “I didn’t think I would be seeing you, though.”

“I’m on patrol tonight since Miguel couldn’t be here.” Your heart panged dangerously hard. “I thought for sure-”

“I’m glad I was able to see you before I left,” you interrupted, pulling yourself to your feet. Peter B just stared in confusion, slowly rising after you. “It’s so last minute, I was just going to send you a message through L-LYLA,” you pushed through the stutter, “but now I can give you a real goodbye.” You hugged him fiercely. Peter B hesitated only a moment before hugging you back.

Your knees almost gave way at the comfort he provided, your arms locking even more. You were going to miss him, dearly. Now that Miguel had found his real love, where would that leave you in the mess that was the Spider Society? There was no reason for you to come back, not when Miguel was the only reason you went in the first place, but there were people in there you had come to care deeply for. Surely they would come out once in a while, maybe you could catch them then? Or maybe you could just walk up to the building like you always did, requesting LYLA to send them down so you guys could get something to eat together? The thought of your new friends made the pit in your stomach grow.

What would you do now? You had been so wrapped up in Miguel the last couple of months that you weren’t even sure what was going on on the day-to-day. Work had been so far from your mind that you had only taken on small projects here and there, leaving the bigger decisions to others so you wouldn’t have to stray so far from HQ. You hadn’t met up with your old friends and coworkers in months, let alone without Miguel at your side. Would they even want you back? How could they, when you had essentially broken their trust in you by picking a man over your friends, your work, your city?

You pushed your head into Peter B’s chest further, allowing yourself just a moment more of his support.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” His voice broke your swirling thought cycle, jolting you back to reality. You gently let him go, twitching your face into the best smile you could muster.

“I’m fine,” you lied, “just tired from all the preparation. I need to be heading back though.”

“Let me take you.” Before you could protest, he stopped you with a raised hand. “Please.” You smiled again, this time a little more sincere.

“Thank you, Peter.”

After arriving home, you rushed to your laptop, typing the fastest message you could to your coworkers. After a minute, the late crew chimed back, more than happy to have you on board for the underbelly project they were having a hard time finding a leader for. Their enthusiastic, praising messages brought a smile to your face.

This time, you swore, Miguel was going to get his happy ending, and you were going to get yours.

______________________________________________________________

masterlist l What is Laufeyfest? l Laufeyfest masterlist

#miguel o'hara imagine #miguel x reader #niguel o'hara one shot #laufeyfest #miguel o'hara x you #reader insert #spiderverse imagine #miguel imagine #spiderverse one shot #spiderverset angst #miguel o'hara imagines #miguel ohara fic #miguel ohara imagine #atspv x reader #miguel x you #miguel ohara x you

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miasmal-sweetness · 2 months

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Needle in to a bug (part 2)

I recall being told years ago that many surgeons have an unusually perceptive sense of touch, able to feel and palpate things that others struggle with or can’t feel at all. I think that could describe Derek.

Also, I know why it’s usually not mentioned wtf a kidnapped darling does when they need to pee, but I personally prefer it. Being able to just use the bathroom and clean ourselves up plays a big part in feeling human and dignified for so many of us. Whether they’d treat it like nothing at all, enjoy your humiliation, or degrade you for just having human needs, I think it would all stress me out way more than getting slapped around a lil bit every now and then.

Summary: 4.7k. You finally get the chance to move around and learn more about Derek, but he’s studying you, too.

Alt summary: Your hot surgeon is really hands-on and gives you the worst sponge bath you’ll ever have.

Pairing: yandere!Derek Stiles x reader x (in the future) yandere!Victor Niguel

Warnings: author’s medical trauma is showing, general medfet, kidnapping/captivity, bondage, urine (but like not in a sexy way, it’s just there), reader refers to having a period, noncon, violence, use of pet names (princess, honey), general yandere and obsessive behaviors

part 1 part 2 part 3

MDNI – NSFW – 18+ only – take care of yourself

Needle in to a bug (part 2)

You’re still sleeping. You breathe quietly as your eyelids flutter. You’re dreaming, and Derek hopes it’s of him. Whether it’s of him holding your hand, fucking your brains out, or slicing you open, it doesn’t matter—he just wants it to be of him. Derek glances at your throat. The blade has left red circles on your chin and chest, but it doesn’t look like you tried to scream at all, and that brings a smile to his face.

He hopes this means that you’ll adjust quickly, but he’s not against the idea of you putting up a fight, either. You could squirm and swing at him, and he’d smack you in the face and shove you on to the floor and—he’s getting carried away. Derek clears his throat and adjusts his glasses; heat is flowing from his neck up to his face. And down to his pants.

You’re here. You could help him fix that. And it’s tempting—but you’re still healing, and he also hasn’t had the decency to feed you yet. Derek pinches his thigh in an effort to calm his raging libido, before kneeling down beside you and smoothing some of your hair out of your face. He always thought you were cute, even when you two first met, but you look adorable when you’re sleeping.

He should have just taken you back then. He gave you a pass and didn’t kill you because you were so sweet, and then you were smart enough to not come back for a while. He thought he wouldn’t be so soft this time, that he’d rip you apart and be done with you, but then you had to go and look so adorable while he was cutting you apart.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” Derek coos, running his finger down your cheek. You eyes flutter open, showing only your white sclera for a moment, before your eyeballs roll to the correct place and slowly focus on him. “How are you feeling?”

He knows you can’t speak without getting hurt, and he knows you’ve likely forgotten in your current state. “I—” You wince and whimper when the blade digs in to your flesh, and you snap your mouth shut to try to end the pain.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot,” Derek says in a tone that is far too chipper. He undoes the leather collar around your neck, returning your ability to speak. “Better?”

As if you fear the ghost of it will manage to hurt you, you hesitate, slowly opening your mouth to test it before actually speaking. “My—my back hurts. My lower back.” Your sacrum is both numb and aching, likely from the pressure of being against the hard tub for so many hours. The pool of your own urine underneath it only added to the damage.

Derek doesn’t want you to get a pressure ulcer. Those are nasty and annoying to heal. Even so, you haven’t been here that long. “If you behave,” he begins, touching his finger to the irritated red spot on your chest. “I can let you move around a little bit.”

You immediately nod. Ugh, that hurts. The back of your head feels like the skin is ready to slough off.

“No running. You stay by me the whole time unless I give you permission not to, okay? No screaming,” he lists, tapping the spot on your chest with each new rule. “No silly ideas.”

“Okay,” you quickly agree, eyes wide at the thought of actually getting to move. Maybe you can’t escape with him right next to you, but you can at least get your bearings and start mapping the place—and take some pressure off your sacrum and head.

Derek smiles at your agreeableness and reaches down to pull you upright. It hurts; if anything, you expected relief, but you were only met with more pain. Your muscles are already sore and stiff from being contorted behind and underneath you for so long, unable to stretch, flex, or extend. Your hips click loudly. Your knees pop. You can feel cold urine running down your skin and it makes you want to throw up a little, but there’s nothing in there for you to expel.

“I should get you cleaned up first,” Derek muses. He’s unfazed by what a fucking mess you are. He’s a doctor, a literal goddamn surgeon, of course he isn’t bothered by the sight of your red skin and dried blood and urine all over you. The mats at the back of your head. The indents and edema left by the rope he bound you with. The fluid that oozes from the flesh he tore in to. This is the reality of the human body, a reality he is very familiar with, and one that he can now make a personal show of through your trembling little form.

You’re stupid for expecting hot water. You’re dowsed with ice cold water from the shower head and you suppose you should just be grateful that it isn’t a tub full of it, but you’re not. Urine, blood, and sweat run off of you and flow down the drain. He’s careful to avoid wetting your sutures; those need to be cleaned differently, he says, but you already know that, right?

Derek runs a rough, soapy washcloth up and down your arms. You’re shivering like he’s dunked you in an ice bath, but you haven’t complained, at least. His gaze trails down your spine, to the blooming red over your tailbone, and he presses his fingers against the center of it. As he expected, your skin doesn’t blanch from the pressure, but you do wince.

“That hurt?” Derek asks automatically.

“Y-yes.”

Of course it fucking hurts, it’s a pressure injury, but it made his cock twitch to hear you say it. Derek isn’t gentle when he scrubs your back or washes your hair with his soap and shampoo that just dry you out because he isn’t the kind of guy that has figured out how to take care of all that yet. Even he can tell that you’re in need of something gentler by how tight your skin feels now, but you’re still pretty soft, so it’s not that big a deal.

He drags the washcloth down to your inner thighs. You jump and wriggle, your limbs instinctively trying to lash out at him, but you make no progress. The ropes around your wrists and ankles might be wet, but they’re still tied tight around your limbs.

“You’d rather get an infection?” Derek mocks, pressing the harsh cloth in to the soft skin of your thighs. “Do you think that would make me stop?”

“No,” you whimper, averting your gaze. “I-I can do it myself.”

“No,” he mumbles, his eyes fixated on the soap running down your mound, “I don’t think you can.”

He was already harsh when he washed your back, and he was even worse when he started scrubbing your inner thighs and folds. Fuck. The soap burned and this washcloth was made of sandpaper.

“Stop,” you hiss, squeezing your thighs together. “That hurts!”

Derek mutters something you can’t hear past the water rushing out of the shower head. He doesn’t even look at your face; he just forces your thighs apart enough for him to wedge his hand in between them again. And then you see that his cheeks are flushed, and his lips are parted as he takes in deeper and deeper breaths.

“Stop,” you plead again. It’s no longer just the washcloth against you; you can feel his fingers exploring, teasing, prodding. You should have known, you think. You should have known that the man who cut you apart and kidnapped you and tied you up would be a fucking pervert, that he wouldn’t leave you with any kind of dignity intact. You feel your hope of escape draining from your soul when you look in to his eyes. He won’t look at your face. He looks exactly like the kind of man who could cut a person open, take out their heart, and feel nothing about whether they lived or died.

The kind of man who would never let someone go if they had even the slightest chance of fucking up the life he crafted for himself.

“I told you to stop!” you screech, throwing yourself against the wall of the tub in an effort to escape his touch.

“No screaming,” Derek reminds you. His eyes lock with yours for only a second, long enough to remind you of the rules he laid out for you. He shoves his index finger in to you without any warning and thrums. You’re squirming and writhing and whining, your face red from salty tears stinging your skin. You feel hot and soft around his finger, even with how cold the water still is. “You’re tight. I wouldn’t be able to pull out if I tried.”

You don’t hide your disgust at his words; not like it matters when he just keeps staring at the finger he pushes in and out of you. It’s invasive and gross, and there’s nothing you can do about it except cry and growl and sniffle. He’s done after just a few more moments; he clears his throat and does a little shake of his shoulders, like he forgot himself. He looks at your face now and smiles, smiles like the kind doctor you met years ago that you would have never expected to be a probable murderer and rapist.

“All clean,” he says with a grin. “Let’s get you dried off.”

The towel he uses is as rough and miserable as the washcloth. His bathroom might be fancy, but he’s still a young and clueless single man who doesn’t know the first thing about maintaining a home. He tousles your hair dry, inevitably filling it with more knots, and doesn’t bother to brush it.

“Remember the rules,” Derek said, grabbing the ropes around your wrists. “You said you’d be good.”

“I will be,” you assure, leaning away from him.

Derek leans closer, of course, and tightens his grip on your bindings. The soaking wet rope scrapes away a layer of your skin. “I mean it,” he warns, “Don’t test my patience, princess. I use most of it for work.”

You feel his breath on you. You want to spit in his face—he’s certainly close enough—but you also don’t want to die yet, so you simply nod and bat your lashes at him. He looks at you for another moment, but finally undoes the ropes around you. You immediately shift in place and bring your hands in to your lap to stretch.

“Don’t get too excited,” Derek says, rising to his feet. He looks between your hands and your hair, and ultimately decides to pull you up by your hair instead. Punishment for your scream earlier, he thinks as he watches you wobble in your attempt to stand. “I can’t let you keep your hands and your eyes.”

Your eyes widen, and you hide your hands behind your back. He was going to amputate them? “I—n-no, I—”

“Not like that,” he laughs, his eyes crinkling as he watches your plight. He looks so genuinely happy in this moment; he’d be pretty cute if he weren’t joyful over your suffering. “Come on, princess. Follow me.”

Like you have a choice. Your feet feel heavy and borderline useless from pins and needles as you stagger after him. You get only a glimpse at the bedroom connected to his bathroom before he throws a blindfold over your eyes. No use in fighting it—you’re too weak on a good day and still shaking from the shower.

“And… there.” He’s slid something over your hands. Mittens, by the feel of it; the kind of soft restraint you sometimes saw applied to patients who kept grabbing at tubes and lines. They’re soft and useless and utterly harmless. The most you could do is bat at him like a kitten would at a toy. “You can stretch and move your legs, but stay by me, honey.”

You grimace at the pet name—a pet name you probably would have enjoyed before all this shit—and nod. He guides your covered hand to his arm and has you hang on as he leads you further in to his apartment. Your plan of learning the environment has failed. Your head is too foggy from pain and drugs to keep track of how many steps you take or the turns you take. You’ll have to try again another time, if there is one.

Your foot catches on something soft—a rug, you realize—and Derek is nice enough to catch you before you can bust your face open on his living room floor.

“Careful,” he warns, placing your other hand on his arm.

“I can’t see anything,” you grumble. You’re pouting like a kid who was scolded, and it just gets worse when you realize that and hate yourself for it.

Derek pulls you towards his couch and lets you fall against the stiff cushions. It feels like a couch that was bought for looks over function and that badly needed to be broken in. There was no wear on the fabric, something you could feel even without putting your hands down, since this man did not have the decency to give you your clothes.

Maybe your period would strike and you’d bleed right on his fucking couch. You bet it’s a white couch. Judging by his bathroom, his apartment is probably a soulless, monochromatic bachelor pad that costs an absurd amount to rent; a place that looks more like a picture in a magazine to advertise one of the three pieces of furniture in it than a place anyone actually lives in.

“You can relax,” Derek tells you, seeing how rigid you are. Back straight and tense, legs squeezed together; you’re even tightening your core. You look pretty cute—it’s not like he’s immune to what it’s doing for your tits and waistline—but also pretty uncomfortable. “I’m not going to do anything to you right now, princess. You sit here and I’ll get you something to drink.”

The thought of your captor continuing to hang out next to you on his couch that felt like it was stuffed with books wasn’t appealing, but somehow the thought of being entirely alone here was worse. You tried grabbing on to his arm, but the mittens don’t allow you to actually grip anything. Still, he feels it and chuckles at your attempt.

“Cute,” Derek purrs, “I’ll be right back, honey.”

Honey. Princess. You feel his weight leave the couch as the saccharin sweetness of his voice leaves an aftertaste in your mouth that makes you grimace. You run your mitten-covered hands over your thighs in some attempt to soothe yourself and then pat the cushion you sit on. Stiff. You can hear the roughness of the fabric. You can hear his footsteps, too; he’s awfully loud for a criminal.

You hear liquid splashing, the sound of a fridge door opening and closing. What was he going to bring you to drink? Your mouth was so dry. IV fluids did not feel the same as oral hydration. A cold glass of water would be heaven in liquid form—but what were the odds he’d actually give you that?

He’d cut you open. Peeled your flesh back and toyed with your sinew. Probably took a fucking souvenir, unless you in your entirety were that souvenir. Assaulted you while he bathed you, bound you so you couldn’t scream without a serious injury, and left you without the dignity of being able to use the toilet. This little excursion, his offer of a drink, were both more likely to end in more pain than anything that could restore some of your humanity and comfort.

Your anxiety grows in your chest as he approaches. You feel the air pressure change around you; he’s to your… right. Leaning over you, exuding warmth. Cool glass touches your lips.

“Here,” Derek says, pressing a glass to your mouth. “Drink up.”

It’s fizzy; you feel bubbles popping and misting your face. It smells sweet. Your thirst outweighs your fear, and you take a hesitant sip that quickly turns into a desperate guzzle when you recognize it as lemon-lime soda.

“Slowly—you’ll upset your stomach, princess,” Derek laughs. You can already feel your stomach expanding from its shriveled state and starting to ache. He pulls the glass away from you; you follow it, but lose it immediately. “You can have more in a little bit. If you do well with this, then we can see about moving to full liquids. Okay?”

He tilts your head up, holding you by your chin. He can’t look you in the eyes like this, but he can still see your quivering lip. “Okay,” you breathe.

“I’m going to get a few things to clean your incision. In the meantime, you should stretch,” he says, pulling his hand away. “And make sure to take deep breaths regularly. I don’t want you getting pneumonia or a blood clot.”

“Okay,” you say again, in a strained voice. He’s leaving you here? Alone? Your hands might be soft and close to useless right now, but even you can bat off this blindfold with enough effort.

“I’ll be right around the corner, cutie,” Derek warns, his finger tapping the shallow wound on your chest. “No silly ideas.”

That makes much more sense. He leaves you on the couch to bitterly stretch out your tight calves. You can hear him rustling around somewhere nearby; any attempt to leave will end in tears.

He speaks to you like you’re a patient. Not only like you’re a real patient in a real hospital, but like you don’t know this shit anyway—like you don’t work at the same stupid hospital he does, the hospital that doesn’t pay you enough to afford real medical care, so you end up going to coworkers that are kind enough to treat you even though you can’t pay and they fucking kidnap you. Greatest goddamn hospital in Angeles Bay—in the nation, even—and they won’t pay their non-physician staff members a wage that would afford them something so basic. Caduceus was evil enough just for that without Derek slicing and dicing in their empty units.

You thought he was nice, once. When he worked at Hope Hospital and he saw you needed help, he pulled you aside after you refused treatment and offered to help you at no cost. It wasn’t an emergency, so you just had to come back later; he’d take you to the little office he worked out of for this and treat you. And he did. Your desperation paid off, and you left with the hope that you could be like him and never lose that kind of compassion when you started your career.

You wanted to be like him, as disgusting as it is to admit that now. You ran to him for help again. Let him put his hands on you once—a murderer’s hands—and then asked for more.

You slouch forward and let your mittens touch the hard floor beneath you. You’re stretching, technically. The fold is hurting your belly, but it distracts you from your thoughts, at least.

“Feeling any better?” Derek asks as he approaches you again. You look like you’re broken in already, and it’s better that you can’t see the overjoyed grin on his face at the thought of that.

“A little,” you mumble honestly. Your muscles feel ten times better, although your back is still a tad sore.

“Good, good,” Derek chirps, guiding you back on to the couch. “I’m going to clean your incision so it doesn’t get infected. All you need to do is lie down, honey.”

You stay put, bringing your hands close to your chest and your arms over your abdomen.

Derek’s eyes narrow in the slightest, but he remains smiling to keep his voice sweet. “You can have more to drink after this, princess—if you’re good,” he bribes.

That’s enough to get you to behave again. You lie down on the couch, and it feels only a little more comfortable than the tub. You twitch each time a package rustles as he readies his equipment. A bottle opens—antiseptic. Paper rustling—a box of gauze. Plastic peeling—a transparent dressing.

You hiss and bristle when icy antiseptic runs over the inflamed incision on your belly. One of his gloved hands grips your thigh, as though he’s trying to steady you.

“Breathe and relax,” Derek orders, running a new piece of wet gauze over the wound. “You’ll be fine.”

The kind thing to do before dressing a wound is provide pain medication. You are not in a position where you are afforded any kindness, so you bite your cheek and accept the pain of antiseptic sinking in to your flesh. It dries quickly, at least, and he’s soon applying antibiotic gel and a transparent dressing.

“There. It shouldn’t need to be changed for a while, if it heals normally,” Derek says, peeling off his soiled gloves. “I think I promised you a drink, right?”

Your brain digs up a memory at that word—promise. “You promised something else, too,” you say in a weak voice. Your incision still burns, and the dressing feels itchy and sweaty.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You said—before you left, you said you’d tell me why,” you remind him, sitting up from the couch.

Derek sighs and adjusts himself so that he’s sitting down on the floor in front of you. “I did say that,” he mutters, furrowing his brow. His smile returns to his face and voice, and he rests his hand on your knee. You’re still cold to the touch; probably from low blood sugar, he thinks, so he gives you another sip of soda. “You want to know why I took you as my patient?”

You grit your teeth. “Why you kidnapped me and tortured me,” you whisper.

“Well, I’ll admit that my ways are unorthodox,” Derek says, tapping his fingers against your thigh. “And maybe the medical board wouldn’t be thrilled with me—they’re pretty clear that they don’t want us pursuing our patients.”

What the fuck is he talking about? You widen your eyes behind your blindfold and think that he’s somehow crazier than you thought—again. “Pursuing? Do you… Do you think this is romantic?”

Derek laughs. “Are you asking me, Derek, or are you asking Dr. Stiles, the man who cured GUILT?” He grins at the sight of you swallowing.

“You,” you quickly say, “I’m asking you. I want a real answer—please.”

“So polite,” he praises, just as you expected. “I think it is. You’re the one person I’ve changed my mind about killing, after all.”

That’s not romantic, you think and nearly say aloud. You don’t want to know how he’d respond. Instead, you ask, “Why did you try? Why did you change your mind?”

“You were an easy target,” Derek admitted, letting his fingers freely wander up and down your thigh. “You know, I mostly get older patients. They’re used to this. They’re calloused, inside and out. But not you; you’re still young and soft. Softer than normal. I’ve operated on hundreds of people, but you felt… different. Like an actual human, not just another body on my table.”

He leans his face against your thigh; his cheek feels hot, so hot you think he’s actually blushing as he murmurs this delusion against your skin. His fingers brush against the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis; it tickles, but you’re too focused on his words to react. He’s murmuring it like a confession of a crush, rather than a confession of how much he wants to see you suffer.

“It felt incredible to touch you like that,” Derek breathes. He presses his lips against your thigh, gripping your legs in place when he feels you lean away. “You don’t need to be shy with me, honey. I know you need me, too.” He drags his lips over your skin, his fingers trying to pry your thighs apart.

“Stop,” you whimper. You raise your hands to push his head away, but he grabs them by their straps and pulls them to the side. “I don’t want this! Just let me go and I—”

“Won’t tell anyone, you swear,” Derek finishes. The warmth in his face is gone, as is his smile. “I’ve heard this before, princess. You aren’t clever. Now, I’m going to give you another chance because I know you’re scared. Try to be good this time.”

Refuse again and he’d tie you back up. And probably worse. You can’t stop shaking as he kisses up and down your thigh, like he’s your lover and not your captor. You want to throw up every ounce of your drink, but the most you can do is pathetically try to pull your hands away from him.

“Be good,” he says against your flesh, “I won’t need to hurt anyone else if I can just feel you, princess. Think of all those people you’ll save.”

If you weren’t so panicked and weren’t blinded, maybe you’d see the tension in his shoulders and the way his eyes widened. Maybe you’d see his lower lip tremble and the desperation he held back in his kisses. Maybe you’d realize it’s been a long time since he was last given someone’s vulnerability, instead of taking it by force. But you can’t see him, and he’d never admit just how much he wants to hear you moan.

“I don’t want you,” you spit, twisting your hands out of his grip. “Get away from me!” You tear at the blindfold, managing to push it above one eye, when you hear him laugh and feel his hand leave your thigh.

“Well, that’s too bad, princess.”

You’re grabbed by your hair and dragged kicking and screaming across the floor of his living room. He’s taking you back to the bathroom, back to that stupid fucking tub. You gnash your teeth at his hand when he reaches for your face, but it only earns you a slap across the face. Fuck, that stings.

“You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not,” Derek growls, tightly gripping your chin in his hand. You squint your half-revealed eyes up at him; your cheek is bright red and starting to swell from his strike. “If you want to keep acting like a bratty little girl, be my guest, but don’t expect to get anywhere. I don’t reward noncompliance.”

You wriggle and thrash and bite and yell and it gets you absolutely fucking nowhere because he flips you on your belly and ties you up before you can so much as blink. The Healing Touch. The power that made him a surgeon above all other surgeons—the power that probably made it possible for him to get away with murder all these years.

“We could have had fun,” Derek laments, dropping your rigid body back in the tub. “And I would have been nice at the end and given you your pain medicine, but it seems like you’re refusing my treatment… So I guess we’ll try again tomorrow.” He’s all smiles as he speaks, and you’d give your life savings to smack that stupid grin off his face.

“Fuck you,” you gnarl, glaring up at him.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Derek straps the bladed collar around your throat and takes the blindfold off from around your face. You grit your teeth as you glare up at him; he can see every bit of fire and poison in your eyes, every unspoken curse you want to spit at him, and every ounce of fear that keeps you from opening your mouth with a blade at your throat and his presence threatening your life. “There. Maybe we’ll try again tomorrow. See you in the morning, honey.”

And he leaves you. You’re back in your porcelain prison, counting ceiling tiles again and trying to block out the pain going through your body. You should have kept your mouth shut and gone along with it; all you did was delay the inevitable.

#miasmal-writes #dark fic #mdni #dead dove #dead dove do not eat #yandere!derek stiles x reader #derek stiles x reader #yandere!victor niguel x reader #dark!derek stiles x reader #dark!victor niguel x reader #still hate surgeons but would let this man put his whole hand in me

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