#first cadaver dissection

[muesli-command]

“Every little girl dreams of her wedding day” WRONG!! First cadaver dissection

[goodbirb]

s2e2 of red valley is so funny to me bc in the beginning gordon and bryony are so oddly polite and kind to each other like she didn't threaten him with his life the last time we saw them together

[sunflw3rbouquet]

doctor! doctor! - hc

zayne x doctor!male reader

overview: zayne and his doctor boyfriend hc! notes: condensing the medical career bc this is fiction and lighthearted (i didn't wanna be logical), not lore compliant (reader is a doctor), cute boyfriends, unedited again bc of time, reader cooks, title from zb1! tw: mentions of being a doctor!

…sun✰ ive been on lads for over a month now and zayne is the loml

✰as much as the two of you would like to pretend your relationship was some interesting office romance, it truly didn’t start like that ✰you went to the same med school, that was the only reason you knew each other. ✰zayne was a 3rd year while you were a 1st year,  ✰you had mutual friends, which allowed you to meet decently often ✰you didn’t get together until you were a 2nd year and he was a 4th year, but you’ve been together ever since! ✰he was the one to ask you out, mostly because he hates being in the dark about important things, like your feelings for each other ✰however, he couldn’t have chosen a worse time if he tried

y/n had just finished his first cadaver dissection of his second year of med school. he had been standing up for almost the whole day, his back aching as he finished the last dissection. the doctor watching the students' work dismissed them, instructing them on the work they had to complete before their next class.

the students talked calmly as they excited, a slouch forming in y/n’s posture as he walked to the biohazard trash can. he took off his ppe, sweat drenching the area under his gloves and chest. the cool air of the restroom took the edge off the heat. the bathroom was on the opposite side of the hallway, y/n shutting the door to the surgery room behind him before entering in the restroom. after approaching the sink, he splashed water on his face, his black undershirt covered in sweat stains. he looked as bad as he felt, the 8 plus hour surgery a monster on his body.

as he exited the restroom he was met with zayne standing outside, a look of subtle panic etching the man’s usually stoic face. “can we talk, y/n?” zayne asked, blinking once after he finished the sentence. y/n thought he could hear the smallest quiver in his voice while he spoke.

“can it wait a bit? i just finished my dissection-“ y/n asked, zayne running a hand through his hair, glasses falling down his face. he was wearing a pair of grey, cotton scrubs, his hospital id hanging from the pocket in his pants. purple bags lived right under his tear ducts, but not only were they not as noticeable as other students’, they somehow made him look more attractive.

“it’s urgent.” zayne had lost the fear that rested in his voice, his hand moving to push up his silver glasses that had fallen down his nose. taking a deep breath, y/n pushed his hair back, sighing. 

“fine.”

y/n expected for zayne to say something, but there was silence. unbearable, loud silence. he looked at the man, waiting for the words to leave his lips. y/n’s eyebrow raised, lips pressing into a straight line.

“would you like to go on a date with me?” zayne asked, his eyes glimmering with the smallest bits of emotion. y/n’s jaw almost dropped, eyes widening.

“i would love to, oh my god.” he spoke, zayne’s hand trailing to find y/n’s. 

“are you free wednesday?” “for you, i am.”

✰like the snow melting on a sunny, spring day, zayne warmed up almost the instant they got together ✰his indifferent expressions turned into bright smiles, and his awkward posture turned into comfortable and relaxed affection ✰zayne is a cuddle bug. entirely. ✰long shifts and tiring days drain every cent of energy from his body, and now that you’re boyfriends, there’s something to replenish his energy!

the clock read 3:37.

y/n had finished his shower, damp hair resting on the pillow of his full bed as he waited for zayne to finish washing up. the two were home late for different reasons: y/n had finished another dissection and was writing multiple essays, while zayne was in the final stretch of his shift.

every second that ticked by made y/n want to close his eyes even more. it was exhausting staying up. it was exhausting working every day. he wished for a break more than he wished for the sun to shine bright on a cold day and for a glass of water when he was thirsty. 

and then zayne entered the room.

water dripped from his short bangs, pajamas hanging loosely on his body as he practically limped to the bed because of the sore muscles in his legs and back. but this zayne, this tired, wrecked, zayne, made everything worth it.

“my bloods going to start clotting if i keep only standing and sitting all day.” zayne muttered, sitting down on the bed before pulling the covers on top of him. y/n laughed, moving closer so he was next to zayne’s side.

“you’re going to get a cold if you fall asleep with wet hair.” y/n spoke, adjusting zayne so he was sitting up, stealing the damp towel from his hands to dry the man’s hair. zayne scoffed, moving his hands to rest on y/n’s thigh. 

“that’s not real, you know?” y/n rolled his eyes, rubbing his head a little harder, just to let zayne know he meant to tease him.

“i’m just trying to be a caring boyfriend, stop going all doctor on me.” y/n pouted, shifting once more so he now sat on zayne’s lap. zayne smiled, his hands wrapping around his boyfriend’s waist as a smile creeped onto his face.

“oh, i see. carry on then, handsome boyfriend.” zayne smiled proudly. y/n let out a scoff, pressing a soft kiss to zayne’s cheek. “finish drying my hair, i feel a cold coming.” y/n stopped his movement of drying the man’s hair, looking at his face. he cocked his eyebrow, zayne’s lips pursing. the man let out a fake cough, doe eyes sparkling as he looked at y/n.

it took all of the strength in y/n’s body to not give in to the man. but sadly, he still gave in to him. he leaned forward, a pressing a kiss to his lips happily. “i love you, now sit still so i can dry your hair.” y/n muttered, zayne breaking into a smile, any traces of that “cold” gone.

✰residency was truly when the “office romance” started  ✰due to the opening of the deepspace tunnel all those years ago, linkon city’s medical program had condensed substantially, meaning zayne was already out of residency and a cardio surgeon by the time y/n was a first year resident at akso hospital ✰long glances at each other when walking through the halls turned into lingering touches when you visited him in his office in the second you were alone ✰somehow, seeing zayne at work but not being able to engage with him was harder than seeing him a little a home

y/n sat on the couch in zayne’s office, his arms grazing the floor as they moved back and forth.

“you’re so mean, zayne.” y/n pouted, his eyes looking up from the piece of the floor he was touching to see zayne sitting at his desk. zayne was looking at the files on his desk, sifting through papers until a certain section caught his eye, causing his eyebrows to furrow. there was no response to y/n’s statement, much to y/n’s dislike. “you see! you’re ignoring me. i finally have a break while you do and you just ignore your boyfriend of 2 years.”

with a sigh, zayne picked up his head from the papers he was processing. he changed his gaze to meet with y/n’s. “how am i mean?” he asked, a smile appearing on his lips. the new attention made a heat run to y/n’s face.

“you’re.” he started, his words failing to come out smoothly. y/n coughed to clear his throat, a smile appearing on his lips. “you’re ignoring your boyfriend when he’s busy and came to see you.” zayne stood up from his desk and walked over to the couch. he leaned down, his hand reaching out to caress y/n’s head.

“i’m sorry. i might not have patients, but i have things to read and charts to do. it doesn’t mean i don’t love you.” he whispered, zayne’s fingers caressing through the strands of y/n’s hair. “i’ll pay attention to you now, i finished my work.” y/n leaned into his touch, nodding happily.

“i know you don’t hate me. i like teasing you.” y/n said, adjusting his position on the couch so zayne could sit down comfortably, y/n resting on his chest.

“you didn’t say it back.” zayne spoke, y/n’s hands mindlessly playing with zayne’s long fingers. he caressed the scars on the knuckles while zayne held him tightly. 

“what did i not say back?” y/n asked, looking up from zayne’s hand after zayne’s arms squished him once more. zayne sighed, his fingers breaking from y/n’s grasp to squish the man’s cheeks.

“you didn’t tell me you loved me after i said it.” there was almost a pout in zayne’s voice. was he really that upset?

“i love you sooooo much, my zayne! don’t forget that.” y/n said, his head leaning back to see zayne. with a smile, zayne responded back quietly. their lips inched closer together, contact happening for only a millisecond before there was a knock at zayne’s off.

y/n jumped off the couch in fear at the noise, hitting zayne’s chin. he ran to the chair in front of zayne’s desk, zayne rubbing his face while calling the person in to enter his office. “i have the information you requested, dr. zayne.” the resident said, entering in while zayne walked to his desk. “oh, hi y/n.” y/n nervously waved back to the resident, a small smile on his face.

couldn’t y/n have zayne to himself for a moment?

✰with the increasing of wanderers in linkon city, positions in the hospital were rearranged once more, and y/n was now in the upper levels as a thoracic surgeon ✰this change also corresponded with the couple’s 4th year anniversary! ✰now that y/n was not a resident, the couple could finally be public in the hospital ✰it was the flip of a switch: one day zayne and y/n acted like normal coworkers, then the next, they were walking to lunch holding hands, comfortably chatting

the change was amazing. being with his boyfriend in public was amazing. zayne’s hand was laced with y/n’s, a soft smile on the latter’s face as zayne talked about his morning.

“the resident i was talking to you about did really good on their rounds this morning. i think they’re flourishing into a confident doctor.” zayne’s voice was steady, his gaze matched with y/n’s. “oh, and the patient who had a cardiac tamponade is recovering well. they should be discharged by the end of the week.” y/n listened to zayne, nodding his head every so often to show he was listening.

zayne’s monologue continued as they walked to the cafeteria, sitting down at a table that caught a majority of the light from the large windows. staff and patients walked around the area, some sneaking glances at the two affectionate doctors.

“i brought two different options, so take whichever you want.” y/n said, opening his lunch kit to reveal two glass containers, one with cold noodles and one with an omelet leftover from breakfast. zayne reached for the cold noodles, opening the lid. he grabbed the two spoons and chopsticks, handing one of each to y/n.

“have some, these are the ones you made. they’re really good.” zayne said, already digging in to the meal. y/n smiled, taking a spoonful of the broth before trying the noodles.

“woah, these are good. i only made them for your lunch while i was at home two days ago, so i haven’t tried them.” y/n spoke, zayne’s expression one full of happiness.

“i love you. if i didn’t tell you that today. and this is not because of the cold noodles, but it’s a little because of that.” zayne rambled, y/n pecking his cheek.

“i love you too. let’s eat quick, because then we can go outside on a walk before we have to go to work again.” y/n spoke as he pulled away, zayne nodding.

the couple ate their lunch, zayne packing up in lightning speed before reaching for y/n’s hand. the two made their way to the outdoor garden, a smile on y/n’s face as he rested his head on zayne’s shoulder. the conversation between them had gone quiet, the silence allowing them to enjoy the presence of one another. the springtime had caused flowers to bloom in the hospital grounds, zayne picking a pink buttercup from the grass and handing it y/n, repeating the process until the man had a bouquet and they both had flowers tucked behind their ears.

they could get used to this.

✰in the present, y/n and zayne are both attendings at akso hospital! ✰all of that worked had finally paid off (and all of that money) ✰the matched level of seniority allowed y/n and zayne to have a more synced schedule, which gives you more time together ✰7 years had passed since the couple had gotten together, and they couldn’t be happier ✰they held hands in between surgeries, instructed residents together, and were stuck at the hip whenever they weren’t needed for something emergent ✰they were the model couple of the hospital (so much so that the hospital wanted to use them in promotional material) ✰there are two things zayne loves in this world: y/n and his job, so having them together all the time might have just made him the happiest man alive

y/n’s couch was soft. zayne had picked it out himself, grumbling about how he “regretted the couch he bought for the own office” and he “wanted to make sure his boyfriend was comfortable”. y/n didn’t fully believe this answer.

especially paired with the fact that zayne was now always in his office.

“did you buy this couch specifically so you could bother me while i’m working?” y/n asked, staring at his boyfriend as zayne flopped onto the couch. 

“no, i bought it because it’s soft and you never-” he said, y/n cutting him off, his hand mimicking zayne’s mouth.

“get enough rest! you stay here when you’re on call instead of coming home to ME to cuddle.” y/n mocked, his lips forming the same pout zayne makes when giving the same speech. a weak laugh escaped zayne’s lips at the mockery, y/n cooing. “did i embarrass you?” he asked, getting up from his seat to lay himself over zayne’s spread out body.

“ouch. and no, i’m not embarrassed, i’m happy you know me so well.” zayne said, his nose touching y/n’s. their eyes held each other in a tight gaze for what could have been nothing more than a second before y/n felt zayne’s lips on his on, gentle moving back and forth, waiting for y/n’s to kiss him back.

y/n responded back, a conversation without words reverberating between the two.

i love you.

i love you even though i’m tired every day. 

i love you even though work is hard and scary.

i love you for you, and everything you are to me.

i love you.

there was a knock of the door of y/n’s office, y/n pulling away for a moment to respond to the person. “i’m busy! if it’s not an emergency, come back later!” zayne barely let y/n’s response ring before he laughed, connecting their lips again. they were in their rightful place. with each other, loving each other, holding each other.

nothing in the world could top it.

✰happiness couldn’t describe all the feelings that zayne felt about y/n (and vice versa) ✰y/n made him so happy, in fact, that there’s a box containing a ring with a big, glittering diamond sitting inside zayne’s desk right now

my handsome man, zayne <3 2708 words

[bradleysass]

bow - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 559

The box was neatly wrapped, which was always the first sign something was wrong. Barty Crouch Jr. didn’t “wrap” things—he shoved them into newspaper and maybe tied them with a shoelace if he was feeling romantic. But this box had crisp corners, blood-red paper, and a silky black ribbon that shimmered in the dim hallway light like something out of a noir film.

Evan stopped in the doorway, gym bag still slung over his shoulder, scrubs a little wrinkled and streaked with powder from his gloves. He tilted his head at Barty, who was leaning against the kitchen counter like a cat caught on purpose.

“No one died,” Barty said immediately, before Evan could even open his mouth. “Well, recently. I didn’t do anything. It’s a gift.”

“That's exactly what someone who did something would say.”

Barty just grinned, crooked and wide, like he was pleased Evan still hadn’t decided whether to scold him or kiss him. “Come on, open it. I worked really hard not to be weird.”

Evan walked slowly to the counter, as if the box might detonate if approached too quickly. “Define not weird in Barty-speak.”

“I didn’t add any fluids.”

Evan stared at him. Then down at the box. Then back at him.

“…well,” Barty added, eyes bright, “nothing wet.”

“That’s not better,” Evan said, sighing with affection as he tugged the bow loose. “If this is another antique embalming tool, I swear to God—”

“It’s not! I mean, not entirely.”

Inside, cushioned in black velvet fabric, lay a miniature skeleton hand. But not real. It was silver, delicate, jointed at every knuckle like a little piece of fine art—bone segments fused with thin metal wiring, as if someone had steampunked a cadaver. The fingers were curled slightly, elegant in a way that was far too deliberate to be accidental. Evan reached in and lifted it carefully, the joints clicking softly like wind chimes.

He turned it in his palm, blinking. “Where did you get this?”

“Online,” Barty said, like that explained anything. “Some guy in Prague makes them. Says they're replicas but, y’know, maybe don’t try to have it x-rayed at airport security.”

Evan looked at the hand again. It was… oddly beautiful. Macabre, yes—but artfully done. Thoughtful, even. He could already imagine it on the shelf next to his collection of antique post-mortem portraits and that one urn Barty bought from a flea market that may or may not still contain human ashes.

Barty was watching him like a puppy that had just dropped a slightly mauled bird at its owner's feet.

“I love it,” Evan said softly.

Barty brightened instantly. “Really?”

“Yes,” Evan said. “It’s grotesque. It's perfect. It's us.”

Barty made a pleased, satisfied hum and came up behind him, looping his arms around Evan’s waist and pressing his face into the back of his neck.

“You get me,” he mumbled.

“I dissect you in my head at least twice a day.”

“God, that’s hot.”

Evan rolled his eyes, but he leaned back into the embrace, one hand still holding the little skeleton hand like it was something sacred. Which, in a strange way, it kind of was. Barty didn’t do traditional romance. No flowers, no chocolates. Just… obscure morbid artifacts and chaos wrapped in red paper and mischief.

And Evan wouldn’t have it any other way.

[twilightcitysky]

Everything Is Meant (long S2 analysis, part 2)

Part one here

Okay, so that's how I think the pre-creation scene and Gabriel's arc connect to Aziraphale's choice. I also think the ineffable bureaucracy speedrun exists to prove totally different things to Aziraphale and Crowley: Aziraphale loves that they can love each other but notes they have to run away to be together; Crowley sees this and immediately thinks "hey, we can do that too!", forgetting that running away is not a solution Aziraphale has ever been interested in. It's the mentality of an individualist vs a group-oriented mind, and neither of them is necessarily wrong, it's just that their priorities are different and they HAVE TO TALK ABOUT IT, which they don't.

Continued analysis under the cut:

3. Let's take the Job minisode. Why include it? We already mentioned that it proves Aziraphale remembers Crowley as an angel, since he mentions it. And he believes Crowley is the same person he always was, and that he doesn't want to harm Job's crops or animals or children. Crowley tries to convince him he's a Big Bad Demon who is all in on this assignment, but fails utterly to kill even a single goat, soooo... Aziraphale comes to the conclusion that he knows what Crowley wants. Alert! Alert! This is a big problem! Crowley says, "What do you know about what I want?" Aziraphale: "I know you." Crowley: "You do not know me." But because Aziraphale got it right this time, he goes ahead assuming he'll always get it right, which is a crucial failure when it comes to the final reckoning. He doesn't ever ASK Crowley what he wants, he just assumes. When you assume you know what someone wants, you usually assume their priorities align with yours... he couldn't be more wrong about that. The Job minisode sets up this dynamic for them, and they never really manage to change it.

The other thing happens at the end of the minisode. Crowley acknowledges two crucial points: 1) he's lonely ("But you said it wasn't!" "I'm a demon. I lied"), 2) he doesn't think Aziraphale would like Hell. Aziraphale DOESN'T like Hell. Aziraphale hates Hell for what they've done to Crowley. He doesn't see Heaven as innocent or benign, but importantly, Heaven has never tried to hurt Crowley directly. They never threatened his safety. They never tortured him (as it's heavily implied that Hell did). Fast forward to the last ten mins of season 2: Aziraphale excited to tell Crowley that he can be an angel again BECAUSE: he never has to go back to Hell. They can never hurt him again, not the way they did before. And he doesn't have to be lonely anymore.

Last point before I leave Job: Crowley has the chance to cause Aziraphale to Fall, here, probably. ("I lied to Heaven to thwart the will of God!" "You did, but I'm not going to tell anybody. Are you? ...good, then nothing has to change.") He doesn't take it. He doesn't want Aziraphale to be a demon. He loves Aziraphale as he is. "Angel" as an affectionate. Aziraphale certainly doesn't use "demon" as a pet name for Crowley. I think they set up this scene to contrast the final one, and show how deeply hurt Crowley is that Aziraphale suggest he change.

4. Moving on to Victorian Scotland. This one confused me at first. I was delighted that they brought back the "the lower you start the more opportunity you have to rise" dialogue from the book, but apart from that I didn't really see the point of it. It seems like the statue of Gabriel and the fact that he and Beelz ended up at that pub in the present were more or less coincidental.

The point, I think, is actually not the girl, but the doctor. He's a person who is trying to do good by working in a system that's deeply flawed, and engaging in questionable moral practices for the greater good. (Cadaver dissection is still an essential part of medical school. You need dead bodies to understand living ones.) He shows Aziraphale a tumor he removed from a child who died, and Aziraphale clutches it to his chest. The camera zooms in and lingers to tell us that this is a guardian through and through. He wants to protect people. He wants to do good with every fiber of his being.

To Crowley, it's enough to just "be an us" with Aziraphale. He doesn't really want anything more than that. That's an issue! For one thing, it fosters unhealthy codependency, and for another, Aziraphale would never be happy without the opportunity to help and protect people. It's an essential part of who he is. Metatron knows that, and he plays Aziraphale like a fiddle. The doctor showed Aziraphale that you can make a difference even in systems that are flawed, and even if you have to do things you'd rather not do. Aziraphale doesn't want to go back to Heaven, but he truly thinks he can change things; thinks he can be a guardian with some real power. In his mind, that's the right thing to do.

Last thing that happens in Scotland: Crowley saves a soul from Hell, arguably, by preventing a suicide. He gets in Big Trouble. Whatever happened to him downstairs resulted in him coming back up, leaning on a cane, and asking Aziraphale to give him holy water. Go back and watch that scene knowing what we know now about the Victorian minisode. Ask yourself how Aziraphale must have felt. He likely blamed himself for what happened, because if he hadn't meddled then they never would have been there in the first place. He knew where Crowley was, and why he was there, and he had to sit with that knowledge for years. He desperately wants Crowley to be safe; is perfectly willing to push him away to keep him safe-- which is what he does do, the minute Crowley gets back.

Now think again about what Metatron offered him. A chance to keep Crowley safe forever. He'd never be harmed again. Aziraphale is going to take that offer, no matter what else is asked of him. He's shown over and over again that he'll sacrifice his own happiness to make sure nothing happens to Crowley. And he'll do it without talking to Crowley about it first, because he is a moron who doesn't know how to use his words. Leading Crowley to assume that Aziraphale doesn't love him. The idiot angel is doing it all out of love, but because he doesn't make himself clear Crowley doesn't know that.

Part 3: Maggie and Nina, and their roles as mirror couple/ Greek chorus!

[cookingwithroxy]

Thinking about Neil DeGrasse Tyson's position about how 'consensus' is the most important thing in science just reminds me of Ignaz Semmelweis.

You know, the man who first posited that doctors should wash their hands before surgeries, especially as they'd just come from dissecting cadavers?

Because the consensus then was that he was insane, and insulting them for daring to think doctors were 'dirty'. And he was harassed by his fellows until he had a nervous breakdown, was shipped off to an asylum, beaten by the guards and then died of the injuries inflicted from said beating.

Of course I also don't have any idea why anyone's asking medical questions of an astrophysicist to begin with, any more than why someone would be looking to Bll Nye for scientific knowledge.

[xomarzz]

vital signs

~2.2k words, premed!zayne x black!fem!premed!reader, college au, fluff, SLOW burn, smut, semi-proofread, oral (f receiving), soft & slow sex, a little dirty talk, wouldn’t be me without yearning, micro-aggression mentions if you squint, black reader intended, minors and ageless blogs do not interact, i WILL block you!!

a/n: just graduated college & also prepping to apply to medical school so this was kind of just self indulgent, i love this one though :)

entry 1: initial observations

date: week 1

course: anatomy & physiology

you were late. first day of spring semester, anatomy and physiology, and your phone’s gps led you in a circle twice before you stumbled into the lecture hall, breathless and sweating out your edge control. eyes turned as you entered the room, the only seat left was beside someone with impossibly straight posture, dark clothes pressed so clean you could see your reflection in those buttons.

you dropped into the chair, whispering a quick “hi.”

no reply, just the sound of his pen gliding over a yellow legal pad with perfect precision as he stared intensely at the lecture.

you snuck a glance. sharp jawline, lips pressed into a line, brows so still they looked sculpted, like expression never bothered to land there. he looked like he woke up every morning already two hours ahead of the world.

oh, one of those, you thought. probably thinks i’m not serious..now being in your junior year of undergrad, you’ve had your fair share of “gunner” pre-med students at this point, nothing a surprise anymore.

you sat a little taller anyway. matching energy.

notes:

he probably thinks i’m not serious.

(so now i have to be.)

entry 2: contact under sterile conditions date: week 4 — dissection module

course: a & p

weeks passed, you weren’t surprised when no one wanted to partner with zayne for the dissection module. his vibe was… clinical. unapproachable. maybe even intimidating.

you volunteered, not to prove a point, okay, maybe a little.

he didn’t look at you when you suited up beside him, just handed you gloves. “try not to cut too deep,” he murmured, tone cool, eyes on the cadaver like it was a puzzle to be solved.

when your scalpel hesitated mid-air, his hand moved to yours, steady, gloved, and warm through the latex. he didn’t take over. just guided, a subtle nudge of reassurance rather than correction.

his voice, usually so clipped, dropped just enough to feel different. “you’ve got a steady hand, don’t overthink it.”

a compliment?

your brain lagged for a second. you glanced at him, expecting that same blank focus, but for the first time, his face shifted. barley, but enough for you to notice.

notes:caught him looking longer than necessary :p

still expressionless but not unreadable.almost like curiosity.

conclusion:hand contact counts as data.so does the way he said don’t overthink it.

(too late.)

entry 3: passive proximity

date: mid-semester

location: third floor library, table by the window

you started sitting across from him at the library, not intentionally at first, then, maybe a little intentionally.

he never said no. never said much at all. but he always shifted his laptop slightly, making space for you. you’d eventually find your pens migrated into his space, your outlines somehow shared, annotated in his unmistakably neat print.

notes:i never asked to share notes.he never asked to stop.

it’s the quietest collaboration i’ve ever had.

entry 4: study buddies

date: week 8 — post study group

location: study room 4C

a study group was your idea. you liked how people bounced off each other, how information got clarified when it had to be said out loud. zayne stayed behind after everyone else left.

you were packing your notes when you heard him say, “you explain glycolysis like you’ve lived it.”

you turned, caught off-guard. “is that a compliment or…?”

he looked directly at you, that cool mask still firmly in place. “it means i remember it when you say it. that’s not normal for me.”

your breath caught in your throat. you smiled, soft and genuine, pushing your prescription glasses up to your face. he looked down, and for once, you thought he might be the nervous one.

notes:he remembers what i say.even when he says nothing at all.

that was definitely a compliment ;)

entry 5: fieldwork — collaboration

daye: week 10 — student clinic volunteering

location: pediatric wing, room 3

the student clinic had its own kind of quiet chaos, sick kids, anxious parents, paperwork piling up while the waiting room buzzed low and tense. but you liked it. it made everything you were working toward feel tangible, grounded.

you’d heard rumors that zayne had been volunteering here for months before classes even started, quietly showing up early, staying late, always just… there. you never asked why.

the boy in room 3 was maybe six, trembling as he tucked himself behind his mother’s legs. you crouched down, voice soft and steady, explaining the procedure in the gentlest way you knew how. but he only clung tighter, eyes wide with fear.

zayne stepped in, wordless at first, kneeling beside you.

“she’s very good,” he said quietly, addressing the boy. “she helped me when i didn’t know what i was doing, you can trust her.”

you turned toward him, surprised by how calm his voice sounded, not cold, just certain. something fluttered in your chest. you’d never seen him vouch for anyone, yet here he was, offering his credibility like it cost him nothing.

like trusting you was the most obvious choice in the world.

notes: subject’s trust is not given lightly.trusting me felt obvious to him. coldness thawing under microscope <3

entry 6: unexpected shelter

date: week 12 — post-clinic

location: campus walkway, outside dorm

it poured the second you stepped outside. your hoodie adorning the school’s logo was no match for it. you were about to bolt when an umbrella opened over your head. zayne stood beside you, holding it without a word.

he didn’t offer his arm, didn’t make small talk, just walked beside you, perfectly poised, sharing the umbrella like it was a contract.

at your door, you turned to say thanks. but your words caught in your throat. rain clung to his lashes. his eyes dipped to your lips for a breath of a second. then he was gone.

and you were left wondering if you’d imagined it.

entry 7: behavioral assessment— mock interview

date: week 14

location: reserved study room

you’d spent hours preparing for this, rehearsing answers, perfecting your tone, making sure your confidence felt real and unshakable.

today, you wore your best blazer, the one that made you feel like you could take on the world. across the table, zayne sat composed, unreadable as ever, his eyes sharp and focused. not a hint of a smile, not a single blink to give you away, but beneath the surface, something quietly stirred. his foot tapped just once, twice, barely noticeable, like he was keeping a secret locked inside.

afterwards, you laughed as you stepped out the door. “so? did i pass your standard of cold professionalism?”

he tilted his head, eyes steady. “you’ll get into medical school before i do.”

you stopped in your tracks. “jealous?”you replied teasingly, poling your lip out as you spoke.

he side-eyed you, looking at you like the word was foreign. “i don’t usually admire people.” he replied courtly before speeding up his walk, leaving you to chase after him.

notes :

cold professionalism + light teasing = suspiciously warm vibes.

“i don’t usually admire people” = code for “i’m secretly impressed, don’t tell anyone.”

entry 8: stairwell breakdown

date: tuesday before finals

location: stairwell outside lecture hall

it all came crashing down the tuesday before finals. you found yourself slumped on the cold stairwell, shoulders trembling, not from the chill, but from the weight pressing down inside your chest. the flashcards in your hands blurred into indecipherable shapes, words slipping through your tired mind like water through fingers. doubt gnawed relentlessly at you, maybe you’re not cut out for this. maybe everyone else belongs here more than you do. the exhaustion wasn’t just physical anymore, it was the heavy, suffocating ache of feeling like an outsider follwing your own dream.

footsteps approached, you didn’t look up, but then a protein bar appeared in your lap, and a blonde espresso caramel macchiato was placed beside you.

zayne sat beside you without a word. your breathing slowed, anchored by his quiet presence.

you finally exhaled, the words slipping out like something you’d been holding in for too long. “i don’t think i’m good enough for this.”

he turned to you then, something gentler in his eyes, barely visible, but there.

“you’re one of the best,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “the rest of us are just trying to keep up. including me.”

your heart clenched. you hadn’t realized how badly you needed to hear it until that moment how much of yourself had been tied up in proving something you were already becoming.

you sniffed, managing a weak laugh as you nudged his shoulder with yours. “bruh, you’re literally top of every class.”

he gave a small shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching, almost a smile. “doesn’t mean i’m not chasing you.”

entry 9: confession protocol

date: last day of semester

location: a&p lab

it was the final lab, leaving just you and zayne finishing clean-up. the air between you felt too charged to ignore.

you were hanging up your lab coat when you heard him say it, quiet, controlled, like every word was chosen.

“i’m not good at this.”

you turned. “at what?”

his eyes met yours. unflinching. vulnerable.

“at pretending i don’t think about you all the time.”

your breath hitched. everything you’d suppressed all semester while focusing on classes rose to the surface like steam from an open wound.

say something, say anything, you thought.

all you did was step closer.

entry 10: final

date: last day of semester

location: a&p lab

you reached for his hand first, trembling. zayne met you halfway. his palm was cold, steady, reverent.

he pulled you in with slow gravity, like he’d been holding back the entire semester. you leaned in. so did he.

when your lips met, it wasn’t desperate, it was inevitable.

and for the first time, he let the softness show. just for you.

it started with that kiss that tasted like everything you’d held back.

zayne’s hands were steady as always, but something in them had shifted, urgency pulsing just beneath the surface. the lab had been cleaned, the lights off. it was supposed to be over. but the way he looked at you made it clear something unfinished remained between you.

he kissed you like he’d been memorizing the thought of it for weeks. polished hands slid along your jaw, holding you still not possessive, but deliberate. his thumb brushed your cheekbone like you were fragile. you weren’t, and you both knew that, but the softness made your knees weaken all the same.

when he pulled back, his voice was low, controlled. but rough around the edges.

“tell me if you want me to stop.”

you didn’t. you couldn’t. you only nodded.

zayne guided you backwards carefully, always carefully, until you bumped into the edge of a table. he didn’t rush. his fingertips skimmed your hips like he was reading anatomy again, like every curve had to be relearned under his hands. his lips followed, tracing your neck with patient admiration.

you breathed out, voice barely a whisper. “do you always take this long?”

a faint smile attached to your hip. his hands tightened just enough to make your breath catch and make you let out a small moan.

“i don’t rush what i care about.”

the air between you tightened. clothes fell away in slow layers, peeled back like secrets. every time his fingers touched bare skin, it felt like a vow, silent and absolute. he never fumbled. every motion had purpose. every kiss landed like it was meant to stay.

and when his mouth moved lower down your chest, across your stomach you felt it in the ache in your cunt. he kissed like he was studying you. still obsessed with knowing everything beneath the surface.

“look at me,” he said, voice like silk over heat.

the moment his tongue touched you, your body arched in response. he held your thighs firm, anchoring you while he worshiped you with precision. no hesitation, no wasted movement. just slow, focused attention like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

you came on his face feeling your entire body melting, his name breaking from your lips before you could stop it. he covered your mouth as he worked you down from your high. zayne rose, kissing you again, tasting your own juices against his tongue.

“you—” you tried to speak, dazed. “you’re not what i expected.”

his eyes locked on yours, dark with everything he hadn’t said.

“i’m exactly what i want to be. for you.” he stated, removing his erection from the neatly tailored pants.

he entered you slow, controlled, deep, reverent. and stayed close, forehead resting against yours as your bodies found rhythm. each thrust was deliberate, more emotional than physical. not fast, not rough, just intense.

your clung to him as he murmured things you barely caught. “so beautiful.” “been dreaming of this.” “mine.”

when you came again, eyes rolling back, he followed, shuddering against you as he pulled out with a broken exhale that sounded like surrender.

you laid there after, hearts syncing in the dark of the lab. zayne brushed damp curls from your forehead. for once, his voice held no chill. just quiet awe.

“you undo me.”

you smiled, eyes heavy, heart full.

“good.”

~gg ♡

[catscidr]

dottore lowkey teaches u how to dissect a dead body to preserve and sell study the organs but make it romantic and weird and im tired cw; gn!reader, descriptions of blood and organs, tension, confession? sorta

His hand is atop your dominant one while your fingers hold onto your scalpel tightly, making sure your grip is steady and precise. Slowly drawing incision after incision, you watch blood seep out of the cuts you make. The flow of it is so slow and serene it nearly brings you peace, as you observe it slide across the corpse’s skin silently.

(plus, you’re doing a decent job cutting it up since there are no surprise blood geysers, so the slow trickle of blood almost counts as a reward for your good work.)

It trickles down the dips and indents of the body, leaving a faint trail of crimson down, down, down until it reaches the cold vivisection table. You watch it form a small pool of ichor, and only when Dottore hums a soft, low 'focus' do your eyes snap back to the cadaver’s torso, where your blade rests.

After you lift the scalpel away from the skin, he slides a swift hand beneath the cut to push the flesh and sinew aside, bearing organs to the cold air of the operation room.

Watching him work so fast and casually after taking the time to teach you how to do something as simple as cutting skin makes your body run warmer than it should when faced with such a gruesome sight. His bloodied hands gently pry the scalpel from your hands, and you do nothing but observe as he works.

Slicing, pulling, prodding, tearing. You subconsciously lean over further, eyes focused on the way his hands and fingers pry apart the deceased’s organs from one another. If you didn’t have a problem disrespecting the dead, you would say that the Harbinger was doing so almost elegantly.

The previously empty metal platter fills with what looks like bloody chunks of meat as Dottore places each organ in it one by one, hollowing out the upper body. The incision might have been a pinch too small, you think, because you notice some streaks of blood that had already oxidized on the bare skin of his forearms from where he had to reach under the skin to take… whatever it was he grabbed.

You weren’t really paying attention to the organs anymore.

You’re pulled out of your musings when Dottore snaps his fingers to grab your attention. Looking up at him for the first time in what felt like hours, you spot a twinkle of amusement in his carmine gaze.

“Apologies, but I’ve called your name twice and you didn’t react. Is something on your mind?” You blink, swallowing down the embarrassment from catching you red-handed, daydreaming about him—not that he knows that’s what you were thinking about, anyways.

...well, maybe he does.

“No, sir. I was just studying your, um... technique," you cough. "Did you need me to do something?” You feel sweat bead at your temple, nervous that he could somehow see your thoughts.

He nods, the corners of his lips curling up into the faintest smile. “Yes, actually.” Turning his back to you, he shields your sight from the carcass on the table. “Hold your hands out, palms facing up and close your eyes.”

Setting hesitancy aside you follow his instructions, keeping your eyes firmly shut. Now unable to rely on your sight, your ears pick up on the tiniest of noises; you hear the sound of a particularly obscene squelch, followed by a quiet, seemingly irritated hum.

You hear the sound of clothes shuffling mixed with a similarly grotesque, squelch-y noise; as soon as the room fills with silence again, warmth spreads across your palms. You bite back the urge to open your eyes to take a peek. Dottore watches your face carefully, examining every twitch and shiver of your skin with rapt attention.

"You can look now," he hums, a smile hiding beneath his tone.

...Your eyelids suddenly feel super glued shut. Pushing through the nerves, you crack your eyes open, gaze immediately focusing on Dottore's face. He scoffs, amused at your sudden demure change in demeanor and glances down at your hands in silent encouragement.

Slowly peering down, your eyes widen as you gawk at the fresh, large organ in your hands, staining your disposable azure gloves a deep scarlet. You're almost unsure of what you're even looking at—all previous anatomical knowledge having flown right out of the window the second your eyes fell on the wet, goopy mess in your hands.

There are no arteries jutting out from the organ, so a heart is out of the question; it was too big to be one, anyways. It can't be the pancreas either, so maybe a stomach? Or—

"Good thing this isn't an evaluation, huh?" Your gaze snaps upwards to the sound of the Harbinger's mocking but light tone, shoulders squaring in pathetic defense. "You're putting me on the spot," you huff indignantly.

(Thank the Archons the only light in the room was the obnoxious overhead light above the table so the fine changes of your features can go unnoticed.)

Taking a step forward, Dottore swiftly invades your personal space as he brings his hands up to cup your own, not unlike how he held your hands a while ago to guide them. He looks down, and your gaze follow his, hand in hand.

You imagine a pulse. Blood flowing through, hundreds, billions, trillions of cells traversing lobes and segments—imagine that it's part your own body in the palm of your hands, held together by the man before you.

(The horrible, irredeemable man before you. Standing, observing, waiting oh so patiently. And he would wait an eternity if need be, for you have been safe from his hand the moment he shared a part of his humanity with you.)

Ridding your throat of the lump that had formed, you crack a nervous smile. "Is this supposed to be a test, or are you trying to be romantic?"

Returning a ghost of a smile, Dottore raises a brow. "Do you really think this is how I flirt?" he asks with uncharacteristic softness. Bloody, gloved fingers trace mindless patterns along your hand, and goosebumps bloom beneath your skin.

"The liver is often thought of as the source of one's passion," he murmurs. "It is also said to be the seat of life and the soul. While I can't prove nor disprove these claims using scientific research, I have come to understand why people view it as such."

Your hands feel slimy even with the latex barrier between your skin and the large liver in your palms, but with this discomfort comes elation.

"It only took me losing my own to comprehend," he continues quietly. You feel his breath grazing your forehead—it makes you itch and burn with the urge to look up, but you abstain yourself.

Dottore's hands slide up, cupping the sides of the organ, containing it solely to your hold. Long ago had his sights left the mound to gaze at your features. Looking at you wasn't all that dissimilar, after all.

(Thinking hard on his words, you want to ask him to teach you how to give him a liver of your own, next time.)

[lilith0fthevalley]

Burden of Proof {S.T.A.R.S. Wesker x RPD Detective! Reader} 1/2

Content Warning: This piece contains themes of manipulation, deception and gaslighting. Readers sensitive to manipulative dynamics or morally ambiguous behavior may wish to proceed with caution.

As always, Reader discretion is advised.

Coupled with the pelting rain on the precinct windows, the ticking clock on Wesker’s office wall served as the perfect ambiance for the man behind the desk to work. 

He’s held a number of titles through the years–Captain of Stars Alpha Team, Senior Researcher of the t-virus project at Umbrella, Engineering Officer in the United States Army, An officer of Raccoon City’s Police Department… The list of masks and assumed titles could go on, but ultimately he was still Albert Wesker… And right now, he wore the mask of Captain.

He was the picture of perfection–Sitting in his office with his spine straight, gloved hands steady, and his sharp focus drawn to the file that lay scattered with an organized chaos around the mahogany desk. The file on the Arklay disappearances was cracked open like the torso of a cadaver, telling a story of its own as the blond picked through the reports, sightings, and submitted evidence. 

It was comical to him–the fact that officers of the Raccoon City Police Department believed they could solve a mystery as intricate as this one… One he had a hand in organizing with meticulous scrutiny. 

“Laughable.” He murmured under a breath, voice smooth and cool–Truly, the picture of perfection…

…Until one of the department’s more seasoned detectives threw the door to his office open. Senior Detective Y/N stalked into his office, face stone cold and a large manila folder tucked under her arm. “Senior Detective, to what do I owe this-” “Drop the fucking nicities, Wesker.” She spat venomously and tossed the folder down onto his desk, disregarding his neatly arranged spread of his dirty little secret. 

His ice blue gaze flits down to the spilled pages. A muscle in his jaw clenches.

“What the fuck is this all about??” The leering Detective sneers low and dangerously. She gestures to a copy of a ballistics report, a printed screenshot of footage from an ‘interrogation’ with a corporate looking man, activity logs with times of access granted after hours highlighted, and scanned duplicates of witness statements with bold red ink leaving dissecting comments on parts of the testimonies, and that’s just a handful of what spilled from the folder. 

All of the documents have a similarity–In addition to Wesker recognising them, they’ve all been signed off by him… Wesker glances back up at the Detective, eyebrows barely pinched with concern. “Y/N… And here I thought we were getting along so well…” He muses smoothly. The Detective just shakes her head and pulls the cover open to display the remainder of the folder. “Do not even start that with me, Wesker!” She snaps, in response to his utterance of her first name. 

“This is a crime! This is how corruption starts!” The woman barks and paces before his desk. He had to bite back a cruel laugh. ‘Play it cool, we can work with this…’ He muses mentally and steeples his hands, elbows resting atop the printed evidence against him. 

“I know how this looks, Detective… But I assure you, there is a logical explanation for everything.” He purrs. She knows that tone. It’s the one she had heard a number of times; On nights it’s just them, when he’s exhausted from a debrief and talking to her privately, when they’re wrapping up late nights in the diner on 67 and South. That’s the tone he uses right before bedroom doors close and the masks of Detective L/N and Captain Wesker disappear for a couple of hours, leaving only Y/N and Albert. It’s low, smooth, and downright sinful. 

The senior Detective just huffs and rubs her eyes, a tactic to distract from the shiver that runs up her spine. “Albert,” She begins, but he’s quick to cut her off. “You’ve been working too hard.” His words are accompanied by the twitch of his thin lips. A sight that isn’t a smile, but isn’t a scowl either. “I knew something was wrong last time we… Spoke.” He says simply, eyes cutting to meet hers over his dark frames. A thinly veiled allusion to the shared late night trysts.

He gestures lazily toward the spilled papers, as if they’re a child’s crayon drawings. “Ballistic inconsistencies happen all the time. You know that. Jenkins in Forensics is practically held together with coffee and duct tape. And the chain-of-custody mess?” He tilts his head slightly. “That started long before I took over Alpha Team. If anything, I’ve reduced the chaos.”

His tone remains even, just the slightest lilt of poor you in it. “And those witness statements?” He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Y/N… those were old cases. Cold cases. You think I fabricated people out of thin air? You think I have time to invent whole identities while leading a unit full of egos with guns?”

He leans forward just slightly now, eyes narrowing in something close to concern. Almost tender. “I think what’s really happening here is you’re still sore about the last change in command. You respected Sergeant Holloway—hell, we both did. But he cut corners too. You know that. Maybe… maybe you’re projecting some of that betrayal onto me. Misplacing your scrutiny.”

He folds his hands again. Patient. Gentle. But firm. “You’re smart. Sharp. That’s what I’ve always liked about you. But even the best detectives—especially the best ones—can fall victim to tunnel vision. You start wanting something to be wrong, and suddenly everything is suspicious.”

His voice drops lower—familiar, warm, velvet wrapped around a vice grip. “We’ve had our moments, haven’t we? Late nights. Long talks. You trusted me enough to see you off duty. Trusted me enough to let the badge drop, if only for a few hours. And now you’re standing here… looking at me like I’m the villain in your case file.” He stands slowly, eyes never leaving hers. Not challenging. Not yet. But close.

“Don’t let paranoia make you reckless. You’re better than that. And you know me. Don't you?” He circles the desk, steps slow but deliberate, stopping just within her space. The air hums between them.

“Y/N, you’re tired. And… alone in this, I’d wager. No one else has come forward, have they? No whistleblower. No smoking gun. Just… You and your gut. Which, yes, is usually right. But… not this time.”

He touches the edge of the folder, gently, like it might crumble beneath his fingers.

“You bring this to Internal Affairs, and they’ll eat you alive. Especially Irons… You know how he loves a mess—especially when it's someone else bleeding for it.” And then, so softly it almost doesn’t register: “I’d hate to see your career—your reputation—burn over a misunderstanding… Over me.”

Masterlist Part 2 Thank you to @shymoob and @writingwisterias for Proofreading this!! Love my moots <3

[chrollosdemise]

The Anatomy of a Phantom Heart - Chrollo Lucilfer

Pairing: Chrollo Lucilfer x reader

Warning: description of gore, dissecting, it’s mild but it’s there 🤷‍♀️

Chapter 2: Subject H

The room was different this time.

No more dimly lit stone walls and chains that whispered a threat. Now, it looked like a studio, almost. Clean. Sterile. White tile floor. Steel tables. A tray of instruments that gleamed like a silver smile. And in the center, beneath a surgical light, lay a corpse.

Female. Mid-thirties. Fresh.

Her fingers itched.

“Is this a joke?” she asked coolly, not bothering to turn around. She knew he was behind her. He always was, like a shadow that knew how to flirt.

“I prefer the word gift,” came Chrollo’s voice, calm, deliberate.

“I thought you might be bored. You’ve been sulking.”

“I’ve been chained to a radiator.”

“Yes,” he said, as if acknowledging a minor oversight. “But sulking nonetheless.”

She turned then, slowly, and met his gaze. His eyes were unreadable , as always. But there was something in them that shimmered when he looked at her like this. Like she was an exhibit. Or worse: a reflection.

….God forbid.

“You want me to dissect her?” she asked, tilting her head. “Right here? For your entertainment?”

“No,” he said. “For yours.”

He walked past her, slow and graceful, as if violence couldn’t touch him or maybe as if it had already done so and found him delicious. He picked up a scalpel from the tray and held it out to her.

Her fingers closed around it before she could stop herself.

God, she missed this.

“You’re disgusting,” she muttered, rolling up her sleeves.

“And yet,” he said, stepping back, “here you are.”

For the first ten minutes, there was silence , just the slick, wet sound of skin parting under metal and the soft metallic clink of tools against bone. She was in her element, lost in anatomy, labeling vessels in her head like poetry. The body was intact, unmarred by violence ,a clean slate. A rare treat. What had they done to her ?

Chrollo sat nearby, watching. Reading, supposedly. Some worn philosophical text half-open in his lap. But his eyes never really left her.

“You’re not going to ask where I got her?” he asked idly.

“No,” she replied, not looking up. “I assumed you stole her. Or charmed her to death. That seems your style.”

He smiled faintly. “So cynical. I thought you’d appreciate a perfect body.”

“I appreciate control,” she said. “Which, incidentally, I don’t have.”

“Yet,” he said, folding the book shut.

She stopped, betrayed the slightest glimpse of hope. Gloved fingers paused inside the cavity of the cadaver. “Yet?”

“I’m offering you… a partnership.”

She turned slowly, eyebrow raised. “Are you having a stroke?”

“No. I’m making a proposal.”

“To your prisoner.”

“To someone with… specific talents.”

Her laugh was sharp. “You kidnapped me, chained me, and now you want me to join your little murder club…and you said I had the Lima syndrome.”

“I prefer the term collective vision”

“Of course you do.” She ripped the gloves off. “Go dissect your own bodies.”

“You’re better at it.”

There was a beat of silence.

She hated that he was right. Hated that the blood no longer made her flinch. Hated that the scalpel in her hand still felt like purpose. Precision. Power.

She stepped close to him.

“You want me to help you?” she asked, voice low, dangerous. “Fine. But know this, Chrollo Lucilfer , the second I get the chance, I’m cutting you open. I want to see what’s behind that smile.”

His eyes flared with something unreadable. Not fear. Not quite desire either. Fascination.

“Then I’ll make sure I’m worth dissecting,” he said softly.

And that was the worst part.

She believed him.

another one!!!!

[friendcrumbs]

dan cain and death: putting the romance into necromancer

TWs: discussion of necrophilia/attraction to death

this is the “the C in Cain stands for Corpsefucker” meta. apologies. i think reading the first meta about dan, grief, and the uncanny provides a lot of good context, but it should still be understandable without it.  wordcount: 1.7k

dan and death

dan's terrified of death. it’s trite to say but it makes up a large part of his motivation in the first movie: he’s introduced as he’s attempting CPR long after it’s deemed fruitless. similarly trite: instead of avoiding it, he confronts it, wants to fight it. he’s both repulsed and fixated and drawn to it. on a meta/genre level, it makes sense: doctor-scientists who butt heads over methods and morality but are united in their goal of defeating death. dan has to take an active role in the plot for this dynamic to be effective. (even if you want to argue that he’s purely manipulated/mislead into helping, herbert still leverages dan’s fear/fascination with death to do so). similarly, dan’s both repulsed by corpses, and yet extremely curious; he’s disgusted by the ‘full house’ in the morgue, and yet, when he comes upon a hill doing a dissection, he can’t tear his eyes away, to the point that halsey startles him. (admittedly, very normal for a med student/doctor). he’s just as fascinated and willing to push the boundaries of acceptable practice as herbert, even if he needs convincing/being manipulated (take your pick of description) first. 

however, unlike herbert, dan’s not without guilt and shame about the process. while in the first movie, he’s willing to stand up for herbert (to the dean and to meg alike), in bride, he differentiates himself from herbert at every turn (“this is your madness,” being visibly annoyed/trying to distance himself from herbert in front of gloria and francesca, telling herbert to get angel with the human arm “out of here”). he’s willing to go along with the experiments (the initial agreement to make the bride aside, as i understand it can be contentious whether he’s in his right mind, there’s still the experiments in peru, the line of “where’s our cadaver?” (emphasis mine), and dan’s continued participation in obtaining body parts of the bride), but only in secret. herbert is on that grind blind to the haters doesn’t care about his reputation; he believes in the work and that he will be vindicated. the ends justify the means, etc. there’s no shame or guilt to be had. dan, on the other hand, greatly cares about how he’s perceived. he’s unable to reconcile the experiments and his curiosity with the ‘kind, caring doctor’ part of himself. he represses all that has to do with death (a point i make in the other meta), but it doesn’t make him more normal, it makes him Weirder and Worse. NOW. despite the title, i don’t think that ‘dan wants to literally have sex with literal corpses’ is an argument defensible on canon alone. however, i think that it’s undeniable that he’s drawn to the dead/corpses in a way that he’s just… not to alive people, in a way that exceeds simple scientific curiosity/duty of care as a doctor. 

dan’s dead women

during the run of bride, dan has three dead women he’s “in love” with. meg, gloria, and the bride. i choose to differentiate between meg and the bride as well as gloria and the bride for the purpose of this argument, and also because they function as separates in the narrative. dan’s cry of ‘it’s meg!’ is treated as an obvious delusion/psychological break, a horrifying misrecognition. gloria is never equated to the bride, despite being her ‘form’/face (literally). there is no hint that gloria’s brain will inform the bride’s personality or memories—instead, all of those ought to come from meg’s heart.  

meg exists only as a memory/ideal without a body, and as i argued in the previous meta, is not actually the same meg from the first movie, but instead a distorted, stripped-down version that dan chases over and over again. she is perfectly lovable in death, lacking any of her flaws, unable to do any harm or mistakes, frozen as a victim and lost lover, not a person. dan, who in the first movie prioritized the work (and herbert) over meg is suddenly firmly devoted to her. dan’s more drawn to the dead version of meg than he was to the alive one. 

although one could argue that it’s simply guilt and regret, dan wanting to ‘make up’ for having failed her/failed to love and protect her adequately, said guilt/grief would only manifest once brought up by herbert—dan’s peru flirtation with francesca was cut from the final film, but a hint of the tension remains. he’s started to move on. yet, when the possibility of combining meg and the work comes up, the dead girlfriend is ‘re-animated’ to him, suddenly taking priority over ‘good, kind doctor.’  

gloria—even while literally alive—is already dead. dan projects an image of meg onto her, through their similarity in being close to death (and blonde, I Guess), saying that he imagines her as “a meg who lived.” she’s a terminal patient, about to die, and dan has no illusions about that—when herbert points out that she’s terminal, he doesn’t try to deny it or say that there’s still hope. he’s repulsed by herbert’s insistence that she could be “of use to us,” and corrects him “not us. you,” once again caught in the repulsion-attraction resulting from his repression. he does not want gloria to die, even if it’s inevitable, but also her approaching death is precisely what draws him to her. not only due to circumstances (meeting in the hospital, being able to replay meg’s re-animation and “win”) but because she ignites the same fear-attraction instincts in him as death does. 

and for bachelorette number three, the bride. this feels the most obvious: herbert presenting dan with the body parts pre-re-animation has been compared to an act of seduction, be it herbert directly seducing dan (sexually or scientifically) or seducing him vicariously on part of the bride. re-animation as sex has been widely discussed, so i do not feel the need to go into details. [quick rundown: “premature re-animation,” phallic symbolism of a syringe while creating life, the white sheet that herbert lays out, “this is very much borders on sexual for herbert” (actor’s commentary), science-is-sex for herbert] but while usually this is used for support of a queer reading of the movie (good! i’m in favor!), it also frames the corpse as a viable, attractive partner for dan. the seduction is succeeds while the bride is dead, but once dan’s confronted with the reality of a living thing, not an ideal, he’s repulsed: idealized parts are better than the whole. a corpse cannot speak, cannot be anything but what he projects onto it, forced into whatever fantasy he sees fit, while a living person (or a re-animate) will always fall short of that imagined ideal. even with francesca as an option, he initially chooses the bride—a corpse.

now, what about francesca? she’s undoubtedly alive, perhaps the most “alive-coded” person in bride. she’s from outside arkham, untouched by the half-dead/half-alive atmosphere. she cares for animals, she cooks and eats, she’s shown sleeping, she has sex. she’s the antithesis to herbert in the first movie, who meg questions as a “fully alive” person (paraphrasing bc i don’t remember the exact quote: “does he sleep? does he even eat?” right before they look for rufus). dan comments on this “aliveness:” “so soft, so warm,” he says, leaving the “unlike a corpse” implied. he’s repressing his attraction to death but it’s still present in the denial. yet, even in this high moment for dan “i love you alive girl” cain, death still lurks: dan forgot about the date because he was constructing his corpse wife in the basement, and there she remains, unfinished—if we want to get symbolic, still in his subconscious, present, even when invisible. the second break is herbert’s voyeurism, implying an obssession death into the scene: even if we merely take him as contrast or a villain, his voyeurism serves one purpose—getting information on how to better sell dan on the bride. similarly, despite having more moments with francesca throughout the film’s runtime, dan returns to herbert and the corpses time and time again, right until the end. 

he seemingly stays with francesca, committing to her for good—but only once he has dragged her limp body out of a grave.   

herbert’s dubious status as an alive person

as the entire previous segment hinges on bride of re-animator, and mostly does not apply to re-animator, who is the corpse in the first movie? well. it’s herbert.  

i’ve already proposed francesca’s aliveness as an antithesis to herbert’s corpseness (doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, contemptful/confused about biological reproduction), but a lot of his traits usually ascribed to neurodivergence can also be read as corpse-like: he’s not social, solely focused on work, and considered weird and off-putting in a subconscious way for most people. moreover, herbert is at his most comfortable in the morgue/amongst the dead. in the integral cut/deleted “sandwich and a fix” scene, he sustains himself with the same substances that re-animates corpses. furthermore, herbert is marked as different through his connections (or lackthereof) with other people. unlike meg with her father and dead/absent mother, or dan, who mentions an aunt, herbert has no biological lineage, just an intellectual one. he comes from nowhere, and has no past and no future outside of wanting to bring the dead back. his presence invites death into the narrative/"causes doom." and, perhaps most importantly, he ends up dying in a moruge in re-animator (though it is later retconned), and in a gravepit in the finale of bride, as if the narrative finally sorts him into a place where he belongs, among his kin. 

dan, unlike the other characters, is not instinctually repulsed by herbert's corpse-ness, but drawn to it, fascinated. he defends him to meg (“just a little cracked”) without any proof or any good reason to do so, even prior to the re-animation. he disregards meg’s warnings and rufus’s behavior, giving into the curiosity-attraction pull of his fascination with death. he keeps on choosing herbert over meg, perhaps most notably when he forgets about his proposal entirely, too caught up in the work and herbert, already thinking about conducting another experiment. the tension between herbert and dan, whether interpreted as sexual, romantic or intellectual, thus stems more from herbert's corpse-like status than anything else. 

tldr: dan cain is not normal about alive people and he’s certainly not normal about dead ones. play T.S.O.L -- code blue. 

if you've made it to the end---feedback+crit is always welcomed

[goddessofroyalty]

Fandom: Arcane

Verse: Zaun Family

Oh this brainrot is such a fun one. Sorry this isn’t any of the prompts people have previously sent me but apparently I wanted to write Singed finding Silco after the attack and the immediate follow on from that.

Will probably edit/re-tweak this once I watch Season 2 and re-grab Singed’s voice.

Tags: omegaverse, past-mpreg, mild-body horror and medical stuff

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

There’s a splash of something big falling down into the corner of the caves Singed has taken as his own where the Pilt sometimes drains through when the weather conditions are right. A body most likely by the sound. Either dumped or drowned, it doesn’t change much for whoever it was.

The timing is in his favor though – he could use a new cadaver.

The body, as it turns out, isn’t a stranger to him like they almost always are.

While it has been a few years since the omega stood in the caves and his eye not a gaping wound like it now is, he still is definitively the same one. He was rather memorable at the time, heavily pregnant and yet still threatening Singed should he approach his son again. A son who had returned barely a month later with a cautious smile and they are distracted with my brother given as explanation despite Singed not even asking only to end up not having the stomach for Singed’s work anyway.

It is a shame that the omega ended up as just another body in the Pilt. But that is the way of Zaun and the omega clearly hadn’t cared much about making enemies with how brazenly he threatened a stranger living in the caves.

There is nothing to be done now and no use just letting the body rot when some gain can be made for it.

The body is still warm to the touch as Singed moves it to the table in the center of his lab. The gash to his eye unlikely enough to kill him but enough for him to drown in the waters before arriving here.

It is as Singed reaches for his scalpel that the body proves less deceased as he initially assessed. A rattling, choking sound echoing through the caves as muscles twitch in the fight against death.

It is not far off though. The Pilt-waters have spread deep into his eye and his lungs mostly full with the water. If Singed gave it an hour at most he could return to his dissection of an incredibly fresh corpse.

There is the Shimmer though.

He hasn’t had the chance to even begin the animal trials. But he has created the first of the formula and when else will he get the opportunity of a subject so perfectly near death without creating the conditions himself?

If it fails it is not as if anyone has been lost – the omega will die without it and the formula clearly not correct.

Yes. He will at least try.

“Lanes,” the omega manages to gasp out as Singed moves to restrain him. He doubts this will be pleasant for him. Perhaps he may not consider living worth the agony he will endure. He isn’t conscious enough to be asked. “Vander.”

“Save your strength,” Singed advises him as he fills a syringe with the concoction that may just save the omegas’s life.

The omega goes still as the liquid disappears into his veins. Perhaps the experiment is a failure and an autopsy once again what Singed will be doing today.

A minute later the omega screams. Fighting against the restraints.

He is in terrible pain that is clear but his lungs sound stronger and clearer. The Shimmer helping fight off the infection as the cut around his eye tries to knit itself back together.

Shimmer alone will not save him and the point of this experiment is to prove it works at all. So Singed gets to work cleaning the rivers rot out of where it has taken root. Ignoring the screams as he works.

It takes three days to get the omega into a condition where Singed does not fear he will slip away the moment he is no longer actively monitored. The omega’s breathing consistent even if it is weak. His eye is clearly ruined by the infection but it seems to be stabilizing to something that can be contained even if it will never be defeated.

There is still no promise that the experiment will prove a success but Singed can contemplate things other than keeping the omega alive every moment.

Can contemplate what the omega said in the brief moment of consciousness when he first arrived.

A location and a name.

It is not a lot to go off of but it is also not nothing. And Singed knows the omega has at least two children, likely a mate as well. Assuming they were alive and had not been also part of the attack that led to the omega ending up in Singed’s care.

If they were alive they would likely be worried.

While he cannot provide reassurances to them that the omega is fine or will survive. He can at least inform them where the omega is.

The two pieces of information he has proves ample. Nearly all in the Undercity know of the Vander who build the Lanes. They point Singed in the direction of a pub in the center of it as they tell him that Vander ain’t that interested in business talk with his mate missing.

The door to the pub swings open when Singed knocks and the man who greets him is impressive if for his size alone. Singed supposes the omega’s bravado that day makes sense if this is who he has to enforce his will.

“You must be the alpha,” Singed says as the alpha’s gaze hardens.

Singed can see Viktor a bit further in the building. The boy’s expression as if he has seen a ghost. He no doubt hadn’t expected Singed to ever visit him, and with his mother missing fear making the worst options fill in the information blanks.

“What do you want?” the alpha demands, moving to block Viktor from view. The father just as protective as the mother. Which makes sense – Viktor is an impressive child.

“I know of your missing mate,” Singed informs. He would tell the alpha then and there the status of the omega’s condition but the fact Viktor will no doubt be listening in gives him pause. It would likely be distressing for him to hear what happened to his mother so bluntly and Singed not interested in or talented at gentle words. Better to let the father tell him later. “We should discuss privately.”

The alpha opens his mouth, likely to demand Singed tell him immediately. He freezes mid-action though, glancing behind himself not just to Viktor but to four other small-child faces that have been summoned by their curiosity. A proper undercity brood.

Singed briefly wonders which of them the omega was pregnant with when he had come and threated Singed.

“We can talk in his office,” the alpha says with a sharp nod to a small room off the bar.

It is intriguing that the alpha refers to it as his office and not theirs. The way he moves around it more evidence that he doesn’t consider it his own space. The seat at the paperwork-covered desk left empty while the alpha instead chooses to stand in a corner.

Singed notices the academy seal on a few of the scattered pages. Even the Dean’s personal signature on at least one.

It appears the omega and alpha are more important that Singed assumed. It may be useful to keep aware of them if only to know whether the divide between the two city halves may be even slightly closing and Singed’s secrecy under threat.

“What did you do to Silco?” the alpha demands. Looming over Singed with his full height and bulk.

It is a display that certainly would send a lot cowering in submission.

Singed long ago stopped bothering to be afraid of common intimidation tactics.

“I kept him alive.”

“What?” the alpha’s brow furrows and some of the aggressive tension in his body drops.

“He was near death when he came into my care thanks to the acts of someone else. I gave him something that gave him the strength to not perish. He is stable for now.” And his survival, while not guaranteed, seems a little more likely.

“Then bring him here!” the alpha demands.

“Unless you want him to die I would not suggest that. I said he was stable. But his condition could quickly deteriorate especially if moved.”

The alpha seems to finally be understanding the situation. Holding himself up by the desk and stress and grief take over his frame.

“Where is he? Can I see him?” he asks, desperation now heavy in his tone.

“He is at my lab.” Singed never labored under the delusion he would be trusted at his word when he decided to seek out the omega’s family. As much as he would prefer his location known only to him it would be inevitable he would have to allow at least one in to prove what he has said. “So long as you behave I will take you to him.”

“So long as I can see him,” the alpha agrees because he doesn’t have any other choice. “Lead the way.”

The children are all waiting outside the door to the office. Viktor and the four younger ones. They look either worried or scared. The younger ones all looking to the alpha for protection and reassurance the way children always will with their parents. Viktor however watched Singed, his mind clearly trying to understand how the pieces of information he has fits together. He is still remarkably bright for his age.

“I’m heading out, Viktor you’re in charge.” The alpha’s words seem well rehearsed and none of the children look at all surprised by them. “If I’m not back by morning-“

“Go to Benzo and tell him where to start looking,” Viktor finishes with a quick glance towards Singed. He knows there is a slight threat under those words should his father not be returned to him. Perhaps life in the Undercity is started to harden him to the things that must be done.

“That’s my boy,” the alpha says, ruffling at Viktor’s hair. He dwarfs his son when he presses against him in a one-arm hug. Viktor clearly having inherited the slighter frame of his omega mother. Whether he will gain more of his alpha father’s size as he grows will be interesting. Assuming Singed manages to save the omega the continued care and treatments that will be required will mean he will likely get to find out.

The walk back to the lab is silent. Not that Singed minds – unnecessary conversation not something he cares for. Nor does he care to try and help the stress the alpha clearly is under. Words will not change the outcome.

The alpha possesses surprising speed despite his size. Crossing the distance of the lab as soon as the omega is in sight. His hulking form leaning over the pale broken one of the omega laid out on the table as if he could protect him from further harm.

“Who did this to you Sil?” he asks, touch also surprisingly delicate as he brushes the hair from the omega’s face to reveal the likely ruined eye.

“He will not answer you,” Singed informs as he moves closer to ensure the alpha will not damage his experiments in his distress. “He is sedated to keep him unaware of the pain for now.”

“What happened?” the alpha asks again, and it takes a moment for Singed to realize he is talking to him and not the unconscious body of his mate.

“I do not know.” Nor did Singed particularly care to know. It was convenient for him that the omega was at the exact precipice of death for Singed to use as a subject of his first Shimmer trial and that is all he needs. “That is how I found him.”

“He’ll be okay though?” the alpha asks.

“Perhaps,” Singed replies as he prepares another dose of Shimmer. The alpha eyes him warily as he approaches but doesn’t attempt to impede his work. They will see if that changes once the omega’s body starts to convulse again. So long as he wakes before morning the alpha can be sedated as well if necessary. “I have done what I can. Now it is up to him.”

“He’ll be fine then,” the alpha says as he takes hold of the omega’s unresponsive hand. “He’s a tough bastard. No way he’d give up now when we are so close. He’ll pull through.”

The alpha isn’t actually looking for input. He’s just reassuring himself as he gently pets at the omega. Perhaps Singed should have waited until the omega’s survival was certain before seeking out the family. But he isn’t sure it ever truly will be.

“We shall see.” Singed does hope the omega survives. Only because it would mean the formula a success of course.

[aroaceleovaldez]

Any headcannons about Will Solace? he's an underrated bby (I think?) and I personally hc that he used to be a very moody kid but then decided to turn off all of his negaive emotions (most of the time)

oh i have SO many Will Solace headcanons built up from writing him on Deadangelos so much. Below the cut cause this is very long (and tumblr started glitching about the list format so manual it is):

- His roles at CHB are basically "Every possible medical personnel Ever™." He's camp medic, physician, surgeon, pediatrician, pharmacist, psychiatrist, therapist, dentist, optometrist, veterinarian, etc etc etc. Technically Chiron is also All Of That, but ever since Will joined camp most of the responsibility falls to him (at least in part because campers generally feel a bit more comfortable dealing with somebody their own age versus an immortal centaur), and Chiron just mentors him on it (unless they're running low on hands, in which case Chiron does pitch in, and sometimes the other Apollo kids help staff the infirmary if Will needs. In the past though it was usually just Chiron and whichever camper he pulled in that week to do first aid training with. Mr. D only really handles therapy stuff if Will isn't able to for one reason or another. Will gets very individualized training and has has own schedule separate from the rest of his cabin to account for all of that. Chiron basically personally took Will in under his wing as his apprentice and a not insignificant portion of Will's personal training is gross anatomy lessons with Chiron in the camp morgue. Will does not question where Chiron procures the cadavers for that. He probably should. They aren't campers. They are sometimes demigods, but not always. Most of the rest of camp doesn't even know there's a morgue, let alone that Will does gross anatomy dissection. It's not technically a camp "secret," Will isn't secret about it at all, but most campers treat it like it is and like to use it to try and spook new campers. The ones who find out about the gross anatomy portion and that there is exactly zero information about how Chiron is procuring cadavers are Mildly Concerned.

- Photokinesis and plague powers Will are both extremely fun. I love making him a son of Apollo Smintheus specifically and giving him pet rats and/or the ability to talk to rats and mice. He thinks they're soooo cute and is definitely the type to brag about how intelligent rats are. I also like to think he maybe had a pet snake at one point, like a big ol' boa. Will with a sunglow boa or something? yes? (I also just in general love the idea of Will's house back in Texas being a cute little ranch cause Naomi is rich and also a cowgirl and Will having a ton of different animals over the years. He probably originally wanted to be a veterinarian before he settled more on medic.)

- I just generally love playing with Will (not-so) subtly being the exact opposite of what people would expect from an Apollo kid. Initially he looks like the gold standard for an Apollo kid - sunny, friendly, chill, medic/healer, interest in science/arts/fandom, etc etc. Then you speak to him for more than 20 minutes and find out he loves snakes and rats and guts and gore and is fascinated by disease and mold. He takes gross anatomy classes taught by Chiron. One of his favorite hobbies is just dissecting stuff. He's into vulture culture. His idea of a perfect date is holding hands over a cadaver he is actively cutting into and passing the other person cool stuff he's fishing out. Also he's very vocal about thinking monsters are hot and the combo of all of that is exactly why he's into Nico. Everybody else thinks Nico's inherently cursed or something? Will doesn't mind being cursed - in fact he wants to be cursed, for science. He's swooning over the idea of Nico sacrificing him for some dark ritual in the middle of the night. He daydreams about Nico being a vampire that's gonna romantically kill him. The rest of camp is waiting for the day Will does something stupid and gets himself killed like, flirting with a monster (or the Hades kid) or something. Nico just generally doesn't know how to feel about the whole situation but is? (hesitantly) flattered?? that somebody is enthusiastic about him while recognizing and appreciating his Underworld aspects. Will is out-weirding him, somehow, and Nico never knew this was a thing that could happen.

- Related to that - I have a whole headcanon about "Bad Omen" demigods, which are basically the other main CHB cabin's versions of Hephaestus kids with fire powers being bad luck. For Apollo kids their "bad luck omen" super rare power is a plague-powers kid, and Will showed up during the Titan War, just a couple months before the Battle for Manhattan when nearly all his cabin died. He is very acutely aware of this superstition and fully believes he is a bad luck charm for the cabin and feels SUUUUPER guilty about it and so hides his plague powers. It's not that he feels bad about his plague powers specifically - he thinks plague stuff is really fascinating and his powers are cool and can be used for healing too! - he's just really concerned about how others will view him. (Very strong parallel dynamics between how Will views his plague powers vs the stigma around them & how Nico views his Underworld powers vs the stigma around them. They are handshake emoji).

- TTC implies that Apollo kids are more often than not summer-only campers, and I think it's fun to have Will's backstory being: He may or may not have "accidentally" caused a plague/pest outbreak at his old school early into the year and between that school having to shut down for a couple of months because of that and his mom maybe going on tour, they decided it was time for him to move to CHB and go there year-round. Except he goes from Texas to New York in the middle of winter and he's a son of Apollo, so he gets there and it's like sleet and slush and all cold and he's the only Apollo kid at camp and he hates it so bad. He eventually gets used to it but it is awkward when all his siblings come back in the spring/summer to find they have a new youngest sibling who's just been chilling all by himself for a couple of months. But then Austin and Kayla join so at least he's not the newest/youngest Apollo kid. (But then nearly all of Cabin 7 immediately dies in TLO and Will's right back to being in a mostly empty cabin and being in charge.)

- He definitely puts on an approachable/friendly, or at the very least calm, face 99% of the time, partially because it's expected of him and it's also maybe a little bit masking (it's a lot masking) cause he knows he can be a bit much. He is 100% the type of guy who feels like he has to solve all his problems himself and can't let anybody else know he has problems, and also that he has to help everybody else with their problems because that's his job, right? So he's constantly stressing himself out to the point of breakdown. He also half lives in the infirmary (which he totally has his own little office in) and he'll just shut himself in and spend like, a couple of days straight in there and probably not sleep. He's a workaholic just as bad as Nico and a total hypocrite about it/about overexerting one's self but he's working on it. Nico's too much of a take-no-shit kind of guy (and also him and Will are way too similar) so usually when Will nags Nico about that kind of thing it turns into Will looking in a mirror or Nico turning it back around on him and Will going "ah shit i need to take my own advice >:T"

- He's best friends with Drew Tanaka and he lets out his bitchy side when he's hanging out with her. they are bitching friends. they love to bitch. It's a great venting environment for him cause he knows Drew loves to hear him complain and talk shit so he can just let out all his pent-up frustrations and she'll just enthusiastically eat it all up. The two of them will gossip endlessly. Drew is mildly concerned about Will's romantic tastes though (again: monsters. cryptids. the Addams family. evils from the shadows. the guy from The Shape Of Water. Nico) and keeps trying to talk him out of flirting with things that might kill him. He does not listen to her.

- His only normal crush is Paolo but everyone is waiting for the other shoe to drop about how Will could possibly be weird about this one (there's an ongoing camp bet with different theories). He also dated Drew for like, all of a week but they both decided they totally hated it and preferred to stay just besties (bonus points: That was what Drew considered as her passing the whole Aphrodite-kids-breaking-hearts thing. literally neither of them cared).

- I know his full name is William but it's really funny if he lies about that and his full name is actually Wilhelm, named after the scream.

- ...He is a Swiftie. He's been a Swiftie since he was younger back with like, OG-era country music Taylor Swift and he's just stuck with it.

- Trans!Will is fun and I love it lots. Drew helping him with transition stuff is also very near and dear to me.

- His crush on Nico originates from them meeting for the first time during the Battle for Manhattan. Nico's attempt at flirting with Percy misfired and hit Will instead lmao. Nico parts the Titan Army in cool thematic armor and with three gods in tow, says a dramatic one-liner, and then is super badass in battle and Will is head-over-heels for him immediately. He then proceeds to spend the next year obsessing over Nico and being tormented by Nico never being at camp and never being able to talk with him. Ergo why when Nico shows up in BoO, Will is immediately like "HOLD MY HANDS. THREE DAYS IN THE INFIRMARY. HANG OUT WITH ME PLEASEEEE-" (and that's why Will was under the assumption that Nico was actively avoiding people rather than being ostracized, cause he had heart-eyes tunnel vision). Him in BoO though really is just seeing his crush and losing all his cool.

- For some reason he is just an absolute magnet for chthonic demigods. Nico, Lou Ellen, Cecil (who i hc is a chthonic Hermes kid), etc etc. He thinks Underworld stuff is super cool though (again, see: Will being super into spooky/gory stuff/etc). Also all the ex-Titan army kids decided they were his personal body guards immediately after the war cause he was nice to them.

- He is a HUUUUGE nerd. Specifically a sci-fi and disney nerd. They're his hyperfixations (/special interests if you lean more autistic!Will) <3 His favorite franchises are Star Wars and Avatar (the blue one). He loves conceptual alien biology/ecology and could go on about it endlessly. He will also very enthusiastically infodump about Disney history (both the art/animation side and theme parks side) and other sci-fi series. Ask him about Doctor Who (you will be there for several hours).

- Will being a micro-celebrity cause of his mom is very fun to me. He's been on talk shows and stuff before cause people love how snarky this country star's kid is. He has an extremely popular Instagram and Austin uses him as clickbait in his Youtube videos extremely often (including forcing him to guest-star or do like react content and stuff) (Will is more than happy to indulge him though cause he finds it funny).

- I also love the idea that Will and Piper have actually known each other since they were little, from Tristan and Naomi meeting at some point and realizing they had kids the same age and encouraging them to be pen-pals. Once social media becomes more of a like, Proper Thing™ they become mutuals on Instagram but just use it to periodically send each other silly memes (Piper's instagram is private and basically all she uses it for is dm'ing people). It takes them a solid week of being at CHB together to realize "WAIT, YOU'RE THAT [PIPER/WILL]?!" One of their hobbies is going into the city and seeing if people will recognize them/if paparazzi will see them and making games out of it (who can ruin the most photos, what types of fake gossip can we get them trying to circulate, etc etc).

- I am a firm believer that Will is an extremely loud out-and-proud type of guy and has been for awhile (again see: him being a micro-celebrity) and he spearheads or runs a lot of pride stuff at CHB ever since he joined. If there is a pride parade/event at CHB he helps organize it. If there's a GSA club at CHB he is the head of it. He keeps pamphlets in the infirmary of queer educational material and guides to different identities and stuff and is very passionate about making people feel welcomed and comfortable. Because of this, when he found out Nico was from the 1930s and severely not up-to-date on terminology and stuff, he considered getting Nico up-to-date his greatest challenge yet. It was a personal quest for him. There was also definitely at least a week before that where Will thought Nico might be homophobic or something and was going "I CAN FIX HIM" before Nico managed to explain that no, he's... very supportive (muffled coughing coming from closet), he's just also extremely behind and doesn't know what any of those words mean, thanks. Will set up the most extensive queer crash course possible for him and poor Nico was just going "slow down please,,,," the entire time. Will gets him up mostly up to speed eventually. I just love Will being that type of guy who will start explaining misc queer history with citations at the drop of a hat. It is probably another hyperfixation of his.

- Will and Annabeth both consider Chiron an adoptive father-figure and joke about being siblings and which of them is the favorite child, cause they both know they're definitely Chiron's favorite campers. They both get him father's day cards/gifts.

[scotianostra]

On Wednesday January 28th 1829 William Burke, of "Burke and Hare" fame was executed.

First and foremost, Burke and Hare were not bodysnatchers, graverobbers or "Resurrection men" as is often banded around. They may gotten the idea of selling bodies from the men who carried out such crimes, but they were too lazy to go around digging up cadavers, they instead decided to bump off people themselves, the sell them to the eminent Dr Knox lecturer on anatomy at the University Edinburgh.

The method became known as "Burking" after the subject of this post. There is an 19th century verse that sums them up.....

Up the close and doon the stair,

But and ben' wi' Burke and Hare.

Burke's the butcher, Hare's the thief,

Knox the boy that buys the beef.

The demand for dead bodies in Edinburgh was created by a new way of teaching anatomy, called the Paris Method, which demanded that every student be given a corpse of his own to dissect, rather than simply watching a single lecturer do it at the front of the room. This meant a great many more cadavers were needed, but the only legal source of them was bodies from the gallows. Even with a high amount of executions that supply could never hope to keep pace with the new demand, and many anatomists resorted to buying bodies from grave-robbers instead.

The first body they sold was that of an old pensioner who died of natural causes while owing rent at the Tanner’s Close boarding house Hare ran with his wife Mary. Hare recruited Burke – another tenant there – to help him recoup his losses for the rent by selling the old man’s body to Knox. That was in December 1827.

Realising they were on to a good thing, Burke & Hare then turned to murder. They would choose a vulnerable figure from the streets of Edinburgh – almost always a woman - invite her back to Tanner’s Close and then feed her whisky till she passed out. As soon as their victim was asleep, one or other of the men would block her nose and mouth to prevent her breathing while the other lay across her body to keep her still.

This is Burke’s own description of the process:

“When we kept the mouth and nose shut a very few minutes, they could make no resistance, but would convulse and make a rumbling noise in their belly for some time. After they had ceased crying and making resistance, we left them to die.”

They killed 15 people in this way and sold all the bodies to Knox, who turned a blind eye to the cadavers’ origins in order to safeguard his supply.

Burke & Hare were finally caught in November 1828, by which time they had become careless enough to let one of their victim’s bodies be discovered. Fearing they would not get a conviction otherwise, the authorities persuaded Hare to turn King’s evidence in return for immunity. This ensured that Burke alone hanged for their crimes. Many people in Edinburgh thought that Hare - and Knox - should have died beside him and riots occurred afterwards, one outside the home of Knox.

This sensational story made headlines throughout the world, making Burke & Hare two of the most famous killers this country has even seen. Some of us in Edinburgh know the spate of crimes as The West Port Murders, Tanners Close in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle to the west is long gone but the area of The West Port, meaning Westgate, still bares witness to the enterprising duo, a "strip bar" in what is nicknamed "The Pubic Triangle" is called The Burke and Hare, I think they might have approved!

Finally, the literature of the West Port murders inspired that grisliest of Robert Louis Stevenson's tales, The Body Snatcher.

The pic comes from a broadsheet, the newspaper of the day, if you have the time and stamina, here is full account of the trial......https://archive.org/.../burkehar.../burkehare00burk_djvu.txt

[moon-buggg]

Not so different after all

I wanted to explore Moon's relationship with mad scientist! Y/n a bit, so I wrote this drabble! It's the first piece of non-academic writing I've shared since middle school, so be kind lol

length- 585 words

warnings- vague descriptions of bodies and dismemberment (yn is taking organs out of a cadaver to preserve them, its not graphic but viewer discretion is advised)

Sun had asked you, once, how you could stomach the dirty work of your experiments. ‘The body is just meat,’ you had responded, elbow deep in a cadaver, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. As if it were perfectly normal for humans to rifle through their own for spare parts. As if you had not been shunned from your peers for this exact transgression. 

Moon wasn’t squeamish. The opening of a body so unlike his own did not unsettle him in the way it unsettled Sun. No, it wasn’t the blood, viscera, or decay that made him feel like this, like everything was wound too tight, grating and wrong.

It was you.

And watching you preserve your latest specimen (another failure, not that you would let that stop you), he could hold his tongue no longer.

“Easy. They’re all hypocrites.” The accusation is harsh and sharp on your tongue. “Did you know they had us dissecting pigs in medical school but not once did we ever oversee a human dissection? Sure the anatomy transfers decently enough, but how were we supposed to treat human patients never learning from humans? What makes our bodies worthy of preserving over pigs? That we figured out pants first?”

“How are you ok with this,” he does not gesture to the human brain currently soaking in formaldehyde, “when everyone tells you it is wrong?”

The disgust in your voice is evident. Moon had always appreciated that about you, your complete inability to mask your emotions- or was it just a lack of interest? It did not help him in deciphering you in this moment. 

You continue on, either unaware of your rambling or used to his lack of response. “I mean really, who do they think they are?-” 

Moon tuned you out. He'd heard this rant plenty of times before. Nothing about your sworn vengeance on and superiority over those who wronged you would help explain why you made him so confused. 

Why your flippant treatment of bodies reminded him of the circus’s repair tent.

You were still talking, never once stopping your task of preparing various organs for preservation. Ever quick and methodical, your hands never stopped moving. “-ean, really, the body is just a machine!” you huff, dropping the heart into a jar like it had offended you.

“...a machine,” he parrots. You remain unaware of how his eyes bore holes into the back of your head.

“Exactly! One that I will take apart and master!” Your easy confidence about such grim matters unsettles many, used to unsettle him. He crosses the laboratory with two long steps and leans over you, observing your work more closely. A body lies cold and empty on the metal gurney, its innards laid out in jars across your desk. You’ve moved on to labeling now, penning down notes in a shorthand he’s yet to decipher. The silence is… comfortable, broken only by your pen scratchings and the quiet ticking of Moon’s internal clockwork. 

You look back at him only once, a questioning but otherwise blank stare, before returning to your work. Not displeased, at least.

He continues watching as you finish labeling and move to writing in that same shorthand in a journal. He doesn’t know if you would explain it to him if he asked, so he doesn’t. He just continues to watch. And as the sun sinks in the sky, he slinks away and activates the electric lights for you before returning to his perch.

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

the world (it burns through me)

Chapter 9: Freelancer

Ao3 | 5.8k Words | Freelancer’s POV

Freelancer’s last three Thanksgivings. Sunshine comes back to life. Caelum is traumatized. Gavin is no longer a prostitute. Darlin’ is also traumatized.

TW: discussions of child abuse, disordered eating habits, and sexual assault.

It was the week before your first Thanksgiving in medical school and you were standing in the morgue at Dahlia General hospital and watching a tall, handsome doctor cut into a corpse like it was an act of love. Dr. Brachium was a looker to put it mildly. You weren’t small by any means, but he hit six feet with ease. His lithe frame fell in his scrubs and drapings like his body was built specifically for medical gear to smother it. His hair was jet black and long enough he had to pin it back in a braid under his scrub cap. He was working with cadavers, not living patients, so he didn’t have to wear a mask. You preferred that, because it let you get a good look at his full lips as they quirked through soft smiles, crinkling his mono-lidded eyes handsomely as he explained how to remove and weigh the major organs as one performed an autopsy. 

This was the process, your instructors insisted. You started with theoretics, diagrams, textbooks, that sort of thing. Then, you moved on to other mammals. You dissected pigs and cats, noted that the variety that the living body was capable of made your diagrams and textbooks functionally useless for anything besides casual reference. You watched videos of surgery, practiced stitches on fruit and pig skin. Then, you watched autopsies. You watched handsome doctors like Brachium cut open mothers and brothers and daughters and struggled to find the energy to remember the person that used to inhabit the cadaver under your careful scrutiny.

Dr. Brachium spoke quietly, as though afraid to wake up the smattering of corpses laid out on tables in his pristine, freezing morgue. Eight odd students gathered around his table, just the dedicated bunch that had signed up for his late night lab slot instead of going home to their fucking families for the holidays. This was more important than a family dinner, you insisted to yourself, and your mother was far more satisfied with your performance at school than she would be with your lackluster stuffing. So, despite Lasko’s insistence that students in rigorous courses like yours did much better when they took adequate breaks, you were staying in Dahlia for your week off. He was a good advisor, and he understood a lot, but he didn’t understand this. He couldn’t. 

“That’s the last of it.” Dr. Brachium held his cadaver’s heart in his hands, still and blue. “If you look here, we can see that Mr. Swanson did indeed die of heart failure. See the pericardial fat surrounding his arteries? It was unfortunately only a matter of time. He would have been in considerable chest pain for a few weeks proceeding the cardiac arrest that eventually killed him. Should any of you become internal medicine doctors, please emphasize that your patients should always take chest pains seriously.” 

He placed the heart in the shining, metal scale, read the weight aloud for his record and carefully placed each organ inside a plastic biowaste bag, then the bag back inside the now empty body cavity. 

“If you’re on the surgical path, you’d be doing a lot of this. When you’re working with live patients, you’ll take the time to carefully arrange the organs. The body knows where they should go and will make any minor adjustments that need to be made, but the healing process can be hindered if you just… throw things in there.” He crinkled up his nose like it was a cute joke. You couldn’t help the smile that snuck onto your lips. 

The swinging double doors to the morgue opened as two doctors in white coats and light green scrubs pushed in a gurney. The small frame strapped down on it was covered in a white sheet, the kind that was meant to be waterproof but held on to blood anyway. It was dotted with red like a Halloween decoration. 

The interns ignored the eight of you and instead turned to Dr. Brachium, handing him a chart as they stripped down the trauma gloves they had been wearing. This one must have been fresh out of the trauma bay. Finally, something more interesting than a morbid heart disease. You might actually get to practice some trauma medicine before they put this one on ice. 

Brachium thanked the interns by name, something that made you feel strangely fond, and sent them back up to the emergency room. He read the chart carefully, shaking his head, a pinch of pity between his full brows. 

“That’s a shame.” He tutted. “A car accident. And so young…” he looked genuinely grieved as he handed the chart to the student closest to him, another surgical hopeful named Kody you’d had a few classes with. Kody read the chart ravenously, his eyes wide, his face breaking out into a grin. You didn’t know how Dr. Brachium managed to grieve over every body in his morgue, but your stomach flipped when you realized you felt closer to Kody’s blind giddiness at the body’s learning potential. The two of you had a similar hunger. 

Brachium pulled the sheet back, revealing a charming baby face and styled pixie cut, hair meant to stick up in this place and that very intentionally. Instead, carved bangs were matted to the corpse’s forehead with dried, blackened blood. There was a large cut across their forehead, and when you leaned in closer to get a better look, you realized it was actually a skull fracture. You starred for so long you thought you could see their pinkish, shivering brain matter. 

That was impossible, of course. Once the brain stopped functioning it changed color, from healthy pink and gray to blueish-green. You were seeing things.��

Brachium cut away their torn clothes, revealing a sizable laceration in their stomach. He prodded around it with his gloved hands, noting the organ damage and oozing, dark blood that sprouted from the cuts in their liver. 

“This was a catastrophic crash.” Brachium shook his head. One hand landed on the corpse’s head stroking the stray hair out of their closed eyes. “Oh, little one. We don’t even know your name.” 

“How does that work?” You asked. That wasn’t actually going to be part of your job, identifying corpses, but you felt compelled to ask anyway. You felt suddenly self conscious as Brachium’s attention shifted to you. “Like… how do we figure it out? When there’s a body with no ID, I mean.” 

“There are a few ways.” Brachium nodded. He considered you for a moment before his face softened and he continued. “The police are likely still clearing the scene, and since they were driving, there is most probably a driver’s license somewhere in the vehicle. This laceration-” he waved his hand over the cut, “-was caused by the driver’s side door of the car. Look here, at the particles left in the skin.” You leaned in close, your face inches from their still-warm body. 

“Their car was blue.” You found yourself murmuring. Brachium nodded. 

“They would have had to be cut out. The car is a mess, so it might take a while to find everything we need from it. If that fails, then we move on to fingerprints, then dental records. Most people are identifiable. Most people have people who are looking for them. It is very rare for bodies to go unclaimed.” 

“Can we…” Kody gestured towards the corpse, seeming impatient with his arms crossed. Brachium broke his concentration on you and turned towards your classmate. 

“The dead are in no rush, friend.” He said softly. “We have time for any questions anybody has.” 

Your mouth clicked shut and you leaned back, embarrassment burning across your cheeks. Brachium watched, his face closing off, as you pulled away. 

You watched intently, silently, as Dr. Brachium prepared the body for the autopsy. He straightened out the gangly limbs, arranged its broken form into something resembling order, and muttered quietly as he brushed dried blood and debris from its face. Kody stepped up to stand next to you, and everytime Brachium made a soft comment, called the corpse a sweet name, said something as though to comfort it, Kody snickered softly, under his breath, where only the two of you could hear. 

You watched, your eyes on their oozing wounds, waiting for the blood flow to stop. Eventually, the pressure in the chest cavity would let up and the blood would stop. Eventually… 

You moved back around the table, towards the head. You bent at your middle, crinkling the trauma gown that had been draped over your street clothes. Your sneakers squeaked over the tile floor. You bent down and inspected the skull fracture again. By this time, the brain should have gone necrotic. You wanted to see it for yourself. 

The exposed section of their brain shone up at you under the bright, morgue lights, still pink, still twitching. 

“Wait!” You cried, as Brachium raised his scalpel to cut into their chest. Every pair of eyes in the room snapped to you. You froze suddenly under the attention, your body going cold. If you were wrong, this was going to be so fucking embarrassing. If you were right, though…

“What is it?” Brachium set his scalpel down and circled the table to stand next to you. You raised a shaking, gloved finger to the skull fracture. 

“Their brain…” you breathed, afraid that if you broke the silence that had fallen over the room, whatever life was left in them would slip away. Brachium gasped, bent closer, and then reared back. He reached blindly for the controls under the table and lowered it quickly. 

“Compressions.” He told you sternly as he stripped his gloves off and reached for two new pairs. “You-” he waved to one of your classmates, Elena, you thought, “-that big button on the wall, press it. And you-” he pointed to Kody as he slipped his new gloves on, “-just outside the door there’s a crash cart. Bring it in now.” 

“What’s happening?” Another classmate called from the back of the group. 

“They’re alive.” Brachium said. The morgue descended into chaos. 

It took fifteen minutes for more doctors to arrive, even as the Code Blue blared around the echoing space. Whoever was in charge of the alarm system turned it off at one point. Brachium had looked up, panic flashing over his eyes and ordered Elena to hit the alarm again. 

You knew how to give chest compressions. You’d been certified since you were in high school, when you’d taken every medical-adjacent course your school had to offer. It felt different on a body than it had on the dummy they gave you to practice on. You felt the corpse’s- the patient’s- ribs crack and give under your relentless movements. You watched out of the corner of your eye as Dr. Brachium intubated, slid a tude down their throat. Their hand, which had laid limp and lifeless on the slab a few minutes before, trailed up to grab at his wrist. He took it in his own and held it as he pumped the blue AMBU bag, breathing for them, in the other. 

“How does this happen?” Kody asked after retrieving the crash cart. He attached the sensors to the portable heart monitor around your hands. “Aren’t they supposed to check things like this before they even get to the ER?”

“Yes.” Brachium muttered, still whispering sweet encouragement to the patient as he worked. “They are.” 

Eventually, interns arrived, walking casually, seeming to think that this was a false alarm. You couldn’t imagine that the morgue called codes all that often, so you could hardly blame them for assuming it was an accident. As soon as they saw you and your shaking, spent arms pounding into your patient, they sprung into action. 

“Why didn’t they receive a head CT?” Brachium snapped, his voice turning sour and harsh for the first time since you’d met him a few hours ago. The two interns that had brought your patient down in the first place went pale and shared an alarmed look. 

“The paramedics said-” one started, but Dr. Brachium cut them off as somebody took over the AMBU bag for him. Somebody else pushed you out of the way and continued your compressions with renewed force. You stumbled back, a hand wrapping around your back to support you. When you looked up, Kody smiled softly and waited for you to catch your footing. 

“I don’t care what the paramedics say!” Brachium snapped. “When you receive a patient in the ER, you run the necessary checks before bringing them to me. You never take other people’s word for it when you’re dealing with someone’s life! The minutes we wasted here could have caused irreparable damage. And it’s your names- your licenses- at the bottom of their chart. Remember that next time, if you get a next time.” 

The patient was whisked away. Brachium addressed the room quickly, dismissing the lab for the evening and offering to reschedule before the end of the semester. You tugged off the trauma gown and gloves you’d been sweating into for the last few hours. Your arms were like jelly. 

“Not you,” Brachium caught your attention before you could slip out of the building. “Stay back with me for a moment, alright my friend?” 

You nodded, sparing Kody one last glance as he tutted and turned away.

Dr. Brachium was even more of a looker when not smothered by medical dressings. His shoulders and biceps filled out his scrubs wonderfully, tapering off to a thin waist and strong legs. He pulled off his scrub cap, letting down his braid and running his fingers through his long, straight hair.

“You were an incredibly capable medical professional tonight. More so than every paramedic and doctor that put their eyes on that patient and chose not to do everything they could to ensure they were actually dead before giving up. Including me.” He ran a hand over his face, once soft and handsome and now lined with exhaustion and shame. “I beg you to stay in the field.” 

“Why didn’t the paramedics check their brain activity?” You asked softly. “Ambulances in California are required to carry EEG’s.” Brachium let out a puff of air that you thought was meant to be a laugh. 

“Ambulances funded by the state are, yes.” He nodded. “But there are private companies that run ambulance services that they contract out to the state at a fraction of the price. They have less oversight on that sort of thing and discretion to hire who they like. I imagine this was caused by a series of oversights and failures throughout the night. I only hope it doesn’t cost them brain function. That long without oxygen…” 

“I should have said something sooner.” You muttered. “I thought it was strange that they were still bleeding. And I thought I was seeing things when I saw their brain matter the first time.” 

“You’re a medical student.” Brachium said softly. “And you were functioning under the belief that the professionals around you had already confirmed within reasonable doubt that they were dead. I’ve been practicing for ten years and I didn’t notice. Please do not blame yourself for this. You saved their life.” 

You nodded even as your guts twisted up with guilt. 

You were glad that Dr. Brachium didn’t make you leave. You thought you’d be eaten alive if you didn’t get to see them again. You wanted to know their name. You wanted to know if they remembered it. 

The cops had found their license half an hour ago. They’d already told their emergency contact where he could go to claim the body. Brachium called, explained shortly that they were in fact not dead, and that he would be waiting to explain all of it when he got to the hospital.

Dr. Brachium waited with you in the lobby for him to arrive. 

You knew it was him the moment he walked in. He’d been crying for a considerable amount of time, and he was trailed by a taller man who must have driven him. You couldn’t imagine anybody who loved this man would let him drive in this state. He looked wildly around the lobby, as though he would find them here. 

“Elliott?” Brachium called. His head swiveled and he seemed to nearly collapse when he put his eyes on Brachium. 

“Please tell me what the fuck is going on.” He cried. The man with him wrapped an arm around his shoulders to steady him. 

“They’re alive, Elliott.” Brachium met them where they stood, took both of Elliott’s hands in his own. “They’re in surgery, and we won’t know more until they’re out, but they are alive.” 

Elliott did collapse then, right into Brachium and the other man’s waiting arms. 

Brachium explained everything in one of the sectioned off family rooms where they told people their loved ones were dead. He had tracked down the ambulance report while you two had waited, the names of the paramedics, the names of the interns that had called it and delivered them to him, the information of every person who had looked at them since the crash for litigation purposes. He implied strongly that Elliott should sue every person on that list for medical malpractice. That list included him, of course. 

“The only reason they’re alive right now is because of this student.” You introduced yourself stiffly, shaking Elliott’s hands awkwardly. “They were attending a lab in my morgue and noticed signs of life. If it weren’t for them, I would have overlooked them as well.” 

“They weren’t breathing?” Elliott said softly. “And their heart, it wasn’t beating?” 

“No.” Brachium shook his head. “They noticed…” he trailed off, unsure of how to put the fact that you’d seen living brain matter through the hole in their head without knocking Elliott out again. 

“I noticed brain activity.” You said simply. Elliott screwed up his brow, but eventually just shook his head. He grabbed awkwardly for your hand, his still shaking, and held it firmly. 

“Thank you.” He whispered. “Thank you.” 

You left the hospital in the early hours of the morning. It was freezing, and your measly jacket didn’t do much to protect you. You shivered as you made your way across the parking lot and to the bus stop. It was a long ride home. You wondered if Gavin was free. For the first time in months, you didn’t feel bone fucking tired. You could use a distraction, whether that had anything to do with his noble profession or not. 

Something heavy and warm settled over your shoulders. You gasped and turned around, coming face to face with Kody. He’d wrapped you in his jacket, and all you could smell was the fresh, clean scent of his cologne. He smiled, his teeth long and straight, and considered you for a heavy moment before he spoke. 

“That was good work back there.” He said, his voice low and smooth. “I’ll be honest, I wasn’t all that threatened by you until tonight.” 

“Oh yeah?” You replied. He crowded into your personal space, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans to fight the cold. 

“Yeah.” He nodded. His eyes had a glint to them you couldn’t place. “Come on, I'll drive you home.” 

___

Kody raped you during the first rainstorm of the following April. 

___

“What if he doesn’t like me?” Gavin said softly, straightening his sweater for the fifth time in just as many minutes. He had deep cleaned your shared apartment over the course of the last two days, gotten rid of the vast majority of his decorations (most of them were some level of explicit), and went out and bought some clothes that actually covered any amount of his skin. He looked so strange, all dressed up and wholesome in his Mr. Rogers get-up. You straightened the crisp collar of the button down under his sweater and smoothed your hand over his chest. 

“He’s gonna love you.” You said softly. “You said he was very friendly over the phone, right? It’s all gonna be fine.” 

It was the week before your last Thanksgiving in medical school, although you didn’t know that just yet, and Gavin had found out that he had a half brother two days ago. He was five-years-old and they shared a deadbeat father who refused to take custody when the poor kid’s mother finally succumbed to the cancer that had been eating her alive since just after Caelum was born. She had raised him alone. She had died at home and nobody knew until a truancy officer came to investigate why the kid had missed a week of school with no call from home. 

Caelum had lived in his mother’s house, still caring for her corpse, for a week. 

“God, he’s gonna be fucked up.” Gavin rubbed his hands over his face. “Like… traumatized. In what world am I qualified to take care of any child, let alone a traumatized one? I’m a fucking prostitute.” 

“You are not a prostitute.” You laughed. “Anymore, at least. You’re a porn star. Much more respectable.” 

“Oh right,” Gavin rolled his eyes, but it made him laugh, so you considered it a win. 

“Deep breaths.” You ordered. He obeyed, eyes closed, leaning into you. There was a knock at the apartment door. 

Caelum was a… weird child. He was sweet, that much was for certain, but he had about him a distant, subdued quality that made it seem like he was somewhere else entirely. The social worker made quick work of your introductions and bolted for the door like the place was on fire. She had a stack of manilla folders just like Caelum’s tucked under one arm. She didn’t even bother to check on all of the safety measures that the two of you had agonized over since finding out Caelum was coming. She must have done a thousand of these already today, and had a thousand more to go.

“So…” Gavin rocked on his feet, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “What do you want to do, buddy?” Caelum considered this for a long moment, his eyes glazed and distant. 

“Um… I like sweet stuff.” He said, his voice quiet. Gavin’s eyes snapped up to you, panic in his features. You hadn’t thought to go buy any kid-friendly foods. All you had in the fridge was a smattering of leftovers and some of the weird probiotics Damien kept trying to get you two to take. 

“We should go get some!” You smiled, crouching down in front of him. You’d read in some article or another that it put kids at ease when you went down to their level. Caelum didn’t seem to mind either way. “How does that sound?” Caelum nodded dreamily, wringing his little hands together. 

“Great, let’s get our coats.” Gavin snagged both of yours and then turned to Caelum. “Is yours in your bag?” He gestured to the black trash bag Caelum had brought all of his worldly possessions in. You looked down at it, mostly empty, and felt your stomach flip. Where were all of his toys? His clothes? The shoes he’d outgrow in a month’s time? 

“Don’t got one.” He said softly. He didn’t look particularly upset by it, just shrugged his little shoulders in what looked suspiciously like defeat. Gavin stalled, his eyes wide but not surprised. You remembered, all of a sudden, that Gav had spent his fair share of time in the foster system. He had felt all of the things that Caelum was feeling in this moment. 

The only difference was that somebody wanted Caelum. Somebody was coming along to save him before he had to fend for himself. Nobody had done that, been that for Gavin. He was qualified to take care of this kid. He was probably the most qualified person on Earth. 

Gavin ended up wrapping Caelum in one of his coats, fur lined and cropped and considerably less practical when a grown man was wearing it. You rolled the sleeves up around his tiny arms and stuffed his chubby toddler hands into a spare pair of mittens. He looked a bit silly, bundled up in grown-up clothes. 

Your trip for sweets turned into a trip for sweets, clothes, toys, and books. As it turned out, Caelum had brought essentially nothing with him from the foster home that had held him until Gavin’s paperwork could go through. All he had was a spare pair of clothes, a bar of soap, a tooth brush, and one item from his mother’s house; a threadbare, stuffed rabbit with button eyes. It looked so old that it must have been her’s when she was a child. 

Caelum rode in the shopping cart as you walked Target’s aisles. Every item that his glassy eyes lingered on, Gavin snagged without question. By the end of your trip, you’d had to run back to the front of the store for a second cart and the total was four digits, but Gavin didn’t bat an eye. 

It was the week before your last Thanksgiving in medical school, and you finished out your day sitting cross legged on the floor of Caelum’s new bedroom working on a lab report while Gavin stuck glow-in-the-dark stars to his walls and ceiling. After stuffing him full of pizza and ice cream, Caelum had crashed hard. As you managed to coax him into a pair of his new pajamas before he was completely dead to the world, he sleepily asked if you two could stay with him while he slept. 

You indulged him. You thought you’d likely never stop indulging him. 

“We’ve gotta get a turkey.” Gavin said softly, hushed, trying not to wake him. You looked up from your screen, temples pounding. “And figure out how to make… I don’t know… stuffing? Casserole? What do you eat on Thanksgiving?” You considered it for a long moment. Your brain was so fucking scrambled from the fifteen assignments you still had due that you couldn’t conjure up a single Thanksgiving dish in your memory. 

“We’ll ask Damien.” You said, resolutely. “He knows about that kind of stuff.” 

“I’m gonna give him a good Thanksgiving.” Gavin said. He sounded so sure. “Christmas too. I don’t know what I can do for him but… I can do that.” 

You nodded, the weight of it sitting heavy in your stomach. Whatever you two were yesterday, today you were this kid’s first and last line of defense. His world had fallen apart around him over the last few years and now it was up to you two to build a new one. You didn’t know if you were capable, if you were qualified. You thought that you’d likely never know for sure. All you knew was that Caelum was here and that he needed someone. You could be someone for him. You could do that. 

___

Damien found you on the floor of your kitchen, unconscious at the end of finals week in May. He called an ambulance. You were dehydrated and malnourished. Gavin had been telling you for weeks that you needed rest. You had ignored him. 

If nothing else, this was a wonderful opportunity to watch Dahlia Gen’s state-of-the-art equipment and staff work. Dr. Brachium paid you a visit when you stayed overnight for observation.

“This isn’t sustainable for you.” He said, glancing over your chart. It had been a year since you’d last seen him. A baker’s dozen medical journals had included articles about the cadaver that came back to life in his morgue that night. He still remembered your name and theirs. 

“I don’t know how else to do it.” You said softly. You were so tired. You struggled to keep your eyes on him. 

“Then maybe you shouldn’t.” 

That sent a bolt of cold dread down your spine. 

“You’re the one who begged me to stay in the field.” You sneered. You were being hateful. You had nothing else in you to be. 

“You still can.” He cocked his head. “I think you’d make an excellent nurse or paramedic. Honestly, you’d make a great surgeon too. But if you can’t take care of yourself during med school, you won’t survive your residency.” 

“I can handle it.” You said. 

“But how much of you will be left once you’re done?” 

You didn’t have an answer for that question. 

In the early hours of the morning with Damien in the waiting room and Dr. Brachium at your bedside, you mourned your non-existent surgical career. 

“I would have been good though, huh?” You asked through quiet tears. 

“Yes.” Brachium nodded. “You would have been extraordinary.” 

___

It was the week before your first Thanksgiving at the 10-19, and you were on the way out of the door when you heard quiet, panicked voices coming from the ambulance bay.

Gavin and Caelum were at home waiting. You’d already stayed later than you intended to chatting with Asher. It would be easy to exit out of the front door instead of the back, walk around the building, and make a clean getaway to the bus stop down the street. 

Somebody gasped, another voice cursed, just on the edge of shouting. Your body froze right as you were about to retreat. 

That was your problem, you thought. You just couldn’t say ‘no’ when somebody was in need. You found signs of life. You took in kids whose fathers didn’t want them. You investigated sounds of injury and panic when you heard them at the end of a long fucking shift. You thought about Brachium’s question in that lonely room in Dahlia Gen. You’d never get ahold of all of the pieces of yourself. You were too eager to give them away. 

David and Sam were crowded around a gurney in Engine Two like they had been on the night that you’d first met Tanker. As you rounded the corner, you were struck with deja vu. They were laid out again, bruised and battered, and their eyes were distant and hazy. You were reminded of Caelum’s little five-year-old face, slack with shock and trauma. The little medical student that lived in your head started diagnosing as you took it all in. 

Bruising to both cheeks. Abrasions to the knuckles on the right hand. Unfocused eyes- head trauma or shock? Wasn’t that the one-million dollar question? 

It was a fight. Another one. You couldn’t think of another explanation. 

Tanker seemed to get into a lot of those, at least more than you’d consider a normal amount. 

“Hey,” you said softly. Sam and David both jumped, turning to face you with twin expressions of horror. 

The house was so defensive of Tank. If there was any chance they might be made vulnerable, the whole of the old guard of the 10-19 gathered up around them like a suit of armor. Somehow, Sam had become part of that armor, even though he was a newcomer too. It was moments like these that made you feel the most like an outsider. 

“Hey,” Sam replied, his face locking down. He was panicking. You could see it carved across his features. His tremor was worse than usual, and the pen light he had clutched in his hand was clinking against the metal frame of the gurney. David’s face was so red you thought his head would explode. 

“So um… want me to take a look? You two seem a little shaken up.” You said. You dropped your bag outside the ambulance and hiked up inside, pushing past Sam to get a look at Tank. “Hey, buddy.” You said to them. 

“Hey.” They replied. They seemed to be a million miles away. 

“It’s alright, Probie, I got it.” Sam tried to grab your arm, but his shake was bad enough that he couldn’t get a good enough hold. 

“You don’t.” You turned, taking the penlight from his hand. “Look, I get it. You guys can like… stand and watch or whatever. But you’re freaked out. Both of you. You can’t take care of them properly right now, so I will.” 

David cursed. Sam sat heavily on the bench. 

“Is that okay with you, Tank?” You asked, moving your hair out of the way and reaching for some gloves over their head. 

“Yeah.” They replied simply. “Doesn’t um… it doesn’t matter.” 

You bit your lip on the objections that you had building up inside of you. Of course it mattered. Of course you would listen. Of course if they said no, you would respect it. It had taken you long enough to learn that lesson yourself. That most people, people who weren’t fucking assholes, would listen when you said no. 

“Okay.” You nodded. Wounded animal mode it was. You would telegraph your movements, narrate, ask permission as much and as often as you needed to, as you could. “I want to check for a head wound first. We’ll go from there.” 

Over the course of the next twenty minutes or so, you carefully broke down what happened through the bruises on Tank’s body alone. They didn’t have to say anything at all, explain a moment of it. It was there, carved into their skin, laid out simply for you. They hit him, his high cheekbones splitting the skin over their knuckles. He hit them, right over where they’d broken their ribs. It had gone back and forth like that, brutal hit after brutal hit. There was blood dried over their right hand, but you couldn’t tell from where. It must not have been their own. 

“Not bad.” You said softly. “Lots of bruises, but no breaks that I can feel. I don’t think you have a concussion but I want to check again when you’re not in shock and you can describe your symptoms better.” 

They stared up at you. Their dark eyes reminded you of a shark, cold and deadly. 

“Thank you.” David said as you disposed of your gloves and stepped out of the bus, leaving them alone with Sam for a moment. 

“You need to be gentle with them.” You said, surprising yourself. It wasn’t often you gave orders to men like David Shaw, and your heart beat with the anxiety of it. You persisted anyway. He walked you to the back door, quiet, listening. “They’ve gone through something horrible. I don’t know what but…” you huffed, adjusted your jacket and your bag on your shoulder, “It took me weeks to say anything to anyone when my something horrible happened. So don’t push them, and when they tell you, listen.” 

David was quiet for a long moment, his face somewhere between concerned and pissed the fuck off. You liked the cut of it on his handsome features. 

“Okay.” He said, and that was it. 

It was the week before your first Thanksgiving with the 10-19, and you were sitting on the frozen bench at a bus stop, tapping furiously through the group chat and trying to organize a time for Friendsgiving. You’d be home and warm and safe in twenty minutes’ time. You had the strangest feeling that somebody was watching you.