#medical malpractice all over the place!!!

[fruitycasket]

The Basket Case (Gore Fic)

Word Count: 5,034

Synopsis: Marvin does something awful to himself and Sunday is left wondering why.

Note: The gore is the most intense in Flense, but it reappears in the final part so it's not really avoidable here. Also sorry I forgot to put any of the British Terms in there U_U

I have not posted a fanfic on Tumblr in a hot minute, maybe even years. And I had this perfectly good thing lying around so yeah. It is also readable on Ao3 under RottenFruitz.

Flense

Flense (Verb, Transitive Verb)

To strip the blubber or skin (from any animal, but especially a whale).

The lines between pleasure and pain are bleeding, each melding into one another, embracing.

It must be perfect.

There is no sane explanation for what he’s doing to himself. For what he’s already done. He just knows he must do it, that there’s a presence in his head demanding it, pulling his strings while he’s helpless to do anything but follow.

It’s been that way since he was a child. Sometimes the hand on his controls are benevolent and sometimes they aren’t. Sometimes the hands are mortal, gloved or ungloved. Sometimes the hands aren’t hands at all, but they are something else. Sometimes they’re paws, or tendrils of white fur and whatever universes are made of. Sometimes they’re black claws attached to something that looks human enough at a glance, that might have been human once, but is now something at once cheerful and malicious and inhuman.

The first arm is done, the skin from wrist to elbow is separated, leaving a perfect flap of skin lying on the table in a pool of reddish brown.

Marvin has never had an affinity for cooking, has never butchered a thing in his life nor cared to keep his knives sharp. His hand is shaking, but the cuts are all clean and perfectly aligned.

The underside of the skin is beautiful, wet and red, covered in blood and thick with its sweet smell. The muscle under his arm is almost lost in a sea of dark body fluid, and the wood table is beyond saving. With the innards of his forearm exposed to the raw air, the pain is nauseating and welcome and making him blush in ways that he can’t and won’t think too much about right now, and he isn’t sure if it’s himself who feels that or if it's the thing in his head.

One more time, same as the last. The thing tells him to shift the knife from his right hand to the left, and he does.

The knife cuts a circle around his right arm, just below the wrist and a few centimeters above the elbow. The tip goes in at the perfect distance to carve the skin but not the delicious flesh underneath. Next to come is a single line connecting both circles, and after that is to tease the knife under the skin, coax it gently up and out, onto the table. Each piece that comes free makes a soft, wet noise, a tongue over teeth, teeth into raw steak. Easy, easy now, boy…

Did I hear my cat just now?

No, you didn’t hear your cat. Your cat is dead.

Marvin flinches at that. The knife goes too far in, glances across muscle and leaves an oozing line. A shared moment of frustration, then anguish that hurts worse than his arms—but that’s only Marvin’s.

The skin finally comes away and there is only pretty, pretty red, sweet, throbbing pain—

My cat, Higgins, I heard him again just now.

Marvin turns at last, and now he’s certain. There’s his cat, his cat that should be—he isn’t alive. And he’s standing there.

And behind him is an intruder.

No, a friend.

His mouth is dry, his head spins. The puppet master has suddenly let his strings go, its work finished, and now Marvin is falling.

“Sunday?”

The Rule

“Don’t ask him about what happened, alright?” the nurse tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear, “It’s gonna be tempting, but don’t .”

Sunday stops himself from asking, He’ll get upset? Because of course he would.

When Sunday found Marvin—after being led there by a desperately yowling Higgins, who had somehow known where Sunday lived and ran all the way there—he was certain Marvin was dead. He barely moved, didn’t speak, was cold as death.

And the blood… The skin…

Sunday held Marvin’s blood-soaked hand in the ambulance and waited to hear those dreaded words: “I’m sorry, he’s gone.”

But that hadn’t happened.

And now Sunday’s waiting, anxious to see what had become of his friend after he was swept into the belly of the hospital. He’s brought Higgins along, too. The cat sits polite and patient in a handbag he borrowed from his mum, almost like he knows behaving himself will get him closer to his beloved owner. And he might, given the incredible feat of navigation he pulled off to save Marvin’s life. Part of Sunday thinks that if things hadn’t worked out, if someone on Marvin’s floor had a cat allergy or the hospital just didn’t allow pets, no exceptions, Higgins would somehow magically appear in Marvin’s room anyway.

“How is he?” Sunday asks the nurse, running a few fingers between Higgins’ ears. The cat purrs.

“Quiet. He won’t freak out as long as you don’t ask the question , all the other stuff is for the doctors to worry about.”

“The doctors freak him out?”

“He hates it when they mess with his arms. Has to get sedated for check-ups and bandage changes. And now he’s starting to hate when we sedate him.” She grimaces, remembering something unpleasant.

“Oh,” Sunday says. He tries to imagine the lethargic, all-but-dead Marvin he rushed to the hospital suddenly springing to life, furious, fighting like a cornered animal when a doctor attempts to bandage his wounds, and the images don’t mesh at all.

Marvin's room is nestled deep in the ICU, but to get into that area in the first place, they have to pass a white mask. They don't allow Sunday or the nurse in for a little bit, abruptly announcing that they're free to head in a few minutes later. Another white mask is sitting on the other side of the door.

Hm.

“He’s right over here,” the nurse gestures to a room at the end of the long hall. Another white mask is there, keeping silent, perfectly still watch. This vigil is only interrupted when they turn their head a degree to better observe Sunday and the nurse.

Now Sunday is nervous.

If the guard plans to say anything, they don't get a word out. That's when the Twins step out of Marvin’s room.

Sunday is taken aback. They look… naked. They have no robes, no masks, no gloves, just a pair of sweaters, jeans, and a bottle of banana rum. Despite everything else that’s happened, this strikes Sunday as the strangest thing he’s seen in his entire life.

Does that mean they visited Marvin… because they felt bad ?

That feels strange, too. Or it would feel strange, if Sunday believed it. It always seemed like the two have no emotional attachment to anything and never did anything outside of work. Obviously neither of those things are true (he assumes they like each other if nothing else), but when the pair were so seldom seen and so revered, so feared across the Circle, it was hard not to get that impression. And now they were here, using their authority to bring bottles of alcohol into someone’s hospital room.

Then again, if Sunday were in Marvin’s shoes, he’d probably feel more chatty if two humans walked into his room, as opposed to towering white masks.

The Twins lock eyes with him and nod politely. “Sunday,” they say.

“I, uh—Sir. Ma’am,” Sunday nods back as they walk past, and then they’re gone. They know my name? The thought makes his nerves even worse for some reason.

The hall is silent once the Twins depart, leaving only the masked guard staring them down from in front of Marvin’s door.

“Visitors?” they ask.

“Just these two,” the nurse leads Sunday past, but right as she opens the door they put a hand on Sunday’s shoulder.

“Wait.”

Sunday flinches. “What?”

The white mask shifts down to Higgins, and Sunday is afraid the cat will have to stay outside after all, but instead…

“Who’s a good kitty?” the mask pets Higgins between the ears with a white-gloved hand, which he greatly appreciates and purrs loudly in response to. It looks ridiculous, but Sunday actually appreciates that a little. “Alright, alright, you’re free to go.”

At last, Sunday enters the room. The nurse shuts the door carefully behind them and fiddles with the handle as he finally lays eyes on Marvin.

He looks… small.

Not that he was ever big before. He was always scrawny, but now? Huddled in the corner of his bed, covered neck to toe in blankets, and steeping in whatever delirious thoughts drove him to mutilate himself, he’s the size of a flea. Someone’s bathed him, at least. His hair is no longer caked in blood, his skin looks soft and clean. But there are also huge bags under his eyes, and the eyes themselves are glazed over. He seems to take more notice of the door as it opens than Sunday or the nurse when he finally thinks to turn his head.

There’s a bruise on Marvin’s neck that Sunday immediately hones in on. The alcohol on his breath is strong enough to smell from the doorway—did they give him the entire bottle?

As Marvin sits up, the blanket covering him slips down and bunches around his waist, revealing gloves unlike anything Sunday’s ever seen covering his arms. Over the bandages are gloves that go up to his shoulders, strapped in place with regular looking belts fastened a smidge too tight. Each glove is thick and leathery, like the kind falconers wear. He's not really sure how hospitals are supposed to handle “degloving” beyond some basic things he googled while he couldn’t sleep, but this doesn't seem right. Sunday looks askance at the nurse, who chews her nails.

“Don’t know. Don’t ask,” she whispers, then makes an exaggerated, conspiratorial glance towards the guard outside the door.

“Right. Okay.” Higgins becomes restless in his bag, so Sunday gingerly sets him down on the bed. Immediately, the little cat hops out and plants himself on Marvin’s lap. “Hey, I…” Sunday says. He thinks of a lot of things to say:

How are you doing? I’ve been taking care of your house for you.

How has the hospital food been?

Why would you do this to yourself?

But none of those sound good, and one of those is forbidden, so he settles on, “I, uh, brought you a friend.”

Marvin seems afraid at first. He stiffens, and in turn, the nurse becomes anxious, too. He mutters something, something that might be, “I’m sorry,” and Higgins purrs, rubs his forehead against one of Marvin’s gloved hands. Whatever he’s sorry about, it’s water under the bridge now. The tension in the room is swept away as Marvin lethargically scoops Higgins up to bury his face in grey fur. Sunday knows it still smells a little like the blood that was splattered over the floor of Marvin's apartment (Higgins wouldn’t and couldn’t be forced into a bath), but it doesn’t appear to stir any negative memories.

“He probably won’t talk much,” the nurse says, “Maybe he’ll talk to you now that he's so… Yeah, I don’t know. Try saying something again.”

Sunday watches Marvin for a moment, trying again to think of what to say. “Did they give you that whole bottle?” he asks.

“Mm,” Marvin mumbles, “Probably.” He doesn't just sound drunk, he sounds exhausted . He may very well be using all his energy just to cradle Higgins, Sunday thinks, and then wonders if his silence is just his brain being too deprived of energy to form words.

“Have you been eating? Drinking?” Sunday asks.

Marvin says… something. Whatever sentence his brain strung together is mangled in translation by what might be an entire bottle of rum and general fatigue. Sunday thinks the words are along the lines of “yes,” but he glances back at the nurse to be sure.

“He eats a little here and there,” she gives an exasperated shrug, “Not much, if you couldn't already tell.”

Sunday figures Marvin has been lectured by his caretakers more than enough and lets that go. “Has anyone else come to see you yet? I’m sorry I was late, I had… stuff to do.”

“Stuff” in this case was going through Marvin’s house after a bunch of white masks and detectives combed through it. Once all the necessary evidence was photographed or sealed in bags, it had been cleaned out and left steeped in the smell of cleaning products. The kitchen and dining room, where the carnage was concentrated, were pristine at a glance (and still are). The only sign of grim happenings is the table, which still bears faint blood stains. They're admittedly hard to see if you don't know where to look, but Sunday could go back right now and tell you exactly where the discarded skin had been placed. The memory is seared into his brain and the underside of his eyelids. Some of the kitchen knives are gone from their holder, too, stuck in an evidence locker somewhere.

“Stuff” also includes finding Higgins, who ended up in his house again (somehow), and trying (and failing) to clean him up. He’d managed to clean the blood off his paws and that was all.

“Stuff” also includes an hour steeling himself for this visit.

“Thas' fine,” Marvin says. He sets Higgins down in his lap, reaches for Sunday's hand and grabs it. “Never been so tired before. Thanks for…” he trails off too quietly for Sunday to hear more.

“Think nothing of it, alright?” Sunday says. He takes the opportunity to look closer at the bruise he saw on Marvin's neck.

There are a few more fresh bruises on his shoulders, and it leaves Sunday to wonder…

He runs a finger along what little bare parts of Marvin’s arm remain, then hooks it under a looser part of the glove with some difficulty to peer underneath the leather, to confirm what he’s seeing. The nurse’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t speak. It’s like she’s expecting there to be no time for warnings. She’s expecting for something bad to happen before she can even get a word out, but Marvin is unbothered.

The nurse lets out a breath after a tense few moments pass. “ Don’t do that,” she says.

Sunday puts the glove back the way it was.

There are bruises littering Marvin’s arms, and while he can’t be certain how they were made, his mind can’t help but wander to grim places. However they got there, he is certain Marvin wasn’t bruised the night before. He would have noticed.

Am I being paranoid? Bruises can take a while to appear, can’t they?

Are there more? Where? Why?

“Do you know if those redheads did anything else while they were here?” Sunday asks.

“Um. I don’t know what they were doing in here exactly , obviously, but I think it was some investigative stuff. Whatever it was, he didn’t seem to like it,” the nurse whispers conspiratorially, “You know, my friend said she could hear him from”—

And then she stops, seems to realize she’s not talking to one of her coworkers but to one of Marvin’s friends. She swallows. “H-He didn’t seem to like it, and that’s why we weren’t let in until they were done,” she mutters. Then, after an awkward moment of hesitation she adds, “The doctors really didn't want them to. None of us did, but… they're them . So, yeah. I don't think it made anything worse, though. He'll heal just fine.”

Sunday squeezes Marvin’s hand. His grip is too tight, he knows, but Marvin doesn’t complain. More than anything, he’s amused, and says something with words too slurred to be intelligible.

The Twins were there to work, at least in part. It tracks that they would, that their methods would be ugly and he’s still upset. Upset and wondering why they got Marvin so drunk if they were there for work. To make him more compliant? To keep him quiet?

Sunday spends the rest of his visit holding Marvin’s hand, making small talk while Marvin does his best to reply through the drunken, traumatized sludge that must compromise his brain, and biting his tongue when the question tries to surface.

Made To Be Broken

Sunday doesn’t respond to the call until the third or fourth one. That’s the one that manages to wake him up. It’s the hospital, the voice whispering to him is the nurse who led him to Marvin’s room yesterday.

“Hey, I’m not technically supposed to be doing this but… something’s happened. Your friend is… is in a bad way.”

Sunday wakes up in an instant. Higgins, now a semi-permanent resident of his house, is nearly thrown to the floor from his comfortable spot on Sunday’s chest. “How bad?”

“Do you remember how I said he didn’t like having his arms touched?”

In the background, the sound of something heavy landing against a wall or floor crackles through the phone speakers. The nurse swears under her breath, drops her voice to an even lower whisper. “I know this is out of line, I’m not supposed to be doing it, but I thought since he likes you, maybe”—

Another crash cuts her off. “So?” she asks. She doesn't need to elaborate, Sunday can guess what's gone wrong and what she wants him to do.

“Okay, okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

When Sunday gets to the hospital, he’s initially not even allowed through the front doors. There are white masks and police around the building’s perimeter, trying to explain to anxious crowds that everything is (probably) fine in the vaguest terms possible. A few of the masks recognize him as he approaches, though, and pull him aside to give him a more detailed explanation.

“Sit this one out,” one mask insists, “Your friend’s gone off the deep end, chased off all his doctors and barricaded himself in his room.”

“That’s exactly why I should get involved. Who do you think he’ll respond better to, one of you, or me?” Sunday argues.

“Your judgement is clouded. How do you know he won’t respond just as badly to you as he does to us?”

Sunday pauses. He realizes he doesn’t really know this will work for sure, he’s going off a hunch that he and a random nurse both had. But his plan has got to be better than whatever the current one is, if the phone call was any indication. “Just let me try. Please. ”

It's easy to forget that under the white masks there are people, as much as the Magic Circle would prefer them to be a frightening monolith. Something about Sunday's plea makes the masks surrounding him reconsider.

“Fine,” one says, “but it's your problem if they don’t want you there.”

They let him go and he runs through the hospital doors, toward the ICU. The nurse scrambles to accompany him and assure the various roadblocks inside that he's allowed to be there. She can't follow him too deep before she's held turned away by a small crowd of authorities, though. Sunday slips through them, promising her he'll figure something out as he disappears towards Marvin's room.

There, a few white masks are huddled, deep in discussion. Their robes bear various burns and rips. Some are tiny and some are grievous enough to expose skin. There's no blood, though, it’s either been healed up already, or the attacks were superficial, meant to frighten. Sunday isn't sure how to introduce himself, so he inches closer in hopes one of them will notice and do that for him.

“He'll kill someone at this rate,” someone muttered, “We may just need to wait him out. Everyone sleeps sometime.”

“You want us to keep the entire place on lockdown all night? Longer than that, even?” Sunday recognizes that voice. It’s one of the Twins’.

“We could have him shot with a tranq gun, if you're so impatient”—

“I can go in,” Sunday blurts out.

The Twins whip around to face him. If they’re surprised he's there, they don't show it. “Sunday,” they both say coolly. Their stares, though hidden by their masks, are as paralyzing as ever. It takes Sunday a moment to realize they’re waiting for an explanation.

“You two aren’t—I mean, I’m his friend. I won’t scare him as much.”

Now the impassive white masks step closer, regard him with scrutinizing stares. They come close enough that the glint of their pupils is visible through the tar black holes. The silent inspection goes on for far too long, stretches on across lifetimes. Being vivisected would feel less invasive.

At last, they look away, withdraw into each other to have a hushed discussion. When they break apart, one of the Twins asks, “You understand that he may just kill you if you enter?”

Sunday opens his mouth to say, He won’t , then reconsiders. “I understand,” he whispers.

The other gestures towards the door. “Then go.”

Sunday is given a wide berth as he opened the door and creeps inside.

The room has been torn to shreds. Medical equipment is overturned, drained of all power and cast aside if not cracked, dented, or bent. Scorch marks and specks of blood litter the walls and floor alongside the tatters of a hospital bed, pillows, and blanket. The ruined efforts of attempts to restrain him are scattered around, too. The remains of needles and sedative fluid on the floor aren't too shocking, but everything else is. Marvin, the beanpole that he is, snapped solid leather, cracked through metal handcuffs. 

The hairs on Sunday's neck stand on end.

It should be comical that Marvin as he is, tired, gravely wounded, and huddled into a tiny ball at the corner of the room, did all this . But right now Sunday is just scared. And, selfishly, he's more scared of what Marvin might do to him than of what will happen to Marvin.

The gloves are off, and with them went the bandages. Saturated with blood, they litter the floor in shreds, too similar to the neat rectangles of skin for Sunday to look at them long. There's something stranger to focus on anyway.

All along the raw arm muscle are new tattoos .

Sunday can't tell if the material is discolored flesh, metallic ink, or something else entirely. It shimmers in the fluorescent light like blood and seems to waver and move whenever he blinks. Every line is organic, struggling to be straight at best, if not outright curling and coiling around the contours of the arm it wriggles on. There is something unsettling about them beyond the obvious, some deeper implication Sunday can't place and has little proof of existing, but knows is there anyway.

“Marv?”

Marvin peers up at him from behind his arms but won't look him in the eyes. The raw, skinless parts are resting on his knees, leaking blood onto his hospital gown. It can't be comfortable. He doesn't speak, so Sunday tries to get a reply again without moving. “I got a call from the nurse. She said you needed some help.”

No response.

“Look, I can't imagine what's going on with you right now but, but you've got to let them look at your arms. It'll get infected otherwise.” He's sure it's not anything Marvin hasn't heard before, but maybe hearing it from the right person will make him calm down.

Marvin doesn't respond and keeps half-looking at Sunday, so Sunday tests his luck. He takes a single step forward.

“Don't,” Marvin tells him. The tone of voice isn't angry. It's harsh and rough from overuse, but it wavers, made unsteady by fear.

“Why? Did they do something to you?” Sunday isn't sure if he means the doctors, the Twins, or both, “Because I won't.”

“I can't control myself.”

“So, it's an impulse…?” Sunday takes another step closer and Marvin tenses. Sunday thinks he might understand what's going on. Maybe it's his brain's way of protecting him, trying to shield his arms and the rest of his body from further harm, however nonsensical it may be. If that's the case, he is pretty sure he's way out of his depth here, but someone has to make room for the doctors, right?

He tries to say as much. “Okay, but someone's got to get close to you sometime. If you let a doctor give you medicine then you won't have to worry about hurting anyone.”

Marvin opens his mouth, closes it, then outright looks away. “I know.”

Sunday risks a few more steps forward. His foot hits some crinkling piece of debris and it startles Marvin into looking at Sunday properly for the first time. They lock eyes.

Sunday feels like he can’t even blink.

This isn’t his friend.

It’s his body, but the inside of him is hollow, and Sunday is being sucked inside. And there are things in that hollow space. Things that have chewed Marvin’s organs and muscles and invaded his mind, things that he’s certain used to be white cats that are now webs of stardust, teeth, and fur. Smaller in presence are things that are black with infinite green eyes, cackling, snarling, and oozing blood. The thousand eyes are pushed to the corners by that impenetrable web of fur, and in their claws pieces of perfectly cut, tattooed skin dangle, raining blood onto Sunday’s face.

The inside of Marvin is bigger than the outside. It’s carved out beyond what should be possible until it’s a universe in and of itself, and his mind still exists but it's tiny and stretched thin. There are pieces of it here, pieces of it there, all drowning under the weight of things bigger, stronger than it.

And Sunday is Marvin, and Marvin is himself and whatever those things are.

Above him hangs a cat mask, watching, pulling him deeper into the labyrinth through its eyes.

He is trying to convince himself it’s just like falling asleep, but it’s not . He’s dying, and the Twins are holding him down, ripping through the tatters of his head in search of something. What they want he doesn’t know, but they’re killing him to get it. One time, two times, three, five, four, twenty. He screams, begs, No more, it hurts, I can’t breathe, and they put a bottle of sweet rum to his lips and tell him to drink, We want this to be easier for you. Just hold still. The entire hall will be able to hear that racket. Soon everything is fuzzy and difficult to recall, soon it is just like falling asleep, and there is a thumb stroking his cheek, tucking hair behind his ear.

He dies again, and when he reawakes, he is pressing the knife to his forearm, a centimeter above where his tattoos start. And before that he is crying, pleading with himself-who-is-also-the-thousand-eyed-thing No, no please, anything but that. Anything.

And before that there is the white cat, but it isn’t white and it isn’t giant, it’s a tiny thing, grey and white with green eyes. The little cat is digging its claws into his legs hard enough to draw blood, and his vision goes red. His sight is that of something with a thousand eyes, a perfect image of every angle of this grey and white cat all at once, but it is also the sight of two green eyes looking up at himself. A violent presence clouds his being. He draws his leg back, kicks hard, and there’s a terrible, unearthly yowl—

He’s younger, stupider. He’s small and playing with things he doesn’t understand, stuffing the organs back into eviscerated songbirds. He forces life back into the bodies and they awake, green-eyed, singing violent songs until an old man sharply wrenches him away from his work. The birds are bundled up in an opaque bag and he has no idea what happens to them after that. You don't tell anyone else about what you did here, not even them .

He can’t be older than ten, maybe twelve? And there is a white cat, and he is looking into his own eyes twice. Its huge claw presses into his forehead, slices skin and cracks bone—

Sunday is brought back to his own body with a ringing, burning pain.

He brings a hand to his cheek as the ruined hospital room returns. The smell of fried cloth and scorched linoleum, the splatters of blood, the shards of glass under his knees.

Wait, what?

Sunday looks down at the pinpricks of blood welling up under his pants, then ahead. Without his noticing, he crossed the room and knelt in front of Marvin. Did everyone outside see what he did? He hopes not, because he doesn't feel like trying to explain it, and especially doesn't want to come up with a lie on the spot. “Did you just…?” he asks.

“You were about to get lost,” Marvin whispers, and he makes it a point not to look Sunday in the eye.

I did something bad to my cat, Sunday recalls. It was the first and only thing Marvin would say as he lay against Sunday's shoulder, arms wrapped in rapidly red-soaked towels. The impossible memory of the thousand angles of Higgins is sickeningly fresh in his mind.

And yet, Higgins is still there, alive , almost completely unmarred.

And he is also, somehow, a giant white cat with galaxies for eyes. And that cat isn't even a cat, it's something larger. It's feline, every kind in existence, and also none, and something to do with… spiders and stars?

Sunday’s mouth is wet, his stomach churns. The idea that he could be lost in another person’s head is mind-boggling. He has no idea how that would work—what would happen to his physical body while his mind was absorbed—and he doesn’t plan on finding out. He focuses on the shiny, wet muscle and its intricate, possibly divine tattoos. It doesn’t help his nausea, but it’s less immediately dangerous.

He squeezes Marvin’s hands and asks, “What happened to you?”

“It’s a long story.” Marvin reaches for his cat necklace and squeezes it so hard Sunday’s afraid it’ll draw blood.

Sunday feels like it's staring at him through the skin and bone.

[an-unrecognizable-face]

One thing I’ve noticed is that the only way House can get his feelings out is through projecting them onto other people, most commonly his patients. He can’t open up to anyone about all the shit he goes through everyday, so he resorts to bluntly telling everyone about the shit he thinks others go through. From what I’ve noticed, the more he sees himself in a patient, the more likely he is to tell them and his colleagues exactly how horrible they have it (they’re dying from an incurable disease, they’ll never be able to walk again, etc etc). It’s not like he does this intentionally, though, it just happens. His self-loathing, pain, depression, loneliness, addiction, and insecurity manifest themselves as hatred for others and for the world. Someone or something must be held accountable for his suffering, everything as a logical reason behind it and this is no exception. When he can’t find a force to blame, he becomes angry and resentful, taking it out on the whole world.

The bottom line is that he can’t accept the fact that he needs help, so he insists that everyone he knows has an issue he can figure out and solve. There’s always something more to be found, a new symptom to treat, another test to be done, something he could dig into further, one last pin to push so the lock will click open. Deep down, he hopes that discovering his friends’ issues or solving another patient case will reveal the key to his own problems. When this doesn’t work, he continues to grow more and more resentful, further perpetuating this cycle of hatred.

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk.

[oddlittlestories]

Just rewatched 1x22 (the honeymoon, the episode with Stacy’s husband)

And pretty much my one reaction the whole time is oh my fucking god

Also s1 Foreman is such a sweetie I love his bedside manner

[pucksandpower]

Malpractice

Franco Colapinto x physician!Reader

Summary: when you agreed to join your cousin Lily at the Las Vegas Grand Prix to watch her boyfriend race, you didn’t realize the weekend would end with you saving a rookie driver with a concussion from the dangerous schemes of his team

The Williams Racing garage is chaos incarnate. The crash replay loops on the screens above the engineers’ heads, showing Franco’s car slamming into the barriers. The sound of carbon fiber shattering is so vivid in your mind it might as well have happened right next to you.

The footage is brutal.

50G.

The kind of impact that makes your stomach twist into knots. Franco couldn’t even get out of the car by himself, the marshals had to haul him out like a ragdoll. And now, the garage feels like it’s on edge, everyone pretending they’re not watching for updates while they pretend to keep working.

“He’s at the medical center,” someone mutters behind you. “They’re checking him out now.”

Good. He needs checking out. A crash like that doesn’t leave you unscathed, no matter how tough you think you are.

You stand off to the side, arms crossed tightly over your chest, watching as engineers, mechanics, and media relations people swirl around each other, avoiding eye contact but buzzing with nervous energy. Lily had invited you here as Alex’s guest, but you feel completely out of place, like you’re intruding on a family argument you weren’t supposed to overhear.

Then you hear it.

“He’ll be fine to race tomorrow,” James Vowles says, his voice low but carrying just enough weight to reach your ears.

You blink, sure you’ve misheard. But no, he’s standing near a huddle of engineers, speaking in clipped tones like this is just another logistical problem to solve. “We can’t find a replacement on such short notice,” he continues, “so we need him in the car. No excuses.”

Your jaw drops. You can’t help it. “You’re joking,” you blurt out.

James and the engineers freeze, turning to you like you’re some alien creature who’s wandered into their secret lair.

He recovers quickly, offering a tight smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met-”

“Are you serious right now?” You step closer, fueled by disbelief. “He crashed into the wall at 50G. He couldn’t even stand up without help. And you think it’s a good idea to put him back in the car tomorrow?”

James’ expression hardens. “Miss, this isn’t your concern-”

“Actually, it’s Doctor. And it is my concern if you’re planning to endanger someone’s life for a race.” Your voice rises, but you don’t care. Let them stare. Let them glare. You’re not about to stand by while they make decisions like this.

“Look,” James says, trying for diplomacy. “The FIA medical team will clear him if he’s fit to race. That’s their job, not yours.”

“And what if they’re wrong?” You demand. “What if he has a concussion? What if he gets in that car and something happens because you couldn’t be bothered to prioritize his safety?”

Before James can reply, the garage door creaks open, and Franco stumbles in.

All eyes snap to him. He’s leaning heavily on his physiotherapist, his helmet dangling from his other hand. His usually sharp, confident features are slack, his eyes glassy. He looks like he’s barely holding it together.

Your chest tightens. He shouldn’t even be standing right now, let alone back here in the thick of it.

The physiotherapist helps him over to a chair, and Franco slumps into it with a groan. “I’m fine,” he says, though his words slur slightly. “Just a little — what’s the word? Shaken up.”

You don’t even think. You march over to him, the rest of the garage fading into the background.

“Franco,” you say firmly, crouching in front of him. “Look at me.”

His unfocused eyes wander to your face, and he frowns like he’s trying to remember where he’s seen you before. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I’m about to save your life, so let’s call it even,” you say briskly. “How many fingers am I holding up?” You hold up three.

He squints at your hand. “Uh … six?”

Your heart sinks. “Okay. Follow my finger.” You move your hand slowly in front of his face, but his gaze wobbles, unable to track it.

“Wow,” he mutters, blinking rapidly. “You’re really pretty.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from reacting. “Franco, focus. Do you feel nauseous? Dizzy?”

“Both,” he admits, leaning back in the chair. “But it’s fine. I’ve felt worse.”

“It’s not fine.” Your voice is sharper than you intend, but you can’t help it. “You have a concussion. Probably a severe one. You need to rest and recover, not get back in the cockpit tomorrow.”

He grins lazily, his head lolling to the side. “Are you my MILF angel?”

Your brain short-circuits. “What?”

He waves a hand vaguely in your direction. “You’re older, right? Like … a doctor? And hot? Definitely an angel. My MILF angel.”

Someone behind you chokes on a laugh. You whip your head around to glare, silencing them instantly.

Turning back to Franco, you take a deep breath. “Okay, you’re clearly not in your right mind, so I’m going to ignore that. But you need medical attention. Real medical attention. Not whatever half-assed clearance the FIA is going to give you.”

He reaches out clumsily, his hand brushing against your arm. “You’re bossy. I like that. Are you the same way in bed?”

You grab his wrist gently but firmly, lowering it back to his lap. “Franco, listen to me. I’m serious. You can’t race tomorrow. You could get seriously hurt. Do you understand that?”

He stares at you for a long moment, his expression oddly thoughtful. Then he smiles faintly. “You’re really worried about me, huh?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “Because someone has to be.”

For a second, something shifts in his eyes, like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time. But then he blinks, and the moment is gone.

“You’re nice,” he murmurs, slumping further into the chair. “I like you.”

You sigh, glancing over your shoulder at the Williams team members still hovering nearby. “He needs to go back to the medical center. Now.”

James steps forward, his face a mask of polite concern. “I appreciate your input, but we’ll handle it from here.”

You stand, squaring your shoulders. “No, you won’t. Because if you try to put him in that car tomorrow, I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly what you’re doing. And trust me, the media will eat it up.”

James’ jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods to the physiotherapist. “Take him back.”

As the man helps Franco to his feet, he glances back at you, his lopsided smile still in place. “Don’t go anywhere, pretty doctor. I’m gonna marry you.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, fighting the urge to scream. “You’re definitely not racing tomorrow,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else.

But as you watch him stumble out of the garage, you can’t shake the feeling that this fight isn’t over yet.

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - dub/con, afab!reader, cockwarming, medical malpractice, nonconsensual drug use, manipulation, unbalanced power dynamics, and obsessive behavior.

[commissioned piece. donate to palestinians in gaza here.]

“It really is a shame to lose such a lovely patient.

His hand drifted from your thigh to your hip, rocking you back as you tried to squirm away from him. He was too deep, too big, and you’d been sitting on his cock for too long. Whenever you tried to shift your weight, though, the arm wrapped around your waist would tighten its hold and drag you back into place, leaving your ass slotted against his hips and your cunt struggling to clench around his base. You didn’t know how long he’d kept you like this, but it must’ve been longer than an hour, if not two, three, four. Despite your foggy senses, you could feel slick dripping down your thighs, an empty void in the pit of your stomach where pleasure should’ve been. You could remember hearing that Harper was a good doctor, but that couldn’t be right. Doctors weren’t supposed to make you feel so bad.

“I mean, I know it should be a doctor’s goal to see their patients off as happy and as healthy as can be, but—” He paused, sighed, and you could picture him rolling his eyes, feigning wistfulness as he let out an airy chuckle. “Good, obedient patients can be so rare, especially in a town like this. I’m allowed to mourn the loss of my best charge yet, aren’t I?”

You felt him twitch inside of you, and in search of a distraction, your gaze fell to the collection of papers fanned out over the desk in front of you. You knew you were supposed to be reading them, but the text seemed so impossibly small, and your last round of medication was still clouding your senses, making it hard to focus on much of anything beyond the throbbing in your core, the feeling of his cock stretching you open despite your body’s best attempts to force him out. You could recognize the phrases, signal out words like ‘unfit’ and ‘dependent’ mixed in with the rest of the benign text, but when you tried to put it all together, none of it made sense. It was all you could do to check the boxes Harper pointed to, sign your name on any dotted lines that hadn’t already been filled by his. You could only hope that, when you finished, he’d let you stand up, get off of him, go back to your cozy room with its nice, soft padded walls. You couldn’t imagine having to sleep in his office, again.

“And you’ve been so cooperative, too,” he went on, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. You felt his lips against the shell of your ear, then your cheek. “Always taking your medication, always following your treatment plans, always coming to our little sessions with an open-mind – the pinnacle of an ideal patient. Honestly, sometimes I think I could tell you to stick your hand in a vat of boiling water, and you’d do it with a smile on your face. All for the sake of your recovery, of course.”

It was him moving, this time – shifting forward until your stomach was pressed against the blunt edge of his desk and he was all-but draped over you, his body pressed flush against yours. You let out a pitchy whine by way of protest, but Harper didn’t seem to notice, only humming as his hand found yours. “Almost done, little mouse. Just one more page.” He was practically cooing as he took you by the wrist, guiding your hand to the bottom of the final page. Two thick, cutting lines occupied most of the available space, his neat signature taking up the first. He brought you to the second, almost daunting in its vacancy, his index finger tapping against the back of your hand. “You remember your name, right? Can you write it for me?”

It was so hard to think, to stay awake, to try and remember a time where he hadn’t been planted so deeply inside of you. “If…” you started, only to trail off. You blinked once, then twice, and did your best to force your tongue to move. “If I do, can I go home?”

Usually, Harper hated it when you talked about the orphanage, about school, about home. You hadn’t meant to, you just wanted to go back to your room, and you moved to correct yourself, to promise that you didn’t want to be anywhere but this hospital, his hospital before he frowned and prescribed you another electrotherapy session, another dose of the small, white pills that left your thoughts blurred and your body hot. But, anything you might’ve been able to spit out died with a breathy laugh, a peck to the corner of your jaw. “Of course,” he purred, rocking his hips gently against yours. “Sign, and I’ll take you home tonight.”

For the first time in weeks, you felt yourself start to smile. Hastily, smudging the ink more than once, you scrawled your name across the brutal line, dropping the pen and going slack against Harper as soon as you were finished. There was another open-mouthed kiss to your throat, then the dip of your shoulder, and he dragged you back onto his lap with a playful squeeze to your thigh, a grin pressed into the crook of your neck. You squirmed unabashedly, now, your hands  graspingly weakly at the arms of his chair in hopes of pulling yourself to your feet, but Harper held you tight. “Where do you think you’re going, little mouse?”

“I need to— You said I could go—”

“Just give me another minute, darling.”

His cock pulsed against the walls of your cunt, and you felt something break open inside of you.

“I want to appreciate this moment before we get you to proper, brand-new home.”

[hayatoseyepatch]

𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓:Zayne could not contain the possessive need to keep you all to himself, to not let anyone see the most private parts of your being. So if he had to convince you to let him perform your routine gynecological exam, then so be it. 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗:Zayne (Love & Deepspace) 𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝕮𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙:1.2k 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘:Fem!ReaderxZayne. ⚠️NSFW Dark Content⚠️.

𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖂𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘:Pussy inspection, yandere themes, fingering, depraved thoughts, possessive behavior, praise, degradation, dubcon, medical malpractice, sexual coercion, power dynamics (kinda?), doctor/patient play.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗’𝖘 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊: It's time to get this shit started!! (•̀ᴗ•́)و Welcome to the first official post of my kinktober. We're starting off strong of course with a character I've never written before, oops. So I do apologize if Zayne is a wee bit ooc. That being said, I hope you enjoy and I'll see you in the next one! ૮꒰ྀི∩´ᵕ`∩꒱ྀིა See full kinktober master list here.

 Zayne typically didn’t perform this kind of examination, he was a surgeon not a gynecologist. However, the mere idea of anyone, even another medical professional, having access to your most intimate places was enough to make his skin crawl. This profound possessive energy he felt when it came to you was not something he was familiar with but he couldn’t contain himself. So here you sat, legs in stirrups, knees locked together as much as possible, shy for Zayne to see your most intimate areas. He had to swallow a chuckle, the stirrups making it impossible for you to try and hide yourself from him. He eyed you as he slid the latex onto his digits, sitting on the chair in front of you and rolling until he was positioned between your legs. He hummed lightly, a cold hand sliding up the warmth of your thighs, parting what you could close of your legs to expose yourself to him.

“Relax, it’s just a routine exam, it’ll be over before you know it.” His voice was calming the low baritone soothing but holding a sternness that had you complying under his touch. Zayne was grateful he was sat at a lower level, your eyes also being transfixed on the ceiling, because if you spared a glance you might have caught the way he needed to adjust himself in his slacks. The sight of your glistening pussy was enough to have his cock stirring. He cleared his throat, focusing at the task at hand. “I’ll be inserting my fingers, they may be a bit cold due to the lubricant.” He tried to keep his tone professional and tried to keep the desperation from his tone.

He felt like an animal being held back on a tight leash. The urge to thrust his fingers in your tight heat, to lean forward just a bit and finally get a taste of you. The number of times he craved to be in a similar position, the countless nights he had fisted his cock as the thought of feeling you around him was mortifying. As his first digit slipped past your entrance he swallowed a groan. Your walls welcomed him fully, practically sucking in his digit with your tightness. He wasn’t sure if it was his own desire speaking or if you were wet enough without the lubricant for his fingers to ease inside of you. He catches it, the sharp inhale. he deludes himself into thinking that it's in response to the stretch that his fingers provide and not the temperature of his digits. He slides in a second digit, your walls hugging his fingers tightly. “I need you to relax, you think you could do that for me?” His voice is gentle, your tightness indicative of being tense.

“But I am relaxed, Dr. Zayne.” The words fall from your lips without hesitation, being sincere in their delivery. Zayne blinked to himself, you couldn’t possibly be his tight. He chanced his words hopeful tone forced to be swallowed. “So are you always this tight? Would you say you are active in your sex life?” He watches between your knees as your face flushes, sparing a glance between you legs had been a mistake. Seeing him looking up at you between your thighs, while his fingers were knuckle deep inside you, caused an involuntary clench of your cunt. Sucking his fingers in deeper as if begging for more. “Well, I..” Your voice trails off, embarrassed to say your last partner had been quite some time ago, since you had rekindled with Zayne, if you were honest.

Zayne it seems senses your words you were grateful you didn’t have to continue. However, that gratefulness is replaced with mortification at his following words. “With how, well, responsive you’re being I’d say it was quite some time since you have taken a partner. That kind of sexual deprivation could cause a build-up of frustration and tension, its not good for your evol.” Zayne offered a pensive sigh, trying to make it as believable as possible that this was in your best interest for your health. “The best course of action would be a stimulated orgasm, to release some of that tension.”

The way Zayne spoke, so certain and absolute, had you believing that this was the only course of action to assist with your issue. And you’d be lying if you hadn’t imagined this exact scenario while at home with your own fingers buried in your depths. “Whatever you think is best, you are the doctor afterall.” Your voice quivered albeit nervous as his fingers began to move, hoping this meant more than just a routine exam to him. Though you must admit, you’ve never heard of this type of treatment ever taking place. Even Zayne himself was doubtful you would fall for his ruse, but he also was hopeful you’re agreeance was because it was him. He knew he was right to think no one else should this exam, not when you were so easily goaded into following his instructions. “Yes, just like that, you're doing so well for me.”

His fingers set a steady pace from the beginning, pumping in and out of your walls easily and without resistance. He took the thumb on his free hand, his tongue swiping across the latex covered digit to act as lubricant, not that it was truly needed, before using it to rub tight circles on your clit. He relished in the sounds that slipped from your lips, the cry of “Dr. Zayne” reaching his ears and making his cock throb against the confines of his scrubs. Unable to qualm his desire any longer he groaned. “My apologies, snowflake, this is going to be very unprofessional of me.” His voice came out husky, dripping with need as he leaned forward, replacing his thumb with his tongue.

He tries and fails to swallow the groan as he finally takes you against his tastebuds after yearning for longer than he is proud to admit. His wet muscle moves in time with his fingertips as they work in tandem to bring you to release. He takes his now free hand, applying pressure to the patch of skin below your belly button. The added weight of his hand makes it feel as if his fingers are pressing impossibly deep, your head being thrown back, making the parchment covering the seat crinkle, alerting yourself just as to where you both were. Even if you wanted to protest or express concern that anyone could walk in, your voice dies in your throat cut off by a moan as the pads of his fingers find that oh so delicate spongey patch within your depths.

Your receptiveness to his touch has him abusing that spot, picking up the speed at with he lapped at your clit until your hips bucked against his face riding out the waves of your orgasm as much as the stirrups would allow. He allows you a moment of reprieve, watching as you res against the seat, chest rising and falling to catch your breath after the intense orgasm. “Now, we’ll continue with the examination whenever you’re ready.” He speaks, wiping your juices from his chin, as if he hadn’t just eaten your cunt. “Though I will recommend you come visit me again to release some of that built up tension, cant have one of our best hunters out of commission now could we?” if you hadn’t know any better you would have sworn there was a curl to his lips and a wink thrown in your direction. But, hey, who were you to disobey the doctor's orders?

𝕯𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖇𝖞 @/𝖈𝖆𝖋𝖊𝖐𝖎𝖙𝖘𝖚𝖓𝖊 & @/𝖘𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖉𝖎𝖐𝖆-𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖕𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖘. 𝕾𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖑 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖐𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖒𝖞 𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖑 𝖜𝖎𝖋𝖊 @eevees-hobbies 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖆 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖕𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖔𝖓𝖊, 𝕴 𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖇𝖇! ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @pixelcafe-network @interstellar-inn @littleplantfreak @maruflix @umemiaa @143-ilyuu @uzxotic @serendipitous-fernweh @princesstiti14 (𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖊 𝖋𝖊𝖊𝖑 𝖋𝖗𝖊𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙/𝖉𝖒/𝖆𝖘𝖐 𝖎𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖆𝖉𝖉𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖔𝖗 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖔𝖋 𝖒𝖞 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖎𝖈𝖘) (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ

[plutoswritingplanet]

Hand That Feeds (Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Female!Reader)

a/n: as promised, here's the full chapter. as a person who's only played skyrim and oblivion, writing for fallout is like throwing a hot dog into an empty corridor (i will not elaborate)

Warnings: Suggestive Themes, Attempted Kidnapping, Medical Malpractice, Cooper is a mean old man with a boner. Takes place before the events of the TV series.

Summary: The Ghoul takes up a bounty that has been gathering dust for quite some time. You, bored out of your mind, decide getting kidnapped might be the perfect way to entertain yourself. Both of you bite off more than you can chew. Cross-Posted on AO3

PT. 2

Copper knows this job will be different, before he even decides to take it up. 

Scribbled with flaky charcoal, your face looks at him from the notice board every time he delivers a bounty. For months now, a humble title of "The Healer" hangs without change, between criminals, raiders, and people who were in the wrong place, at the wrong time. 

Cooper hasn't considered going for you, it was never his first choice. The bounty on your head was moderately low, in comparison to your notice board neighbors.  He had other priorities, bigger than a smeared over pretty face, for half his usual reward.

Until one day, as he stomped his way through the dusty floor, his eyes caught onto your wanted poster yet again. 

Well, to be frank, his eyes strayed towards your portrait almost every time he crossed the threshold, but he would never admit it to anyone, let alone himself. Like a constant companion, overlooking all his accomplishments since he decided to stick around the place, your empty gaze followed every transaction, every head delivered onto the table. Some semblance of a routine, he supposed, looking over the board. 

 There, under the regular information, freshly painted numbers stared back at him. A new bounty, significantly bigger than any reward on the board. The red paint was still dripping down the yellowed paper, the addition must've been made quite recently. 

A hefty price. One, that would supply him with enough chems to last for half a year at least. Tempting. Especially now, that he's down to only a couple of vials, his coughing fits becoming longer and closer between. So tempting, in fact, that he tears your wanted poster from the board, finally getting a closer look, a deliberate one. 

Booker gives him a raised eyebrow, all the commentary needed, encapsulated in this simple gesture, and Cooper shoots him a nasty look. There aren't many requirements regarding the job, except one, annoying detail. 

You have to be alive and in good condition. 

Now, alive Cooper could do. Alive is easy. Good condition, however, opened a whole shitbag of problems, which he would be a fool to overlook. Still, the prospect of such money couldn't be ignored. And, he'd be damned to admit it, but he was curious. Who were you? Why haven't you been caught for such a long time? What caused this sudden raise in bounty?

- Did you piss someone off that bad, little lady? - he asks the yellowed paper, and gets no answer, as expected. 

***

The bar is filled with patrons, all tripping over themselves to loose as many caps on cheap alcohol and chems from under the table. It's not as rowdy, as one would expect. This settlement must be one of the few more civilized ones, for the Wasteland's standards at least. Farmers, mechanics, shopkeepers, they all clam together, smelling of smoke, sweat, and alcohol. 

You're here too, hunched over your drink with a sour expression. Your shoulders are slumped, covered by a piece of cloth, that used to be a shawl, but currently looks more like a rag used to wipe down countertops. Despite that, Cooper sees in the way your body is poised, taunt and graceful, that you're neither a naive Vault Dweller, nor a scruffy raider. A skinny scarf is tied around your neck in a fashion, that reminds Cooper of the old westerns he used to star in. 

The sudden influx of memories is neither wanted, nor useful, and he clicks his teeth in annoyance at his own betraying mind.

The Healer, he thinks to himself, making his way through the crowds, until he reaches the side of the bar, one seat from you. Not a glance is spared in his direction. The townsfolk must be used to seeing Ghouls run around the place. Still, when he orders a glass of moonshine, out of the corner of his eye, he can see you peaking at him with curiosity. There's a intelligent glint in your eye, and Cooper feels a shiver of curiosity climbing up his back. He scolds himself for being too old imediately after. 

By all that's holy, you look tired. And not the kind of tired, that sticks to a person living in the Wastelands, no. It's the exhaustion of a shitty day, dragging your eyelids down to flutter against creeping up sleep. The alcohol can't be helping your state, however, it will most definitely help Cooper. He almost feels sorry for you, but if your dumb enough to leave yourself in the open like that, while being hunted, there's nothing more he can do but take advantage. 

Cooper turns his face ever so slightly towards you, looking over your expression for any signs of recognition. He sees none, more than that, there is no emotion at all, not even a blink at his fucked up face. Raising his hand, he touches the rim of his hat in a wordless greeting. 

That finally wrenches some resemblance of a reaction out of you, and with a blink, you tip your glass towards him, before downing its contents. Your cheeks are flushed, lips wet with remnants of moonshine and there's a lock of hair falling out of place, and damn it, Cooper suddenly feels so old.

Ordering drinks while in your current state wasn't the most intelligent thing you could've done. The harsh taste of alcohol burned your throat in a way that was less than pleasant, and for a moment you consider turning to some good old chems for help with... Well everything really. 

It started with Old Lady Sal. 

You've replaced her hip a while back with some scrap metal and a fuckload of reused body parts. Now, every other day she demands you check it out, make sure it's in working order. Which it always is. This isn't your first replaced hip, you know what you're doing.

Then, you had to sit through the insanely uncomfortable marriage offer from Old Lady Sal's grandson, who is not only dumb as a bag of rocks, but also fourteen. 

And to top it all off, suddenly everyone needs you to solve their particular pains of the day. There must be an epidemic of aching heads sweeping through the town, because as soon, as you flee from Old Lady Sal's home, you're being hounded by everyone and their mother, looking to you for help. You were in town for two hours, and your herbs reserve went down to one fucking leaf. 

The Ghoul keeps looking at you from under his hat, and at this point it's gotten from uncomfortable, to straight up creepy. You were not about to pretend this stranger's interest in your particular person didn't unnerve you. Although, thanks to your mother's efforts, and later your own, the town practically worshipped the ground you walked on, the same could not be said about the rest of the Wasteland. 

You had enemies. You had people, who would love to get their hands on you. You were also deeply aware of the bounty placed on your person. Last you checked, it was quite small, but Ghouls don't have it easy out there, and if there's anyone looking like a bounty hunter in this fine establishment, it's the shady guy giving you a shameless once-over. 

So, you place a couple of caps on the counter, and gather yourself best you can. 

Perhaps drinking on an empty stomach was not the best idea, because as soon as you slide off the barstool, your head does a flip. Your balance completely off, you trip over your own feet, already accepting the floor, as your soon-to-be companion. 

That's when something strangely warm wraps itself around your waist, hoisting you up against the counter. The Ghoul smells just about as pleasant as one would expect, but moonshine is a powerful sedative, and instinctually, you lean into the warm embrace. Eyelids flutter, as you look up into the sunken eyes of your savior, and you can see his throat move, as he swallows thickly. 

- Careful now, sweetheart - the voice is low and reminds you of wind whistling through leaves - Gotta keep you in good condition.

Now, if you were completely sober, or at least less drunk, those words would fire an orchestra of alarm bells in your head. Instead, you smile, teeth on full display, as you reach up, to undo a tattered scarf from around your neck. 

- Mmm - you sigh, throwing the piece of cloth across the Ghoul's shoulders - My hero. 

Then, you grab onto his arm, still holding a tight grip around your waist, and lift it up by the sleeve of his coat. Despite your drunken disposition, you duck under the limb gracefully, and shoot the Ghoul a nasty, fully aware smirk. Realization flickers across his face, but before he can move to catch you, a series of body-wrecking coughs shakes his entire frame. 

You hesitate just for a second. The instinct to help is ingrained into your very being, passed down like a mantle from your angel of a mother. But then, self-preservation kicks in, and as the strager reaches into the pocket of his coat, to find his inhaler, you're already out the door, throwing yourself into a mad dash towards your cabin.

You were drunk, not stupid. 

***

The sun has barely had time to rise, when you're rudely awoken by the sound of a fist, pounding desperately on your front door. Hard enough to make the hinges squeak and shake. 

It tears you from your already light sleep, and you scramble to your feet, hastily pulling a shirt over your head, as you make your way towards the entrance. Hand on your pistol, you look out through the small space between two planks, which make up your door. 

It's not hard to understand what is happening. You remember one of the men standing outside your door from the nearby town. Benny or something like that, you were never good at remembering names. Hanging on his arm was another, barely breathing man, who was currently bleeding out right onto your porch. Pete. This one you recognize as a farmer and a hunter. You've treated multiple bites and scratches on him. So did your mother. 

Cursing under your breath, you undid all the makeshift locks with record speed, throwing the door open.

- I'm sorry to bother your so early in the morning Healer - you wince at the title, already making a beeline for the table in your kitchen - Pete and I were just...

Both men follow you closely behind, Pete's boots making a disgusting, sloshing noise. 

- Put him here, face up - you command, throwing a couple of papers to the floor.

- ...Coming back from a night hunt, and this fucking Ghoul was asking around town about you...

- Cut his shirt - another command, thrown over your shoulder, as you begin to rummage through a cabinet filled with chemicals and various herbs, barely registering the words. 

- ...And when we started asking questions back at him, he just shot Peter, right then and there...

You pluck a couple of twisted, dried herbs into your trusty, stone mortar, spitting into it, to gather some moisture. Throwing a semi-clean rag at the man, your voice cuts through his rambling.

- Put pressure on it.

There is no exit wound, and you almost sigh with annoyance at the prospect of fishing out a bullet. It had to be done, however, putting your sleep depriation and a building headache aside, you scoop out some of the herbal paste with your fingers, before pushing past the man.

- Hold his legs down - you mutter, taking a blink-and-you-miss-it moment to check Pete's temperature.

- ...Thankfully, he didn't kill Pete on the spot, so I brought him here straight away.

Pete flinches on the table, as you apply the paste to the wound. That's about as big of a reaction he's capable of, given the amount of blood he just spilled onto your porch. Another thing to clean up, after you take care of the table. What a way to start a fucking day. You can see his eyes follow your movements, barely conscious, but still alive. Sweat beads and gathers at his brow, and you reach out with a clean rag, to dab it off his skin.

Then, as if coming out of a stupor, your eyebrows scrunch together. The story of this faithful encounter finally registering in your brain. 

- A man was asking about me? - you ask, despite already knowing the answer. 

- Well, kinda. A Ghoul. 

You knew which Ghoul, it was not difficult to piece together. 

- And he didn't kill Pete, just injured him - you can feel another headache brewing just behind your eyes, as the sheer stupidity of the man in front of you finally comes to the surface.

They led him to you. 

Three, steady knocks to your door, smug and confident, interrupt the conversation, and deep down you can see the future of every person present in this cabin. As if you've developed some magical powers. 

Stilling your suddenly trembing hands, you settle the mortar back on the table. Thenyou instruct the man to keep pressure once more. Covering yourself with a robe you got as payment for stitching up a sliced finger, you make your way to the door. Fabric flows around your feet, shuffling like the wings of a moth. 

Your eyes flicker to the side, where, placed against a wall, stands a small end table. Under it, you've hidden a rather large kitchen knife, and for a second you debate, whether going for it now would be the best course of action. Call it dumb optimism, but deep down, you pray this is some big misunderstanding, and you'll be allowed to go back to your patient, preferably sooner than later. 

There's no need to bother with a gun, no time too. Pete is bleeding out faster than a stuck pig, and you were not one to leave your customers unsatisfied. Or, in this particular line of work, dead. 

The door opens with a slam. There's a small indent in the wooden wall, where the door handle has hit the surface.  The cabin is slowly entering the state of ruin, although, some places are more taken care of than others. Still, it has a roof, a semi intact entrance and even a window with actual glass in it. Quite the luxury in the Wastelands. 

Cooper didn't know what to expect, not really. Seeing you for the first time gave him a mixture of varying feelings, as well as a rather uncomfortable throbbing in the nether regions. Who could blame him, really? Your wanted poster gave you no favors, and although he was able to recognize you almost immediately, he still felt slightly short of breath.

He scolds himself for getting distracted by his thoughts, and as your eyes lock down on him, he lifts the barrel of his gun, touching the rim of his hat. Your eyes shift like little sparkling gems onto the weapon, before your jaw locks.

- Salutations Ma'am - his voice is rough from lack of use, the southern twang even more prominent, than usual. - I believe our introduction was cut short.

Yellowed teeth flash in a mirthless smirk, and then his expression tightens.

Cooper is used to people reacting, let's say, negatively towards him. Fear is the most common, and he can't blame the masses, he really can't. Disgust, as well, happens quite often. But as he looks over your feverish gaze, he can't really see either one of the emotions. 

No, what you give him is an annoyed roll of your eyes, and he's surprised to say, it bothers him more than he'd be comfortable admitting. He's a goddamned bounty hunter, a ruthless one at that, and a fucking Ghoul. Fuck you mean, you're annoyed by his presence?

- Look - you're already turning away from him, shooting a look towards your kitchen, where he can see a leg twitch in a spasm on top of your table - I ain't got time for whatever this is - your hands wave around in Cooper's general direction. - You'll have to wait your turn.

- Ah, well, I'm not the patient kind.

A squeak of surprise leaves you, as the Ghoul pushes past your body, entering your house gun first, murder clear in his deep set eyes. His steps take him through your living room, dangerously close to your kitchen. You know exactly, what's going to happen, and your arms shoot out on instinct. His body is unnaturally warm, even through layers of clothing, as you wrap yourself around his waist, tugging him back with all your might.

 He looks down on you, more bothered by the sudden contact, than the fact you're trying to stop him. It gives you a small leverage, and you push him back a couple of steps, settling yourself between the entrance to the kitchen, and the bounty hunter, raising your hands and getting ready to fight. 

- I don't have time for this kinda bullshit. Git. - Cooper snarls at you, his gun-free hand coming up to grab at your hair.

Before you have time to react, five fingers twist hard into your roots, and you stifle a scream, as the Ghoul pushes you off of him. On instinct, your hands come up to tug against his wrist, nails digging into the leathery skin. He lets you go with a hiss, and you use that second, to throw yourself towards the end-table. 

Your fingers find the handle with a practiced ease. Then, your body twists like a radioactive viper, and all Cooper sees is a flash of metal. The blade is rusty and chipped, but it could still do some damage. Especially now, that it's pressed against Cooper's jugular, the dull, cold presence halting all his movements. Your eyebrows raise in small recognition at the thin fabric tied around his neck. The scarf. Your mouth goes dry.

- Everything okay back there? - Benny asks from the kitchen, you can hear his approaching footsteps.

- All's well, kee pressure on the wound - your voice is tight with nerves, but the man obeys. 

Cooper watches your face carefully, his gun tucked neatly into the meat of your stomach, ready to fire, should the situation escalate. You can feel it, pressed right into the hollow space under your spleen, a good place to be shot, if you could even say that. You're dealing with a professional, apparently. 

- We seem to have a bit of a conundrum on our hands, little lady - Cooper drawls, voice bordering on a whisper, his eyes follow the way your tongue darts out to lick your chapped lips. 

- I have a patient, he needs help - you explain in an even tone, breathing shallow - After that, I'll deal with you.

Despite being at a loosing position, you refuse to back down, your eyes glued to the Ghoul in front of you. You're bracing yourself for the imminent pain, should he decide shooting you would be easier, but it never comes. Instead, the barrel of the gun presses further into your flesh, before lightly retracting. The cold metal is dragged up, across the expanse of your stomach. You bite the inside of your cheek, and surpress a shiver, when it travels between the swell of your breast, and settles into the dip of your collarbones. 

You swallow thickly, Cooper's eyes catching the movements of your trachea like a hungry vulture. The tip of the gun touches the underside of your chin, pushing your head to one side, then the other, as if the bounty hunter is taking inventory in a butcher's shop. Once he's had his fill, he lifts the gun completely, raising his hands as a peace offering.

- Git - you whisper back at him, and a flash of something rushes through his mangled expression. 

You take a step back, chest rising in falling rapidly, blade still in front of you, just in case. Then another step, and the bounty hunter dusts off his coat, before sitting down on a stool in your cluttered living room. You don't like the way he looks at you, eyes shining from under his hat, as he occupies your space like it belongs to him. Long legs apread in front of him, and you try very hard not to sneak a peak between them. Finally, you cross the entrance to the kitchen, and the knife is tucked under the leather belt of your pants. 

A sigh, a roll of shoulders, and you're off.

Cooper watches with curiosity, as you immediately start to work on the poor bastard stuck on your table. Your back is taunt, hands bloodied but steady, as you lean down to take the metal bullet out of the wound. The herbal paste you've provided earlier has dried up, and is currently working wonders for the bleeding, while you reach inside with not-so-sterile pliers. 

- Hold him down - he hears you say, as the legs on the table start to twitch again. 

Finally, a metallic sound of the bullet hitting a dish is heard, and you stand up, making your way towards the cabinet filled with chems. There is a grace to your movements Cooper wasn't expecting. Reminds him of dancers, ballet ones. 

Back in the day, his ex-wife would drag him to all those ballet shows, ones that made him feel stupid and uncultured. He swallows around the memory, willing it to die down, as you shoot him a cautious look over your shoulders. 

He wiggles his gun at you lightly, a reminder, that all this is happening because of his good humor. You scoff. 

Pete starts screaming as soon, as you begin to dress the wound properly. Chemical smell fills the air, and although Cooper lacks the nose to feel it, his eyes water all the same. You seem to be unbothered, years of doing this exact job must've hardened your senses. Finally, it's done. There's nothing more you can do for the man, and you wipe your hand on your forehead, leaving a large smear of red.

- He'll be fine - you mutter towards the other man in the kitchen - He needs rest, and a loads of it too. 

A couple of small bottles and dried herbs land onto a checkered cloth, and you tie it closed, like a small care package. 

- Dress his wounds twice a day - you press the package into the other man's hands while he helps his partner off the table - Good luck. 

Cooper glares at the men, as they stagger out the front door. They don't seem to pay him any mind. Well, the shot one definitely doesn't, he can barely walk on his own. His friend is too preoccupied with keeping him on his arm, to even acknowledge that this whole situation was orchestrated by Cooper himself. Or perhaps, he's to stupid to connect the dots. It's hard to tell these days. 

The door closes with a click, and Cooper stands up from his stool, sauntering over to the kitchen. 

You're currently trying to wash blood off of your hands, which are stained crimson almost up to your elbows. It goes about as well as expected, and as you dry your arms with a rag, there's still a pinkish stain to your skin. 

The table is a mess, blood and herbs seeping into the wooden planks which make up the surface. Cooper leans against the doorframe, as he watches you splash some chemicals onto the wood. It bubbles up in a disgusting mixture of red, green and yellow. You let it sizzle for a moment, before taking that same bowl of water you've been using to clean up, and dumping it all onto the table. The mixture flows down to the floor, the residing surface looking much cleaner. 

- Now, as much as I'd love to sit around and play house with you, honey - Cooper starts, and has to clear his throat, when you look up at him wordlessly, blood on your face and fire in your eyes - I have a bounty to collect.

Sighing, you push your hair back from your forehead, exhaustion, which is synonymous with living in the Wastelands seeping off of you like a tidal wave. 

- Do you have a name? - you ask, reaching for a leather bag sitting on one of the chairs. 

- I do - he says, and you roll your eyes at the deliberate lack of information his answer has given you. 

You mutter something that sounds scarily close to "asshole", and begin to chuck a couple of vials into the bag, then some herbs, then a water canteen. It's like you're ready to move out at any time, and a sneaking suspicion arises in Cooper's mind. This isn't the first time you're in this situation, if your calm demeanor is anything to go by. Suspicious, highly so, and as you turn around to face him, Cooper raises his hand ever so slightly. 

Your eyes fall onto the bundle of rope in his grip, eyebrow raising in annoyance. 

- You serious? 

- As a funeral, sweetheart - he sways the bundle lighty, his other hand pointing the gun at your abdoment - Now, are you going to be good, and come over here? Or should I come over there and make it unpleasant for us both?

- You're already making it unpleasant - you mutter, but cross the kitchen towards him, raising your hands, palms up. 

- Wait. 

Confusion hits you, when the Ghoul reaches into his pocket, producing a small piece of torn cloth. Your entire body goes still, as he grabs onto your chin, cold metal of his gun digging into your cheek, the barrel settling into the juncture between your neck and your shoulder. Then, despite your best efforts at freeing yourself from his grip, he brings the cloth to his lips, wetting the fabric with his tongue. 

The bloody smear on your forehead is wiped down rather roughly, and you twist in place like an impatient toddler, when Cooper leans his head back, to look at his handywork. You shiver with disgust, at the feeling of his drying saliva on your skin, and as soon, as he lets you go, you begin to rub at your forehead with the sleeve of your robe. 

- Good condition - he rasps, and if looks could kill, he'd be six feet under.

He gives you a nasty smirk, settling his gun down for just a moment, and grabbing your wrists together, so he can tie them up. Which is all the time you need to make a decision, and kick out your knee, nailing him right in the crotch. He doubles over, cursing loudly, hands shooting out to grab you, but all he catches is your tattered robe, which you slide out of easily. 

Fater than he would've anticipated, you grab at your bag, and bolt to the back of the kitchen, where he watches you jump over the table and all but slide out of the house through an open window. It's like a choreographed dance, the way you move out of his grasp. When he reaches the window himself, there's no sight of you, other than the rustling of tree branches somewhere in the woods behind your cabin. 

- Fucking women. - Cooper whistles.

He can't deny the shiver of excitement running down his back, as he secures the hat over his eyes.  If that's how you want to play, he would oblidge. It's been far too long since he could actually enjoy a more challenging bounty. Cooper slowly walks out of your cabin, looking over all the little trinkets you've gathered inside. Then, almost lazily, he lifts the robe you've left him to his nose. He feels nothing, of course, but he has quite a vivid imagination. Vivid enough to supply him with a memory of a scent from his past life. Lavender, he'd bet you smell like lavender. 

Your tracks are deep and visible across the ground, and so, the hunt begins. 

[fanaticsnail]

Exhibitionism: Trafalgar Law

Birthday Celebration Masterlist

Word Count: 4,100+

Themes: Law x afab!reader, mdni, NSFW, 18+, smut, fingering, praise, public, no prior relationship, masturbation, education, medical malpractice, (witnesses present: Shachi, Penguin, and Bepo), consent asked multiple times, medical talk, vaginal exam.

Notes: This is day 2 of my celebration event. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Disclaimer: I am not a doctor, please excuse any inaccuracies.

When Ikkaku approached you with a coin from your captain’s prized collection, your brows knit together in puzzlement. She had this look in her eye, one that held something hidden behind her usual disgruntled expression that held you intrigued. Head lulling to the side, she pursed her lips and asked you her question.

“Heads or tails?”

Shaking your head softly, you gave her more of a confused smile than anything else. With a soft shrug, and an assumption in your mind regarding chore rotation, you simply pouted while uttering your answer.

“Tails, I guess?”

With a mischievous smirk, Ikkaku flicked the shiny object in the air with a skilled roll of her thumb. Catching it mid-air, she swatted it and held it firmly within a cupped grip on her forearm. Eyes darting between yours, her smile grew ever wider the longer she held your attention.

“Don't want to reconsider?” she taunted you, “Last chance to change your answer, hon. Still going with tails?”

“I like my odds, and tails is my favorite” you smile warmly at her, “They're always more intricately carved, and their patterns are pretty.” She nods, tugging away her hand and revealing the side facing the roof of the tang to you both.

“Would you look at that! You win,” she chuckled, reaching the coin forward and gently offering it out for you to take, “Give this to the captain when you go on in to see him. He's expecting one of us, and I'm so fucking glad it's you.” She seemed to breathe out a sigh of relief at that last statement, her cheeks falling a little as she feels a weight flee from her shoulders.

You cocked your head at her response, darting your eyes between hers before you apprehensively took the coin from her hands.

“What the fuck did I just agree to?” you giggle a little, unsure of what would phase your crewmate so much that she'd breathe out this much relief, “Some sick and twisted chore?”

“Nah, nothin’ like that,” she giggled, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze, “Captain needed a volunteer for a lesson he wanted to teach some of the crew, is all.” She gently waved you off, giving you that grin filled with mischief that had your skin ignite with goose flesh.

Shrugging off your nerves, you ponder what mysterious lesson needed your person in that only you or Ikkaku would be able to serve under.

Whatever you concocted in your mind, nothing prepared you for where you found yourself. Splayed out in the medical bay, legs in stirrups, and made comfortable by pillows tucked behind your head, and a weighted blanket kindly placed over your stomach to grant you some comfort within the issue at hand: Captain Trafalgar Law was giving three of the crew a lesson on anatomy. Your body as his guide, he had his nylon gloves tugged over his wrists as he gently pointed out several areas of your pussy to your crewmates.

“The labia majora and the labia minora are a part of what is commonly referred to as ‘the vulva’,” Law’s low tone and dry voice caused you to internally shake your head and roll your eyes, but externally remaining still so he could deliver more of his lecture, “This also includes the urethra, vagina, and glans clitoris. Any questions?”

“What is the main function of the clitoris?” Bepo’s voice bashfully rose his question through a shy mumble, “What does it do?” Snickers from Shachi and Penguin were hastily silenced by a look Law shot them, his eyes piercing them more precisely than his blade ever could.

“The clitoris is where most owners of vaginas often source their pleasure,” Law explained without fluctuation in his cadence, “For many, it is the most common cornerstone of their orgasm. Only a small fraction is external, the majority of the clitoris is internal. Stimulating the clitoris is usually the final leg to achieving an orgasm. Any other questions, or should I move on-?”

“-The fuck you mean it's internal? Like the G-spot?” Shachi spoke over Law, cutting him off and relating his concern. Law sighed, clamping his eyes shut and taking a small breath of agitation.

“Both yes, and no. It's currently under debate as to what part of the network the G-spot is: whether it's a part of the vagina, or if it's the underside of the clitoris,” Law spoke, resting his hand on your exposed thigh.

You try not to tense up as you stare at the ceiling and think on the dinner menu, the cleaning rotation, the timetable for overnight shift, and what time to set your alarm in the morning. Anything other than four of your crewmates staring at your pussy, and attempting to ignore the way your Captain's authoritarian dictation was affecting you. Anything other than the embarrassment of getting aroused at each soft and intentional poke and prod to your cunt, paired with the dry delivery of medical speech.

“Now, let's talk internally,” Law cut through the silence, gently moving his warm hands towards your core and using the heels of his palm to divide your walls and expose your entrance. “The alley towards the cervix-.”

“-Captain, I'm sorry to interrupt your lecture,” Bepo’s voice spoke quietly once more, “But I have more questions about the clitoris. When you say it's the most common source for the orgasm, can you explain anything else about it? I-... I just want to learn, I'm sorry.” You purse your lips and attempt to suppress a soft coo at Bepo’s sweetness.

Law was less enthusiastic about the interruption, but halted his explanation to satisfy the curiosity of the polar-bear mink.

“The clitoris has three parts to it,” you felt his hands move up, the heel of his palm at the base of your abdomen, pushing up the skin and exposing more of you to your crewmates, “See here? I’m pushing the clitoral hood back to reveal this smaller organ hidden beneath? That is an extremely sensitive part of the vaginal anatomy. When stimulated, the vagina will self-lubricate to allow easier entry internally.”

You could barely breathe, thankful for the security the weighted blanket offered you to anchor you to the table and prevent you from fleeing from sheer embarrassment. Taking a few steady breaths in, you attempted to keep yourself calm as you shoved away the feeling of an almost touch to your sensitive bundle of nerve-endings from your captain.

Sensing your unease, Law drew his other hand to your thigh and gave you a gentle tap in appreciation of your willingness as his assistant. While he would never say it, he hoped you were the one to agree to this little display instead of Ikkaku. He wouldn't have heard the end of her sass, and you were far easier to ask to follow obscure orders from time to time.

“Sir, when you say ‘self lubricate,’ can you explain what that means-?” Bepo asked quietly once more, prompting you to let out a soft cough to cover a nervous laugh. Law seemed to notice your nerves, gently checking in with you before he did anything without consent. With the gentle call of your name, he broke you from your thoughts and coaxed your eyes to meet his.

“Would you mind if I demonstrated a little bit about how lubrication is produced?” His question seemed the most straight forward to ask the most abstract concept you could ever hope to agree to.

Your captain, Trafalgar D Water Law: former warlord of the seas, and titled the surgeon of death, was asking for permission to get you wet in front of your crewmates. With a soft warmth illuminating your cheeks, you felt compelled to nod. You did not want to disappoint your captain, and having him so close to your intimate region was driving you to the brink of your self control.

“If you deem it necessary, and are prepared to, Captain. I won't stop you,” you responded, checking in with him to ensure he was comfortable with demonstrating this in front of his subordinates. While you were the one about to be made aroused in front of your crew, your captain was going to be the one to do it.

“Alright,” Law nodded down at you, again while giving your thigh a soft squeeze, “Thank you. You're an excellent assistant, and I appreciate you for doing this.”

Managing to give him a soft nod, you lay back and fixed your eyes on the silver roof of the Polar Tang’s med bay as you felt your captain's hand shift towards your pussy. Gently holding your pelvis up with the heel of his palm, he exposed your clit by pulling back the hood.

“Where most partners, once knowing where the clitoris is and what it does, would go charging in towards it,” Law spoke while the warmth of his hands moved towards your pearly bud, “You must only be kind to it. Gentle motions: either up and down,” your breath hitched as his fingers made contact with your clit, his motions following his instructions.

“You can also go side to side,” he rolled your clit with his index finger, your dry pussy now weeping with a small amount of arousal pooling at the entrance, “Or in a circular motion. Like so,” his wrist shifted, using both his index and unity finger to stimulate your clit. You continued to stare up at the ceiling, attempting to fight the way your body was responding to your captain and compartmentalize the feeling of his hands on your body.

“And now you see, there's a little bit of lubrication at the entrance,” his hands darted down, collecting a small amount of your slick, and raising his hand up to the light. “This is an indication of arousal, and will often pave the way for penatritive sex for those who enjoy it.” Law finished, bringing his hand away from your pussy and letting it throb in front of your crewmates.

“Now that we've got it wet, is there any other quest-,” Law’s words were stolen from him when Bepo interjected, much to both Shachi and Penguin's delight.

“-When you say ‘penatritive sex,’ do you mean when a penis goes in? I am so sorry,” Bepo added, his apologies directed at you, alongside his heartfelt gratitude, “I just want to learn. I don't want to make you uncomfortable.” Before Law had a moment to reprimand Bepo, you spoke up calmly and sweetly.

“No, it's okay Bepo. It's actually refreshing that you want to learn this,” you raise your head and give him a soft smile, “If you have a partner with these parts in future, I know they would appreciate you knowing how to satisfy them. Sorry for interrupting, sir. I won't do it again.” You turn your attention towards Law, offering him a soft smile before returning to your reclined position against the bay.

Law, despite his stoic exterior, attempted to ignore the twitch in his pants each time you called him ‘sir’ while being so close to your pussy. ‘It was all in the name of knowledge and medical education,’ he told himself, ‘Nothing more.’

“Penetrative sex, Bepo, can be with foreign objects, including: hands, tongue, tools, and another person’s anatomy that fits within,” he relayed, gently bringing his hands back to your pussy and massaging your clit once more. “The only thing you need to think about is how aroused they are when entering. So, you see how there's a little amount of lubrication at the center?”

Law lined up his tallest finger with your core, gently carding through your folds and rubbing your slit. Slowly inching his fingertip within your pussy, he listened for that gentle hiccup in your breathing that shot lightning straight to his cock. He clamped his eyes shut to take a moment of composure, focussing his attention on the way his gloved finger disappeared into your pussy, and continued.

“So now we've got our partner lubricated enough to enter,” he pressed a little more firmly, more of his finger disappeared upwards within your pussy, “It goes in with ease. In a gentle rocking motion, we can use our hand and fingers to draw out pleasure.” Law continued to press more of his finger within your pussy, trying not to groan at the way it swallowed his digit with a greediness he did not anticipate. He could feel how hot and wet you were through the glove, and it made him almost want to dismiss the three from the room and claim you on the table.

“Now, if we're satisfied with this,” Law continued rocking you on his hand, his attention now turning towards Shachi, Bepo and Penguin, “I could now talk about performing cervical testing and pap smears, like I intended in the beginning-.”

“-Once the entrance is lubricated enough,” Bepo again spoke up, “Should the clitoris be ignored? It's far from the opening, and I could imagine it hard to reach.” Law sighed, turning back towards you while his finger was still buried within your center to the knuckle.

“I am so sorry,” he offered you, his eyes empathetic while he choked back his anger at the line of questions, “Would… Would you mind if I made you cum? I don't want to make you uncomfortable, and I would only be doing it for the benefit of answering all of the follow up questions that I know will come from my brief explaiations.” Law gave you a few short rocks of his hand within your pussy, causing you to bite back a moan that he so easily could have ripped from you.

“If-...” you hissed, feeling more of the pressure returning to your abdomen the longer his hands remained focussing on your pussy. “If you think it's necessary, sir. I am at your mercy, and I will leave it up to you to decide how far you want to take this in the name of educational curiosity. Anything you need, I'm here to assist, sir.”

“Very well,” Law offered with a soft, cocky snicker in his tone, “I'm going to demonstrate a little bit of what I know about anatomy. Please just relax, let me take the reins, and tap my arm to stop me if it gets too much.”

“Yes, sir,” you nod, closing your eyes as you relax against the bay and gulping back your nerves, “Thank you, Captain.” You try to ignore the way you knew four sets of eyes were now fixed on the way your pussy sucked in Law’s finger as he dove it in and retracted it out.

“Okay, now that we're both consenting individuals for this small display, I'm going to demonstrate how to induce an orgasm from our willing crewmate here,” Law nodded to the other three, “You signed up for learning how to complete cervical screening, not learning how to deliver an orgasm. I am happy to cover them while you leave if you do not want-.”

“-Nope!”

“-Nuh uh, I'm good!”

“-I want to learn, Captain.”

You almost wanted to scream at the awkward tension in the room, feeling yourself slink back into the comfort of your shell and hide from them. Just as you were about to speak, Law drew his thumb up and began to gently roll your clit in slow and circular motions. Each time he drew his finger inside your pussy, he would match it with a soft roll of your clit beneath his thumb.

“This act is called ‘fingering’,” he added, likely for Bepo’s benefit while he continued to motion with his hands further, “While few partners enjoy being stimulated either internally or externally, I find the combination of the two actions gets a far greater result. See how much more lubrication freely falls from the entrance?” Law removed his finger from your pussy and held it up to the other three before returning it back to your slit.

“Now, I'm going to add a second finger to the mix,” he nodded, gently bringing his unoccupied hand up to the top of your thigh and giving it a small, appreciative squeeze, “I prefer using my two middle fingers, like so.” He lines up his fingers and gently eases them in your drooling pussy, rolling them against each other to stretch out your entrance.

“This leaves our index finger, pinky finger, and thumb free, so we can use them to-...” he draws his index finger and pinky against your labia and spreads it, his thumb returning to your clit and gently tapping on it with every in-thrust, “...Gently pry apart the vagina so we can see what we're doing, while using our thumb to stimulate the clitoris.”

Scrunching your eyes tightly shut, you used your top teeth to clamp hard on your lower lip to halt a wanton moan from falling from your lips. You couldn't, however, halt the way your back arched on the medical bay as your thighs began to tremble at the amount of pleasure your captain was ripping from you.

“Based on this reaction from our partner, how should I proceed?” he offered the other three, “See how they've arched their back, and their legs had began to twitch a little? This is the telltale sign that, regardless of the silence or not, they are enjoying what we are doing. Should I continue like this, speed up, or slow down?”

“I think we should slow down, draw it out a little more, and take our time with it,” Penguin offered in contemplation, “Withhold it a little to prolong the orgasm and build it up to a larger release.”

“I think we should stay at the same pace,” Bepo suggested, his tone more apprehensive, “Our partner seems to like it, and I would not want to disappoint them by changing what I'm doing in case they don't like it as much.”

“I think we should speed it up, hook our hands up, spit on it a little bit to add more lubrication, and see if we can make them squirt,” Shachi shrugged, uttering it is if it was the most obvious choice, “Use our tongue too, suck on the clit a little bit and make them get a little loud and nasty-.”

“-Keep up the language, Shachi, and I'll have you used as an example of what a prostate exam is,” Law’s warning tone, alongside his coaxing fingers had you whimpering. Your eyes floated open, eyelashes fluttering as he kept a steady rhythm on your pussy, and drawing out your pleasure with ease.

“While these are good suggestions, what we're missing is collecting preference from the one person that truly matters,” Law nodded to them, turning back his attention to you, “You're doing so well. Thank you for letting me do this. Would you prefer I slow down, speed up, or keep talking at the same pace while I change it up?” You gulp at his attention now returned to you, trying to compartmentalize the pleasure while communicating with your captain.

“I-...” you close your eyes, fighting a soft whimper at the way his hand manages to press against your most intimate regions and erogenous zones with the precision of a marksman hitting their target. Without much thought to the action, you couldn't help the words that fell from your lips.

“Please make me cum, captain. Please speed up a little bit, add some more pressure to my clit, and focus more on where your fingers touch me internally,” your soft plea was made with an almost innocent and begging look from your rounded eyes, “Please make me cum. I n-need to cum. Please, sir? Please?”

“Fuck,” a soft whisper from behind Law almost tore you away from your thoughts, Shachi’s hand moving to the front of his boiler suit and adjusting his hardening cock by pinching at the fabric. Law had no time to reprimand him, his entire attention focussed on you the moment your first utter of ‘please’ escaped your lips. Law sped up his motions, hooking up his digits and circling your clit with his thumb.

“Like this? I can feel the way you twitch around me when I push here. But if I push here,” Law moved his hand slightly up, leaning his body closer to yours while his hand was pressed on the base of your pelvis. Moving your hood back with his hand as he did earlier, he exposed more of your clit and spread your slick over your quivering pearl while his motions picked up, “I can stimulate all the parts of your clit at once. Do you like that?”

“Yes, please!” your back bowed as you felt your orgasm grow and bloom in your abdomen, “Please don't stop, captain! Please make me cum!” The fact your crewmates were watching as you were brought to your peak on Law's hands escaped you, your body responding to each rake of his fingers deep within your needy cunt.

“Fu-uck,” another whisper echoed from behind you, this time from Penguin who was clutching his clipboard closer to his chest and pressing his thighs close together.

“You can cum. Cum for me. Cum on my fingers,” Law kept his eyes on your face, continuing to beckon your orgasm from you while raising the intensity and speed of his motions. You felt the coil within your abdomen begin to wind tightly bound, your toes beginning to twitch and curl while your legs dug in against the stirrups.

“Nnnngh-... f-fuck-!” Back fully arching off the table, your lips parted in a silent cry as your pussy began to flutter around Law’s fingers. Both “A” and “T” continued to disappear into your pussy, his relentless stimulation of your clit pushing you from that ledge as you floated off into oblivion.

“There you go, there you go,” Law encouraged you, slowing down his motions as he felt you contract and pulse around his digits, “Good job. Look at you, cumming on my fingers. That's it, keep going.” You couldn't help but let out a higher whine at his praise as he continued to draw out your ecstasy with his skilled hands. He easily ushered you through it, careful to not overstimulate you as he draws you closer to your conclusion.

Feeling the last few waves of your pussy pulsing over his fingers, he holds them within, right down to the knuckle. He felt selfish in lingering longer than necessary, but he needed to feel you just that little bit longer as you panted and heaved through that high.

“So, you see how I slowed down as our partner experienced their orgasm?” Law slowly withdrew his fingers from your pussy, feeling the way it attempted to suck him back within and made him feel like internally groaning at the action, “Why did I do that?”

The room was in pregnant silence, nobody speaking a word, nor raising their hands to indicate their answers. With a soft roll of his eyes and a sigh, Law reached up and removed the elastic of his gloves with a snap over his wrists, breaking the men from their trance.

“To not overstimulate our partner. When the vagina experiences an orgasm, it is far more intense than the penis,” Law discarded the gloves into the bin and gently placed the blanket to cover up your exposed cunt, “The body doesn't feel it at just the abdomen, it feels it everywhere. If you keep it sped up, it overstimulates them to a point where it can become painful in some people. Communication is key with our partner. Any questions?”

Through the small amount of silence, the small voice of the polar-bear spoke shyly.

“Thank you,” he gently praised through his gratitude, rolling your name over his tongue with a blush dusting his white fur, “I appreciate you showing us this, and answering a lot of questions I was going to have before I asked them.”

You keep your eyes fixed on the roof as you raise up your hand. Extending your thumb, you gently squeak out through panting breaths: “Happy to help.”

While remaining composed and professional through the entirety of the ordeal, Trafalgar Law was far from unmoved by your display. He heard your whines for him, saw your back bowing and hips bucking, and remembered the way your pussy quivered against his fingers through each wave of your bliss. When he was alone in his quarters, he couldn't help but to bite his palm hard to muffle the keening cries of his bliss while fisting his cock to the memory. Ropes of cum spurting from his slit while he pictured the way your pussy would feel in the cusps of ecstasy atop his cock.

With the soft cry of your name muffled by his palm, he chased his high past overstimulation while picturing your begging. Eyes rolling, he bucked up into his balled fist while falling from a secondary edge of his own. He was desperate to feel you again: taste you, kiss you, consume you, worship you with his body against your own. All he could do was harden his resolve, charge up to you, and confess his adoration to you…

…Right after he cleaned up his mess.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory

🎶Happy Birthday to Me🎶

If you would like to celebrate by indulging my caffeine and bubble tea addiction, my Kofi link is here.

[mad-hunts]

it was awfully random, in his opinion, but the urge to yawn suddenly hit barton after he pushed the glass over to jervis; his head dipping as he did so before he rose it up once more. god's, barton could not bring himself to hate anyone right now even if he tried. there was more than a bit of a 'floaty' feeling stuck in his brain now like honey. so, as you might imagine, the only look that barton was able to conjure up was a neutral one with a hint of something else lingering beneath the surface. maybe it had to do with the last remaining vestiges of humanity that he had left. and/or, that barton was simply expanding upon the quiet acknowledgement that he'd made already towards the other. it showcased that he knew jervis was in some sort of pain and it also wasn't easy for him to deal with it.

whatever the case might've been, when barton met jervis's own, they were arguably a lot less aggressive than they'd been before. it was probably the closest to soft that he was ever going to get in fact. imagine that, barton thought. a man who was once called a 'beautiful monster' by none other than the guy he was in an on-again and off-again relationship with making an attempt to console someone he barely knew. the comment made him want to punch laurent square in the face just as much as it did before regarding of it being a 'joke', of course. but now it had another connotation to it that he didn't realize before: that even his 'kindness' was cruel as monster's can't possibly be capable of doing anything even slightly good. but laurent was wrong about that. for, although barton certainly didn't think that what he'd just done was something so utterly significant that it would absolve himself of all the blood on his hands (especially since barton didn't think anything could at this point), there was nothing in this for him.

no reward. and barton didn't want one, either. he then banished all thoughts of that prick from his mind as one could definitely say that they were on the 'outs' right now. so, barton wasn't going to even grant laurent the pleasure of being on his mind any longer, pushing his plate to the side of himself. a light sigh slipped through barton's lips then. what others thought of him was not something he contemplated very often when it wasn't nightfall, in all honesty. however... some part of barton wondered what the news had taken to considering him to be. would they use a very blah way to describe the person who killed marty, like they're 'dangerous,' as he originally thought? or would they try to sensationalize it by calling them something akin to a 'psychopath?' it almost made him curious enough to turn on the TV, but they probably had enough to worry about with all these people who had phones on them. they were like mini computers now.

psychopath. he never did like that word very much. that's when barton was brought back to reality by jervis talking, but he honestly couldn't be sure whether it was to him. barton silently rose an eyebrow at him and just watched over the other briefly. now that he thought about it, he had seen him looking past him about one or two times during their conversations, as if jervis was privy to something that barton wasn't. he wasn't going to ask him about it because it simply wasn't his business but he had mentioned having ECT forced on him. which could theoretically be used to treat, and he says theoretically because the way they did it in arkham was all wrong, depression, catatonia, schizophrenia. things like that. barton put his head down on both his arms while they were on the counter. what a truly messed-up way to try to make them 'better,' like all of those quacks in the asylum were always phrasing it.

whenever jervis accepted the glass, barton in particular fixated on the accidental brushing of the scars he could feel on jervis's skin. he supposed so he didn't have to have his mind be quiet once more; a downturned smile ever-so-slightly tugging at barton's lips as he watched the other take a bite out of it. that's when he heard the sound of the door to the restaurant opening, and simultaneously, ravi had come out with another plate of his curry. ❝ here you go — ❞ he slowly put it down in front of barton before turning his head to look at who just came in with a surprised look on his face. barton was just about to himself, only for a very well-dressed matilda to lean her body to one side and say 'boo,' effectively scaring barton.

matilda couldn't help but laugh at that before barton murmured a soft, albeit not actually malicious sounding but playful instead, ❝ oh, my god, matilda. you know i love you but i hate you so much right now, ❞ ravi placed a hand on his shoulder and snorted slightly before saying, ❝ hey, be nice to your daughter, mister i-got-attacked-by-a-bear. and you better take his ass to the hospital or i'm hunting both of you down. ❞ the man left without another word, then, though matilda called after him, ❝ it was nice to see you too, ravi! now let me see this. oh, wow. it really does look like you got attacked by a bear. you didn't do this to him, did you? ❞ his daughter was now talking to jervis as she looked at him through narrowed eyes and did something to the wound to make barton protest. ❝ uhh, ow! and no, he didn't. he's obviously too much of a goody-goody to. ❞ barton stated sarcastically. he knew that, if jervis wanted to hurt him, it'd probably be in a much more... creative way now.

Jervis glanced at Barton through his lashes, mouth twitching at the corners. All of the condensed energy within his frame seemed to evaporate like spring dew with that simple gesture, the other man’s words hesitantly sprouting between them like leaves on an olive branch. A beat stretched. Jervis took another spoonful of his soup, chewed the chicken and rice, shut his eyes as the broth trickled down his throat.

At this moment, he was absolutely certain of two things. First, Jervis was touched - genuinely touched - at this second, seeming entirely unprompted act of kindness on Barton’s behalf. And then, a sense of dread begin to sink into the pit of his stomach, as he wondered why exactly Barton was offering him the falooda. What possible ulterior motives did he have this time? A flicker of tension began to rise in his jaw, but it soon snuffed itself out as his teeth accidentally misaligned in mid-bite around the spoon, digging into the callused tissue rimming the underside of his bottom lip. Jervis flinched, one hand immediately flying to his mouth to assess the damage.

It was nothing drastic by any means, no blood had been shed, but that one slip in self-control almost hurt worse. Whatever dregs of revulsion and irritation remained inside him melted, replaced by the familiar, sour notes of shame and self-reproach. Ahh, I deserved that one. Fair enough. After all, they had been stonewalling since they first stepped out of that transport van and into Jamie’s car. Surely, now that they had broken bread together, they could enjoy a temporary peace.

Whatever happened to the Golden Rule, Jervis? Is your hatred of the man so strong, it overrides everything else? He can’t wear the Dollmaker’s mask any longer than you can put on the Hatter’s mantle or pilfer Carroll. You’re both human, after all, not comic book villains. Besides, throwing the offer and the falooda in his face, however small the satisfaction may be, will only widen the chasm between you both. What you need right now is an ally, even if it’s circumstantial.

As if hearing his thoughts, Sylvie clicked her tongue, cocked her head thoughtfully as she looked at him over Barton’s shoulder; her mist-colored eyes sharp and cold as January sleet. “And here I thought I was the petty one between the two of us. What, are you going to spit at him? Pour the soup in his lap? Good; that’s fine. You piss him off, he has second-degree burns, what then? Do you really think that’s wise? Of course not, you’re not an idiot, and you’re not a cruel man. So, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“… it’s fine,” Jervis mumbled numbly, dropping his gaze. “You needn’t worry.” His hands shook, clammy beneath the black leather that encased them. He had no idea if he was speaking to Barton or to the shadowy thing just behind where he sat. “I’ve had… a lot on my mind, as you can probably tell. I lose my train of thought… things can sometimes go mad.” He raised his right hand, extended it to free the glove on the opposite side from where it had bunched around his knuckles once again, only to freeze. His skin crawled at the thought of exposure, but between the escape and the means of its procurement, the trip back to Gotham in Jamie’s car, the bathroom, and now here at this table… the gloves were positively soiled now. The filed edges of Barton’s nails caught the light. There was no way in hell he would’ve been allowed to grow them while he was legitimately practicing medicine…

“The ball’s in your court,” Sylvie drawled. “You’ve got the wolf by the ear, and you don’t even realize it.” The slightest hint of mockery colored the outlines of her words. Jervis’ ears burned. Goosebumps flared. She was getting closer now, her pale features hardening, all the color in her cheeks bleaching itself away, like paint receding from marble. “What’re you going to do about it? Can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, isn’t that what you always told me? What would Alice think of you now?”

This wasn’t her. Not his wife. Not Sylvie, not the mother of their child, not the love of his life. Merely something dark and twisted inside him, something he didn’t want to acknowledge —something he was afraid to address, that that recognition would supersede all the positive traits within him, all the warmth and joy and optimism and kindness and the capacity for love —

His left hand mechanically clenched around his right, tore off the filthy glove. The bare appendage wrapped itself around the base of the proffered falooda glass as Barton hesitantly nudged it towards him. For the briefest of moments, the other man’s nails grazed against the old calluses and the web of scars and contusions marring Jervis’ skin. He raised his head, met Barton’s eyes; saw the earnestness there, the uncertainty, all bleeding together.

Jervis glanced back behind Barton. Sylvie — or whatever figment of his imagination or paranoia or only God knew had taken her face, her voice, her demeanor — had vanished. His heart sank. For just a moment, he wished she had remained there… even if, he rationalized, it wasn’t really her. Or had it been, after all? A peek behind the veils that separated them? The chill of the glass and the soft pink hue of its contents washed over him. He exhaled. Perhaps he didn’t want to know for certain, after all. If there truly was an afterlife… wouldn’t he know by now? Jervis flexed his fingers; took the spoon, scooped up a bite, and savored the falooda’s rich, creamy texture.

Truce.

[untolduttering]

Desires

Summary: Law does routine check ups on all the crew members, and decides to take advantage of the situation when it’s your turn.

Tags: nsfw, medical setting, inaccurate medical practice, I would say dubcon just to be safe, medical malpractice, vaginal fingering, piv, unprotected sex, female reader

Word Count: 3k

In order to keep a healthy and functioning ship, Law had each crew member do a monthly check up with him. Simple and short, it was merely to give anyone the chance to bring up possible ailments or small issues that may have gone under the radar. You hadn’t known about this routine when you first joined as Law wanted you to get comfortable with your new life on the Polar Tang. Now that months had passed and you were melding in smoothly, it was time for your first one. As you approached the infirmary, your nerves were getting the best of you, and now wished you had asked Ikkaku what you were in for.

Unsure what to do once at the door, you knocked, and heard Law call, “Come in,” right after.

“Captain,” you said as you gently closed the door.

“Y/n-ya. I’ll need you to strip down and put on the gown on the bed, if you’d please,” he gestured to it with his hand. “I’ll step outside while you do so.”

You froze, caught completely off guard. You didn’t know what to expect, so nothing should have really thrown you, but this was completely blindsiding.

“Strip down? Like take off… everything?” You asked.

“Yes,” he said as he got up. “Just the gown.”

You swallowed and nodded. “Okay.”

He nodded back as he passed you and left the room.

In the time you’d been on the Polar Tang, you had developed some sort of feelings for your captain. The idea of having to be nude in front of him left your skin buzzing, both in excitement and dread. But you wouldn’t be naked, you’d have a gown on. You picked up the said gown and rubbed the material between your forefinger and thumb. The material was thick like normal clothes, and so technically, you wouldn’t be naked in front of him at all.

On the other side of the door, Law was questioning his morals. No, this was not standard procedure. There wasn’t any point in making his crew change clothes, not when it was a ten minute check up. Ever since you joined, you had been this annoying itch in his skin. You sat deep beneath, somewhere he couldn’t reach, something he didn’t know what to do about. He imagined all the ways he could have you, either between your legs or in that special place in his chest. And so he gave himself this one thing, this one abuse of power, and that was it. He’d give some reason why the next time he didn’t make you change, that the first time is different, more thorough possibly. He just wanted to have the knowledge this one time that you stood before him with nothing beneath that gown. Just this once.

After changing into the gown, you folded your jumpsuit and underwear, setting them on the corner of the bed with both bra and panties buried deep inside the suit. You took off your boots and socks as well, and set those at the foot of the bed. Sitting propped on the edge with ankles crossed and hands pressed into your lap, you called out, “Okay. I’m ready.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to keep your gaze on his face, instead opting for his chest and the stethoscope around it. You missed his heavy lidded gaze, and wrote off the momentary jump his chest made when he inhaled sharply.

He was regretting this indulgence heavily now. Staring at your exposed legs, he was caught by the part of the gown that was hitched up, showing more thigh than he had anticipated. He felt ridiculous about how little he was getting riled up over. And still he needed more.

“Any concerns before we begin?” he asked.

You wracked your brain, but nothing ached, there wasn’t any lingering pain from past issues. Just the usual bumps and bruises that came with maintaining a pirate’s life. “No.”

“Alright. I’ll be starting with your heart and lungs. I’m just looking for any abnormalities, like an irregular heartbeat or a struggle with breathing. I’ll need you to lean forward so I can access your back.” He washed his hands as he spoke and put on a pair of gloves.

You did as he asked, staring hard at the floor as you waited. You watched his feet approach and stop to your right. The cold from the stethoscope made you jump, and almost like it was instinctual, Law lightly grabbed your knee, as if to steady you. Your heart began to pound wildly, and the heat began to grow in your cheeks. He’d know it was his touch that made you nervous, and then he’d ask you why, and you’d have to tell him that just his mere presence made you light-headed, and so of course your heart was going to explode from his hand. And then he was never going to come anywhere near you again. Your damned heart was going to ruin it all.

But he didn’t ask about your heartbeat. He only asked for a few deep breaths before he stepped back, taking the plugs out of his ears and resting the whole thing back on his neck. “Sounds good,” was all he said. He didn’t admit that your nerves pleased him, that it might mean you felt something towards him. But he tried to smother it. He was not something that anyone could possibly desire.

“Alright, now for your eyes. Similarly, I’m looking for any abnormalities, something like cloudiness or an irregularity in the iris or pupil.” He pulled a slim cylinder from his array of tools, and asked you to open your eyes wide and to stare at his right ear. He turned it on, and a bright light blinded you. You didn’t move, doing your best to do as he asked and be a star patient. You always felt the need to find some sort of approval from him, as he wasn’t the type to give it out liberally, and that made it even more worthwhile. He switched to the other eye, asking you to look to his left ear. He stepped back, murmuring, “Good, good.”

“Now I’ll be looking into your ears. I’m just looking for any irritation, anything foreign, blockage, or possible damage both to the ear canal or the eardrum.” He grabbed one of the many tools displayed across the counter. Softly, he grabbed your chin and tilted your head so that he could look. This sudden and continuous intimacy was overwhelming; he had never touched you before. It simply must be how it went with everyone else on the crew. With the way he usually spoke to you, it was clear he held no secret fondness just for you. This was just work. When he switched sides, his leg pressed against yours, and he kept it there. You didn’t know exactly what about this was bringing him so close, but you hoped it would never end.

“I have to check your throat now. If you could open your mouth and stick your tongue out, please.” Once again, you did as told. You expected him to reach out again for one of his tools, for him to just simply look in, but instead his forefinger and middle finger were pushed in and pressed down on your tongue. You let out a small and surprised yelp. You squeezed your thighs together, tight, against the shot of pleasure you felt, and grabbed onto Law’s coat.

Law knew damn well this was not the right way to do it. He had those wooden sticks, neatly tucked away in a glass jar. But he needed to feel the warmth of your mouth, the slick of your spit wetting his fingers. His left hand immediately gripped your thigh as soon as that sound left your mouth. Law wasn’t really seeing, he couldn’t focus on anything but how you felt beneath his hands. He slowly dragged his fingers down your tongue, savoring the sight before fully removing them. He didn’t move away though, nor remove his other hand. He was incapable of it. Belatedly, he registers the hands gripping his coat. His eyes meet yours.

You immediately let go and leaned back, misreading his look as one of questioning and annoyance. Heat burned your cheeks as you held your mouth open, waiting for his next instruction.

He cleared his throat and managed to pull himself away. “You can close your mouth. Everything looks fine.”

Law turned away, and stood back in front of the counter. He looked to be contemplating something, staring at the items splayed before him without touching them. He rested his hands on the counter, a finger on his right hand tapping and tapping away. Nerves started to claw at your stomach.

“I’d like to do a vaginal exam,” he said suddenly. Your stomach swooped and your head felt light immediately.

“You can say no, it’s not necessary, it’s merely on offer, a precaution.” Law was cursing himself. He was being unbelievably stupid, he knew it, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. He stayed facing the wall, rigid and unmoving. It was a gamble and one that he immediately regretted. If you said no, it would marr the way you looked at him for the rest of both of your lives. It was too far of a jump from a regular exam, you’d see right through it and know him for the pervert he was. He was being gross and was crossing too many lines, all for the slim chance you might accept. And if you did, then what? What the fuck was he doing right now?

A different war was going on in your own head. It was an intimate and vulnerable suggestion, one that would bring him closer than ever before. Could you let him do something like that? What even would he do? Would he simply look, or would he stick his fingers in like he had just now? The thought sent another pleasant shiver through you, and the heat at your core was building once again. Fears and nerves and need made you so unsettled, and the need for him to touch you became unbearable all of a sudden. It was a professional formality, nothing more, and you were taking more from it than he was, turning it into something it wasn’t, but you didn’t care. He didn’t have to know you were enjoying it, that it was something you were going to use to get off to later, and multiple times more after that. It made you feel dirty but you didn’t care.

“Yes,” you said. “I’m okay with that.”

Law finally looked at you, the surprise clear on his face. For a second, you feared that you missed something, some queue that meant you were supposed to say no. But then his face cleared, he nodded, and placed himself in front of you.

“I’ll need you to lift your legs up. I can position them for you, if you’d prefer.” Law was barely keeping himself together. He couldn’t believe you agreed, and didn’t want to make the wrong move and ask for him to stop. His entire self was currently a sea of desire and self hatred.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d prefer that.” Your voice was soft, anxious over spoiling the moment as well as what came next.

Law nodded, and pushed your gown all the way up your thighs. He was desperately trying to keep his hands still, to keep his composure and professionalism. But the more skin he exposed, the farther he took it, the more he started to lose it. He then gently grabbed both of your knees, and proceeded to lift them and push them to your chest.

All the air rushed out of Law’s lungs as you were now fully exposed to him. You could hear it as it happened, and as you watched his face for further reaction, you saw his tongue dart out to quickly wet his lips. It was not exactly what you had expected, but it was an ideal one nonetheless.

As he let go of your legs, pressed your toes into the mattress to keep yourself in the position he placed you in. Law’s movements seemed slower, and his eyes never left your pussy.

“I’m…” he trailed off, his emotions finally breaking through the barrier he’d placed. “I’m going to put my fingers in now, okay?”

You nodded, noticing that he did not give the medical reasoning behind it. It didn’t matter to you, as long as he touched you.

He slipped one finger in, emitting a small sigh from you. It went in easily, the wetness having already coated your hole. He curled the digit, just barely moving it in and out, feeling around your walls. Law placed his other hand just beneath your thigh, leaning in closer, terribly focused. He felt your walls tighten at his touch and proximity, and began to feel smug.

“Feels nice in here,” he said. It came out breathy, and a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Feeling bold, he added another finger, and reached deeper. You rocked your hips forward and let out a whine.

At this, Law finally meets your gaze. He looked to your mouth and leaned in close. His eyes flit back to yours, to your mouth, and then your eyes again, asking. His eyebrows furrowed. Pleading. You barely nod before his lips are smashed against yours. Law is a starved man, and he devours you greedily. He pulls his fingers out and rips off his gloves, desperate for that skin to skin contact. You buried your hands into his hair and moaned into his mouth. It was messy and heated, kissing until it became a sloppy make out. You parted your lips to let his tongue in, and Law did not hesitate to explore your mouth. His hands had moved to grip your thighs, keeping them in position and kneading them as he did so. They moved lower and lower, teasing. He inserted his fingers into you again, and started properly pumping them in and out. You pulled away to breathe and moan, and Law took the opportunity to latch onto your neck.

It was divine to finally have those skilled doctors fingers inside you, working you open. He scissored them as he went, his palm hitting your clit again and again, and it was better than all those daydreams. His mouth was hot where he sucked on your skin, and each playful scrape of his teeth made you groan.

Law kept a fast pace, his fingers hitting that spongy sweet spot again and again, but it wasn’t enough, you wanted more.

“Law,” you breathed. “I want you.”

He lifted his head and pressed his mouth to your once again, muttering, “You want me? Say what you want.”

You whined again before saying, “I want your dick. I need you to fuck me.”

He hummed and said, “You do?”

He could be so frustrating, such a tease. Huffing, you said, “Law, please.”

He finally obliged, taking his fingers out and licking them clean before working his belt undone and unzipping his pants. He pushed them and his underwear down just enough to pull his cock out. Law dragged his tip through your folds, coating himself in your fluids and relishing the way his actions made you squirm. Right before you were about to complain, he pushed himself inside, taking it slow to let you adjust. It wasn’t all that thick, so the burn of being stretched was pleasurable, but it was long, and he was deep by the time he bottomed out.

“You feel good, pretty girl?” Law asked.

“Yeah.” You took a deep breath. “Yeah, I feel good.”

Law pulled himself out, till just the tip was still barely inside, before slamming himself all the way back in. You cried out, your back arching, and Law kept fucking into you, setting a brutal pace. Every accidental brush of your hand against him, every longing look he gave you when you weren’t paying attention, and every ache that Law felt when he was near you was put into each thrust. He wrapped his arms around you and squeezed you close, until your chests where flush against each other. To have you so close to him was making him wild, and to have you mewling and crying out into his ear made him go positively insane. That added with the way your walls squeezed around him made him want to never let you out of his sight ever again.

Your own thoughts were completely filled with Law. It was impossible to think of anything else. The way he held you so close and slammed into so wantonly, your skin making lewd slapping sounds and the wet squelching of your cunt being fucked, that it was him filling you up so nicely, it all was so overwhelmingly good that it made tears prick at the corners of your eyes. Incoherent sounds spilled from your mouth, and as the heat started to build in your lower stomach, you whined out Law’s name again and again.

He reached down between you and started rubbing your clit with his thumb. You moaned out at the new sensation and gripped Law’s shoulders harder, nails starting to dig in.

“There you go, baby. There you go,” Law murmured, sounding strained. “Just let go for me.”

Your brain had gone blank at this point, focused on nothing but the man before you and the heat building in your core. Your words were slurred as you chanted out a “please, please, please.” The feeling built until it suddenly snapped and you came with a cry.

“There it is, just like that, so good for me.” Law’s words came out all strung together, talking you through your orgasm just as much as he was talking to himself as his own came closer. He kept rubbing your clit as he fucked you through your high, pushing you close to overstimulation. At a final pulse from your pussy, Law came inside you. He removed his hand and pulled you close again, his hips stuttering as he finished.

Law rested his forehead against yours, both of you panting and trying to collect yourselves. Once you caught your breath, you broke the silence.

“Did I pass?” you asked.

Law groaned and rolled his eyes as you giggled. He pressed a kiss to your mouth before saying, “Yeah, you did.”

[sardonic-the-writer]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐬 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐀𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

↳ includes: scout, engineer, heavy, medic, sniper, and spy (i forgot demo i'm so sorry)

↳ warnings: bad translations, slight mentions of world war two and malpractice

↳ song: with a little help from my friends—joe cocker

masterlist | commissions | carrd

𝐒𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐭

• He would be so smug about it

• Puffing his chest out and everything

• His friends in the past- and even family members -have teased him for mispronouncing words or speaking too fast, and it’s made him a bit self conscious about the way he talks. But after hearing that you find it endearing, its a giant ego boost for him

• “Yeah dat’s right! Who’s awesome? I’m awesome!” Scout smiles as he flexes his arms in your face, subjecting you to what he likes to call a surprise gun show. You pretend to hate it as you shove his arm away, but chuckle all the same

• He’s already gloated before that he already knew his accent was the best. Boston is the greatest place in the world after all! But hearing it from you really just sent him over the moon

• Makes a point to talk to you a lot more now; as if he didn’t already

• “Yo! Hey did you see that kill out there? I totally messed dat Spy up! One wrong step and pow! He’s dead meat!”

• “I saw Scout. I was covering your flank while you did it, remember?”

• “Yeah yeah, but I just thought you’d like ta hear about it again.”

𝐄𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐫

• Didn’t consider himself to have an accent until you pointed him out

• Sure, he says the occasional y’all and ain’t, but not enough to qualify as a whole different way of speaking

• It wasn’t until he dropped a hammer on his foot and cursed that he understood what you’d meant

• “What in the sam hill! Sweet hell!” He’d exclaimed, startled. Once the throbbing in his leg had subsided, Engineer replayed his words in his head, making a slight o with his mouth as he realized you were probably right. To some extent at least

• He was a born and raised Texas boy, so it makes sense that the culture rubbed off

• Doesn’t understand at first that you find it nice. Maybe he thought you pointed it out just because you could? He’s a bit distracted when it comes to anything but machinery, so he misses context sometimes

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲

• Surprised that someone like you who can speak English fluently finds his mannerisms attractive

• Gets frustrated sometimes when he can’t remember certain words in English. Heavy is a very smart man, so it aggravates him when he looks illiterate in front of his team

• That’s why hearing that you like his mother tongue caught him by surprise

• “But you don’t know any Russian?” He’d rumbled out as a question. When you shook your head no, still sporting a smile, his eyebrows furrowed further

• “Nah. But I like hearing it when it comes from you. It sounds more natural. Like you’re more comfortable than normal, you know?”

• You’re technically right. When Heavy slips into Russian, often whilst talking to Sasha or simply forgetting that not everyone on the team know how to speak it, he is more comfortable in his words. They flow better, and he’s flattered that you’ve noticed

• One hundred percent offers to teach you Russian in his spare time. He finds it slightly adorable how you stumble over words in your broken translations, but always manages to softly correct you

• He’s a really good teacher

𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜

• Positively thrilled that you like his voice

• When you tell him for the first time, he goes into shock for a moment before breaking out into the biggest smile you’ve seen. Somehow its a perfect balance between excited and malicious

• “Do you hear zhat Archemedies? Mein freund here enjoys my accent!” He cooes at his bird, chuckling in a way that would make anyone’s insides squirm

• Once you look past Medic’s initially devious reaction, it’s very clear he enjoys knowing this

• If anything, the ex-doctor would have thought that you’d enjoy the more stereotypically romantic sounding languages. Spanish, Latin, etc

• German has always been considered harsh or scary sounding, and it turned a lot of people away from hiring him after the events of World War Two, which he understood. Still, Medic finds himself absolutely tickled that you are drawn to his accent

• Finds himself slipping more and more into German while doing checkups on you now. When he catches himself, he translates most of what’s he’s said back to you. But sometimes he’ll simply forget, and it leaves you wondering if he’s offered you a glass of water or the opportunity to swap your bladder out

• You sincerely hoped it was the former

𝐒𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫

• Oh my god you killed him

• Sniper is very reserved. Living in his camper, hunting his own game for dinner instead of joining the others, literally pissing in jars, etc etc

• Being a man of few words comes part and parcel with that; which normally works out just find because Scout talks enough for ten people

• Hasn’t said much to you before. He mostly communicates in head nods or slight tilts of his coffee mug in your direction. Maybe a few ‘good mornin’s’ tossed around, but nothing more than that

• “You know, you should talk more.” You’d said to him one day while pouring a fresh pot of tea you had just boiled into your own mug. He preferred black coffee himself, but whatever floats your boat

• “You voice.” You elaborated after a sip. You must have noticed his confused look as you carried on. “It’s nice. Can’t imagine that you don’t have gals throwing themselves at you all the time because of it.”

• Suddenly very grateful he wasn’t drinking any of his brew at the time, because what you said surely would have made him choked

• He, in fact, had had a few ladies approach him in town before saying something along the same lines. Even a few fellas. But nothing made him blanch this strongly like you had

• Excuses himself as he walks out of the room suddenly, tilting his hat down to cover his face no one can see the furious red tint forming

• Sniper leaves you in the communal kitchen. Holding a steaming cup of liquid and looking very confused

𝐒𝐩𝐲

• Already knew before you told him

• To anyone else, it would have been passible as just curiosity. But Spy’s job is to know things, and it is an undeniable fact that you found his voice attractive

• Doesn’t utilize this weapon often. You are not a weak willed person swayed by just a few words, so when he needs something he pulls out all the stops

• Of course, that doesn’t stop him from being impressed when you eventually admit your little not-so-secret-secret to him. And of your own free will. He didn’t have to pry it out of you, which was a feat on its own

• Much like Heavy, he extends the offer of teaching you how to learn his language. Now that he no longer has this knowledge as a bargaining chip, he might as well seize the opportunity to teach you a proper language

• Considers using electroshock therapy to condition you faster, but nixes it pretty quick

• Again, like Heavy, he finds it cute how horrible you are at French. More amused than anything, but he can appreciate the way you practice verbs in your free time even when he isn’t leaning over your shoulder

• That you know of, that is

• Praises you often in french, letting excited phrases slip when you nail a particularly hard set of words

• “Merveilleux ! Tu t’améliores beaucoup, ma petite. Encore une fois.”

• While you don’t understand the full extent to his words, you smile and continue on, eventually realizing what he had said later in a fit of embarrassment

[wooziorgans]

Woozi as a doctor??? Giving massages? New gose hits hard

— physical therapist!woozi

god he’s SO HOT HELP.

warnings: reader was in a car accident. jihoon definitely violates some,,, things. moderate medical malpractice (getting dicked down during an appointment). unprotected sex. mild ass play. not medically accurate i have no idea how this shit works. DONT TRY N SEDUCE UR DOCTORS!!!

after you hydroplaned on the highway, totalling your car, your insurance (surprisingly) opted to cover your physical therapy.

and by god if you weren’t going milk that opportunity for all it was worth.

that’s how you found yourself at a holistic physical therapy clinic. the highest rated one in busan, being seen by their best doctor.

“doctor lee will see you now.” the receptionist smiled at you. the green walls of the clinic were earthy and warm. the general vibe was quite comforting and pleasant; it’s the kind of place you’d want to get better in. your knee clicks uncomfortably as you walk.

you push the door open to his office, and out of everything you could’ve expected, you didn’t expect to see a young man, barely into his thirties with his sleeves rolled up and rimless glasses sitting on his face. his grown out dark hair frames his face perfectly, and on first impression, the only thing you notice about him is how undeniably handsome he is.

“you must be my four o’clock. y/n?” his voice is low and kind, his smile wide on his face. he speaks with the regions dialect, and though you’re used to it, it makes something inside of you twist. you swallow nervously.

“yes, that’s me.” your own smile is tight.

“i’m doctor lee, but please call me jihoon. the doctor title makes me feel old. have a seat.” he gestures laughing quietly, and you take a seat in the large leather chair. he pulls up a stool to sit next to you. “from what i can see from your chart, you were in a car accident?” jihoon asks carefully.

you nod, unable to look at him. “i see. and you had some torn ligaments that healed, but now you’re having issues with mobility and have some clicking in your left hip and knee, correct?” his voice is so soft and careful, and you can immediately get the impression that he cares about his patients. that’s probably why he’s the top rated doctor in all of busan.

“yeah. uh, i definitely shouldn’t be in this much pain after two months so i went to my doctor and he referred me here.” you laugh nervously. jihoon smiles at you reassuringly.

“well, how about i get you to stand up for me so i can do an assessment and i’ll see what i can do for you?” you nod, standing, and jihoon starts to scan over your body. he immediately starts to take you in, eyes analyzing your lower half. “is it okay if i touch you? just to see your hip alignment?” he asks, crouching down to the ground.

“yeah.” the doctors hands find your hips soon after. he squeezes and pokes, asks repeatedly if the pressure of his touch hurts you at all. his hands move down the side of your legs to your knees where he does the same thing

“from what i can see, your hip alignment is off. same with your knee. it would be a relatively easy fix, but because of your torn ligaments we have to be more careful. i think the best plan of action is to go over some exercises for you to do at home and then we’ll go over what needs to be done when you’re here.” the doctor sits back down on his stool as he gestures for you to take a seat again.

jihoon jumps right into it, directing you in various exercises to help with your mobility. he talks to you the whole time, asking about your accident, what you do for work, if you’ve lived in busan your whole life. you answer him earnestly, still a little shy because of the situation your in.

you never were fond of doctors, and jihoon seems to pick up on that as he keeps the conversation light and comfortable. he moved you to a big table, and has you lay down so he can work on your hip.

“this might hurt. i’m sorry in advance. it should just be a lot of pressure.” his hands press lightly against your hip at first as he lets you adjust to the pressure. then his whole body weight comes down in the same spot, and you yelp loudly, biting your lip as you try not to swear.

he chuckles softly, body still leaning over you so his voice is right in your ear. “don’t worry, this room is sound proof.” you laugh through the pain, but the relief feels almost immediate. your hip isn’t as stiff.

jihoon continues working on you until the end of your session, and when you stand you feel a little lighter. he smiles at you, wishing you well for the week.

and so your first session ends with doctor lee, and you leave his office with a stack of papers and another appointment booked for next week.

session after session with jihoon, your body starts to return to how it was before your accident.

the appointments are comfortable, and after six months, you’re able to joke around with your doctor. maybe it’s because he’s quite young, and you’re young, that his conversation begins to feel natural.

it feels like you’re almost friends, meeting up once a week to hang out while he abuses you in ways that have you cursing and calling him colourful names. he always laughs it off, knows not to take anything you say too personally.

jihoon is a good doctor, but him being hot is posing quite the issue. you can’t help but stare at his exposed forearms when you enter his office. jihoon pretends not to notice, but over the few months he’s been working on you, he can’t help how interesting he finds you. and beautiful.

he thinks you’re beautiful too.

“you’re doing a lot better, y/n.” jihoon smiles at you, and you smile back, feeling the change in your body. you flex your knee as if to test his words, and the bones don’t grind uncomfortably. “honestly, i think we only have about a month left of sessions together. and then you’ll be free of me.” you roll your eyes at him.

“oh no. whatever will i do?” you jest. he laughs.

“don’t go and get yourself injured again just to spend time with me.” he flicks through your chart. “is your back pain getting any better? i thought i was from your hip but it might be something else.” his eyebrows are furrowed, glasses slipping down his nose as he scans over the sheets of paper attached to his clip board.

“it’s migrated lower. i think it’s my tail bone but i don’t know.” you offer. he’s the doctor, but you know your body. jihoon told you that a few sessions in; that your opinion mattered to the direction of your treatment.

“you mind if i check? if that’s the case it’ll be a quick adjustment. it’s possible it got jacked up when you messed up your hip.” he’s teasing you, about to call you old, which is almost ironic considering he’s in his thirties, and you’re not. you just shake your head at him, climbing up onto the table you’ve grown so familiar with.

jihoon presses lightly at the bottom of your spine, carefully pushing your hoodie up to directly feel the contour of your bones. he sighs. “i’m gonna have to move your sweats out of that way to check your tailbone. the fabrics too thick for me to really feel it. this okay?” you feel his fingers hook under the band of your sweats and you nod, humming softly as you push away any and all unholy thoughts you’re having right now.

jihoon pulls both your sweatpants and underwear down, to the middle of your ass. the elastic band keeps them down as two of his fingers trail lower down your back. you shiver, and jihoon does a good job at ignoring it as his fingers dip in between your ass cheeks. he presses down on the tip of your tailbone and you flinch.

“oh, yeah. that’s not supposed to feel like that.” he sighs, gently rubbing over the bone with his fingers. “it’s sticking out too much. i think you dislocated it.”

“y-you can dislocate a tailbone?” you stutter. his fingers are far too low for comfort.

“yes. you said you fell when you were doing your knee exercises. that’s probably how.” jihoon’s fingers graze over the bone carefully, and you shiver again. this causes his fingers to slide further down, tips brushing over the tight muscle of your asshole.

both you and jihoon freeze. he doesn’t know what to do so he removes his hand and says nothing. he cracks his fingers softly. “adjustment time.” he speaks lowly as he places his hand flat on your ass. one of his knees finds itself between your legs as he braces himself to make the adjustment.

its procedure. he’s done this dozens of times before, but something feels different this time. jihoon’s knee presses against the bottom of your ass, dangerously close to your core as he presses down.

the initial adjustment makes you yelp in pain before you laugh it off. “good. one more.” he praises, and if he doesn’t stop talking in that low tone you’re going to end up soaking this table.

the second adjustment rocks your hips into the table, moving your whole body up and then back down. he accidentally grinds you against his knee, and the table, and the sound you make this time is strained and breathy. an involuntary moan falls from your lips as you close your eyes. jihoon freezes again. “y/n? what was that?” he asks carefully. he knows what it was.

“i- uh, i didn’t mean to- fuck.” your voice is suddenly whiny, and that’s when it fully clicks.

“oh.” jihoon briefly removes his hands from your ass, before he palms one of your cheeks. “i see.” he squeezes carefully. you arch into his touch, and though you can’t see him, he smirks.

“i’m sorry, i really didn’t mean to react like that. it’s just—” jihoon’s other hand finds your other cheek as he pulls your sweats down a little further.

you’re still trying to defend yourself, maintain professional integrity for him, even though you’ve been painfully obvious in the way you stare at him and check him out. “please forgive me if i’ve read into this wrong, but i’m under the impression that you’re into me. is that correct?” jihoon leans down, right next to your ear as he speaks. his breath hits your neck and you shiver. you nod. “good, because it’s been absolute torture having to work on your hips with this ass on display for me every single week.” he rubs your ass with both hands, leaning down further to kiss your neck softly.

you whine, leaning into his touch. his lips are soft against your neck as he pecks at it lightly. “jihoon,” you whine softly, hands gripping at nothing.

“do you want this?” he pulls away from your neck to ask you. you whine out a yes, and jihoon flips you over onto your back in one quick motion.

you gasp at the sheer strength of him. it’s not entirely shocking, not when you’ve seen his forearms out at every single appointment. but he’s far stronger than you expected. jihoon slides off the table, towering over you. you lean up, grabbing at the collar of his shirt to pull him down to kiss you.

the kiss is electric, full of tongue and spit as all the weeks of checking each other out come to a head. you tug at the belt loops on his slacks, hands sliding over his leather belt. jihoon chuckles against your lips, pulling you to sit up before he unfastens his belt.

jihoon slides himself in between your legs, thigh pressing against your core as you grind against him. he pulls his belt free from his pants, popping the button on his pressed slacks as he continues to lick into your mouth. you whine against his lips and he chuckles softly, undoing his zipper. he pushes his pants down to his ankles, not bothering to step out of them as he manhandles you back into the padded table.

“lay back for me, baby.” he purrs, lips leaving yours to find your neck again. you do as he says, resting your weight on your elbows so you can get a better look at him. with strong hands, his lifts your legs up, grabbing the band of your sweats which had slipped further down your ass with all the movement. he pulls them down to your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he watches the way your pussy seems to throb in the cool air of his office.

jihoon swears under his breath as he licks his fingers to run them over your folds. you whine, eyes closing and jihoon tuts. “look at me.” you do as he says, watching him as he pushes two fingers inside of you. “so fucking wet for me.” he curses as your body pulls his fingers inside with ease.

he fuck you with two digits, watching your reactions carefully, drinking in every single moan and whine you try to silence. as much as he’d love to make you cum on his fingers, your time is quite constrained with your hour appointment, so he pulls them out, sticking them in his own mouth to lick them clean.

jihoon moans around his fingers, using his other hand to pull his boxers down and give his cock a few lazy strokes. your knees block the view, so you look to the side to see him touching himself. his cock is large and thick in his hand, and your mouth waters at the sight of it.

jihoon smirks, stepping forward a few steps to rub his tip through your folds. you whine, breathy pants the only sound you’re capable of making. “god, just fuck me. please.” you plead, and jihoon smirks again but listens to you.

jihoon lines himself up and pushes his tip in. the stretch burns, so he gives you a few moments to adjust. “so fucking big, my god.” you hiss, lip between your teeth as you adjust to the stretch of him. when you give him a silent nod to go ahead and move, he pushes in further, sheathing his cock in your warm walls.

jihoon hisses, eyes fluttering shut. he pushes his glasses back up on his face, hand anchoring down on the back of your thigh as he slides back out. his face is flushed as he pants. you’re so warm and wet; he won’t last long. “you’re so tight, baby. fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” he pants, thrusting back into you.

he sets a fast pace, the sound of skin on skin echoing through out his office. you’re barely there; hardly coherent as his thick cock drags against your walls, his tip brushing against your spot with each thrust.

jihoon’s thumb flattens down on your clit, and it’s too much. you pull him back down for a kiss, which he returns eagerly, as your walls tighten around him. you moan into his mouth, hand finding his hair to pull him in closer. his thumb rubs circles over the swollen nerve and you shudder as a long moan leaves your lips.

you cum around his cock, the added wetness help him slide into you to fuck you through your orgasm. you tighten around him impossibly more, and that sends jihoon over the edge.

his hips stutter as he cums inside of you. he pants against your mouth, sighing contentedly as he comes down with you. his cock slips out of you once the final drop is milked from his cock, and he plants a delicate kiss to your forehead.

jihoon’s quick to pull his boxers and slacks back up as you catch your breath. he massages your thigh carefully, watching the way his cum slowly leaks out of you and drips onto the padded table. “c’mon baby. let me help you get your pants back up.” your sweats are still at your knees, and you comply, lifting you hips for him to pull them back over your ass. you sigh, unable to look at him.

jihoon leaves you to go to his desk, pulling out a business card and a pen as he writes something down on it. “we’re almost out of time for today, but call me before our next appointment. i’d like to take you to dinner.” he presents the card to you with two fingers, and you take it hesitantly before you nod and get off the table. “i’m serious. it’ll be a date. if you want.” your lack of response seems to have jihoon on edge.

you smile softly at his sudden nerves. “i’d like that. thank you.” you grab your bag and head out of his office without turning back. you don’t see jihoon punch the air in victory.

“well. looks like our time here is up. you’ve been a lovely patient.” jihoon smiles, clip board in hand.

“it’s been a pleasure, doctor lee.” you smirk, finger trailing over his collar bone through his shirt.

“oh, don’t you start.” he scoffs, but he’s smiling at you fondly, cheeks on full display as his eyes crinkle.

“we’re still on for dinner at seven, right?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“of course, love. i’ll pick you up. i was thinking about a movie and maybe a back massage at my place after? if you’re okay with that.” jihoon can’t take his eyes off you.

“you know i’m always down for a back massage from you.” you peck his cheek.

“i swear you just use me for my physical therapy perks.” he rolls his eyes at you fondly.

“maybe i do.” your boyfriend laughs before he kisses you softly.

[kentocidal]

OPEN UP AND SAY "AHH..." .txt

USERS: dentist!kento nanami x fem!afab!reader

WARNING! THIS FILE HAS BEEN CORRUPTED WITH THE FOLLOWING MALWARE: dubcon, oral inspection, gloves, medical malpractice(?), oral (m!receiving), spit, dacryphilia, choking/gagging, power imbalance, oral fixation, ask to tag

NOTES: something happened to me while i was writing this. anyway, here you go. ~3.2k words.

the dentist’s office was one of those medical buildings that was clearly a house before it was an office. built in a cape cod style with a tiny parking lot that had been added far later. you had found this place online, after it had gotten some stellar five-star reviews that you trusted enough to schedule a consultation and a cleaning. 

it wasn’t one of those gimmicky, commercialized dentists either. it didn’t have a tooth for a mascot, or a commercial with a jingle that never left your head. it was simply a dentist’s office. the page on google came up as “kento nanami, d.m.d., dental practitioner and surgeon.” 

something about the blandness of the webpage, matched with the homey feel of the office, dissuaded your nerves. you had finally found an office you felt comfortable going to get your cleaning at.

you took a breath in as you stepped through the threshold, and found that the home had absolutely been converted to a medical building. the hardwood flooring, the almost sickly yellow lighting, the stock paintings on the walls of oceans or some tropical place. it would almost be tacky in any other place, but it felt right for a dentist’s office such as this.

the girl at the desk, clearly some part-timer, popped her gum as she looked up from her phone when you approached. “do you have an appointment?” “ah, yes. at twelve-thirty?” you nodded faintly, eyes glancing over the girl’s nametag. ‘k. nobara.’ perhaps she was studying under dr. nanami.

she hummed softly as she clicked around on her desktop for a moment, then nodded in agreement. “i see it. here, just fill this out, and i’ll send you right back.” she flashed the barest hint of a bored smile at you as she placed a teal clipboard on the desk with a pen, and you thanked her before going to sit in one of the padded chairs.

name, address, insurance information, when you had your last cleaning, reason for your visit. standard paperwork for a new patient. 

how did you hear about dr. nanami?

you wrote in: online. all positive reviews! :) 

you filled out the rest of your medical information before walking the paperwork back up to nobara, who took it from you and popped the bubble she made with her gum. she barely even looked at it before taking it to the scanner and making a copy. once she finished her own side of the paperwork, she looped around the desk and opened a door to lead you down a tiny hallway. “just this way, please.”

she brought you into a small room retrofitted to be an examination room. the dentist’s chair was in the middle surrounded by all of the necessary equipment. there was a television mounted to the wall, displaying what was on the computer monitor in the corner, there to reflect x-rays and other important images. nobara moved a little table filled with sharp instruments on it over to the side to allow you space to sit in the chair. you sat, taking a breath and sitting back. the leather squeaked under you, and it wasn’t the most comfortable place to be, but it was to be expected.

nobara made sure you were settled before grabbing a piece of blue medical tissue and a thin ball chain with clips on either end, leaning over you to place it around your neck as a bib.

“dr. nanami’s just finishing up with his patient, he’ll be right in for you.”

you nodded and thanked her again, to which she smiled softly before leaving and shutting the door behind herself.

it was quiet outside of the ticking of a clock behind you and faint music playing from another room. it didn’t take long for the music to be turned off, footsteps to come down the hall, muffled chatter to be heard as who you assumed to be the doctor’s last patient gets checked out.

you shift in the seat and lick your lips, nerves returning. you didn’t really like the dentist (who does, anyway?), but you couldn’t find a reason to be so worried about it outside of superstition and online horror stories. 

just as you buried yourself into your head, there were two rapt knocks on the door behind you before it was pushed open. “ms. l/n?”

“ah,” you turned your head and peered over the back of the chair the best you could as the doctor entered and shut the door behind him, “yes, that’s me, hi.”

“nice to meet you.” he was tall, broad, curt; his hair was perfectly styled atop his head, wearing a blue polo and khaki slacks rather than scrubs. the only dentist-ish thing about him was the surgical mask that was pulled under his chin. 

brown eyes met yours and his lips quirked up into a cordial smile as he approached. you smiled back, feeling heat rise to your cheeks; he was far more attractive in person than he was on his medical profile.

“nice to meet you as well. thank you for squeezing me in, i-”

“it’s no problem. there was an opening. it made sense to get you in here quicker rather than make you wait.” he shook his head as he grabbed the rolling stool from under the nearby desk and took a seat, dragging the computer stand over with him to start typing away. 

“you’re here for a consultation, yes?”

“consult and a cleaning, yeah,” you breathed, fingers curling into the fabric of your pants. “it’s… been a while.”

“when was the last time you had a cleaning?”

“three years?” you smiled sheepishly when the doctor cast you a sidelong glance and clicked his tongue. “i didn’t mean to keep forgetting! i was new to the area at that time, and it just kept slipping my mind.”

“still, it’s not good to neglect regular visits like that. i’ll make sure you schedule your six month follow-up before you leave today.”

you nodded, because that made sense. at least he seemed to care about your health, unlike some other dentists you’ve had before in the past.

dr. nanami typed for a moment more before pushing the computer away and getting back to his feet. “before we can start, i need to take some x-rays of your teeth. have you had this done before?”

“a long time ago, yeah,” you watched closely as dr. nanami took a step over to where a protective vest was hanging, watching him pull it down before approaching you again.

he used a foot pedal to lean the chair back slightly, and you went with it, your head resting against the high back of the chair. he looked much taller from this lower angle, his cheekbones high and his jaw cut and perfectly angled. 

he laid the heavy vest over your chest and then leaned over your body completely to reach for the x-ray camera that was hovering overhead, tugging it down closer to you. you sucked in a breath; he smelled of some foreign, expensive cologne, the scent making your head spin slightly. 

dr. nanami hummed in the back of his throat as he stepped away from you to reach for a box of gloves on the desk, tugging out two of the black latex garments and pulling them on, one at a time. you watched the latex shine in the sickly fluorescent light of the examination room, watched the way he stretched the rubbery material over thick fingers and broad palms. one by one, he snapped them on, making sure he was protected. 

you shifted in the chair again when he leaned over you to bring the plastic piece to your mouth. he was so close – he had to be, this was an exam, snap out of it! – “i just need you to open up wide and then bite down on this, okay? it’s going to take a few photos of your teeth and your jaw.”

you blinked like a deer in headlights, because suddenly a gloved finger was tapping your cheek. you opened your mouth, nice and wide, and felt the cold plastic slip past your lips and rest between your teeth.

“bite down,” and you did, “that’s it. good. now stay still.”

you found yourself preening under his ministrations. he would step away and let the machine whir as it photographed your teeth and your bones and your jaw structure, and then he would be right back in your space to adjust where you were holding the piece between your teeth. he took about five or six pictures (it felt like you were swimming in his cologne) before he finally pulled the piece from your mouth with a soft pop and pushed the attachment away.

his wide, gloved hands lifted the vest from your chest, and you felt like you could breathe again once the weight was gone.

“not so bad, hm?” dr. nanami quipped, though he didn’t smile, and you laughed airily like a little girl who got caught with ice cream she shouldn’t be having.

“not so bad, right.”

he nodded once before he took a seat on the stool again and sat right next to you, pulling up the fresh x-rays as they loaded up. you were presented with the images on the television just as dr. nanami viewed them up close on the computer screen in front of him.

“your teeth look good,” he murmured, as if it was more to himself than to you. “all even – none missing. adult teeth grew in almost perfectly, though you did wear a retainer briefly, did you not?”

“yes.”

“right.” he clicked over towards an image of your molars, humming under his breath. “have you been experiencing any pain in this area?”

“hm? no, why?”

“there’s a bit of a dark spot here,” he moved the mouse over to a spot on the image, on a tooth that had to be all the way in the back of your mouth. “it could be a cavity.”

you moved your tongue in your mouth to feel for it, but came up short. “i don’t feel it, but maybe.”

dr. nanami pushed the computer away and shifted closer to you, reaching up over your body to grab the light fixture and drag it down towards you. using the foot pedal again, he brought your chair back, back, back; it felt like you were completely horizontal by now. 

he rolled his stool over to be behind your head, leaning over you. it was almost as if your head was in his lap, separated only by the chair’s headrest.

he pulled the light down lower until it was perfectly on your lips. once settled into position, he moved his surgical mask back up and over his mouth and nose, and you thought that it somehow made his eyes all the more alluring to you.

“i need to conduct a further oral examination to assess the cavity. is that alright?”

“yes,” you breathed, and dr. nanami made a sound of approval. 

you figured he would reach over for the metal table and grab for one of those little mirrors, or maybe even a water pik of some kind, but, no; dr. nanami leaned more over you and pressed two gloved fingers to your lips.

“open up and stick your tongue out, yeah?”

you blinked at him, heat rushing up to your cheeks once again. you felt as though your ears were playing tricks on you; dr. nanami had sounded huskier, like his voice had dropped an entire octave when he muttered the command to you.

you swallowed the saliva that pooled on your tongue before opening your mouth as wide as you could, sticking out your tongue and flattening it so he could see your teeth better. 

“good girl.”

your whole body shuddered the moment those gloved fingers pressed on your tongue with the utterance of those two little words. what was this?

a part of you was saying that something was off about his ministrations, about the way his fingers pressed and almost petted the flat of your tongue before starting to explore deeper. the other parts of you, however…

it felt as though you were floating as dr. nanami brought his other hand up to your face to hook a finger in your cheek and pull slightly, tugging your mouth open just a little wider. your eyes fluttered and you made a wet little sound, only for dr. nanami to click his tongue behind his mask and murmur for you to settle. 

his fingers continued their journey, probing and prodding at the warm flesh of your cheeks, the hardness of your teeth, rubbing and feeling over your tongue and your flesh and bone.

you whimpered softly when you felt his index finger rub over your molar in the far back of your mouth. it felt as though his whole hand was forcing your little mouth open, but that definitely wasn’t the case. 

“what a pretty little mouth you have,” muttered the doctor, before his fingers dove down towards your throat.

you gagged harshly around his digits and kicked up a fuss in the chair, rattling the attachments and kicking your feet. dr. nanami let up only for a moment as you felt drool start to form at the corners of your mouth and coat your tongue. your eyes brimmed with tears, wetting your lashes, and dr. nanami only watched you with those golden brown eyes.

you couldn’t see the bottom half of his face, but he had to have been panting.

“your teeth are in very good condition,” he spoke in such a soft tone it almost had you relaxing again as he unhooked his finger from your cheek, letting your jaw slip just slightly closed again to try and find comfort. 

“ah, i’m not finished,” dr. nanami chastised you with a tap of his wet finger on your cheek, and you whined softly under him as his forefinger started to probe and inspect your mouth yet again.

one by one he inspected all of your teeth the best he could, feeling each one, filling your mouth with the taste of latex and the scent of his cologne. your eyes were locked on his face, while his were locked on the way your lashes stuck together, wet with tears, and drool started to drip from your lips and drag down your cheeks. 

his eyes flickered away from his inspection for a brief moment to watch the way your thighs were squeezing together, and that was it for him, the sign that he needed.

he pulled his fingers from your mouth and tugged his mask off of his face, placing it to the side as you heaved.

“now then,” he started, shifting back away from you as you caught your breath, “your teeth are in perfect condition, but i’m concerned about your throat. let’s… conduct an experiment.”

your wet eyes shifted hazily backwards as you tried to look at him again, only to be met by a thick cock springing free from dr. nanami’s khakis. he was leaky and drippy at the tip, and it smacked wetly against your cheek.

oh. oh.

you squirmed in the seat and moved yourself backwards (or, well, up towards him) with a bit of his help, a wet hand on your shoulder tugging your body up so your head would hang off the headrest of the dentist’s chair. 

from this angle, dr. nanami didn’t even need to get up. he could stay seated in his stool and let you do all the work.

but you were his patient, and he was your doctor. he would take care of you.

he shifted his weight and took his cock in hand, guiding the tip over your spit-soaked lips. his other hand wrapped loosely around your throat, his thumb hooking onto your jaw to force your mouth open.

“there you go, nice and wide, just like that…” dr. nanami hunched over you, studying your fucked out expression. “is this okay?” “ye-yes,” you whispered, and dr. nanami finally smiled down at you. it was brief and fleeting, but it was there.

and then he gathered spit between his lips and let it drip down onto your waiting tongue.

you moaned, quiet and wanton, just as dr. nanami slipped his cock into your mouth.

he tasted musky and salty and perfect. he fucked your mouth open slowly, his hand a nice weight on your throat, helping to hold your twitchy body down as you shook with anticipation.

slowly, slowly, he worked the tip of his cock further and further into your mouth, until he was muttering, “open wider, wider, just like that, good girl, take it…”

it felt like all of your blood was rushing to your brain in this position, but at the moment, you didn’t care. all you cared about was how you choked and gagged around the tip of dr. nanami’s cock as he worked it into your awaiting throat.

he sheathed himself in your tight heat and started to rut into you as your throat fluttered around his girthy length. the room filled with the sounds of skin-on-skin, soft gags, wet plaps, and dr. nanami’s little gasps and moans.

he moved his hand from your throat to the hem of your pants, managing to undo the button and the zipper with just one gloved hand before it was slipping into the front of your panties to graze over your clit.

you gasped and moaned around his cock before starting to choke again, drool dribbling all over your cheeks and face as dr. nanami collected some of your slick on his gloved fingers to rub your clit in quick circles.

“shh, quiet. feels good, right? feels nice to have your throat fucked like this? you like it when your doctor touches you here?”

you had gotten so turned on that his words were almost enough to send you over the edge, your nails clawing at the rubbery material of the dentist’s chair.

“i can feel you throbbing,” he grunted as he fucked his cock deeper into your throat, “go ahead, cum on my fingers, cum, cum-”

his fingers didn’t stop even as you creamed in your pants and all over his gloved hand, your body jerking and your throat constricting around his cock. dr. nanami groaned low in his throat as he finished down yours, pumping his hips slowly and riding out his own high.

he pulled back from you and panted, pulling his hand from your panties and licking your juices off of his glove, then discarding both. 

you laid on the dentist’s chair, head hung over the edge, boneless and still twitching from the waves of your pleasure.

“now, for your cleaning…”

—

“so, do you want to make your six-month follow-up now? or should we send you a letter reminder in the mail?” nobara popped her gum and twirled her pen between her fingers as she looked you over.

“i’d-i’d like to make it now, please.”

“sure. and don’t forget to leave us a good review online, alright?”

[angelyuji]

intimate examination

doctor zayne x f!reader

tw // medical malpractice, dubcon, kindaa implied that zayne has had an eye on mc for a while, shitty smut

minors dni!!! 18+!!!!!!

“ms. (y/n)?” the nurse calls your name and you stand, shaking. they smile, “no need to be nervous, doctor zayne is the best there is.” they lead you to a patient room. you settle into the exam bed, nervously swinging your feet. this was your first visit with dr. zayne, your old family physician had referred him to you when you moved to linkon city. the nurse smiles as they finish up the basic checks, “here, i’ve placed the gown you need to wear on the chair, i’ll leave the room and doctor zayne should be here in-” they check the clock on the wall as they leave, “-about 10 minutes. so you have some time!” they leave you to change and you stand, unsure of what to leave on. ‘do i keep my underwear and my bra on…-’ you carefully start to remove all of your clothing, ‘-i guess it won’t hurt to leave them off just in case…’ you pull on and tie the thin gown, and sit back onto the exam bed.

a few more minutes pass and he knocks on the door, “ms. (y/n) (l/n)?” you feel your words get stuck in your throat as you lay eyes on the dark-haired doctor in front of you. his hazel green eyes watch as you wring your hands, “am i in the wrong room?”

“no!” you startle, “no, i am (y/n). i-i’m just nervous, doctor. sorry.” you swallow. doctor zayne nods, carefully watching you.

“shall we start the examination then?” he tilts his head, waiting for your nod, before washing his hands. “i’ll start with basic information.” he starts with asking for your full name, birthday, allergies, and past and present medication. you rattle off your answers and he answers with a nod. “i also need to know if you’re married as well as sexual history.” he looks to you, pushing up his glasses with his index finger.

“i-uh-i’m not married.” you can feel heat climbing up your face, the doctor makes a sound, “and… i’ve never-” embarrassed, you change your wording, “i’m not sexually active.” he pauses his typing.

“(y/n), can you lay down for me?” he turns away from his computer to completely face you, “i’m going to get started on the examination. since i need to have the most accurate information on you, i will be doing a thorough exam, is that alright?” doctor zayne pulls on his gloves as he talks, getting out of his chair to stand at the side of the bed.

“y-yes.” you nod, ready for the exam to over.

“good. let me know if you feel any discomfort.” dr. zayne’s hands massage your breasts, procedural and soothing as he travels down to push at your stomach. you watch his eyes as they get darker as he touches more of you. you let out a quiet huff as he presses down hard at the bottom of your stomach. “did that hurt?”

“sort of…” you trail off as you watch the doctor position his chair in front of your bed. he sits between your legs and push them up, your gown bunching up at your waist. immediately, you bring your hands to cover yourself. “doctor, i don’t think-”

he grabs them, gripping your wrists tight, “i’m afraid i need to do a more thorough examination of why you could be experiencing discomfort above your uterus. please do cooperate, (y/n).” he stares at you with his eyebrows raised. you hesitate, “(y/n), i am your primary care physician and everything i do, i can promise, is for the good of your health.” his hands let go of your wrists and he waits.

“everything you do-” you swallow and move your hands, “-is for the good of my health.” dr. zayne nods and a small smile appears on his face.

he moves your knees apart, giving him space to see you clearly. he rubs his gloved finger down your slit and you clench, you hear him hum. “take a deep breathe, (y/n). i have a couple more questions for you.” his voice is breathy as he presses his thumb against your clit, “has anyone ever touched you here?”

the air leaves your lungs at the touch, you choke out, “n-no. i-” his thumb starts to circle your clit, “-i can’t.” you whimper, feeling yourself get wet as warmth spreads through your body.

“what about here?” his thumb doesn’t stop as he pushes two fingers into you. you try to cover your mouth but a strangled moan comes out as he pulls his fingers out. “i think a special treatment is needed for you, (y/n).” you lay your head back with a whimper, aching for more. you hear the sound of a belt unbuckling and something warm presses against your cunt. “keep being so good for me, ms. (y/n).”

[milfs-milk]

THE BEST MEDICINE [18+]

CHAPTER ONE - DIAGNOSIS [MINORS DNI]

[PAIRING] Trafalgar Law x Reader [SUMMARY] You’ve unknowingly come in contact with an aphrodisiac. With symptoms involving hyperactive senses, fever and weakness in the body, you seek Law’s medical knowledge to help treat what you assume to be a strange sickness. Upon examination and diagnosis, your doctor offers a cure. [CONTENT + WARNINGS] AFAB Reader, Reader has breasts, Aphrodisiacs, Desperation, Teasing, Medical Examination, Medical Malpractice, Pining, Sexual Tension. More in future chapters! [WORD COUNT] 6k

“Come in.”

Despite the state you’re in, you still had the decency to knock. There’s warmth spreading all around you, heavy heat muddling both your body and mind. An aching sensation at your core has you in a daze, far too hot and distracting, instinct begging you to find some relief, though you can’t quite place how. Unable to shake off this enveloping feeling for a few hours now, you’ve found yourself at Law’s door, desperate for a cure. The strange haze seems to only deepen upon hearing the low rasp of his voice.

You turn the knob and enter, metal door unusually heavy. The Polar Tang creaks in response. Your legs feel weak, wobbling with a simple step, forcing yourself to lean on the side of the entryway as you struggle to keep upright. In a dim office, Law sits at his desk several feet in front of you. He seems too fixated on a pile of papers to look up. With his hat discarded to the side, reading glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose as he jots down what must be important notes. A sense of guilt creeps up on you.

You didn't want to interrupt—your Captain was a busy man, after all, and you knew this late, quiet hour was usually reserved for his work. But he was also the Heart Pirates’ only doctor, and as these strange sensations mounted throughout the night, you felt you needed medical attention. You stand there for a moment, mouth opening to speak. Nothing comes out. An inappropriate captivation engulfs you, words caught in your throat as you look towards Law. He’s comfortable, shirt unbuttoned a few notches and sleeves rolled up. The muscles and tendons to his tattooed forearms shift alluringly with each stroke he writes, leaving you mesmerized.

“What is it?” he asks, still looking downwards. 

You suck in a shaky breath, struggling to get ahold of yourself. Suggestive thoughts about Law weren’t foreign to you. He was rather attractive, almost intimidatingly so, and combined with the close bond the two of you shared, you found yourself enamored. But he was your Captain, and you were his subordinate. He was your doctor, and you were his patient. As addictive as the thought was, you hadn’t allowed yourself much fantasy of the two of you being anything more, knowing shared feelings were unlikely and, in a sense, immoral. You’ve learned to live with the ache. 

But at times, you simply can’t help yourself. With heavy lidded eyes, you stare, his lithe figure something sculpted from the gods. All you wanted was to go down on your knees and show him a thing or two about worship with devoted hands and a sinful mouth. You struggle to divert your attention; this was no time for fantasies, but still, they linger. 

“Captain…”

It nearly comes out as a plea, your voice a pathetic whimper. You surprise even yourself from the way you sound upon calling for him, catching Law’s attention as his eyes dart up towards you. You must look as unkempt as you feel, his gaze trailing from your face down to your body in a way that suggested you were quite the sight. Looking away, you feel exposed, unable to speak further. Despite your silence, Law gets the idea, the doctor recognizing discomfort when he sees it. He hums your name in acknowledgement. 

“I take it you’re not feeling well.”

Law sets down the pen and removes his glasses, chair scooting back as he rises to his feet, attention now fully on you. He walks towards your trembling form and looms over you, hands moving to clutch at your shoulders to help you stand. His touch is gentle, but it still overwhelms. A sharp gasp is yanked from your lips upon the electrifying contact as your body jolts in sudden sensitivity. You clutch his shirt for support with fisted palms, head falling onto his chest, breathing heavily beneath him. 

An arm moves to wrap around your waist, keeping you from crumbling to the ground. His grip is firm but consciously delicate, staying considerate of your well-being, though you could still feel a thrilling strength behind his grasp. In desperate instinct, your body reacts on its own. Your back arches underneath an addictive touch, breasts squished against Law’s lean body. The pressure rakes a shiver down your spine with a whimper caught in the middle of your throat. Each surge of sensation was simply too intense, too stimulating, too invigorating. Molded into putty in his hands, your legs grow weaker.

“You can barely stand,” he comments. The two of you are too close, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating against you. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly in a strained tone, trying to gather yourself. There’s shame within you, confused as to why you felt so sensitive, guilty that a part of you was enjoying it. Though overwhelming, what seemed to be heightened senses wasn’t exactly unpleasant. The attention from Law fueled an inappropriate pleasure. Logic, faint through the pink fog in your head, reminds you of your relationship with him—this care was simply a doctor tending to his patient rather than romantic affection. You find yourself embarrassed at both your thoughts and physical reactions, feeling indecent.

You push yourself off of him by a few inches, trying to keep a professional distance. A feeling of dizziness washes over you, your body wavering, his grip tightening. As you force yourself to relax, you find it difficult to focus on anything beyond his touch. Every nerve ending in your body seemed to be on an intoxicating edge. With a dazed mind, you struggle to string together a coherent sentence. “Started feeling weird a few hours ago,” you tell him, a slight slur to your words. “I thought it’d go away. Only got worse.”

Law hums in understanding. He places a finger beneath your chin, guiding you to look at him for inspection. You tilt your head upwards to meet his eyes, mouth parted in soft pants, face flushed and gaze heavy lidded. His own fixed stare greets back, intense as always. In examination, he scans your features. It’s almost intimate, reminiscent of a position two lovers would find themselves in during a tender moment. Though you try to shake away the thought, you can’t help the excited nerves that well up inside your chest. Unrealistic anticipation eats away at you, enticing lips staying inches apart from yours. 

“You’re running a fever,” Law says as he puts the back of his hand to your forehead. Despite the heat, you shiver. “Let’s get you to the examination room. Can you walk?” 

”Might need some help,” you admit sheepishly. An unsteady voice betrays your attempts at composure. Law extends his arm and gently takes hold of yours, pulling it over his shoulder. With his grip secured around your waist, he helps guide you out of the room, easily supporting your weight as he keeps you steady. You grit your teeth at the physical contact to hold back any undignified noises. A primal desire flared within your chest, each touch erupting into fireworks with exhilarating tingles spreading throughout your body. As the sparks ignite cravings you’ve always tried to contain, you find yourself struggling to keep your demeanor under control. 

“You seem tense,” he points out, looking down at you as he helps you walk at a slow pace. “Are you in any pain?”

You consider the question for a moment, gauging how exactly you feel. Though weak, your body was alive with rushes of consuming sensations, passionately responsive to all stimulation. While your person felt reactive and hyper aware, your psyche was dulled and clouded, thoughts faint through fog. It was as if your body had been set alight and your mind was melting in its wake. Then, there was fervor. You hadn’t been able to pinpoint it before, figuring the deep warmth you were experiencing was the result of a fever. Though as Law holds onto you, your bodies pressed together, you can feel distinctive arousal. 

It’s an unmistakable lust for him that you’re well familiar with, experienced most during late nights when quiet loneliness peels back careful restriction and reveals the raw need festering underneath. It always ravaged, but never with such hunger. The heat you’ve felt is now concentrated between your legs and where Law’s hands lie, knot in your core tightening, explaining that instinctive yearning for release. But why were you so sensitive? Was it really possible to be so aroused you could barely stand? Certainly, something was off. You chalk your sexual excitement down to what must be a desperate need to get laid, and focus on being treated by your doctor. 

“Not exactly,” you answer. “Just feel… sensitive.” A heavy sigh comes out as a shudder, the ache within you almost unbearable. Beneath a heaving chest, your heart pounds. “I really don’t know what it is, doc. I just know it’s not normal.” 

“We’ll figure it out,” Law assures you. 

Despite his support, you feel unsteady as you walk. You had grown used to the submarine’s constant motion over the years, but now, each step was like your first day on the Polar Tang, tentative and slightly wobbly from being submerged in a room underwater. You hold onto Law tighter to keep from stumbling, grateful the hour was late enough for most crewmates to be retired to their rooms. It’d be quite the explanation you’d have to muster had anyone seen you in such a helpless state with your Captain. 

The two of you pause as you arrive in front of the examination room. Law uses his free arm to reach into his pocket, keys jingling while he unlocks and opens the door. For a moment, a cold blast of air that escapes the room hushes the high temperature that surrounds you, goosebumps pebbling your skin until a blanket of warmth promptly returns. Law flicks on the lights before guiding you to a chair, the sudden brightness making you squint in adjustment. His grip loosens.

“Sit. I’ll get my things.”

You ease yourself onto the chair and lean your side against the counter next to it. Though Law’s touch was gone, the desire within you doesn’t fade. A distracting longing only heightens from his absence. He turns and you watch as he maneuvers around the room, reaching into a cabinet on the wall above his head to pull out a blood pressure cuff. In the same smooth movement, he picks up a nearby stethoscope with his other hand, draping it around his neck. 

“Are you experiencing any palpitations, vertigo or chills?” he asks as he turns towards you. You blink out of what feels like a trance, too hypnotized by the movement of his body. Each action seemed almost graceful. Controlled and purposeful, confidence demanded attention through a charismatic yet domineering presence. It was a daunting beauty—though you were deeply familiar with and trusting of this man, a part of you still squirms underneath his intense person and piercing eyes. You gather your thoughts and voice, but your tone comes out uneven and shaky, too affected by the needs within you. 

“Palpitations? Yes. I felt it most when we were walking.” You wonder if it was because of the excitement and nervousness you experienced being in such close proximity with him, but even as Law stands a foot away, you still feel each beat of your heart. It was a quiet and steady drum, faster than what might’ve been normal. Should it be a cause of concern, you answer your doctor truthfully. “But it’s faint now. Vertigo, yes. I don’t feel it much now that I’m sitting, though. And no chills. I’m really warm, actually.” 

“I see,” he acknowledges. “Give me your arm.”

You obey. Sticking out your right arm, you find yourself unable to hold back a slight gasp when he places a hand on you. His grip doesn’t move or lighten; if anything, it grows a bit tighter, as if to keep you in place. You look up at him, round eyes and furrowed brows painting your face in a pout. Law’s firm gaze softens for a moment. “I know you’re feeling sensitive, but bear with me,” he tells you, wrapping a cuff around your arm. “I’m going to take your blood pressure.”

You wince as the cuff inflates, tightening continuously, squeezing against responsive nerves. You can feel the blood in your veins pumping as Law listens to your pulse with the stethoscope, watching the gauge. Once satisfied, he slowly lets the air out of the cuff and unwraps it from your arm. The release of pressure elicits a sigh of relief from you. “118 over 72. Healthy. We’ll check your heart rate next.” 

He stands over you, tall and imposing, leaning towards you slightly to place the stethoscope on your chest. You look down upon feeling the circle of cold metal contrasting against hot skin, body on fire at the sight of a strong hand and slim fingers too close to your cleavage. Law listens for a few moments and puts his thumb against his jugular as he counts the seconds. “Fast,” he notes, pulling away. The shame in you makes you wonder if he could recognize the excitement behind your ribs. 

“Now,” he says, picking up a pen and holding it in front of you. “Follow this for me.” Moving back and forth slowly, your eyes follow the object for seconds that feel far too long in your daze. Sitting still has begun to make you a bit restless, a needy part of you almost missing the overstimulation Law’s touch provided. Your gaze locks with his as the pen stops moving, once again finding yourself captivated. He was handsome. Pretty, even. 

“Bit of trouble there. The eye’s lateral movement isn’t as smooth as it could be.” He looks directly at you for a moment, considering. “I’m going to check the lymph nodes under your chin now,” he says, almost as a warning, staying conscious of the sensitivity you feel. You’re welcoming in eager anticipation of his touch, neck ticklish as you swipe your hair away. You bare yourself to him. 

He rubs his palms together, considerate enough not to touch you with cold hands. Despite the added heat, you still startle upon the contact of long fingers sliding up the sides of your neck. A high pitched hum sounds from your throat when skin meets skin, your head dipping back with the gentle swoop of his hands. Your eyes drift downwards and you watch as your heaving chest fills the space between you two with each deep breath. Firm and wide, his hands easily wrap around your neck with tattooed fingers interlocking at the nape. Law traces the points of your collarbone with his thumbs, traveling along the soft skin of your throat and delicate hinge of your jaw.

“No worries there. But I can see that your pupils are unnaturally dilated,” he tells you, using his grip to tilt your head up towards him. Law peers down at you, his analytical eyes making you feel too exposed, too vulnerable, like you were being laid out and intimately dissected. The ghost of his touch lingers after he pulls his hands away, a hot tingle left on your neck. “And your eyes seem glazed over. What are you feeling right now?” 

He asks it like he’s suspicious of something, making you wonder if you’ve been a bit too responsive to his touch. You debate how to answer, because truthfully, you feel lust. It was there before, but as the minutes ticked by, it became something you couldn’t ignore no matter how hard you tried. There was an intimate wanting within you that certainly didn’t need to be vocalized, the distracting wetness between your thighs a symptom you wouldn’t admit to. You decide not to lie, but don’t tell the full truth, either.

“I feel warm,” you begin with a shuddering sigh, struggling to gather your thoughts in such a thick haze. “Like I’m laying under the sun. It’s hard to focus. I feel sensitive, to your touch, to the lights, to the temperature. There’s no pain, it’s almost euphoric in a way, but my body tells me something’s wrong.”

You nearly feel cornered with the way Law looms over you, his palm pressed onto the counter to your right, arm propping himself up as he leans against it. You’re certain he doesn’t mean to be, but his powerful presence is naturally intimidating, golden eyes burning into you. “Let’s narrow this down. Typically, exposure to afflictions occurs within 24 hours before feeling the first symptoms,” he notes. “What were you doing today? Anything out of the ordinary that could be a cause of concern?”

“I spent most the day with the Strawhats,” you recall after some thinking, though you’re sure Law already knew as much. You’d been absent from the Polar Tang for the majority of the evening, finishing your duties early and taking the opportunity to spend some time with Luffy and his crew before their departure to another island tomorrow. “We had dinner together before I came back to the submarine. Sanji cooked some curry. There’s leftovers for you in the kitchen, by the way.” 

“I appreciate it,” Law tells you. “And before that?”

“Bunch of chaos. You know how the Strawhats are. Never a moment of quiet on that crew,” you say, but there’s no disdain to your words. You smile fondly as you remember your day. “Luffy was bored, so we explored the island a little. Usopp and I found this weird fruit that Sanji wanted to cook up, but it splattered all over me while Luffy and Chopper played hot potato with it,” you tell him, shaking your head in amusement. “Before that, it was just my usual routine on a slow day.” 

You stop there, trying to think of more details, but you’re left with a loss of words as another wave of haziness steadily washes over you. Still, it seemed to be enough for Law. He hums in acknowledgement, turning and walking towards a bookshelf situated on the other side of the room. His gaze scans the multitude of medical literature in front of him. After a few seconds of browsing, he stops at a particular book that piques his interest. “This fruit,” he begins, tone laced with curiosity. “What color was it?”

Your brows furrow, confused at what seemed to be an unrelated question. Doctor knows best, you remind yourself, confident in Law’s abilities. “Pink,” you offer, hoping to provide him with the information he seeks. “With swirls of purple.” 

Upon hearing this, Law takes a moment to contemplate in silence before deciding on a book, pulling it out and searching through its contents. “It’s a hunch,” he mutters as he flips through the book, “but I might have an idea of what’s affecting you. Give me a moment.”

His back is turned towards you, giving you the opportunity to drink in every detail of his lithe form. Eyes full of yearning, a heavy gaze drifts from his long legs to toned shoulders, broad back narrowing down to contrast well with the slimness of his waist. The thin fabric of his shirt barely conceals the lean muscles that lie beneath, rippling and contorting ever so slightly as he moves, reminding you of how much strength he holds. 

As he finishes with the book in hand, Law places it back on the shelf and reaches for another. His movements are fluid and controlled, too entrancing to look away. Pages rustle quietly, but the noise grows faint, drifting far from your ears as the thumping of your heartbeat drowns out any slight sound. The daze you’re in deepens while you stare, that same restlessness from before creeping back with new intensity. Your leg begins to bounce with pent up energy as the flare of arousal within you swirls and expands.

There’s no distraction—no medical tests being performed, no questions being asked, the room quiet and growing increasingly warm as inappropriate thoughts and urges consume you. The stillness tests your patience, taunting and mocking, body begging for stimulation. You can feel your thighs pressing together in a desperate attempt for pleasurable friction, moving on their own as you squirm in your seat.

Law pauses his reading, glancing towards you. “You okay?” 

There’s an air of amusement to his words, as if he knew something you didn’t. You look up towards him, but his eyes don’t immediately meet yours. His gaze trails over your body, slow and purposeful, and settles near your thighs for a moment. He glances up to your face, flushed with lips parted in a pant, and casually focuses his attention back to the book he holds. You’re left feeling more tense than before, wondering what exactly he was thinking past that controlled demeanor of his. Palms are fisted at your sides as you gather yourself, steadying your breathing.

“I feel worse,” you admit with a whine, frustration clear in your voice. “Isn’t there something you could give me to tide this over? Some kind of medicine, maybe? I’ll take anything.” 

Law’s response is a measured one, walking back over to you with a book still in hand. “I’m afraid treatment won’t be that easy,” he states as he turns the book towards you. It’s opened on a page with a picture of a fruit you immediately recognize, though you’re unable to decipher the words around it, each letter too muddled together. “I’m assuming this is it?” he asks, watching you. 

“Yes, but… Why does it matter?” 

“Consuming strange fruits is dangerous, much less having them splatter all over you,” Law says, setting the book down on the counter next to you. “Some of them can be poisonous and have a range in severity and symptoms, which results in all kinds of reactions in the body. I’m certain the contact you’ve had with this specific fruit is the cause of what you’re feeling, because the known side effects match up almost perfectly with yours—the sensitivity, warmth, dizziness, trouble focusing. But the most common symptom is one you haven’t admitted to.” 

Law looks at you knowingly. There’s a tint of entertainment to his eye, words dripping with innuendo. Your breath gets caught in your chest at the implication, face reddening as your cheeks fill with blood. Shame wants to deny. You feel an urge to give some kind of excuse or reasoning that insists he’s wrong, that you have no idea what he’s talking about, that you weren’t hiding anything from him. You can’t seem to muster it up. You don’t talk, your mouth opened uselessly in an attempt to defend yourself, but there’s nothing to explain. 

Law’s tone says he’s figured you out, with or without his knowledge of the fruit. Your Captain was a smart man, analytical and observant, and you were an opened book. You should've known he’d be able to read you, your body language in itself spelling out how you truly feel in bold letters and blunt words. Law speaks up again, assuring he sees right through you. “The fruit is a known aphrodisiac. A rather strong one, at that. You’ve been experiencing arousal, haven’t you?” 

An aphrodisiac… Of course it was a fucking aphrodisiac. No other reasoning could explain this intimate heat you felt, the debilitating sensitivity, the sensual haze, the desperate need for something more. Through the fog, everything begins to make sense. Puzzle pieces drift into place upon your doctor’s revelation, and really, you can’t find it in yourself to be surprised. Your body had been begging to be defiled the moment Law put his hands on you.

You’re acutely aware of how embarrassing it is, getting checked out for being inexplicably horny all because some fruit blew up in your face. It borders ridiculous, humiliating, but the root of your shame stems from the fact that these feelings are nothing new. Though amplified, you know the searing ache in your lower belly can’t be blamed on the aphrodisiac alone. Your own bottled up needs and the fruit’s sexual chemical blend together, circumstances concocting into an intoxicating love potion.

Looking into Law’s eyes, the affection and lust that flares in your chest is familiar. It makes you wonder just how much of your current behavior could be attributed to the aphrodisiac’s influence, and how much was simply a reflection of your own suppressed desires. You hope it isn’t apparent, unable to explain yourself without the risk of admitting something deeper is happening beneath the surface. Still, your silence is telling. It’s a simple answer to his question, confirming Law’s suspicions about your symptoms. 

“You should be honest with your doctor. You came to me for help, after all,” he tsks. He points towards a section of the book and taps, though you can’t find it in yourself to focus on the words. “Without proper treatment, the fruit’s effects don’t wear off until about 24 hours after contact. The beginning stages of hours 2 through 8 are the most intense, at least until satisfaction is reached.” His eyes are casted down at you as he practically teases, voice teetering amusement. “It must be unbearable at this point.”

You look away, degenerate arousal swelling within you. You feel more than indecent, reduced to a needy bitch in heat in front of your doctor, your Captain, but that’s exactly what’s so alluring about it. It’s unprofessional, it’s scandalous, it’s obscene and indelicate and forbidden, and it’s addicting. So many nights have you laid in bed just a room away from your Captain, hands drifting between your thighs, unable to think of anything but his fingers down your throat and low voice near your ear. It was liberating in a way, imagining you and Law unable to hold back, willingly breaking unspoken rules just to get a twisted taste of one another.

It ran deeper than simple lust, bordering what could be called love. Whether or not Law felt the same romantic passion, there was still an undeniable connection. Years of trust and loyalty was built from everything the unforgiving seas harshly bestowed. It inflicted wounds that constantly healed, never hurting for too long, the thick scar tissue proof of a strong resilience that couldn’t be broken. On your end, that bond of care and dedication warped into something more intimate, craving a connection that couldn’t be entertained. As captain and subordinate, as doctor and patient, there was a certain level of professionalism that needed to be held, preventing your relationship from developing any further. And yet, your mind always wanders to what it would be like if you two explored feelings that lay just beneath a delicate surface.

You reminded yourself it was a simple fantasy—a foolish, lovesick fantasy, but the lines between want and need began to blur long ago. When you allowed yourself to indulge in the thought of him, you hoped your imagination would suffice, knowing reality wouldn’t catch up. Tension only hit the breaking point. Satisfaction was no longer brought by fantasies, instead leaving you with a deeper craving that a reverie couldn’t relieve. Pent up and starved, you look up at him with pleading eyes, voice a desperate whimper. 

“It aches, Law.” 

He falters. Upon hearing his name laced in a needy whine, Law’s eyes flicker with something unrecognizable for a moment. A certain look you’ve never quite seen from him before paints his sharp features, stoicism shifting into something more responsive and uncontrolled. You struggle to place it, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. Law retreats back to himself, expression and demeanor snapping into its usual composed place.

He looks down at you, unblinking, and crosses his arms over a well defined chest. “Do you have anyone to help satisfy these cravings?” 

It was an invasive yet necessary question; there was a lewd solution, and your doctor needed to know whether or not it was feasible. You think for a moment. Everyone on the Polar Tang was a friend of yours, and while you were certain a few men would be eager for the opportunity to spend a night with you, you saw your relationships with them as too platonic to comfortably indulge in anything sexual. You think of other friends and acquaintances, most of which were miles and miles away. Living on the Grand Line hasn't given much opportunity for relationships to develop, your life always in motion, never settling at one place for long. The only promising outlet were other pirates, your thoughts straying to the Strawhats.

“Sanji.”

Your eyes light up, a solution presenting itself through the cloudy mist in your head. You and Sanji were never exclusive, and probably never would be, but the flirtatious man’s kind gestures and sweet words brought a faint air of romantic tension between the two of you. It certainly wasn’t the kind of passion you had when thinking about Law, but stolen glances and lingering touches told you there was a desire Sanji felt.

Though he was a gentleman in most moments, lust was still apparent. Sanji was always unable to hold back visceral reactions whenever he saw you in suggestive contexts, perversion leaking through nosebleeds and heart shaped pupils. A hunger practically radiated from him, leaving you with no doubt that he’d be happy to serve had he known the predicament you were in. You stumble into a quick stand in eagerness, but a sudden hand on your chest pushes you back down onto your seat. 

“Sanji’s not a doctor, is he?” 

It practically comes out as a growl. You look up towards Law in surprise, his expression fierce and eyes firm as he leans over you. His hand is steady on the middle of your chest, resting right above your breasts. You’re certain he can feel the thumping of your heart, pulse growing faster as he imposes. His gaze stays on yours for a few moments. The tense silence between you two feels like a warning before he finally moves back. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in, your hand moving in longing to rub at the tingling skin he was just in contact with. 

“You need proper medical attention,” he says as he straightens up, almost as if to gather himself. “Judging from your reactions alone, the dosage of the fruit must’ve been high. And considering you’ve gone without treatment for a few hours now, the effects are at their peak,” he tells you. “To be blunt, I don’t trust a quick fuck or even masturbation will help tide you over. You need something more… involved.” 

His suggestive words cause a fuse to short circuit in your brain, flustered by what he implies. Dancing around the solution, he leaves much to an overactive imagination, possible scenarios instantly invading your thoughts as your blood runs hot. He isn’t wrong. With a yearning that bordered delirium, you doubted you’d reach satisfaction with a simple orgasm. No—your body demanded something consuming, something ruining, something that’d be intense enough to sate the raw desire enveloping you. Your doctor knew what you needed, perhaps better than you did. He had what you needed. 

Desperate for a cure, you look up at him with pleading eyes and a breathless voice. “What do you suggest?” 

Law smiles, lips curling upward in an amused grin. “I want you to lay on the examination table, and allow me to carry out a more thorough exam, along with treatment. As your doctor, I plan to help relieve your symptoms by whatever means necessary. I’m certain you understand what that implies, so I want you to consider—“

You didn’t need to consider. At this point, rationality and logic weren’t something you could pretend to concern yourself with, lucidity stripped away by simple needs. Desire consumed, overshadowing reason, leaving no room for hesitation or doubt. It wasn’t a question of if, or should, or why—it was how and when, consequences be damned. Potential repercussions were an afterthought, not holding any weight in comparison to desperate hunger. It was reckless abandonment of reason and complete surrender to passion, heat of the moment and thrill of the thought too exhilarating to pass up. 

An array of suppressed emotions finally have permission to take over as your Captain offers his solution. You can practically feel the wave of relief that washes over you, tense muscles becoming relaxed and languid, demeanor loosening upon a refreshing freedom of released cravings. A blend of primal instinct and intimate longing has your body reacting immediately upon being given the green light. You effectively cut Law off, shakily rising to your feet and stumbling towards him in loopy eagerness.

“I see you’ve already made your decision,” he hums with a hint of satisfaction, almost sounding impressed. Muscled arms are quick to catch you, holding you to a padded chest to keep you from falling. The embrace is familiar, reminiscent of when you latched onto him for support earlier that night, but it feels entirely different. There’s no wall between you two, no chains holding you back, no reason for you to lie or deny. The secret knot inside your core, a sacred place between the fibers of your heart and the wall of your lungs, finally unravels underneath Law’s fingertips. 

It’s certainly not appropriate. Though the forbidden affection goes against the air of formality that has always hung between you two, the moment feels right. Despite a tentative past and risky future, the present stills to its own purposeful serendipity. Your body slots with his, clicking into place in a way that belongs. As you bury your face in the crook of Law’s neck, his hand resting on the back of your head, a distant thought wonders if he feels the same. 

The weight of the sentiment is heavy, but you can’t seem to give it much attention, losing grip on sobriety and cognition. Yearning takes over, making you frantically grind your hips against Law’s leg in wild want. Undressing doesn’t occur to you. You’re too caught up in a mindless fixation for relief, fully clothed and frotting. Nipping at his skin, you revel in his taste, salty-sweet from the sweat of his evening workout and the mist of the sea.

His voice reverberates against you, a low purr mixed with curiosity and mischief, further fueled by an entertained smirk. “You must be eager, having to wait all this time.”

As if to prove his words, Law pushes his leg up, encouraging an addictive friction between your thighs. It’s the first semblance of pleasure you’ve felt all night, quickly yanking out a sharp gasp of a moan from a tight throat, your knees weak and wobbly upon the exhilarating contact. The sensation echoes throughout your body, an aching throb settling into your heart. You hastily grind down on him to chase the pressure, relying on Law’s strength to keep you upright while you practically use the man to get off. 

You barely register the way you’re panting, tongue hanging slightly from your mouth with drool beginning to slide down your lips. It leaves a glossy smear, slowly traveling down your chin and onto a sensitive neck. You swear you must be going cross-eyed, vision starting to blur, losing yourself in the erratic motions, focused on nothing but your Captain. The sight is obscene, the whiny little whimpers and moans that fill the room equally vulgar. It’s a purely sinful indulgence. Hedonism is stripped to its rawest form, and yet, it’s not enough. 

You’re compelled to draw in his breath closer and closer until it mingles with yours. You drag your lips higher up his neck to his jaw, pausing dangerously close to his mouth. You look up at him, eyes round and begging in a wordless plea for more, but Law only pulls you away by your hair. The motion elicits a whine of protest from you. Before you can question, in a gesture of comfort, Law’s thumb wipes away the needy tears you didn’t notice were beading at your eyes. You’re silent as you melt into his own, lost in the golden glint, finding that the once unrecognizable look in his gaze is now a distinctive lust. 

“Don’t worry,” your doctor assures. “I’ll make it all better.”

[yannaryartside]

Claire and her patients

And why I think she may harm Carmen

It’s incredible how many stories told by Claire about her interactions with injured people are disturbing in close up. I honestly need someone to put a name to it (like clinical one) because so far, it's just disturbing.

In S3, I thought the show was doing a number that made me see her process the pain after the breakup and work helping others through it. I cared about that; I did. It is difficult not to root for someone in pain. But then it got bizarre the more medical scenes we had. Mainly the one where she committed malpractice

The lacking

When she was telling the story about the girl with a million cuts, you know, a kid she almost killed because of a medical error (one that was actually totally preventable) there are so many things wrong with it. Some audience members have stated that scene was to show that “Claire is not perfect,” but that shit didn’t have that effect on me at all. It was a relief to see other people felt this way, some in this fandom even said it was so unnatural it made them laugh. And I am curious about why that is.

From the beginning, the lack of guilt surrounding the incident has been glaring for me. It's not like we see her break down crying or be afraid of what Carmy is going to think of her as a doctor. She committed malpractice, mistake or not. Doctors go out of business for things that they cannot prevent. They are not ashamed of their work; they are ashamed of the result. That harmed somebody.

I watched a lot of medical-related shit (as I assume most people do). The character Joan Watson in Elementary stopped working as a doctor thoroughly after losing one (1) patient over something she could not predict or prevent. A medical board gave her permission to work, but it was still not enough. She was so afraid of hurting someone else and was so ashamed that she was manipulated by the son of his deceased patient to give him money. In “The West Wing,” Abbey Bartlett was a doctor before being the First Lady, and she had an incident in an operation that resulted in the death of her patient (an infection that got complicated). She defended her work, she is possitive she didn’t make a mistake and we are inclined to believe that because we have seen her character admit to her faults before.

There was no shame in Claire. You can process your emotions however you want, but it would make more sense even if you were defensive. Why did she tell that story…as she was also the victim? Maybe the fact that the story relates to malpractice makes it difficult to say it without sounding bad, but there were better ways to make her empathetic than suspicious.

“I was slammed,” as she could ever justify a mistake as stupid as the one she made. I know understaffing hospitals is a serious issue, and overworked doctors can make stupid mistakes, but she didn’t say things like “I should have seen it” or “I have nightmares about it.” And she told it in a way that seemed like she was expecting Carmy to understand it wasn’t her fault. Even if it wasn’t, doctors would carry guilt about malpractice and the harm they were accomplices of, even if literally no divine intervention could have made a difference. By not allowing Claire this very normal emotion, you are setting her apart to the audience members who are paying attention.

The warning

And then, somehow, the story is more about how young and beautiful her patient was…I am sorry, but that almost felt… fetishizing? It reminded me of those poems people made online about having a story of self-harming: “She was so beautiful in her scars.” Maybe that’s me stretching it.

She also keeps telling the stories of what caused the injuries in the first place, and not ironically, is always people doing something risky/stupid in the first place. She is never seen taking care of a bullet wound or a severe illness suddenly worsening. It’s always people putting their lives at risk.

And that’s an element that terrifies me, thinking of who Carmy is and his gif above. He has self-harming hallucinations, sometimes in the middle of dangerous situations, and his mental condition prevents him from reacting accordingly. He is absent as if he was hight/drunk, but it is his mental illness. It may even be tied to a suicidal underline.

And then you hear this story about a girl that got almost killed by Claire’s negligence; in that moment, she needed help getting better because she had an accident. She was not able to prevent her injury. She was also drunk when it happened, so she had no equipment to react accordingly. She is the equivalent of Carmen.

I need help thinking it is supposed to be a coincidence. These writers are not stupid, even if you could justify how Claire is written as saying, “Carmy is supposed to be in love with the simple” (which is such a lame excuse. People can be simple and interesting).

Wouldn’t it be cruel in hindsight to make Carmy’s true love the one person who also has a story of harming people in similar conditions of danger that he had?

I would like to quote something I read about the scene that introduces us to Claire, the story of “why” she wanted to be a doctor. In most medical-related media, these events tend to be very traumatic to the character, “I lost my mother to cancer and wanted to prevent other people from feeling that pain” “I had to watch my friend dying because she was bleeding and I couldn’t do nothing” is always about preventing someone’s harm, because of empathy. Then you have Claire’s story, quoting This fucking excellent post by

@habaritess

“The graphic injury made her want to understand it. Let that sink in. The other kids were disturbed by the injury and, no doubt, also by the cries of the injured girl. Claire wasn’t. She was mentally disconnected from the scene because her empathy wasn't activated.”(...) She looks at people as a thing to analyze, and she does so in order to get what she wants from them"

I firmly believe this. Shout out to this post by @gingergofastboatsmojito talking about Claire being a benign narcissist. She has created a narrative about herself, and that's why she seems too eager to help people who cannot fend for themselves, people who are sad, lost, and hurt, because she feels her value in it. Heartbreak doesn't make it look cute. That's just another magic trick.

And the worst part, she may be a good doctor 80% of the time, but if you have this incident, there is the possibility that it has happened more than once. Like wtf, she said she was good at “taking care of sad drunk people,” but the moment she had a drunk patient, she actually was unable to provide good care for her. She actively made the situation worse. Her mistake could have been fatal. And she related the whole thing, mentioning how beautiful she was before her accident and how it was so amusing she laughed after because she couldn’t feel the pain. She told that shit like it was amusing. Idk, I have never heard a doctor talking like that.

And now we have a whole season of Carmy thinking Claire is the solution for his happiness, the missing piece, and whatnot. This is unnerving. He will run for her at full speed, call her in a time of need/crisis, and then what? Would Claire's interest/lack of empathy would be finally revealed? Will she steer Carmy in an ever worse direction?