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wildestdreamsblog · 8 months ago

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Latibule Season 2: III

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader (Mafia/Detective AU)

Summary: In which he lost his latibule.

Warnings: Secret Identity, Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Violence, Mention of death, Disability, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: As promised :) Leave a comment or reblog if you enjoy!

GIF by urmingirl

Masterlist, Latibule 2.II

Taehyung looked up from his cellphone to his eldest hyung that was currently cooking their dinner. He pouted when he was not given the appropriate amount of attention he should be given. Honestly, he deserved it! After a moment when he still did not get what he wanted, he finally asked the question he had been dying to know the answer to.

“Hyung, is it always like that?”

“Hmm? Like what, Tae?” he asked while chopping diligently the vegetables the renowned doctor was preparing for a certain psychologist and his brothers that insisted they were hungry as well.

“When it ends…does it always hurt like that?”

Seokjin blinked at Taehyung’s unprompted question. He paused before he finally brought his eyes to the actor. He knew that the younger man had always been eccentric. His clinical condition definitely explained his behavior, but not this. He was never curious about the emotions he couldn’t feel, nor did he ever show any interest on understanding emotions. As the years passed by, Kim Taehyung got better at masking and pretending by learning the root causes of the emotions he could see. The brothers had always thought that this was precisely why he chose to be an actor. Everytime they watched him cried, laughed, or acted furious for his movies and dramas, they thought he was a different person.

Jin thought it was just understandable why he dropped the knife he was holding.

“What brought this on?”

“He-“ he lifted his mobile phone to show Jin the picture Jimin snapped of their Yoongi hyung looking like he had lost all his will to live. Taehyung found it so ridiculous that Jimin even made a collage of him and a cat that depicted their hyung. “-looks like breathing is a chore and is only fighting to live so he can end his enemies.”

Jin would have laughed had this happened before he met his sunshine. But now, the mere thought of her leaving set him on edge, and he knew he would be similar to Yoongi if not worse. Slowly, he picked up his knife as he carefully chose his words. He was always like this with Taehyung ever since he knew that something was not quite right in his mind, well…more than any of them, to be honest. The younger man took things at face value, and all the brothers knew to talk in a straightforward manner so there wouldn’t be any confusion on Taehyung’s part.

He kidded you not, once when they were still teenagers, they asked him to go ahead and get them a table in a restaurant. He left without any qualms only to return not an hour later carrying a big ass table from a restaurant. That was a horrifying memory, Jin thought, and that was when they all decided to change the way they talked. It was Namjoon that took it too far and enrolled the man in a body language class to better cope with society. However, it was Jungkook that forced him to take psychology classes with him for fun.

“I think it’s different,” Jin started, busying himself once again with cooking. “Yoongi never has love like that, I guess. It’s understandable that he acts like a sad lonely cat.”

Seokjin could still clearly remember how Yoongi looked at you. It was like you were all he ever wanted and more, like you were his reprieve from the darkness in his life. You were, as he called you, an angel to him. And then he lost you.

“Why?”

“Well…she’s his personal slice of heaven,” he answered, his voice contemplative and understanding of what Yoongi was going through. Jin paused in his chopping, a thoughtful expression crossing his features as he carefully considered his words. “And he’s been living in hell the very moment he was born. What do you think would happen if he was given a taste of heaven and then lost it?”

“Just like Hoseok hyung,” Taehyung nodded, slightly understanding the downfall of these strong men.

“Seriously, you are all worse than the ahjummas who love to talk about other people’s lives. Be better than that, guys,” Kim Namjoon observed with his deadpanned voice as soon as he walked in the kitchen. He took in the scene of the two men conversing and the other man quietly eating the snack Jin prepared him.

Jin scoffed as he rolled his eyes at Namjoon. “As if you wouldn’t react like that when your secretary finally resigns.”

To which, Namjoon only smirked. “Who says she can leave?”

“How will you stop her and her son if the father finally shows up?”

Namjoon, with his hand in his pocket, calmly uttered words that no normal people would believe to have any other meaning. “Well, as you said, the dead don’t exactly come back to life, do they?”

Jin chuckled at Namjoon. Of course, he did something about that man. It was apparent, he thought. He could still vividly remember the look in Namjoon’s eyes when he told him that his secretary was pregnant and that the asshole of a father even put his hands on her. Suffice to say, it was the most unhinged Namjoon ever was.

“I think Namjoon will be the worst among us if he ever loses the love of his life,” Jin noted with lightness in his voice.

“Nah,” Jungkook finally lifted his head from his bowl. “I sincerely think it’ll be Taehyung.”

The conversation never left Jeon Jungkook’s mind. Anyway, he didn’t need anyone to tell him to do this. He did this out of the bond he shared with his brothers. Had this happened to any among them, he would have done the same.

He thought that it was cruel to let them experience the same hell he had been living every single day.

And so, he worked tirelessly and utilized every available technology and connection he had just to look for Yoongi’s angel. When he said she was alive, when he said he felt in his heart that you could have not gone where he couldn’t follow, then he’d believed him. He wouldn’t lose anything by looking for you, Jungkook rationalized. But he didn’t want to unnecessarily get his brother’s hopes up until he had evidence that you were indeed alive.

One morning, it finally happened. There you were.

Jungkook’s eyes could not have gone any bigger as he watched the CCTV of a far province in his office.

That was you, he was sure.

Without a moment's hesitation, he reached for his phone and dialed the person he knew he could trust. "Hyung, can you come to my office?" he requested urgently, the excitement and disbelief evident in his voice.

“That’s her,” Kim Namjoon validated after a moment. He was standing beside Jungkook’s seated form as he leaned in the monitor. He was ever the image of calmness with his hand in his pocket, his suit immaculate and not a crease in sight.

Seokjin raised his brows as he sat in a relaxed manner on the couch. Jungkook didn’t even call him, yet he was here because he was, per his words, bored and that a certain sunshine was not where she should be. “So the dead can indeed come back to life,” he noted with a tone the two men couldn’t understand. “Pray tell, Namjoon-ah. Should we tell Yoongi?”

Jungkook blinked at the rising tension between the two men. Whereas Jin merely looked curious, Namjoon looked like he was looking at the end of the sword with the way his jaw was clenched. He stood up straight and took a second to answer Seokjin.

“Of course, hyung. This is a great news, after all.”

“Hmm,” Seokjin smirked, his legs crossed as though nothing could have fazed him. It was moment like this when Jungkook could see the mafia prince in his usually playful hyung. Everybody knew not to cross this man despite him appearing goofy and motherlike to them.

Jungkook thought that it would only take one momentous catastrophe for him to return to his dark persona. He didn’t want to see that, though.

“He’s suffered enough, right?” Jin asked the room with a light tone, yet his eyes pierced through Namjoon’s. “Right, Namjoon-ah?”

Seven Mississippis passed before he answered. Jungkook knew because he counted, and he hated the tension he didn’t know why was present.

“Jungkook, tell Yoongi hyung,” Namjoon ordered.

—-

Min Yoongi’s brows were pulled together as he walked in a bustling street of a faraway province. He had to drive almost four hours just because their maknae told him to be here at this exact hour, claiming that he desperately needed him to be there. However, Jungkook was not answering his phone despite numerous calls from him.

Where was even that little shit, Yoongi asked himself as he surveyed the whole place.

Despite barely getting any sleep, he found himself in a situation where he might have to scold his youngest brother for the first time. He should have been in Seoul right now, but he couldn’t exactly say no to him. He had shit ton of things to do and yet he was indulging the youngest brother.

Maybe this was exactly why he was spoiled? Ah, but anyway, he was a good kid.

So where was he?!

He walked further into the thick of the plaza, his phone plastered in his ear as he listened to the annoying and incessant ringback tone of Jungkook. Seriously, at this day and age? His eyes roamed the area of happy locals, at which he rolled his eyes.

He was on the verge of deciding whether he should just go ahead and kill Jungkook when he finally answered.

��Where the fuck are you?” he growled over the other line, his patience running thin when the man just answered innocently.

“At Seoul, hyung-“

“Then why am I here?! I swear to heavens, if you made me drive here just to buy you a weird snack then I’ll really kill you!”

“Seokjin hyung will be mad!”

Right. The eldest was protective of the youngest. What a nuisance, he thought. “Then I’ll do it in secret.”

Jungkook chuckled nervously. He couldn’t place whether he was joking or not. His money was that if his hyung could get away with it, he’d be floating in the river at this very moment. “I asked you to go there because I have a surprise for you, hyung.”

“I don’t particularly enjoy surprises-” he began, but was swiftly interrupted.

“I know, I know. But this one, I’m sure you’ll like. This is the most beautiful, most precious, most amazing surprise ever. You’ll stop sulking and looking like a sad cat and Jimin hyung will finally stop taking badly captured and cropped photos of you and make it into a collage. Taehyung hyung will stop observing your miserable demeanor for his next movie. You’ll finally stop living like it’s such a chore and-“

His back was bumped by a force. Turning around, he prepared to glare at the perpetrator only to stop because there it was.

There was you.

It was as if the universe finally said that he had enough and stopped punishing him because he saw you when he was not even looking for you. Your mouth hanged agape, your hand going to your forehead as you murmured apologies to him.

He was stunted. No, he was bewildered.

Was this real? Or was this one of his cruel dreams again, a figment of his mind playing tricks on him?

But no.

He had been living in hell, yet moment he heard your voice, all the sufferings disappeared. This was really you. You were truly alive. He was frozen as his wildest dream was brought into life. His whole body went into a state of shock, something that he never thought could ever happen.

It didn’t really matter the years he spent without you because one touch, one word- these were all it took for him to forget the bitterness your separation brought him.

With a trembling voice, Yoongi dared to call for you. “Ange-”

But before he could say another word, you interrupted, your voice light and apologetic.

“I’m really sorry, mister. I didn’t see you,” you chuckled, slightly lifting your walking stick to explain the small accident. You bowed down at the man before going your way.

And he stood there, watching as the love of his life walked away from him, unseeing. He thought he could no longer hurt. He thought that nothing could have fazed him any longer. But he was wrong. Watching you walked, unseeing as you traversed the plaza with only your walking stick pained him.

How did this happen to you?

Was it because of the incident?

Was that why you couldn’t return to him? Because you weren’t able to?

Or did he miss all the glaring signs?

Slowly, he lifted the old phone you gifted him years ago to his ear. “You didn’t stop looking for her?”

Jungkook was quiet for a moment. “Well…I would never wish this hell on anyone, much less my brother,” he stated, his voice carrying a certain tone of sadness they often heard from him. “Go get her, hyung.”

The bustling city streets faded into a blur around you as you walked, your steps slow and deliberate despite the cacophony of noise that surrounded you. Your sight may have been almost gone, but your other senses seemed to have sharpened in response, each sound and scent painting a vivid picture in his mind.

You remembered that when you were younger, you read a passage from a book entitled, ‘The Song of Achilles’. You thought it was a well-written book, a love that transcended even death. There was a line your college friends always thought to be a masterpiece. But you never understood it. The line so many people loved never really touched you.

Until it did.

Until you understood each word written in that book.

“I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.”

Because right now, the words made sense. You could recognize him despite your deteriorating eyesight. You knew him. He was here. And he was following you…to what exactly? Was he here to end you? Was he here to make sure that you wouldn’t tell the world of his secret identity?

Regardless of the reason, you tried to remain calm as Hoseok always ordered you to. You had no choice but to lead him back home, otherwise you were sure that he would be suspicious. The man that you used to love was perceptive, and any suspicious movements could alert him. From the moment you opened the front door to the time you closed it, you knew you only had a couple of seconds.

You fished the phone Hoseok gave you, one with tactile buttons and controls that made it easier for you to use it. You knew you couldn’t use the speech-to-text feature, otherwise he’d hear. And so, with a tense movement, you sent a message to him.

He’s here. Don’t come home. Leave with my son.

Part IV

#bts fic #yandere bts #bts fanfic #bts yandere #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi fic #min yoongi x y/n #mafia bts fic #yandere min yoongi #suga x y/n

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wooziorgans · 2 months ago

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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.

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thedensworld · 10 months ago

Text

Ten Years| J.Ww

Pairing: Wonwoo x Reader

Genre: angst, established relationship, My Demon references

Words count: 2k

Summary: In hospital Wonwoo is a doctor, and back to house he is your husband. However, your sudden conditions make him choose.

Wonwoo had just finished attending to one of the recent patients who arrived at the emergency room with a fractured left leg. The chaotic atmosphere was a constant in the emergency room, with patients flooding in throughout the day. It had only been four hours into his shift, and Wonwoo had already cared for more than twenty individuals, each presenting a unique set of medical challenges.

Amidst the persistent hustle, another emergency call suddenly disrupted the relative calm around Wonwoo. As he stood near the phone, his attention was torn from the medical charts to the urgent message. It wasn't unusual to receive information in advance, but the unusual silence from the nurse prompted him to lift his head in curiosity. The nurse, her eyes widened, stared at him, seemingly struggling to find words. Wonwoo, sensing something amiss, mouthed a quiet "why?" before the distant sound of sirens slowly crept closer to the emergency room.

Before he could take another step toward the entrance, Kim Mingyu, his best friend and fellow doctor, halted him breathlessly. Wonwoo stood in shock, witnessing Mingyu's horrified gaze fixed upon him.

"Wonwoo, don't," Mingyu pleaded urgently, diverting his attention to the ambulance that had just arrived. Wonwoo, unable to discern the situation, brushed him aside; the patient's well-being demanded his immediate focus. He approached the ambulance determinedly, with Mingyu desperately chasing after him, attempting to impede his progress.

As the ambulance doors swung open, nurses swiftly mobilized to transfer the patient to the bed. Mingyu gripped Wonwoo, his voice strained. "Don't go closer, Wonwoo."

Ignoring Mingyu's plea, Wonwoo pressed forward. The harsh reality unfolded before him as he witnessed your bloodied form being moved onto the cart. Frozen in place, he struggled to comprehend the gravity of the situation, his best efforts to maintain composure slipping away.

"Ji Y/n, on her thirties, three stab wounds," a nurse reported clinically. Wonwoo's gaze remained fixed on you, lying lifelessly on the bed, the weight of the moment sinking in. The air was thick with tension and fear as the medical team rushed to address the critical condition before them.

Wonwoo struggled to process the unfolding nightmare. His wife, now in the hospital with three stab wounds, left him grappling with the unknown origin of the attack.

Mingyu, though visibly shaken himself, offered a grim explanation – you had fallen victim to random acts of violence occurring in South Korea. In the midst of the chaotic emergency room, Mingyu assured Wonwoo that he would personally oversee your critical situation.

As Wonwoo, his hands trembling, tried to catch a glimpse of you amidst the medical flurry, Mingyu stepped up to provide much-needed support. "I'll make sure she receives the best care, Wonwoo. Stay strong."

With a nod, Wonwoo expressed a plea to the nurse team, his voice quivering, "She's pregnant; please be careful." His eyes remained fixed on you as they moved you towards the operating room, each step an agonizing moment for Wonwoo, who felt a profound sense of helplessness in the face of the unexpected tragedy.

In the tense confines of the hospital waiting room, the atmosphere was thick with worry as doctors assessed the severity of the stab wounds. Mingyu, amidst the chaos, approached Wonwoo with a grave expression.

"The stab wounds were serious, but we caught it in time. There's a chance of survival, but it will be a tough road ahead," Mingyu conveyed, his eyes reflecting the gravity of the situation. Wonwoo's heart sank, his concern for you intensifying.

Meanwhile, Wonwoo couldn't shake the deep worry for both you and the life growing within you. The impending uncertainty surrounding the baby's well-being added an extra layer of anxiety to an already distressing situation. Each passing moment felt like an eternity, and Wonwoo found himself grappling with the fear of the unknown, desperately hoping for positive news.

In the midst of the turmoil, your parents arrived at the hospital, their faces etched with concern. The president of Jis University Hospital and his spouse, usually figures of authority and composure, now revealed the vulnerability of worried parents. They approached Wonwoo, their shared concern uniting them in a moment of shared anxiety.

As the hospital corridors echoed with the hushed conversations of doctors and the beeping of machines, your fate and that of the precious life you carried hung in the balance, leaving Wonwoo and your parents anxiously awaiting any sign of hope from the operating room.

Despite the stark contrast in your chosen paths, fate wove an unexpected connection between you and Wonwoo. You, the daughter of Jis University Hospital's president, embarked on a journey in law, deviating from the medical legacy of your family. Wonwoo, on the other hand, had been one of your father's standout students, carving his niche in the medical field.

The intertwining of your lives unfolded when both of you decided to volunteer at a Cancer Foundation. The shared commitment to a cause greater than yourselves became the bridge that brought you together. Wonwoo's dedication and compassion in treating patients mirrored your own passion for justice and advocacy as a lawyer.

Three years ago, just two weeks after your first encounter, a horrifying incident unfolded. A client, disgruntled by a legal outcome, attacked you, resulting in a fractured shoulder. Fate intervened, leading you to the very hospital where Wonwoo worked. He became your attending doctor, tending not only to your physical wounds but unknowingly laying the foundation for a deeper connection.

In those challenging days of recovery, Wonwoo's empathy and care became a source of solace. The hospital visits evolved into shared laughter, and a bond blossomed between patient and doctor. It was a turning point, marking the beginning of a relationship neither of you could have anticipated.

Fast forward to the hospital's 15th-anniversary celebration, where the spark between you and Wonwoo reignited. Amidst the festive atmosphere, you found yourselves engaged in conversation, exchanging subtle flirtations that hinted at the unspoken connection between you two. However, the celebration took an unexpected turn when Wonwoo was urgently summoned for an emergency surgery.

As he excused himself, he locked eyes with you, a promise lingering in the air. "I'll meet you again after the surgery," he assured, his words carrying a commitment that surpassed the casual banter of the evening.

At midnight, a series of urgent knocks jolted you awake, only to discover a weary Wonwoo at your doorstep. "I asked Mingyu about your place," he mumbled, weariness evident in his eyes. The mention of your cousin, Kim Mingyu, left an air of mystery lingering in the room.

In a vulnerable moment, Wonwoo found himself torn when asked to sign a paper for your surgery. He wished to choose both you and the unborn child, but the harsh reality of the world intervened. The doctor overseeing your surgery delivered a grim verdict – a choice had to be made, and it was impossible for all two of you to survive. Your first trimester, still on a precarious edge, made the situation even more dire.

As you lay on the brink, losing precious blood that jeopardized both your life and the pregnancy, the doctor's solemn words hung in the air. "We need to sacrifice the baby, Dr. Jeon," he asserted, thrusting Wonwoo into a heart-wrenching dilemma.

For nearly two years, you and Wonwoo had fervently tried to conceive. Months before finally succeeding, you took a temporary leave from work, both of you eager and serious about embracing parenthood. That morning, you shared breakfast with Wonwoo, a newfound routine since leaving your job, radiating vibrancy. Little did you know, it would be the last carefree morning for a while.

During breakfast, plans for your day unfolded, with a lunch visit to a friend's bakery and a proposal for a cozy dinner at your favorite Italian restaurant. Wonwoo enthusiastically agreed, nodding his head in anticipation.

However, as the night unfolded, the joyous prospect of dinner turned into an unimaginable ordeal. Wonwoo found himself unable to fathom the idea of a simple dinner, haunted by the agonizing decision that awaited him at the hospital. Dinner plans shattered, replaced by the weight of an impending choice that would alter your lives forever.

Your condition deteriorated rapidly in the days following the surgery, prompting a transfer to the ICU. Wonwoo, seasoned in facing numerous medical challenges, found his usually steady hands clenched in despair. The grim reality unfolded – it seemed nearly impossible for you to survive in your critical state.

Mingyu, having discussed the delicate matter of abortion with Wonwoo, acknowledged the weight of the decision. He empathetically stated, "There has never been an easy decision from the first place," a reminder of the gravity of your precarious condition. Wonwoo, however, shook his head, unable to bring himself to make the agonizing choice.

"I just can't, Mingyu. I just can't," Wonwoo uttered, his internal struggle palpable.

"But you have to choose, Wonwoo. Do you want to put her in a more critical condition?" Mingyu pressed, emphasizing the urgency of the decision.

Three critical stabs had wounded your vital organs, and although the surgery was deemed successful, the unexpected internal bleeding cast a shadow over your recovery. The doctor who attended to you recommended aborting the baby, foreseeing the challenges it posed to your healing process. Yet, Wonwoo hesitated, unwilling to sign the abortion papers. He knew all too well that your instincts would align with his – a fierce desire to protect the unborn child, despite the grim reality that surrounded both you and your baby.

Lost in his thoughts, Wonwoo was startled when a stranger quietly took a seat beside him. Turning to face the unexpected company, he found the mysterious figure closely observing you through the window. "I can fulfill your wish," the stranger declared calmly, his presence sending a shiver down Wonwoo's spine.

Brows furrowed, Wonwoo questioned, "Who are you?" The stranger, with an eerie calmness, revealed, "I'm a demon. I can turn human wishes into reality." Wonwoo dismissed it, urging the mysterious figure to leave, suspecting a cruel game.

To Wonwoo's astonishment, the man produced a roll of paper, seemingly conjured from thin air with a spark of fire. As it unfolded, he offered a tempting proposition, "I can make the baby survive, and also your wife." The roll revealed contractual terms, symbolizing the gravity of the offer.

A smile played on the demon's lips as he proudly presented the conditions, "However, you could only live for ten years. You could only see them in ten years." Wonwoo, torn and desperate, shifted his gaze to you. In a hushed whisper, he asked, "Are they not gonna make it?"

The demon, seemingly unperturbed, conjured another roll, claiming, "Wait. Lemme check." As he read the ethereal text, he revealed an unsettling truth, "Your wife is going to have a heart attack in fifteen minutes. You won't be able to see her until tomorrow; she'll collapse." Wonwoo's lips tightened, wrestling with the weight of impending tragedy.

Seeking assurance, Wonwoo questioned the demon, "Can you really make them survive?" The man nodded, presenting the contractual sign. Floating in the air, it became a tangible representation of the choices before Wonwoo. Determination filled his voice as he uttered, "Please. Grant my wishes.

The demon, with a sinister smile, accepted, "Alright..." The unfolding events carried an air of impending consequence, as Wonwoo made a pact that would alter the course of his life and those he held dear.

Ten years ago, you made deal with the demon.

You have counting your life.

And the day is about to come.

To Wonwoo,

If you read this letter, I might not be here anymore. I just want to tell you that I love you, and I'm really grateful that I met you. It might be weird to you, but I did expect that I'm gonna leave first. So don't be too sad. Please continue your life peacefully.

I love you xx

02/11/2023

As the ink on the heartfelt message dried, the letter was consumed by flames.

The letter was burnt.

***

February 14th, 2013, marked a miraculous event at JIS University Hospital. The president, who had been in a coma following a massive car accident, astonishingly awoke. The hospital corridors buzzed with whispers of the inexplicable recovery, a twist of fate that left both staff and patients in awe. The air was charged with a sense of wonder and disbelief, as if a force beyond comprehension had intervened in the natural course of events.

#densworld🌼#seventeen fanfic #seventeen imagines #seventeen angst #seventeen scenarios #seventeen series #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen imagine #seventeen fic #seventeen drabbles #seventeen fluff #wonwoo fic #wonwoo oneshot #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo series #wonwoo ff #wonwoo scenarios

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defectivehero · 16 days ago

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@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Trail of Blood

warnings: blood, injury

"Well then."

The detective flinches at the familiar voice, dread and fear running through them as their eyes fall to the figure standing at the mouth of the alleyway. They attempt to push themselves up into a better position, but their limbs don't cooperate. The gashes across their body—coupled with the worrying bullet wound in their abdomen—prevents them from moving. Their teeth are chattering and they blink stars from their eyes as their enemy approaches. "How-?" The words die in their throat.

Yet the supervillain comprehends what they're trying to say anyway. They take a few more casual steps closer. "You left a trail." The supervillain then answers matter-of-factly, pointing back to the mouth of the alley. Indeed, there's a discernible path of crimson stains leading to their current position.

"Ah," the detective remarks. They dazedly look down at their trembling form, an ugly realization settling at the pit of their stomach as they see the slowly expanding puddle of blood beneath them.

"Yes." The supervillain hums. "It's really rather ironic. You of all people should know better."

The detective just blinks blearily. They suppose that's true. Then again, they're not usually the victim in these scenarios. The detective is typically the uninvolved third party who appears after the damage is done, relegated to making sense of the evidence left behind.

Their enemy is unperturbed by the detective's silence, instead continuing to speak. "So, what's your plan?" They ask. With another step, they're close enough for the detective to see the expression on their face—an unfamiliar one that appears to be a puzzling mix of irritation and something the detective is too afraid to name.

Then they remember the question. "Die, I guess." The detective mutters.

The supervillain huffs a dry laugh, studying them for several moments. They seem to be cataloguing the detective's injuries. "You'll live." They state with an almost clinical boredom.

"Thanks." The detective responds flatly. For a while, there's nothing but silence. The supervillain hasn't budged or moved a muscle in the time they've spent in tense quiet. "What?" The detective eventually chokes out impatiently.

"Just waiting for you to ask for my assistance." The supervillain hums. The detective glares at them for a long moment. Their enemy only scuffs their boot in the gravel below, seemingly more interested in the pebbles on the ground than the matter at hand.

A sudden prickling shame runs down their skin. The detective grits their teeth. "I'll just-" They murmur to themself, slowly straightening their posture through the nearly blinding pain.

"Just... what, exactly?" The supervillain's acerbic voice cuts through the detective's thoughts. "Crawl to the nearest hospital? It's more than three miles away. Should take you a good several hours. Or a few days, depending on your speed." They respond with a bored tone, holding up their hand and picking at their nails. The supervillain's casual demeanor is infuriating.

"Are you- just here to state the obvious?" The detective chokes out, their tongue feeling thick in their mouth. Did they appear just to witness the spectacle?

"You know me," the supervillain shrugs magnanimously. At the detective's glare, they smile. "I'm the helpful type."

The detective groans in annoyance and refocuses their effort on moving forward. They don't get past a slightly more mobile sitting position before there's a hand on their shoulder.

"Alright, enough," the supervillain announces, their grip strong enough to shake the detective out of their determined state "You're just embarrassing yourself. It's pathetic, seriously."

The detective is too exhausted to notice the concern hidden in their enemy's tone or the concentrated furrow to their brows. They growl and attempt to shove the supervillain away, but their enemy is inexplicably persistent. Within moments, the supervillain is gathering them up into their arms with minimal effort. The detective’s head is spinning at the sudden change in momentum. Were they in a slightly better state, they'd be envious of the supervillain's casual display of strength. Now, however, all they can do is attempt to fight the fatigue threatening to bring their vision to darkness.

Still, the detective's mind is plagued with questions. Where are you taking me? Why are you doing this? How did you find me? These queries all remain trapped in their throat, left to fester and rot in their thoughts.

"You should be grateful I appeared when I did." The supervillain says, looking down at them with an uncharacteristic vulnerability gleaming in their eyes. Then, as if snapping out of a trance, their composed mask returns and they return their attention up ahead. The detective frowns and attempts to dissect what they just saw. But as their adrenaline quickly starts to fade, they soon fall into unconsciousness, before their enemy can even attempt to elaborate any further.

Bad Things Happen Bingo Masterlist

author's notes: first entry done! woo woo!

in light of recent events, my activity on tumblr may be sporadic. but now more than ever, I'll likely be leaning on writing as a form of escapism. I hope to get bingo at the very least, if not complete the entire card.

if there's something specific you want to see on the card, feel free to send me an ask and I'll see if I can make it happen.

thanks for reading! <3

tag list: @lateuplight @wit-is-wisdom @greengableswriting @whump-me-all-night-long @noawhite @rekhyt-of-arcadia @the-blind-one-speaks @sufferfictionalcharacters @basically-psyduck @alexkolax @subval01 @emerald-blade @felicia609 @surplus-of-sarcasm @ilickedanenvelopeandilikedit @a-chaotic-gremlin @unknownogre @prompt-fills-and-writing-spills @whatwhumpcomments @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @agayprince @starsick1979 @a-lonely-little-ghost @agayprince @plum-tello @miashico @pleaseenterbloghere @c4xcocoa @crotchgoblin69 @unicornbeck

click here if you’d like to be on/off the tag list!

#bad things happen bingo #badthingshappenbingo #defectivehero #hero x villain #heroes and villains #detective x villain #detective x supervillain #hell yeah bruther #writing #short fic #snippet #writers on tumblr #writeblr #spilled ink #blah blah blah

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extra-stout-stories · 10 months ago

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About / Index of Stories

[FYI: This account replaces @cigarette-smoking-bird, which was shadowbanned by Tumblr. As of May 2024 all my content from that account has been reposted here and @cigarette-smoking-bird has been deleted.]

Writer. Fat4fat switchy feedist and mutual gainer. Believer in fat liberation and responsible hedonism. IRL smallfat in pursuit of a sustainable balance between real life and my wildly kinky desires.

I'm here to share my fiction and have interesting conversations about the kink. I love to receive feedback, story suggestions, and thoughtful platonic messages about this endlessly fascinating thing of ours. DMs and anon asks are welcome; you can find my responses to asks at #ask extrastout. Minors DNI.

I'm a lifelong feedist who's been active in the community in the past. I'm taken by a partner who's fat but not a feedist, and this Tumblr is a outlet for this part of myself. Cishet male, but I follow inspirational bellies of all genders.

Index of stories below the cut. I write in a variety of genres and themes from wholesome to extreme, so please read the content warnings.

Stories

A Cat's-Eye View - A cat watches his human owner slowly give in to her desire to become fatter. (XWG, BBW to USSBBW, non-explicit, light romance. CW: Description of furniture breakage.)

Buffet Date - When fatphobic tourists with a dark secret interrupt a lovely dinner date, an SSBHM defends his lover from both social and supernatural hostility. Part three of the series that began with "Werewolf / Sweater Weather" and continued with "Full Moon." (SSBBW, SSBHM werewolf, buffet stuffing, romantic but no explicit sex. CW: Exhibitionism, protagonist is victim of fatphobia, werewolf-on-vampire violence.)

Contrast / Gift - A hedonistic fat queen receives a package with a very special gift. (USSBBW, fit male FA. CW: Explicit sex and cunnilingus.)

First Date / Creepy Cookies - When a BHM in Florida decides to take the plunge on a long-distance relationship with a witchy SSBBW FFA in New England, their first IRL encounter goes even better than he expected. (BHM to USSBHM, magical rapid weight gain, SSBBW feeder. Romantic, but spicy and mildly explicit. Lots of sexy descriptions of food. CW: Immobility, mobility aids.)

Full Moon - The couple from Kinktober 2023's "Werewolf / Sweater Weather" enjoys some bedroom fun on their favorite night of the month. (SSBBW, SSBHWW -- that's "big handsome werewolf." CW: The fine line between desire and fear; explicit sex, but mostly implied rather than descriptive.)

Immobile Weekend - When a feedee agrees to try a weekend of bedroom roleplay, he enjoys it even more than he expected. (BBW feeder, BHM to USSBHM feedee, XWG, romantic vibe, spicy but no explicit sex. CW: Immobility, mild discussion of health issues.)

Leashed / Hologram - In a near future where remote communications technology is just a little bit more sophisticated, you're a greedy fat pet with a stern but loving master. (Second-person feedee POV, gender-unspecified feedee and feeder, size-unspecified feeder. Mildly explicit with implied sexual intercourse. CW: Pet play, dominance.)

Marshmallow / Bondage - A fat dominant feeder and her even fatter submissive enjoy a night of bedroom fun. (SSBBW, USSBHM, femdom/mommy domme, orgasm denial, food play, light impact play. CW: D/S with roleplayed dubcon, immobility, bariatric equipment, cunnilingus and orgasm.)

Special Delivery - As a growing gainer's mobility diminishes, his regular delivery order takes an unexpected turn. (SSBHM to USSBHM feedee, gender-unspecified fat feeder, no explicit sex. CW: Immobility, bariatric tube feeding, brief moment of dubious consent.)

Stuck At Work - When two fat fast food workers end up in a tight situation, they discover that their feelings for one another are mutual. (Romantic soft feedist meet-cute, nothing explicit.)

The Weight Clinic - A fat man who's unsure about losing weight signs up for a very unusual treatment program led by a dominant doctor with an agenda of her own. (SSBHM feedee, SSBBW feeder, implicit XWG. CW: Dubious consent, drugs, medical and deathfeedist elements.)

The Weight Clinic: The (Brief) Return of Dr. Moore - Everyone's favorite mad scientist returns to introduce Feedist Kinktober '23. (Second person feedee POV, gender neutral. CW: Immobility, bariatric equipment, self-indulgent metafiction, threats of a terrible fate if you don't reblog my stories.)

Werewolf / Sweater Weather - On a secluded rural homestead, a man brings a meal home for his mate. (BHM, SSBBW, wholesome romance, non-explicit. CW: Wolf-on-stag violence.)

Short Vignettes

I post a lot of short vignettes, but I usually don't bother giving them titles or full descriptions. They can be read on the #feedist vignettes tag. I haven't put content warnings in the header of these short ones, but they're generally not too extreme. If you see something on this tag that you don't want to see and would like me to put a content warning in the tags, just shoot me a DM.

For my own reference, I've made a list of some of my more popular short vignettes indexed by title or first sentence, but check the tag because this isn't all of them.

"The Beach" (BHM, SSBBW, non-explicit)

"Fat tradwife of an equally fat husband" (What it says in the title)

"I can't believe I did it again" (First-person feedee POV)

"I can't believe I've done this to myself" (First-person feedee POV)

"It's not just about getting turned on by gaining weight" (Second-person feedee POV, wholesome feedism)

"Most people don't get turned on by food" (Second-person feedee POV)

"Needy, Greedy" (Soft domme, second-person feedee POV, mildly explicit, gender-neutral)

"Not Fat Enough" (BBW feedee, dominant USSBHM feeder, stuffing. CW: Consensual power exchange.)

"Plump Little Tummy" (First-person feedee POV. CW: Immobility.)

"Reblog if you're into soft XWG" (My most popular post)

"She gazes up at her reflection in the ceiling mirror" (USSBBW, breeding kink)

"That Little Bit Fatter" (Second person feedee POV, wholesome feedism, SFW.)

"When the outside world sees you, they don't see self-discipline" (Second person feedee POV)

"You didn't expect all the fun you could have with your fatter belly" (Second person POV)

"You never thought you would go this far" (Second person feedee POV)

"You used to stay fit for contrast's sake" (Second person POV, mutual gaining)

#weight gain fiction #feedist vignettes #wg fiction #mutual gaining #mutual feeding #gaining weight on purpose #feeding kink #fat4fat #mutual weight gain #mutual gain fiction #mutual feedism #ask extrastout

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canary-prince · 5 months ago

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Ways For US-Americans To Help If You're Abstaining From Voting

Can't vote on moral grounds, but still raring to do something? Stuck in America and unsure of how to meaningfully serve your community? Here are some ideas that I, a social worker serving house-bound citizens, can share out of personal experience. Feel free to add other ideas or links. We are not powerless.

Volunteer (these are just examples/sources of info)

Planned Parenthood needs volunteers for nearly every non-medical department

See if your state has a volunteer stewardship program, where you can help weed out invasive plant species and defend your natural ecosystem

If you have medical skills, become a street medic

Contribute to the preservation of Queer History

Put your labor towards the upkeep or repair of properties in Indigenous communities

Adult literacy is not great right now, and we're harder to lie to if we're literate; volunteer to help your neighbors who were failed by the school system

Resources to help the unhoused constantly need volunteer counselors, cooks, and someone to sort donations

The sick and elderly are very under-served, particularly if they're broke, so reach out to a local hospice to see what skills they need

Give (if you can't physically volunteer but have money to spare)

Donate to an abortion fund; this one is for Native peoples specifically

Donate to a book gifting program or book mobile; this link is for Dolly Parton's Imagination Library

Donate to preserve the histories of communities of color; this fund is specifically for preserving African American historical sites

Donate to protect the natural environment

Donate to help free those caged in prisons; this link is for the Innocence Project, which aims to challenge wrongful convictions

The arts are for everyone, but wealth gaps interfere; this fund is for art initiatives that contribute to community building, including increasing accessibility

Learn (resources that many communities have but aren't widely educated on)

Community Action Agencies: these are non-profits and private companies that act in service of their communities' human rights and quality of life. Many have utility funds, run food banks, manage emergency shelters, provide education and job skills opportunities, and participate in social activism.

Area Agencies on Aging: Non-profits that serve elders (and non-elderly disabled citizens) in a designated service area. They primarily offer services to prolong independent living (free or low cost in home care, meals on wheels, home safety modifications, and Medicare guidance) or help with transition into assisted living.

Habitat For Humanity: They aren't just in disaster zones or on foreign soil; they have local US chapters that provide critical repairs to families in need. They repair roofs, address barriers to access, and perform electric and plumbing work.

Durable Medical Equipment Loan Closets: Communal sources of vital medical equipment including wheelchairs, walkers, canes, hospital beds, shower chairs, and more. May be able to provide incontinence supplies or diabetes supplies. Rarely but sometimes provide oxygen.

Non Emergency Medical Transportation/Alternatives to Mass Transit: Transportation for elderly, disabled, cognitively impaired, and low income citizens to help them reach medical providers, dental care, physical therapy, and eye exam appointments. Can also provide transit to shopping centers, the grocery store, religious events, cultural events, and polling stations. Offer door to door services for the housebound. IF YOU HAVE MEDICAID, YOU SHOULD NOT EVER BE PAYING FOR THIS. MEDICAID IS OBLIGATED TO MAKE SURE YOU REACH ANY AND ALL MEDICAL APPOINTMENTS.

Legal Aid Clinics: Sources of pro-bono or sliding scale legal advice and representation.

#mutual aid #harm reduction #usa harm reduction #community resources usa #the monster speaks #disability resources #reproductive rights #adult literacy #volunteer opportunities usa

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sreedhareeyam · 8 days ago

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Sreedhareeyam Mobile Eye Clinic at Theni on 18th November 2024

Your vision is invaluable! You won't ever have to go far for high-quality eye care thanks to Sreedhareeyam Mobile Eye Clinic! 📅 On your calendars, note the date!

Location: Theni

Date: November 18, 2024, from 9 a.m. until 5 p.m.

Make your reservation now at www.sreedhareeyam.com ☎ +91 9497718338 ☎ +91 9497715998

#eyeclinic #eyecare #ayurvedic doctor #ayurvedatreatments #doctors #health & fitness #mobile eye clinic

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abbysimsfun · 2 months ago

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Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 50 (Life in Brindleton Bay)

cw: pet death, trying to explain loss to a two-year-old

Though born and raised in electric San Myshuno, Conrad immediately took to the quieter pace in coastal Brindleton Bay. He spent time with Gord at the dog park across the square, running the obstacle course to prepare him to impress their new captain at Brindleton PD.

As soon as Conrad moved in, Heather said she'd take Gord to be neutered. "I kept meaning to schedule the surgery, but with my work and the recovery time, I just didn't," he admitted sheepishly. Heather smiled.

"You live with a vet now. We'll both make sure he's better in no time. If we're splitting bills, that makes us a team, I think. Officially."

Conrad smiled, pulling her in for a kiss. "We are a team."

As a friendly and happy pup, Gord endured the cone of shame until his stiches healed. But they had only lived in Brindleton Bay a few days when Grim came calling for Heather's elder cat, King Tut.

Heather grieved his loss for weeks. He'd lived over two decades, so Tut's death wasn’t unexpected, but he’d been her companion since she was a child. And though she had her own grief to navigate, she had to help her son come to terms with loss for the first time.

Ash loved spending time with the family cats while Heather worked on her mobile app or studied her vet charts, but now his four-legged friend was gone. "Where Tut go, mommy?"

She knelt down to talk to him at eye level. "Tut lived a really long time, long before you were even born, and he was really old. When kitties get old enough, they go to a really special place with other kitties, but this place is only for them."

"We won't see him?" He sniffled, and Heather pulled him in for a comforting hug.

"We have to say goodbye to him here so he can make his journey to the special place. But it's okay because he'll be happy. Just as happy as he was when he got to be here with us."

Conrad buried Tut in the yard under a tall hemlock tree. His ghost could rest peacefully in the shade, and Heather and Ash could mourn whenever they needed.

And Tut could visit whenever he missed them, too!

Despite the sad start to their life together in Brindleton Bay, Conrad and Heather looked forward to the future. He watched over Ash when she worked long hours at the clinic, and they settled into a new routine as a trio with two cats and a dog.

One morning at the clinic, Everett's dad Bob Pancakes brought in Majora, one of his cats, and Heather learned he and his second wife, Annette, were considering retirement.

"I want to spend more time with my grandsons," he said with a gentle smile, and Heather listened intently while she worked. "Jett looks nothing like Spencer, but he loves her just the same. It's Spencer I worry about. She loves those boys, but I think she feels like something's missing. She can twist herself in knots with stress. My Eliza was like that, so it didn't surprise me when Everett fell in love with her, but I worry she needs adventure my homebody son just isn't built for, and the boys are so young."

Heather soothed Majora on the exam table. "Can I do anything to help?" She didn't want to intrude on their family, remembering her personal rule to keep her distance unless Everett or Spencer asked her themselves. "I don't know if I should get involved."

Bob laughed. "I'm not asking you to act like her therapist, but maybe you could spend some time with her. Plan a trip. The Kim-Lewis' and I will help Everett with the boys."

"I'll talk to her." She changed the subject to Bob's other kids before she cured Majora's lava nose with organic disinfectant spray. The poor kitty sneezed but recovered quickly and she sent them on their way, returning to the lobby to greet her next patient.

It wasn't like she didn't need a vacation, but life was far too busy these days for travel. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

NOTE: Pet aging is probably too long but two decades isn't unheard of! Cats really don't get in the way unless I have infants, so I don't mind having them around this long, and honestly the longer the cats live the easier it is to meet the Gen 2 challenge to always own at least two cats. Dogs don't live as long, so at least that's accurate in my preferred settings!

#sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 legacy #sims in bloom #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 legacy #ts4 screenshots #sims 4 story #ts4 story #legacy challenge #sims legacy #ts4 legacy challenge #gen 2 #brindleton bay #bob pancakes

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bigassmoth · 7 months ago

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What in Hell is Bad Lucifer x reader 2nd pov r18,

Clit Clinic (roleplay, temperature play, medical kink, bondage, overstimulation, watersports(squirting), slight body modification (non-perm clit ring))

"The demons are quite rough with you." Lucifers voice came from between your legs. It was awkward enough laying down with your knees slightly parted- without him stating the obvious-all you could manage in response was a hum. You were dressed in a thin white hospital gown- much softer and silkier than you were familiar with in the human realm. The fabric pooled at your stomach as Lucifer lifted your legs, fully exposing your bare pussy to the slightly chilly room. You yelped in surprise and reflexively jerked away but Lucifer held firm. He frowns and lets out a short puff of disapproval.

"You will need additional treatment." He releases your legs and stands up. While you frantically pull your gown down to cover your cold lower body, Lucifer begins fiddling with the rigging system that hangs over the bed. You assumed the structure was in place for aiding mobility and keeping medical equipment organized but then Lucifer attached a set of fur-lined leather cuffs. Your eyes go wide and your throat dry.

"What do I need treatment for?" Your voice comes out husky and that alone is enough for Lucifers cock to start swelling. He looks at you and wordlessly holds out his hand. You place your ankle into his palm and settle into a more comfortable position as he raises your leg to the cuff and gently binds it.

"I will get cold. And I want a pillow." You request while offering him your other ankle. Lucifer hums again while he finishes buckling you in, taking a moment to look at your exposed bottom before leaving the room. You squirm once alone, you would be able to unbuckle yourself but it was more fun to pretend helplessness.

Lucifer comes back with a pillow and a hot compress which he slides under your hips to warm your lower back. You take the pillow from him and adjust it behind your neck as Lucifer straps your knees to each side of the rigging. Testing your restraints, your feet are held fast in the air while it becomes impossible to close your legs. Your hips wiggle but the motion is limited.

While you were feeling out your position, Lucifer had grabbed a number of items on a tray. He sat in his chair and rolled to the edge of your bed. You lifted your head but wasnt able to see what was on the tray. Without giving you a warning, something warm and wet touched your mound. A warm towel which was used to clean your pubic region, lips, clit, and the outside of your holes. Lucifers hands helped guide the cloth where is needed to go, he had already coated his gloves with warm lube. You hummed with his ministrations, trying not to tense and wiggle your ass as he rubbed tight circles in your asshole with the towel. Mammon had trained your body well.

Lucifer still wasnt done with cleaning as he peeled back the hood of your clit and used a wet q-tip to circle it. Your legs jerked against the restraints, his touch was firm despite the area being so tender. You cant think if you have ever had someone pay such close attention to the inner-most skin of your clit before- that even the hood felt tingly. As you pant above him, Lucifer finishes. His hands leave your pussy and you let out a breath you hadnt realized you were holding. Your hole throbs as your half-hard clit stands as evidence to the upcoming treat.

"Good, we will start with this." Lucifers voice is a thick whisper of anticipation. A smooth, cool, metal instrument coated in lube begins to caress your clit. You moan and squeeze your hands around your (now useless) gown. The instrument is rounded and gently scooped, perfectly sliding into hood and aroundyour clit again. Your noises escalate in pitch. He moves out from your folds to use the instrument to rub circles on the tip of your clit.

"Lucifer i-its hard." You are of course talking about your poor abused nub. He hums.

"Yes but we need more. I dont want your clit to be able to hide after this. To do that it must become swollen enough for me to see it through your underwear." The most youve ever heard him say at once and its that. Your heart is in your throat and you uselessly squirm.

"Ah- thats so embarrassing!" You play to the fantasy, remembering that angels are kept erect in cages. It was Lucifers remix of his past experience, having you express sexual energy without it being confined to metal.

The sensations on your clit stop. "Dont worry, it will go down by the time you leave." He misinterpreted your tone and casts you a slightly worried look while rubbing a hand over your calf.

You bite your lip and do your best to present a pitiful look. "Ah but Im here for two days...how will you know its still hard? Will you make me show you? Will I have to walk around in only thin underwear?"

Lucifers hot breath begins hitting your pussy as he pants, his face flushed.

"If you behave then you can wear clothes." His hands are rubbing the outside of your thighs, one gloves and smearing lube on your skin and the other sweaty and hot. When you nod your submission, Lucifer groans. This was a fantasy of his from being an angel, forced to contain his own raging sexual desire while cultivating and worshipping his Gods.

He picked up a bullet vibrator next and placed it below your clit so the vibrator just barely grazed the underside. You groaned and couldnt stop your twitching hips.

"Ah-wait I havent gone to the bat-" you start to panic but Lucifer only grinds the vibrator directly against the opening of your urethra. Your pussy clenches against nothing with only the ghost of vibrations to keep it company. The tender roof of your urethral canal directing vibrations into your clit. You cry as you squirt, Lucifer only removing the vibrator after you lost full control of your bladder. You whimper in the aftermath, legs trembling. Lucifer presss the vibrator directly to your clit before you have time to recover, causing you to thrash in the bed.

"Behave," he removes the vibrator while he speaks and pets your inner thigh with his free hand. "Or else."

"O-or else what?" Your body is shivering as you ask. Lucifer sets down the vibrator. You feel a band of cold metal slip over your clit, a loose fit, a jolt of electricity runs up your spine.

"A ring."

Lucifer groans out his threat and you moan in response. You wiggle your hips and whine.

"That wont work on me. its too big."

He is panting against you like a dog, going as far as to lean his cheek against your leg. Lucifers eyes meet your in a daze, both of you in dazed anticipation.

"It will fit." He picks up another tool from the table.

And fit it did. The process took about an hour and a half of rubbing in creams, using vibrators, and pulling out multiple orgasms from you without once touching your pussy or ass. With the ring at the base of your clit under the hood, your organ was forcibly erect. It would have been better to be naked, the crotchless panties you wore scratched at your clit. Lucifer checked on you frequently, lifting your skirt (he required easy access) to view the stickiness between your thighs. Politely he would lap up your arousal- never poking his tongue inside you despite your begging. Once cleaned he would perform "maintainance" on your abused clit, assuring you that it was necessary to keep it hard. He would suck and lick at your clit through the underwear until the fabric would cling to you. Then without providing you real sexual relief he would pull away and you would endure until he graced you with his attention again.

That night you went to his room for your final check. He removed the ring and sat your aching hole on his cock. But his hands held your hips down to his, forcing you to take all of his uncomfortable length. Despite your sweet kisses to his mouth he wouldnt move. Even worse, he came when he entered you so he wasnt in the state of desperation you were.

"Pleasure yourself." He whispered against your lips. You whined but relented.

"Only if you properly fuck me after, ok?"

Lucifer nodded eagerly, his entire body shaking. His eyes watched with rapt attention as you gathered some of his cum which had leaked from your hole. Your fingertips worked your clit and in a matter of seconds you were screaming as an orgasm shot through you. Lucifer groaned and released again, your pussy had been aching for hours and now held him in an authoritative vicegrip.

"Forgive me" Lucifer said to no one in particular as he finally began pumping in and out of you. You clung to his shoulders and sang his praises finally getting relief for the sweet burn he had lit in you. Lucifer came again shortly after, tears pricking his eyes as they roll back into his head. It was a delicious taboo, to break his oath of servitude to pleasure himself alongside you.

#wihib smut #what in hell is bad #whb lucifer

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dragon-creates · 2 months ago

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Darlin' Don't You Weep (There's A Place For Me)

After going through hell and back, Jax and Pomni decided that they want to live their lives to the fullest. Despite the challenges that come their ways.

Inspired by @rottentricks murder mystery au and @theboywithburninghands fics based on that au.

Read On AO3

Please look at the tags as this fic does have discussions of infertility and miscarriage. If this fic isn't for you then feel free to skip.

Neither Jax or Pomni never really expected they would ever be in this moment. Both of them had gone through hell, from the many murders they spread through Autumnvale, to Jax being framed, the shootout at the diner and Pomni being held hostage by Deputy Hunt.

It had been too much, yet so eye opening. Both of them had seen the end of the barrel of the gun called life, and how it could be snatched from them at any moment. So they didn’t want to waste a second of it being alone. So, one day, Jax had gotten down on one knee with a ring had given him, tears of happiness streaming down both his and Pomni’s faces when the latter said yes.

They eloped a month later, a small ceremony in the community church with their respective parents, Zooble, Gangle and Ragatha. The ragdoll has offered to watch over the butcher shop while the two went out of town for their honeymoon, giving the two a much needed break and focus being in love.

When they arrived home two weeks later, they had discussed something that both of them truly wanted in the future they would share together. A child. Pomni had always seen herself being a mother while focusing on her art career, and Jax longed for the idea to hear the tiny pitter patter of feet around the house. Both of them knew it would be some time before Pomni could become pregnant, with how hard it could be to procreate and needing to move into a bigger house for more room. Not to mention the backlash from some of the townspeople with an unjustified hatred towards Jax, or doctors saying how hard it would be to conceive a baby with Jax being a half breed and Pomni being human. But it was a dream both of them shared.

So, while moving into a new farmhouse (a two story with many bedrooms and a large vintage kitchen) did they try for a baby, and what a challenge it was. Pomni couldn’t count the number of weeks each time she laid a pregnancy test on the bathroom sink, praying for a little pink plus sign to appear, only for nothing to show. There were many trips to the clinic, trying new medication in the hopes that a baby would somehow be possible, but every time the result was the same - disappointment.

Jax had held a crying Pomni in his arms many nights, soothing her and reminding her that none of this was her fault. She put too much unfair stress on herself, thinking there was something wrong with her. It couldn’t be further from the truth.

They thought there would be a glimmer of hope when a pregnancy test finally came back positive, the rush of joy they felt when seeing that little pink plus sign. The visions of a cream coloured nursery and a little mobile hanging above a crib.

But about a month into the pregnancy, Pomni woke up in the middle of the night to find herself bleeding…

The brunette had been numb, silent tears running down her cheeks for days, struggling to get out of bed and eat. Jax wanted nothing more than to become a shield for her, to fight off all the burdens on her shoulder. The miscarriage had affected them both deeply, but he felt that he had failed her and their unborn child.

The weeks that followed were hard, both of them trying to return to normal life. Their families had stopped by to offer their comforts, while their friends came by to give their support and condolences. Ragatha had even baked a pie for them and had even stayed most nights to help the couple.

Slowly, they began to heal. Jax had tried new recipes with his meat and Pomni had returned to her art, hoping to put it in Autumnvale’s art gallery. It was hard, but being together made it easier.

They had soon returned to a quiet normalcy, living peacefully to continue healing. That was when hope, yet fear, struck again. Pomni awoke one morning feeling nauseous, throwing up in the joint bathroom in their bedroom and feeling quite fatigued. She thought it was the flu from winter arriving, but a little voice in the back of her head told her otherwise.

There was one more pregnancy test in the bathroom cupboard, but she didn’t touch it for days. Too afraid for another fearful incident. But soon, she found the strength to take it.

It was positive.

Jax had been there the whole time, rubbing her shoulder and hugging her as she cried with relief and fear. He was scared too, but all they could do now was wait for the outcome. Good or bad, they would do it together.

Eight months later, a healthy baby girl was born. A little white bunny with blue eyes and a tiny pink nose. Pomni hiccuped a sob when her daughter was placed on her chest for the first time, crying her lungs out. The biggest sign that she was here and alive . Jax sniffed back a few tears when he held her in her pink blanket, she was barely the size of his paw, so incredibly tiny.

They had named her Yuki.

Now, one month later, they were here. Rabbit babies could learn more skills within the early months of their life. Yuki had shocked them both when they found her pulling herself out of the crib for the first time, thankful that they had made the decision to keep it in their room while still so young. She also had begun to teeth a bit early, due to the wolf genes she inherited from her father. While her sharp teeth wouldn’t show up until she was weaned off breastfeeding, it didn’t stop her from chomping her gums on anything she could find. Her favorite teething object being her father’s ears.

It was another morning of the same routine since her birth, Yuki had woken up with the sun barely rising over the farmhouse and she was already brimming with energy. She sat up, looking through the bars of her crib to find her mama. Jax had converted their bed into a nest, mattress, blankets and pillows formed into a fort like how Kinger used to do when he was a child. He had also placed a few cushions around Yuki’s crib in case she would jump out again. Her papa was there, but no sign of her mama.

She grunted, jumping up onto the edge of her crib and pulling herself over the bars until she plopped onto a pillow on the ground. She hopped over to her papa, headbutting his arm to try and get him up. She knew where her mama was, and her papa was hiding her. She pulled herself up onto his arm, headbutting his head this time. Still no response, as though it were barely a tap. Yuki grunted, reaching up and grabbing Jax’s ear with her gums and began to pull, like a puppy playing tug of war.

Jax hummed, opening one eye to see his daughter pulling his ear, he barely moved an inch. “I know you’re not hungry bub,” Jax smirked. “Let your mama sleep, it’s barely morning.”

But the kit didn’t relent, pulling even harder. Eventually, Yuki had pulled so hard that she tumbled backwards, letting go of his ear. She yelped, pulling herself back onto her feet and ran headfirst towards Jax and headbutted him again. Jax chuckled, lifting his arm and bringing Yuki close, snuggling her tiny body against his massive her.

The kit yipped and grunted, trying to escape. She wanted her mama! Not her stinky papa! But Jax’s hand was too strong for her.

Jax sighed, resting his head against the pillows again until he felt a rustling from underneath him. “Is she up?” a feminine asked underneath his chest?

“Yeah, but she ain’t hungry so you don’t gotta rush getting up,” Jax said.

After a bit of rustling, Pomni's face emerged from Jax’s chest, wiggling her arms out as well. When Yuki started hopping out the crib in the mornings, Jax had insisted this be their sleeping position, that way he could handle Yuki from disturbing Pomni’s sleep. “It’s okay, you can get some more sleep, it’s still pretty early,” Jax smiled down at his wife.

“It’s okay,” Pomni rested on her back, holding out her arms to her daughter. “I wanna see her.”

Jax let the kit go, Yuki immediately bounding towards her mother. Pomni scooped her daughter up, letting her nuzzle into her neck as Pomni stroked her ears. Soon, she could hear soft little snores as the baby went limp in her arms.

“All that just for some cuddles,” Jax chuckled. “Kid is gonna have one heck of a right hook one day.”

“Just like her papa,” Pomni lifted a hand to cup Jax’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Jax tilted his head in confusion, “For what?”

“For giving me all of this,” Pomni told him.

Jax’s eyes softened, pressing his lips onto his wife’s gently. “I love you,” Jax whispered.

“I love you too,” Pomni replied, her eyes fluttering shut once again.

Jax looked at his wife and daughter underneath him, how did he ever get this lucky? He brought his arms around the two, engulfing them in a hug as he joined them in slumber. Letting peace wash over them.

#the amazing digital circus #funnybunny #jax x pomni #pomni x jax #jax #pomni #tadc #pomnijax #jaxni #pomjax #my writing #fanfic #fanfiction #dragon rambles #the amazing digital murder mystery au #butcher jax au #ao3

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according2thelore · 1 year ago

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The best part about being Dean Winchester is that Sam Winchester needs him. The worst part about being Dean Winchester is that Sam needs him.

The best part happens when Sammy takes his first tottering steps towards Dean. It happens when the first word out of his mouth, when Dad is sloppy drunk on the couch watching a football game that Dad can’t count the points for, is a frantic and excited “Dee-n” as he stacks the pile of blocks correctly on rough, scratchy motel carpet.

The best part happens when Sammy scrapes his knee at a soccer game and runs straight to Dean—not Dad—and he see the look in Dad’s eye as Dean wipes the tears from his ruddy cheeks. Dean’s the one that Sam wants, he’s the most important one here. His is the neck that Sam’ll wail into, until Dad pries him away.

Sam needs Dean to teach him how to throw a punch in a dirt-lot in Mobile, Sam needs Dean to reset his dislocated shoulders, he needs him to buy ice cream and save up to buy him toy trucks and pack his lunches so Sam can have food that he likes in schools that he doesn’t. He needs Dean to curl into to fall asleep until Dad suddenly decides that that’s pussy-shit and drag a scream-sobbing Sam away to his own bed.

He needs Dean to tie his shoelaces and cuff his jeans and press a kiss to his forehead. He needs Dean’s old clothing, needs Dean to take him to soccer practice and clap louder than any parent at every single school play, whistling so loud that a few people duck. He needs Dean to embarrass him in front of girlfriends, needs Dean to lend him sweatshirts that Sam can fall asleep with his nose tucked into, eyes sliding closed contented and sun-warm in the Impala’s passenger seat. When Sam’s scared, he goes to Dean first. When Sam’s upset, he goes to Dean first. When Sam’s happy, over the heads of people in school cafeterias and in hallways and sprinting at him across graveyards, he turns to Dean first. In the middle of a hunt—and Dean has no idea if Sam knows he does it—Sam goes Dean, Dean, Dean under his breath when things start to turn south, like Sam can summon him, like the idea of Dean can keep monsters away.

Sam needs Dean because in the winter, his nose starts to get cold first, since it slopes down and away from his face. He liked tucking it under Dean’s jaw when they shared a bed as children, and currently likes shoving his icicle feet under Dean’s thigh when they sit on couches together. He calls Dean a human furnace, but Dean’s secret is he has regularly proportioned limbs. Sam’s too damn big to give circulation to his freak feet, so Dean keeps “finding” pairs of woolen socks that he slips into Sam’s laundry when he’s not looking.

Sam needs Dean for his Blockbuster card (good in all fifty states, fuck yeah) registered under John McClane that the acne-ridden counter guy issued Dean with a raised brow. Sam likes M&Ms in his popcorn because he’s clinically insane, and Dean buys them liter bottles of pop that they can trade lazily back and forth because they can’t afford more than one individual bottle.

Sam needs Dean to take him out when they get to wherever they go next. Sam likes going to the movies and hates hiking and loves public libraries. He leans into Dean, no matter how old he gets, in the darkness of a movie theater, presses his foot against Dean’s under the table at diners, lets Dean throw his arm around him while Dean chats up girls at a public pool, like he’s afraid if Dean’s not touching him, either of them might snap out of existence.

Who else will adore this kid like he does? No one. No one could.

The worst part about being Dean Winchester is that Sam needs him.

The worst part happens when Dean uses his body as a shield to protect Dad or Sam or both from barely restrained blows. It happens when Dean lets Sam rant and rave, when Dean talks Sam off a ledge, steps outside to talk Dad from pushing Sam off a ledge, lets him spit venom about Sam right back. The worst part is being the depository for their hatred and their tempers and their love.

The betrayal in Sam’s eyes when Dean tries to calm him down guts him. The anger in Dad’s eyes when Dean tells him Sam means well is a blow to the skull.

Loyalty to either is a betrayal to both and Dean is sixteen.

Dean is sixteen and he’s got pimples and his bones hurt and Dad won’t stop screaming. Dean is sixteen and Sam won’t look at him most days for choosing Dad, as if Dean is physically capable of choosing anything other than the boy that planted his roots in Dean’s bones instead, when Dean had to prune them from Sacramento and Knoxville and Tampa.

Sam needs him.

Sam needs him to be in the middle because they need a father.

The worst part is when Sam needs twelve dollars to go on this field trip to the museum that he’s been looking forward to because they’ve been in town long enough to look forward to something. Dean has just spent his last cents at a bar the night before because he’s sixteen and he’s scared, and he’s lonely because Cindy at the bar last night was the first not-Sam person Dean had spent longer than two sentences with in three weeks and four days. The worst part is that look in his eyes, and Dean smiles and plays along to the dumb-drunk-older-brother thing, because if Dean says that he spent the money because he’s miserable and dependent and scared, Sam will—Sam—Dean doesn’t know what Sam’ll do. Dean has never let Sam be that uncertain yet.

The worst part is having nightmares into his pillow, burying his grief and his tears in the motel sink at four a.m. because Sammy is sleeping in the other bed.

The worst part is being fourteen and Dad hasn’t been back in a few weeks and the twenty bucks on the table evaporated a few days ago.

The worst part is being fourteen.

The worst part is having to make a shelter out of his ribcage, out of slow smirks and lit cigarettes drooping from drunk men’s fingers, of sweaty, crumpled bills passing over a long-haul truck’s driver’s seat. The worst part trading those bills for Slim Jims and Kraft mac and cheese and marshmallow creme to make it seem like more food than it is, the look that the till girl gives him when she sees phone numbers written over Lincoln’s face.

The worst part is being seventeen, and something’s got to give, so Dad looks at Dean. Dean’s going to give—of course Dean is going to give, because it can’t be Sam. Sam loves school, needs it—needs other people in a way Dean has trained himself not to want. So Dean drops out of high school in senior year, so Dad’ll stop picking fights with Sam about needing a hunting partner, so why doesn’t Sam just stop going to school?

Dean thinks the worst thing he thought about Dad to that point while he avoids eye contact with the guidance counsellor when he tells him the news. I want to drop out, Dean says, because he has to end it for Sam. What does school have for him anyway? Kids that’ll never understand him? A GED that he’ll never need? Dean hates feeling stupid, hates kids laughing at him behind his back because he had to move when they learned how to do times tables and he doesn’t know what seven times nine is. He hates the prickle of inferiority.

But Dean thinks: I am the one you created to love you. He is the one you created to hate you. You need both of us. But you only care about one. You crave the challenge of winning—even love, even your son. I never won your approval, so what was it worth?

Dean banishes it as soon as he thinks it, goddamn horrified. That’s awful. It’s ridiculous. It’s pussy shit, is what it is. Dad’s right. Dad’s good. (Dad is right. Dad has to be right, has to be infallible, because in twelve years after Dean has left his eighth teary voicemail to a dead phone line after Sammy starts throwing up after his visions, after he stops eating because he sleeps in blood now it drips from his fingers, he will start to realize and it will undo him—What has it been for? If Dad’s not right—If Dad’s not good—then what is Dean? What has Dean torn up Sam’s roots for? What has Dean lost girlfriends and childhood memories and prom and almost lost limbs for? Dean has ripped himself apart and put himself back together so John Winchester can be right. If he’s not right, then Dean is misshapen for nothing.)

The worst part is being nineteen.

The worst part is the fact that Sam hates him anyway. That Sam rages against the bars of Dean’s ribcage because it might keep the rain off but God, who would want to be trapped next to this heart?

It bangs and slams all hours of the day, and it’s so goddamn hollow—even worse, it’s not hollow at all, it’s just SamSamSamSam—it’s just Sam’s long limbs and fox-slanted eyes and the mole to the left of his nose and the way he snorts when he’s trying not to laugh and the way his mouth looks after he gnaws on it and the way he tries to lick ice cream off his own nose, the way his face looks slack in sleep, the way he’s moulded himself to fit Dean a little, too.

His heart is sickening. It’s rotting, it’s metastasizing the air that Sam needs to breathe.

The best part about being Dean Winchester is that Sam Winchester needs him. The worst part about being Dean Winchester is that Sam needs him. And Dean’s not enough.

The very worst part though, the part that makes Dean eye his pistol sidelong as Sam’s back gets smaller and smaller as he walks away with his duffle bag over his shoulder and he knows—he knows, that at the end of this, Sam will never turn back, it will be Dean on his hands and knees, begging Sammy to come back, Sam will never look at him again if he’s given the chance to look away—

The very worst part about being Dean Winchester, is that Dean needs Sam more than Sam will ever need him.

crossposted on ao3 here

#supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #samdean #fanfic #codependency #lizzy writes

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cielettosa · 5 months ago

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SEED OF DISCONTENT

Chapter 2: clipped wings

PAIRING: levi ackerman x fem!reader

RATING: explicit

FANDOM: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)

SYNOPSIS:

The Ackerman clan needs to be expanded, and you are chosen to carry his child.

CW: invasive medical procedure, mentions of miscarriage

navigation

previous chapter - next chapter

The sterile white walls of the infirmary mocks you with their clinical cleanliness. Disinfectant stings your nose, a sickly sweet perfume that clashes horribly with the metallic tang of fear clinging to your throat.

You grip the scratchy sheet bunched around you, knuckles turning white as your knuckles used to when disassembling a very stubborn bolt action rifle.

Twenty three years you have walked this life, and the most invasive procedure you have ever endured was scrubbing the grime off a well used barrel.

Now, here you are, splayed like a gutted fish on this damn examination table, exposed and violated in a way that makes you fantasize about Titans ripping you limb from limb – at least then, the indignity would be over quickly.

"Alright, Ms. Reader," a voice grates out, shattering the silence that feels heavy enough to suffocate.

You glance sideways to see Dr. Miller, a man whose perpetually furrowed brow seems sculpted onto his skull.

Even his name is an insult – Miller, the name of a dime a dozen grunt, not the esteemed doctor entrusted with… well, with whatever barbaric procedure they have planned for you today.

He gestures towards the doorway with a jerky movement. "Commander in Chief Zachary is here to observe."

Ah, yes. Observe. As if you are some exotic lab rat being prepped for dissection.

You crane your neck, wincing at the way the scratchy sheet abrades your skin, to see Dhalis Zachary – the man who apparently holds the fate of humanity in his manicured hands – materialize beside the doctor.

The man tasked with saving the world would not dare get a speck of dust on his precious uniform while overseeing the violation of a perfectly good (former) soldier.

Commander in Chief Zachary, bless his heart, takes a seat in the plush armchair across the room, looking about as comfortable as a fish out of water.

His gaze, however, remains glued to you with an intensity that rivals a hungry Titan eyeing a juicy morsel.

You almost laugh – the irony of it all. You, a woman who has spent years training for military, and have provided security and services to the (fake) king (though they probably will not care to admit it), reduced to nothing more than a vessel, a brood mare for their precious Ackerman project.

"At ease," he says, his voice as crisp and polished as his uniform.

At ease? You want ease?

You want ease, try spending years trying to balance in Omni directional mobility gear, learn to use rifles, design new, modifications for military gears, knowing each perfectly balanced blade could mean the difference between life and death for some terrified soldier facing a ten meter monstrosity.

This, this sterile room, this forced vulnerability – this is anything but ease.

You force a smile, a thin, humorless thing that probably resembles a grimace more than anything.

"As easy as one can be," you rasp, your voice unused to conversation. "After all, it is not every day you get the esteemed Commander in Chief of Three Regiments Dhalis Zachary to witness your… well, let me just say my internal workings."

The doctor shoots you a withering look, but Commander Zachary, to your surprise, cracks a ghost of a smile. A flicker of something – amusement? Recognition? – sparks in his eyes for a fleeting moment before he schools his features back into their usual stoicism.

"Indeed," he replies, his voice barely a murmur. "Let us just say your 'internal workings' hold the key to humanity's future, Ms. Reader."

The key? You scoff internally. More like the glorified wrench they are about to shove into the gears of that future.

You clench your jaw, the metallic tang of fear intensifying.

They can shove their grand plans and glorious futures.

You are Letta Reader, the one who designed the Anti Personnel omni directional mobility gear, they have reduced you to this – a pawn in their twisted game.

Let's just hope this little "procedure" does not dull your edge permanently. Humanity might just regret it when the next Titan comes knocking.

You lock eyes with them both, daring them to look away. A spark ignites in your chest, a defiant ember flickering amidst the suffocating dread.

It earns a reaction – a smirk from Dr. Miller that creases his perpetually furrowed brow and a glint of steely appraisal in Zachary's gaze.

You, a convicted criminal, sculptor of death – your creations has silenced countless screams, both human and Titan. Now, here you are, reduced to a pawn in their twisted game of genetic chess.

"Let us get this over with," you rasp, your voice sandpaper rough from disuse. The words tumble out with a bite, a desperate attempt to reclaim a sliver of control.

Dr. Miller sighs, the sound a defeated whoosh that ruffles his already unkempt hair. "As you wish, Ms. Reader," he mutters, shoulders slumping like a defeated soldier. "Blood tests first."

Blood tests. Compatibility with the Ackerman bloodline, they say. A lineage shrouded in secrecy, whispered about in hushed tones, rumored to possess superhuman strength and an uncanny fighting prowess.

You, a mere mortal, are about to be entangled with something far beyond your comprehension.

A morbid fascination battles with the rising tide of unease in your gut. You watch with detached curiosity as Dr. Miller approaches, his touch surprisingly gentle considering his gruff demeanor.

He flexes your exposed right arm, searching for a suitable vein, his calloused thumb momentarily stopping your lifeblood with a firm press.

A sharp, medicinal sting assaults your senses as he unwraps a tourniquet. It is a thin elastic band, more suited for catching a rogue strand of hair than constricting a limb.

He wraps it around your upper arm, two fingers above the chosen vein, and the pressure makes your pulse throb a frantic tattoo against your skin.

Then comes the cotton swab, soaked in a cool, stinging alcohol solution. It wipes across the chosen spot, leaving a cool, sterile patch amidst the growing map of goosebumps crawling across your skin.

Dr. Miller releases the pressure slightly, just enough for a trickle of blood to return to the vein. He raises a syringe aloft, the glass glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. The plunger is pulled back, creating a vacuum within the barrel.

It is a familiar sight – a tool you have used countless times to clean the delicate mechanisms of your weapons, ensuring their deadly precision.

Now, the instrument is aimed at you, a cold reminder of your vulnerability.

With practiced efficiency, honed by countless similar procedures, Dr. Miller inserts the needle into your vein.

A prick, a sharp jab of pain, and the world seems to narrow down to that single point of contact. You clench your jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a flinch or a whimper.

The metallic tang of fear floods your mouth, a constant reminder of the indignity you are forced to endure.

He pushes the plunger down slowly, drawing crimson life into the syringe. The red liquid creeps up the chamber, its color a stark contrast to the sterile white walls.

He withdraws the needle with a practiced flick, a fresh cotton swab immediately pressed against the puncture site. The metallic clink of the vial being deposited on the tray echoes in the tense silence.

He repeats the process two more times, each vial a silent trophy filled with your essence. The metallic clink becomes a mocking rhythm, a reminder of your objectification.

Finally, Dr. Miller applies a band aid, his touch a fleeting reprieve from the constant violation.

You glance down at the three vials of blood, a sense of detachment settling over you. This crimson liquid, the very essence of your being, will now play a part in a scheme you have no control over.

Dr. Miller's flat question hangs heavy in the sterile air. "Have you ever been pregnant?"

You scoff. "Once," you murmur, the memory a bitter pill lodged uncomfortably in your throat. It is not exactly a stroll through a rose garden, this "pregnancy" of yours.

More like a forced march through a minefield, blindfolded and with a detonator strapped to your chest.

Zachary leans forward, his gaze as sharp as a freshly sharpened blade. "Miscarriage?" he probes, his voice devoid of sympathy. You meet his gaze unflinchingly.

"Yes," you reply curtly, offering no further details.

There is no point in elaborating. They will not understand the intricacies of the job, the cold calculations, the detached efficiency required.

They will not understand the irony of a soldier and a weapon designer being forced to carry a weapon of a different kind.

Dr. Miller raises an eyebrow, a gesture that seems almost comical in his perpetually furrowed browed expression.

"And how did you feel about losing the child?" The question catches you off guard, a sucker punch to your carefully constructed emotional wall.

The memory floods back – the nausea, the fatigue, the constant, gnawing unease. It was not a life you nurtured, not something you embraced. It was a necessary evil to complete the contract.

But then, the miscarriage. A physical ordeal you had not anticipated, a sharp, searing pain that ripped through your body, mirroring the emotional emptiness you felt.

It was over quickly, thankfully, but the memory lingers – a stark reminder of your own mortality, a vulnerability you rarely acknowledge.

You pause, the silence stretching between you like a taut bowstring. "It was not planned," you finally say, your voice a monotone that barely conceals the storm of emotions churning beneath the surface. "Collateral damage, you could say."

"Collateral damage?" Zachary echoes, a flicker of something – curiosity? Disbelief? – sparking in his eyes. "Explain."

There is a challenge in his voice, a dare you can not resist. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips. Let them squirm in their pristine chairs, let them get a taste of the grime that exists beyond the sterile walls of their ivory tower.

"The target," you begin, your voice taking on a measured cadence, "was a high ranking official, a man whose influence was like a cancer spreading through the government. Discreet assassination was impossible. So, the plan was… unorthodox." You pause, letting the anticipation build in the oppressive silence.

"I was… persuaded," you continue, "to become… friendly with the target. To gain his trust, his affection, whatever it took. And a well timed pregnancy," you add with a bitter chuckle, "was the ultimate act of… commitment." You see a muscle twitch in Zachary's jaw, a flicker of something akin to disgust crossing his features.

Good.

"The miscarriage," you continue, relishing the discomfort in the room, "was… unfortunate. But ultimately, a blessing in disguise. It provided a convenient excuse, an out from the… arrangement."

You see Dr. Miller flinch at the word, as if you have uttered a profanity.

Let him. Let them all squirm.

"So, Commander Zachary," you finish, meeting his gaze head on, "when you ask about my feelings on losing the child, the answer is… complicated. Relief, yes. Regret, perhaps a sliver. But mostly, indifference. It was a job, and like any other job, it had its… complications."

You lean back against the scratchy sheet, a sense of satisfaction washing over you.

You have exposed a chink in their armor, forced them to confront the brutal reality of the world beyond their sterile walls. And for a brief moment, at least, you have held the power.

Dr. Miller's gaze finally meets yours. It is a cold, reptilian stare that dissects you like a butcher eyeing a side of prime beef.

It lingers a beat too long, making you feel like a lab rat under scrutiny. He finally breaks eye contact, turning away with a sigh that could deflate a blimp.

You almost expect him to mutter something about "hopeless cases" under his breath.

He disappears behind a towering metal cabinet, the sterile clinking of instruments echoing in the tense silence.

A moment later, he reappears, a set of gleaming metal instruments glinting ominously in his hand.

They look more like torture tools than medical equipment, and the way Dr. Miller holds them – with a practiced ease that sends a jolt of apprehension through you – do not exactly inspire confidence.

He stands beside the bed, his expression a stormy landscape of conflicting emotions. You can not decipher it, but you know one thing for sure – it does not bode well for you.

Then, with a brusqueness that could snap a twig, he reaches for the sheet you cling to, the flimsy fabric a pathetic shield against the sterile indignity of this whole situation.

You flinch, a primal reaction to the unexpected touch. The sheet tugs against your already raw skin, a fresh wave of discomfort adding to the storm brewing inside you.

He pauses, the metallic instruments glinting like malevolent eyes in his hand. His gaze flickers to your face for a fleeting moment, a silent question hanging in the air.

"This is necessary," he finally says, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth. "For the sake of the child."

The words land like lead weights in your stomach.

Necessary?

For the sake of the child?

Since when did your comfort, your dignity, become secondary to the well being of a potential fetus forced upon you?

You clench your fists, digging your nails into your calloused palms until crescent moons of white form beneath the grime.

This whole situation is a violation, a grotesque parody of nature, and Dr. Miller's words feel like salt being rubbed into a fresh wound.

With a practiced efficiency honed by years of dissecting weapons and tinkering with intricate mechanisms, Dr. Miller pulls the sheet down, leaving you exposed and vulnerable on the examination table.

You have not felt this raw, this exposed, since the beatings in prison – a constant reminder that even the most skilled soldier, weapon artisan and assassin can be broken.

You clench your jaw, willing yourself to disappear, to melt into the sterile white walls and become one with the cold, impersonal environment.

Dr. Miller's gaze sweeps over your bare body, a clinical assessment that makes you feel like a piece of meat on a butcher's block.

His eyes linger for a moment on the angry red welts marring your skin – a testament to the brutality you have endured – before flicking back up to meet yours. His expression remains unreadable, a mask that conceals whatever thoughts churn within him.

Dr. Miller's gaze descends, a clinical scan that lingers for a moment too long on the valley between your exposed breasts.

You clench your jaw, willing your body to turn to stone, an unyielding statue impervious to his clinical examination.

Then, his gloved hand reaches out, a slow, deliberate movement that sends a jolt of electricity straight through your core.

Impersonal, clinical – that is the mantra you repeat in your head, a desperate attempt to deflect the unwelcome heat that pools in your stomach.

His touch is a feather light graze, cupping your right breast with a detached professionalism that somehow manages to feel intimate in the sterile silence of the room.

You squeeze your eyes shut, the rhythmic thud of your heart a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of the sterile silence.

He palpates with practiced precision, his fingers moving with a methodical efficiency that grates on your nerves. Every inch is scrutinized, prodded with a gentle yet firm pressure that feels more like an interrogation than a medical examination.

He is searching for imperfections, weaknesses – anything that might derail their grand plan of turning you into a glorified incubator.

The indignity of it all burns a hot coal in your gut.

The humiliation intensifies as he repeats the process on the left side. The metal instruments he then employs are cold and sterile against your skin, a further reminder of your violation.

Each prod and poke sends a tremor through you, a cocktail of shame and a strange, unsettling awareness that you can not quite define.

You force yourself to breathe, shallow gasps that barely fill your lungs.

Focus, you tell yourself. Focus on anything but the feel of his hands roaming your body, a stark contrast to the rough calluses that usually grip the smooth metal of your tools.

You clench your jaw, a silent vow not to give them the satisfaction of a whimper, a flicker of weakness. This is a battle, and while you are stripped of your weapons, your pride remains, a sharp, unyielding edge that you refuse to have dulled.

The examination stretches on, each second an excruciating eternity. You fight back the urge to scream, to lash out and reclaim some semblance of control.

But you know better. Here, in this sterile prison, they hold all the cards. You are just a pawn in their twisted game, a pawn they intend to manipulate, exploit, and ultimately use.

Finally, mercifully, Dr. Miller steps back. His gloved hands disappear into the folds of his white coat, a stark contrast to the flush blooming on your exposed skin. "Everything seems normal," he mutters, his voice barely audible.

Relief washes over you, a tidal wave that leaves you momentarily breathless. It is a hollow victory, a reprieve more than a triumph. The humiliation lingers, a bitter aftertaste that coats your tongue.

You force your eyes open, blinking away the tears that sting your vision. The physical examination may be over, but the psychological violation has just begun.

They have seen your body, prodded and assessed it like a piece of machinery.

Dr. Miller reaches for your arm, his face etched with a seriousness that seems more like a poorly practiced mask. It does not quite conceal the underlying apprehension that flickers in his eyes.

His touch, surprisingly gentle for a man whose face resembles a perpetually furrowed landscape, is muffled by the fresh latex gloves he has donned.

He guides your leg with a nudge that is supposed to be subtle but comes across as patronizing. "Spread your legs wider, please," he instructs, his voice dropping to a low, neutral monotone.

Shame burns in your cheeks, a fiery counterpoint to the harsh bright lights overhead. It threatens to consume you, this violation of your most private space.

You clench your jaw, a silent vow not to give them the satisfaction of seeing you crumble. Your body complies, a slow, agonizing spread that makes you feel like a dissected insect pinned to a display board.

The vulnerability of the position grates on your nerves – exposed, defenseless, like a target waiting to be hit.

Dr. Miller waits patiently, or at least that is what he wants you to believe. You can practically see the stopwatch ticking in his mind, counting down the precious seconds he has to spend in this uncomfortable situation.

His gaze flickers to your face for a fleeting moment, a spark of something – unease? Discomfort? – flickering in his eyes before he quickly averts them, dropping his gaze down to his instruments.

He selects a cold, gleaming speculum. The metal surface catches the harsh light like a cruel mirror reflecting your exposed state.

It gleams with an accusatory stare, mocking your helplessness. With a practiced efficiency born of countless examinations on countless women who likely were not forced to endure this indignity under the threat of the world's fate, he maneuvers the speculum towards you.

The metallic chill against your skin sends a jolt through you, a stark reminder of the intrusion about to occur. It is more than just physical – it is a violation of your very being.

You squeeze your eyes shut, a silent protest against the indignity.

The breath catches in your throat, a strangled gasp trapped in the prison of your clenched jaw. You want to scream, to lash out, to reclaim some semblance of control. But you know better.

You force yourself to take a shallow breath, the air rasping in your lungs. You may not be able to control the situation, but you can control your reaction.

Let them poke and prod. Let them analyze and scrutinize. You have stared death in the face countless times, crafted tools to defy its inevitable embrace. This is just another challenge, another obstacle to overcome.

They may have your body spread eagle on this scratchy examination table, but they will never break your spirit.

Dr. Miller hesitates, the pause barely a blip in the oppressive silence, but it is enough to make you wonder if even he is questioning the sheer absurdity of this situation.

Then, with a sigh that could rival the wind whistling through a broken window, he inserts the instrument.

A gasp rips from your throat, a sound that echoes in the sterile room like a gunshot.

The speculum pries open a part of you that has always been a closely guarded secret, a territory familiar only to a select few – and none of them were burly doctors with permanently furrowed brows.

The feeling is an unwelcome combination of foreign and invasive, like an enthusiastic Titan has decided to take a peek inside your most private chambers. You are pretty aware that the comparison is disgusting, but if anyone asked you to describe the sensation, that is the one that fits perfectly because it is disgusting.

The metallic scrape against metal grates on your nerves, a sound that would not be out of place accompanying the torture of some unfortunate soul in a particularly low budget horror flick.

A low hum escapes his lips as he examines the interior walls, his brow furrowing in what you can only hope is genuine confusion.

Maybe, just maybe, he is stumbled upon something unexpected down there – a hidden compartment filled with miniature grenades or a self destruct mechanism triggered by excessive prodding.

Every probing touch, every whispered technical term that sounds suspiciously like plumbing jargon, feels like a violation of the highest order.

You clench your jaw so hard your teeth might actually shatter, forcing yourself to remain still. Giving him the satisfaction of a whimper or a flinch would be akin to surrendering your weapon before a life and death fight – a sign of weakness you refuse to display.

Minutes crawl by, each one an eternity measured in the excruciating silence punctuated only by the rhythmic thud of your own terrified heart.

Finally, Dr. Miller lets out a sigh that could rival the exhale of an extremely disgruntled Titan. Relief washes over him, palpable enough to practically condense in the air.

He withdraws the speculum slowly, the pressure easing with each inch.

The coolness fades, replaced by a dull ache that throbs in protest, a constant reminder of the intrusion you have just endured.

He disposes of the speculum with a metallic clink that seems to echo through the room.

Then, turning his attention to his gloved hands, he wipes them down with a theatrical flourish, the crinkling of the paper loud enough to be mistaken for applause.

"Seems everything is normal down there too," he mutters finally, his voice as devoid of inflection as the sterile walls themselves.

Normal? You want to laugh, a harsh, humorless bark that would shatter the sterile silence.

Normal for a woman about to be turned into a incubator for a government experiment?

Normal for someone who is traded the thrill of crafting weapons that could cleave a human in two for the indignity of having her most private parts prodded and examined like a malfunctioning machine?

There is nothing normal about this situation, and Dr. Miller, with his detached demeanor and bureaucratic pronouncements, is about as normal as a three headed deer waltzing through the streets.

The internal examination is over, leaving you feeling like a disassembled weapon haphazardly thrown back together, missing a few crucial screws and leaking a suspicious amount of… well, everything.

Dr. Miller, bless his detached heart, busies himself cleaning his instruments, the metallic clinking echoing in the tense silence like a morbid symphony.

You watch him with a sardonic glint in your eye, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic clang and the occasional muttered curse word (hopefully directed at the malfunctioning speculum, not your… delicate state).

Just as you begin to entertain the fleeting notion that this ordeal might actually be over, a fresh wave of dread washes over you like a rogue tsunami.

Dr. Miller reaches for a new set of sterile swabs, the crinkled plastic packaging a telltale sign of further indignities to come.

You clench your fists, the rough fabric of the sheet digging into your palms.

You know exactly what is coming – another round of poking, prodding, and sample collecting, all in the name of "compatibility."

"Alright," Dr. Miller announces, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth, "We need to collect some additional samples."

Additional samples? You want to scream, to hurl obscenities at the sterile white walls, to remind them that you are a human being, not a Petri dish waiting to be cultured.

But logic, that pesky intruder, rears its ugly head. Screaming will not get you anywhere, and throwing a tantrum would only solidify their image of you as an uncooperative breeding mare.

He must sense your apprehension, because he adds, with a tone that could be mistaken for apologetic (but you are not buying it for a second), "It is a routine part of the procedure to ensure compatibility."

Compatibility. Right. Because clearly, the fate of humanity rests on your ability to swap spit with a glorified lab rat in a fancy uniform.

You nod tightly, a single, jerky movement that speaks volumes about your inner turmoil. Can you trust his words? Does it even matter? Here, in this sterile prison, trust is a luxury you can not afford.

Shame burns like a hot coal in your throat, a stark contrast to the cold sweat prickling your skin.

Dr. Miller holds up a small, cotton tipped swab – the instrument of your further violation. "First," he announces, his voice devoid of any drama, "a saliva sample."

He leans in, his breath surprisingly stale for a man who probably gargles mouthwash on the hourly. You clench your jaw for a moment, a silent rebellion against this further intrusion.

But logic, that persistent voice in your head, wins over defiance. Compliance now, rebellion later. You open your mouth slightly, the smallest concession you can muster, allowing him to insert the swab and gently scrape the inside of your cheek.

The feeling is surprisingly intimate, the foreign object brushing against your tongue, sending a shiver down your spine.

You close your eyes, willing yourself to become a ghost in the sterile room, invisible to his probing gaze.

He twirls the swab a few times, the motion slow and deliberate, before carefully extracting it from your mouth. The used swab is deposited into a labeled vial, the plastic snapping shut with a definitive click – another notch on their scientific belt, another piece of you catalogued and filed away.

The next sample. The dreaded one. You recognize it by the way Dr. Miller's gaze lingers on you a beat too long, a hesitant flicker of something akin to… sympathy? In his perpetually furrowed brow? Do not make you laugh.

"It will only take a second," he mumbles, his voice softer than you have heard him speak all damn day. "Try to relax."

Relax? In this sterile cattle prod of a room, with your dignity scattered like spent bullet casings on the floor?

The word feels like a slap in the face. But you nod curtly, the defeat a bitter pill lodged in your throat.

The cold touch of a gloved finger pries your legs open further, the sensation a stark contrast to the rough callouses that usually grip the smooth metal of your tools.

A dreaded scene catches your eye – the dreaded swab, held in his hand like a tiny, mocking trophy. Shame burns in your gut, a white hot fire that threatens to consume you.

This is the ultimate violation, the final frontier they need to conquer. They have poked and prodded, scanned and scrutinized, and now they want the key to the vault, the blueprint to the weapon they intend to forge.

You clench your fists, digging your nails into your palms, the pain a welcome distraction from the humiliation.

The probing is mercifully brief, a fleeting violation compared to the mental torment you have endured.

Dr. Miller removes the swab with a soft rustle, the sound almost inaudible in the tense silence. He deposits it in the vial with a metallic clink, a punctuation mark to your ordeal.

Relief washes over you, a tidal wave that leaves you breathless. It is a hollow victory, a reprieve more than a triumph. But for now, at least, you have held your ground. You have endured their examination, their violation, and emerged (somewhat) unbroken.

He steps back, his expression a carefully constructed mask that reveals nothing. "There you go," he finally mutters, his voice devoid of any triumph. No celebration, no fanfare – just a sterile statement of fact.

Across the room, Zachary, your supposed savior (gag), remains a stoic statue. His face is a mask that could rival the emotionless sterility of this damn room.

The only hint of anything remotely human is the barely perceptible twitch in his jaw, a microscopic tremor that speaks volumes about the tension he is trying so desperately to hide.

You, on the other hand, are anything but stoic. You remain sprawled on the bed, a human pretzel contorted into a position that would make even the most flexible weapon malfunction.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, a futile attempt to block out the sterile white ceiling and the searing images burned into your memory.

Every prod, every humiliating scrape – a fresh scar etched onto the landscape of your pride.

Your body trembles, not from the cold, but from the aftermath of the ordeal. It is a primal reaction, a caged animal finally released but still reeling from the bars that once held it captive.

They leave the room, the click of the door a punctuation mark to the violation you have just endured.

The silence that descends is almost worse – a heavy, suffocating blanket that amplifies the pounding of your heart and the choked sobs that finally escape your throat.

Tears sting your eyes, blurring the sterile white of the ceiling into a watery mess. This sterile prison, this cattle prod of a medical examination – this is not supposed to be your life.

You scoff, a humorless sound that echoes in the empty room. You, a weapon artisan whose touch could turn a hunk of scrap metal into a thing of lethal beauty, are reduced to this – a specimen under a microscope, a pawn in their twisted game of genetic roulette.

Fury, hot and potent, surges through you, momentarily eclipsing the despair. They may have violated your body, prodded and poked at your most private parts, but they have not broken your spirit. No, not by a long shot. This may be their game, their sterile little experiment, but you refuse to be a passive participant.

Three days. Seventy two excruciatingly silent hours have crawled by since the medical examinations, each one a slow, agonizing torture worse than any interrogation you have ever endured.

The sterile horror of it all clings to you like a cheap perfume on a desperate social climber – inescapable, suffocating, and leaving a lingering headache in its wake.

You, the self proclaimed queen of solitude, the monster who could happily spend weeks alone with nothing but a good blueprint and a malfunctioning weapon for company, are starting to understand the concept of "cabin fever.

The once blissful quiet of your cell now feels like a sensory deprivation chamber on fast forward.

The rhythmic dripping from the leaky faucet down the hall, a sound you previously tuned out with the practiced ease of a seasoned sniper ignoring the whine of distant bullets, now echoes through the sterile emptiness like a maddening metronome counting down the seconds to your inevitable mental breakdown.

The stark white walls, once a source of comfort in their unadorned simplicity, now seem to mock you with their clinical coldness. They are like blank canvases, each imperfection a glaring reminder of the perfect life you have been ripped away from.

No more meticulously organized toolboxes, gleaming with the promise of creation and destruction. No more meticulously folded clothes, each crease a testament to your control. No more swords, to practice with your comrades... No more...

Here, everything is tossed haphazardly, a crumpled metaphor for your lost autonomy.

But the real torment, the constant itch you can not quite scratch, resides within your own violated body. The memory of those gloved hands, the cold, metallic instruments, the intrusion into your most private spaces sends a fresh wave of anger and shame crashing over you like a rogue wave.

You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, the only outlet for the silent scream trapped in your throat.

The biggest betrayal, though, cuts deeper than any physical violation. It is the sudden, sickening awareness of your own vulnerability.

You, the lone wolf, the creature who thrived on self reliance, have been stripped bare, reduced to a vessel in their twisted experiment.

They have poked and prodded, analyzed and assessed, and all they see is a damn breeding machine.

The cell, once your sanctuary, a haven from the idiocy of the human herd, now feels like a gilded cage.

The bars are not metal this time, but humiliation, a cage built from the violation of your body and the desecration of your privacy.

The urge to scrub your skin raw, to somehow cleanse yourself of their touch, is overwhelming.

But even that small act of defiance is denied you. The single, institutional bar of soap they grudgingly provide feels like an insult – a far cry from the luxurious bath products you once indulged in, a daily ritual as essential as oiling your favorite weapon.

Another betrayal. You, the woman who could identify the brand of hand soap used in a government interrogation room based on the faintest lavender aroma, is forced to exist in a state of near filth.

The coarse prison linens, once tolerable in their utilitarian simplicity, now feel like sandpaper against your skin. You wince, remembering the meticulous way you used to fold your clothes back in your old life, each item arranged with military precision. Here, the clothes are tossed on a metal bunk, a crumpled testament to your lost control.

But the worst part, the insidious rot that is slowly eating away at your sanity, is the mind numbing boredom.

Solitary confinement, once a welcome respite from the cacophony of human interaction, now feels like a sensory deprivation chamber designed by a particularly sadistic psychologist.

The lack of good literature, a cornerstone of your existence, is a constant ache. The prison library offers a paltry selection of dog eared paperbacks, the stories predictable and devoid of the intellectual stimulation you crave.

Where are the complex philosophical treatises? The gritty war memoirs you devoured in a single sitting?

And the erotic stories? A distant memory, a guilty pleasure you now yearn for with a desperation that surprises even you. The human touch, once something you actively avoided, now seems a distant dream, a phantom limb aching in its absence.

You sink down onto the hard cot, the metallic clang echoing in the silence. The once welcomed solitude now feels like a suffocating shroud, a constant reminder of your predicament.

A single tear traces a path down your cheek, a silent testament to the despair that has taken root within you. But beneath the despair, a flicker of defiance ignites.

The harsh clang of your cell door being yanked open shatters the silence like a brick through a cathedral window.

Two goons in guard uniforms, shadows obscuring their Neanderthal features, fill the doorway. They reek of stale sweat and something vaguely institutional – cafeteria mystery meat, maybe?

You would put it past this glorified cattle prod of a facility.

"Up," barks one of them, his voice like nails scraping concrete.

You rise slowly, stretching your deliberately stiff muscles.

They expect a reaction, a flinch, a whimper for your mommy.

But you have learned the hard way that showing weakness here is like offering a particularly juicy steak to a pack of starving wolves. You will not last a minute.

One of them ambles over, all predatory grace of a drunken hippo. He snatches a blindfold the size of a flour sack and, with the finesse of a toddler trying on a tutu, yanks your head back. The world dissolves into a suffocating darkness.

"Hold still," he growls, his voice hot and Neanderthal esque against your ear. The other one circles behind you, his meaty hands working with practiced efficiency that speaks of countless similar cattle proddings.

Metal clicks against metal as handcuffs are slapped on your wrists, binding them tighter than a politician's promise.

The rough hands then migrate south, yanking your legs apart with a jerk that would make a contortionist wince.

Thick ropes appear from out of nowhere, the scratchy fibers binding your ankles together like a poorly wrapped birthday present.

You clench your jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a whimper or a flinch.

They want a reaction?

They will get the cold shoulder, and maybe a particularly venomous glare if they ever decide to unblindfold you.

They manhandle you out of the cell, their movements all elbows and knees, their bodies brushing against yours in a way that feels about as subtle as a sledgehammer.

Not a word escapes their Neanderthal lips, the silence thick with unspoken threats and the faint scent of stale deodorant (or is that fear?).

You navigate the sterile hallway with the grace of a drunken giraffe, relying on their grunts and occasional shoves for guidance.

Finally, they stop and shove you roughly through something, their hands digging into your bound arms like overzealous secret agents.

They guide you towards something, their movements forceful, their grip tight enough to leave bruises that would make a badge of honor back in your workshop.

With the practiced ease of seasoned guards (or maybe just bouncers), they secure you to the chair.

Ropes bite into your flesh as they bind your wrists to the armrests, pulling your arms taut and uncomfortable.

Another rope circles your chest, pinning you to the back of the chair and restricting your movement like a particularly enthusiastic python.

Throughout the ordeal, you remain silent, a statue carved from defiance amidst the storm. They search for a reaction, a flicker of fear in your blindfolded eyes.

But you give them

nothing.

You have learned the art of becoming a wall, an unyielding barrier against their cruelty.

They finish their little rope rodeo, the ropes digging into your flesh like a particularly enthusiastic critic. One of the guards leans in close, his breath hot and stale against your ear – a bouquet of cafeteria mystery meat and stale sweat, truly a sensory delight. "Do not think this will be easy," he says, his voice laced with a sadistic pleasure that would make a horror story villain blush.

You offer no reply. Silence is your weapon, your only defense in this hostile environment. They may bind your body, but they cannot break your spirit.

The rough scrape of boots fades into a distant silence, thick enough to choke on. Each tick of the unseen clock stretches into an eternity as you strain your ears, the only remaining sense that offers a glimpse into the world beyond the suffocating darkness of the blindfold.

Minutes bleed into what feels like hours, and you contemplate the existential dread of becoming best friends with a particularly enthusiastic spider when a new set of footsteps finally breaks the silence.

This is not the lumbering gait of your previous escorts, all elbows and knees and the grace of a drunken hippo.

These steps are lighter, quicker, a rhythmic thud that speaks of purpose, efficiency, and possibly a shared appreciation for decent footwear.

You count at least five sets, their weight distributed unevenly, some heavier, some lighter, they collectively sounds like a dysfunctional bowling team on their way to a disastrous match.

The sound circles the room before coming to a stop somewhere directly in front of you. Then, a touch.

Gentle, cool fingertips brush against your cheek, a stark contrast to the rough hands that manhandled you earlier.

It sends a jolt through you, not of fear, but of surprise. This touch is different, devoid of aggression, laced with a hint of… curiosity?

Almost hesitant, like a child reaching out to a potentially dangerous butterfly.

The blindfold is carefully removed, peeling away the darkness to reveal the harsh fluorescent reality of the room.

You blink rapidly, adjusting your eyes to the unforgiving light. A woman stands before you, adorned in the uniform of the Survey Corps – a pair of stylized wings a mocking reminder of the freedom you have lost.

Her face, framed by a mess of dark brown hair, holds a fascinating mix of amusement and seriousness. Her eyes, bright and intelligent, sparkle with a hint of unsettling mania that sends a shiver down your spine.

This must be Hange Zoe, the infamous Section Commander they whisper about in the prison yard. The one with a reputation for being a genius… and slightly unhinged.

Before you can fully process the sight of her, Hange speaks. Her voice is surprisingly gentle, a soothing balm compared to the harsh barks you've been subjected to.

"Do not worry," she murmurs, her words conspiratorial, meant for your ears only. "We will nog hurt you… much."

She winks, a fleeting gesture that seems utterly at odds with the weight of the situation.

It is like watching a playful puppy frolicking in a warzone.

Hange steps back, taking a seat at a nearby table. You now see the table clearly, a simple wooden surface scarred with countless meetings and tense negotiations.

The realization dawns on you – you are no longer in the sterile cell, but in a room designed for… interrogation?

Or perhaps a particularly sadistic game of poker, considering the company.

You glance down at yourself, noting with a detached amusement that you are still restrained in the chair, your body a marionette waiting for its strings to be pulled.

Across from you sits Dhalis Zachary, his face a stoic mask as always. To your left sits Nile Dawk, the Commander of the Military Police.

On your right, a single chair sits occupied by the man himself – Levi Ackerman. He seems shorter than you expected, but his posture radiates an aura of quiet power that makes the chair seem two sizes too small. His face is a mask of indifference, but a flicker of something – annoyance, perhaps? – crosses his features as his gaze meets yours.

He looks like a man would rather be cleaning his precious blades than babysitting a captured (former) soldier with a criminal history.

Flanking Levi is Hange Zoe, her manic grin a stark contrast to the serious expressions of the others. On the other side of the table, opposite Nile Dawk, sits Erwin Smith. The very sight of him fills you with a surge of cold fury.

There he sits, the Commander of the Survey Corps, the architect of your capture and the orchestrator of this entire charade.

His face is calm, composed, almost bored, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within you. He is, after all, the one responsible for your current predicament, the one who ripped you from your life and turned you into a pawn in his twisted game.

"Erwin Smith," you hiss, your voice a low, controlled one, laced with a dangerous amount of venom. "What is the meaning of this charade?"

Erwin clears his throat, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the tense silence. "Now, Ms. Reader," he begins, his voice clipped and dripping with misplaced authority, "the tests have revealed an interesting development." He pauses for dramatic effect, his gaze sweeping across the room like a spotlight searching for an audience.

Nile Dawk snorts, a harsh sound that cuts through the pretense like a rusty knife. "Interesting?" he barks, his gruff voice devoid of any amusement. "More like damned inconvenient!"

Erwin ignores him, his steely gaze boring into yours. "You see," he continues, his voice low and measured like a predator sizing up its prey, "you and Captain Levi Ackerman here..." he trails off, gesturing towards Levi who sits rigid in his chair, expression as unreadable as a poorly lit cave. "...possess a rare genetic compatibility."

The air in the room thickens, the unspoken implications hanging heavy like the stench of stale sweat and desperation.

You clench your jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. Let them squirm in their expensive chairs, wondering what goes on behind the steely glint in your eyes.

"What does that mean?" you finally manage, your voice tight with a barely contained fury that threatens to boil over.

Erwin leans forward, a predatory glint flickering in his eyes. "It means," he explains, his voice low and measured like a serpent offering a poisoned apple, "that you are one of the most viable and genetically compatible women to carry a child for the Survey Corps."

"Also the Ackerman clan, and also the future of humanity." Dhalis Zachary adds.

Your breath hitches. Carry a child? For them? The anger that has simmered beneath the surface explodes into a white hot inferno.

"Carry a child? Like some damn brood mare?" you roar, your voice shaking with barely contained rage.

The veins in your neck throb in protest, and for a moment, you imagine yourself ripping the table in half just to see the looks on their faces.

Dhalis Zachary, however, seems unfazed by your outburst. He leans back in his chair, a predatory smile playing on his lips that wouldn't look out of place on a particularly lecherous weasel.

His gaze roams over your body with an unwanted familiarity, lingering on the swell of your breasts and the curve of your hips in a way that makes your skin crawl.

"Now, now, Letta," he coos, his voice dripping with a sickening sweetness that makes you want to vomit. "Do not be so modest. Think of it as a chance to contribute to humanity's survival... in a very intimate way."

His words hang heavy in the air, laced with a lewd undertone that makes you want to scrub your skin raw with bleach and then some.

Levi shoots him a withering glare that could curdle lava, but Dhalis remains unfazed, his smile widening into a leer that belongs on a back alley deviant.

Hange sighs dramatically, slumping back in her chair like a deflated balloon. "Are you sure about this?" she mutters, her voice laced with exasperation. "This is a person, not a breeding sow!"

Erwin's gaze hardens. "Calm down, Hange. She has a choice, of course." He turns back to you, his voice taking on a softer tone that sounds about as genuine as a politician's smile. "If you agree to carry Captain Levi Ackerman's child, Letta Reader, you will be granted a full pardon for your crimes. You will be free to return to your previous life, no questions asked."

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest, a fragile flame that flickers and dies as quickly as it ignited.

Be��Levi Ackerman's incubator? The very thought fills you with a strange, unsettling fear. You steal a glance at him, his face a stoic mask that speaks volumes. He does not want this any more than you do, that much is clear.

Dhalis leans forward again, his voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine for all the wrong reasons. "Letta," he whispers, always using your first name, his eyes gleaming with a depraved hunger that would make a ghoul blush. "Think of the possibilities. Imagine the strength a child of yours and Captain Ackerman's could possess. A warrior born from a rebellious spirit and humanity's strongest soldier... the possibilities are truly... arousing."

His words are a grotesque caricature of seduction, a perversion of intimacy that makes your stomach churn. Levi Ackerman finally speaks, his voice so low yet powerful that sends a tremor through the room. "Shut your damn mouth, Zachary. Nobody asked for your perverted input."

"Alright, I will do it!" you snap, cutting through their bickering like a knife through week old stew.

Let them celebrate their 'victory' while you savor the silent satisfaction of watching Erwin's triumph falter for a split second at the sight of his missing limb – a delightful reminder of his own mortality, courtesy of some well placed titan.

The air crackles with the unspoken tension of your reluctant agreement. Erwin's smile returns, this time stretched wide and unconvincing, like a toddler who is just been told he can not have another lollipop.

"Excellent," he declares with all the forced enthusiasm of a car salesman hawking a lemon. "Now, let us discuss the legalities of this… arrangement."

He gestures towards a stack of documents on the table, his voice taking on a more businesslike tone that clashes horribly with the absurdity of the situation.

"Since this situation is, well, unprecedented," he continues, dragging out the words like molasses, "we need to iron out a few details regarding parental rights."

You clench your jaw, a flicker of defiance sparking in your eyes. This may be their game, but you will not be a mindless pawn.

"Custody," you state firmly, your voice surprisingly steady considering the urge to launch yourself across the table and throttle Erwin with the nearest piece of parchment. "I will have the custody of the child."

This is the first time Levi addresses you...

Levi scoffs, a sharp, derisive sound that cuts through the air like a well aimed blade. "Like hell it will," he sneers. "I would not trust you to raise a fucking goldfish, let alone a child."

His voice is laced with undisguised contempt that makes you want to wipe that smug look off his face with your bare fists.

A cold anger flares within you, momentarily eclipsing the despair that has settled in your gut.

"And what makes you think you would be any better?" you retort, your voice rising a notch despite your best efforts to remain calm. "You have not exactly shown any paternal instinct throughout the whole meeting."

Nile slams his fist on the table again, but Erwin holds up a hand, silencing him with a sharp look that would not be out of place on a particularly irritated drill sergeant.

"Perhaps," Erwin begins, his voice smooth and conciliatory like honey laced with arsenic, "a co parenting arrangement would be best. Both of you can have an equal say in the child's upbringing."

The idea of co parenting with Levi makes you want to roll your eyes so hard they disappear into your skull.

You can barely tolerate being in the same room with the grumpy excuse for a human, let alone navigate the trials and tribulations of raising a child together.

But the alternative – him having sole custody and subjecting your offspring to his brand of stoic indifference – is even less appealing.

You nod curtly, a silent acceptance of Erwin's suggestion. Levi, however, remains unconvinced. He steeples his fingers in front of him, his gaze fixed on Erwin with an intensity that could bore holes through concrete.

"Fine," he mutters finally, the word dripping with concession, "co parenting. But I want certain things in writing."

"Of course, Levi," Erwin says, "Please outline your terms."

Levi's expression hardens further, his scowl deepening into a masterpiece of grumpy disapproval.

"First," he states, his voice leaving no room for argument, a dictator laying down the law to a particularly troublesome colony, "all medical expenses related to the pregnancy and childbirth will be covered by me. I will not have some… government hack butchering you on my dime. You will survive the experience, and frankly, the paperwork for a malpractice suit would be a bigger pain in the ass than dealing with you right now."

The blatant distrust in his words stings like a particularly well placed paper cut, but you force yourself to remain still.

This is a small price to pay for a modicum of control, a sliver of autonomy in this twisted game of forced motherhood.

Erwin jots down the point, his brow furrowing slightly at Levi's bluntness, the man clearly more accustomed to flowery speeches than blunt pronouncements.

Levi continues, his voice as cold and emotionless as a winter. "Second, childcare. I will provide for the best possible care available. No cutting corners on nannies, no questionable daycares run by chain smoking grandmas with questionable hygiene standards."

He throws a pointed glance in your direction, the implication clear as day – he does not trust you to make sound decisions regarding the child's well being, which, considering the circumstances, is a fair point.

You grit your teeth, forcing yourself not to react.

This is not the time for a witty retort, no matter how tempting it might be to remind him that his idea of 'good childcare' probably involves drill sergeants and obstacle courses.

Erwin adds this point to the list as well, a flicker of sympathy, genuine or otherwise, crossing his features as he observes your silent struggle.

Finally, Levi leans back in his chair, his gaze locking with yours with an intensity that could melt steel. "Most importantly," he states, his voice low and intense, "I will be involved in every aspect of this child's life. I will not be some weekend dad who shows up for birthday parties and complains about the noise. This is my child too, and I will have a say in their upbringing."

There is a steely determination in his eyes that brooks no argument. You understand his position, even if you despise his methods.

He may despise you with the burning passion of a thousand suns, but there's an undeniable protectiveness in his gaze, a flicker of something that might resemble… concern? Perhaps?

You nod curtly, a silent acceptance of his final term. This agreement may not be ideal, but it offers a semblance of control within this bizarre situation.

Co parenting with Levi will be a challenge akin to wrangling a particularly grumpy titan with nothing but a rusty spork, but perhaps, just perhaps, it could work.

After all, you both share a common goal – the well being of the hypothetical child you will be forced to conceive.

Dhalis leans back in his chair, a predatory glint in his eyes that makes you want to reach across the table and gouge them out with your bare thumbs.

He steeples his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips like a particularly unwelcome house guest refusing to leave. "Now, onto the nitty gritty," he purrs, his voice dripping with a sickening level of amusement that would make a sewer rat blush. "Since time is of the essence, we propose two insemination attempts per day."

Two attempts? Every day? The air itself seems to curdle at the bluntness of his statement.

It feels barbaric, a violation of your body disguised as a medical procedure performed by glorified prodding monkeys. But you know you have no real choice in this twisted game of procreation roulette.

A silent plea flickers in your eyes, directed at Erwin, but his face remains as impassive as a freshly carved headstone. He seems content to let Dhalis take the lead in this grotesque negotiation, happy to play puppet master while you and Levi become his unwilling marionettes in a perverse play.

You force yourself to nod, a single, jerky movement that speaks volumes of your simmering rage and barely contained disgust.

This is not about procreation, it is about control, about reducing you to a mere vessel, a human incubator for their grand experiment. The very thought makes your skin crawl.

The next point of discussion is even more fraught with tension. Levi, who has been brooding in silence like a grumpy gargoyle come to life, finally speaks up.

His voice is low, devoid of any warmth or humor, like nails scraping down a chalkboard. "Boundaries," he states curtly, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that could bore holes through steel. "We need to establish some ground rules."

You meet his gaze unflinchingly. There is no point in sugarcoating this, no use in pretending there will be hearts and flowers along the way.

"Fine," you reply, your voice flat and emotionless, a stark contrast to the churning chaos within you.

There is no point in arguing about pleasantries or pretending this will be anything resembling a normal relationship.

This is a transaction, a forced sex that neither of you truly desires.

Dhalis throws his head back and lets out a loud, boisterous laugh that grates on your nerves like a rusty cheese grater scraping against bone.

"Boundaries? In the middle of fucking? Come now, Levi, loosen up a bit!" he exclaims, his voice dripping with a vulgarity that would make a drunken sailor blush. "This is not some romantic rendezvous, it is for the good of humanity! Besides," he continues, his eyes gleaming with a disturbing glint, "who knows, you might even enjoy it. It could be… stimulating."

The sheer audacity of the man makes you want to retort with a witty remark so scathing it would leave him speechless, but you hold your tongue.

Engaging with him on this level would only sink you deeper into the swamp of his depravity.

Instead, you turn your gaze towards Erwin, a flicker of hope igniting in your chest.

Surely, even he can not be shameless enough to endorse such a ludicrous suggestion.

Erwin shoots Dhalis a withering look. It effectively silences the man, though the suggestive smirk still lingers on his face like a particularly unwelcome house guest who refuses to take a hint.

Erwin clears his throat, the sound scratchy and awkward, like a rusty hinge protesting its existence. "Perhaps," he suggests, gesturing towards the door with all the grace of a drunken toddler attempting to stack building blocks, "they could discuss this privately? Spare us all the unnecessary… imagery."

Nile scoffs, the sound erupting from him like a particularly disgruntled bullfrog. "Do not be ridiculous, Erwin," he barks. "This concerns the success of the operation! Transparency is the key!" His voice booms through the room, a stark contrast to the tense silence that has settled between you and Levi, thick enough to choke a titan.

You clench your jaw so hard you swear you hear your dentist wince in sympathy, refusing to give Dhalis or Nile the satisfaction of seeing your discomfort.

Levi, however, seems to reach a similar conclusion, his face a mask of stoic indifference that would make a statue look expressive.

He stands abruptly from his chair, the movement stiff and controlled, like a predator preparing to pounce.

"Fine," he mutters, He gestures towards the door with a curt flick of his hand, an unspoken invitation that speaks volumes. "Let us get this over with."

You rise from your chair as well, your movements stiff and mechanical, like a marionette with its strings yanked by an invisible hand.

Together, you walk towards the door, leaving behind the roomful of voyeurs who seem strangely invested in the mechanics of your forced procreation.

The sterile hallway stretches before you, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within you. Levi walks ahead, his footsteps echoing in the silence like a grim countdown.

You follow a few paces behind, a tense distance mirroring the emotional chasm that separates you.

The lights overhead hum with an oppressive energy, casting long, distorted shadows that dance on the sterile white walls.

The air itself feels heavy, thick with unspoken animosity and the weight of your predicament. You steal a glance at Levi, your eyes narrowed.

He does not even acknowledge you, his gaze fixed stoically ahead, his jaw clenched tight.

The man looks about as thrilled about this prospect as you are, which is to say, not at all.

In fact, if his expression were any grumpier, it would sprout moss.

You contemplate making a snarky remark, just to break the suffocating silence, but decide against it.

There is no point in expending the energy. Besides, you can practically taste his disapproval, and frankly, you do not need him to verbalize it.

He reaches the end of the hallway and stops abruptly. He does not turn around, but you can feel his icy gaze burning into your back like a death stare delivered by a particularly judgmental penguin.

Finally, he speaks, "Boundaries," he repeats, the word dripping with undisguised disgust, like a gourmet chef forced to cook with week old rotten vegetables.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze when he finally turns around.

His face is a mask of stoic indifference, like a particularly grumpy statue come to life. "Look," you say, your voice surprisingly steady considering the urge to deck him right across that smug face, "neither of us wanted this. But we are stuck in this situation, so let us make it as… efficient as possible. Think of it as a necessary evil, like a root canal performed by a drunken dentist."

Levi raises an eyebrow, a flicker of something akin to amusement crossing his features for a fleeting moment, like a brief flash of sunlight breaking through a storm cloud. "Efficient? This is hardly the word I would use to describe rutting with a criminal." The words are a barb, a reminder of the contempt he holds for you, a verbal jab delivered with all the precision of a veteran gloomy pretty boy.

You grit your teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. Engaging in a war of words with him is about as productive as trying to herd cats while wearing roller skates – a spectacular recipe for disaster.

"Fine," you reply tightly, forcing a sardonic smile. "Just tell me what your definition of 'efficient' entails, Captain Grumpy."

He stares at you for a long moment, his face an unreadable mask that could rival the Sphinx for sheer inscrutability. Then, he sighs, a sharp exhale that speaks volumes about his frustration. "Minimal contact," he finally mutters, the words clipped and curt, like orders barked on a battlefield. "Get it over with as quickly as possible. In and out, that is all."

His words are blunt, devoid of any tenderness, but they are strangely… practical.

You nod curtly, a silent agreement forming between the two of you, a reluctant truce in this bizarre war of forced procreation. "There will be no foreplay, no emotional connection," he continues, his voice leaving no room for argument, "just the bare minimum required for the procedure. Think of it as a business transaction, a necessary exchange of bodily fluids to fulfill our… obligations."

"And," he adds, his voice dropping to a low, "do not expect me to be gentle." The implication is clear – this will not be a picnic in the park, more like a prodding session with a very sadistic veterinarian.

You meet his gaze unflinchingly. "Believe me," you reply coolly, your voice laced with a steely defiance that surprises even you, "gentleness is the last thing I expect from you. If anything, a little roughhousing might be a welcome distraction from the absurdity of this entire situation." There is a spark of defiance in your voice, a flicker of something that surprises even you.

"You could have rejected the proposition but you did not," Levi suddenly says. "Do not you dare pretend this is okay!"

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to turn and meet his glare head on. "Look, Captain Ackerman," you say, your voice laced with a steely calm that surprises even you, "neither of us wanted this little vacation to Conception Island. We are both pawns in their twisted game of baby bingo. But unlike you, Captain Morality, I am not going to waste my breath whining about ethics. This is my ticket out of here, a chance to claw my way back to a semblance of normalcy. You can play your righteous soldier act all you want, but frankly, it is getting old faster than last week's bread."

Levi scoffs, a harsh, humorless sound that grates on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. "Freedom? You call this freedom? You are nothing but a incubator, a baby making machine for the government!" He throws his hands up in exasperation, his posture rigid with disapproval. "This is not some noble sacrifice, Reader, it is a violation of your body, your rights! Do you not get it?"

The anger in his voice is palpable, a stark contrast to your own detached indifference. You almost feel a flicker of pity for him, burdened by his misplaced sense of honor in a world that thrives on pragmatism.

"Listen closely, Captain Ackerman," you counter, your voice dropping, "I may be a criminal in their eyes, but at least I am not afraid to take control of the situation. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a mere attack dog, following orders without question."

A muscle twitches in Levi's jaw, a sign of his barely contained fury. He steps closer, invading your personal space, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss.

"You call yourself a human? Willing to sell your body, your future, for a shot at freedom? You are pathetic." The word hangs in the air, a cruel insult dripping with contempt.

You stare back at him, completely unfazed. "Pathetic?" you echo, your voice laced with a dangerous edge that could cut diamonds. "At least I am not a self righteous hypocrite, preaching morality while following orders like a mindless dog."

You hold his gaze for a beat longer, relishing the flicker of surprise that crosses his features, a tiny crack in his facade of stoic disapproval.

Levi opens his mouth to retort, but you cut him off with a sharp gesture. "We are done here, Captain Levi," you say, your voice cold and final. "We both know what needs to be done. Let us just get this over with, like ripping off a stubborn bandage."

The sooner this gets done, the sooner you can be on your way back to a life that is not dictated by government officials and brooding soldiers.

This is not about morality, you tell yourself.

Morality went out the window the day they branded you a criminal and locked you in this fucking cage.

This is about survival, about playing the hand you have been dealt and coming out on top, even if the top looks suspiciously like a damp prison cell with a slightly better view.

And in this twisted game of procreation roulette, you are playing to win. Even if the prize comes at a heavy price, like a lifetime supply of government issued baby food and endless lullabies sung by a tone deaf beyblade.

The sterile hallway stretches out before you like a never ending white void, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps trapped in a fluorescent cage.

The air itself feels thick with unspoken tension, a pressure that could make a lesser person crack. Levi throws you one last scathing glare that could curdle lukewarm milk on a hot day, his lips moving in a silent tirade you can only imagine is filled with colorful insults and dire pronouncements about the downfall of humanity (all because you dared to choose a sliver of freedom over a lifetime of titan fodder duty).

He storms off in the direction of the conference room with the grace of a particularly grumpy badger, leaving you alone in the oppressive silence.

You take a deep breath, the weight of the situation pressing down on you like a rogue titan misplaced in a tea party.

This whole conversation, the heated exchange with Levi, has done little to shake your resolve.

Freedom, however illusory, is within your grasp, a ticket out of this bureaucratic nightmare and back to a semblance of normalcy (assuming "normal" includes dodging rogue titans and scavenging for scraps).

You will not let him – or your own doubts – derail you. This may not be the life you envisioned, but it is a hell of a lot better than the alternative – which, judging by the perpetually grumpy expression on Levi's face, involves a lifetime of cleaning up humanity's messes.

Minutes tick by, each one an eternity in the sterile silence. Finally, the door to the conference room swings open with a groan, and the group emerges, blinking into the harsh fluorescent light.

Erwin is at the forefront, a smile plastered on his face that does not quite reach his eyes. It looks more like a grimace plastered over a grimace, like he just swallowed a sour lemon while simultaneously stubbing his toe on a rogue pebble.

Nile Dawk follows, his face a stoic mask that reveals none of his thoughts, but there is a flicker of something in his eyes that could be interpreted as… annoyance? Maybe?

Hange trails behind them, a mischievous glint in her eyes that promises future experiments involving questionable concoctions and dubious safety protocols.

Levi brings up the rear, his face an unreadable mask, his gaze fixed firmly ahead, like a soldier marching towards a particularly unpleasant battle (which, considering the circumstances, is not entirely inaccurate).

Nile Dawk clears his throat, the sound echoing awkwardly in the hallway. "Alright, convict 6913 Letta Reader" he booms, his voice a stark contrast to the surrounding silence. "The agreement has been finalized. Captain Levi Ackerman has already signed off. Just a formality now."

He thrusts a stack of papers towards you, his gruff demeanor doing little to disguise the undercurrent of unease in his eyes. Maybe even he has a sliver of conscience buried somewhere beneath that gruff exterior.

You take the documents, your gaze scanning the legalese quickly. It is all there, the terms of your agreement, the obligations, the limitations of your freedom (which, let's be honest, were about as existent as a happy ending in this world).

You clench your jaw, the injustice of it all burning in your throat. This piece of paper is a contract, a binding agreement that ties you to a life you never chose, but it is also a ticket, a one way trip to a future that might not be ideal, but is undeniably better than rotting away in this concrete cage.

With a sigh that speaks volumes, you pick up a pen and sign the papers, your signature a final, irrevocable step towards this bizarre future.

The ink dries on the page, sealing your fate.

Hange steps forward, a playful smile plastered on her face that could rival a circus clown on a particularly sugary high.

"Here," she chirps, holding out two brightly colored candies that look like they could double as miniature concussion grenades. "For courage. You are going to need it. Especially if Levi decides to take 'minimal contact' a little too literally." Her voice is surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the bureaucratic hell you have just slogged through.

You stare at the proffered candy with a raised eyebrow. Courage, huh? More like a desperate attempt to sugarcoat a situation that is about as sweet as a week old titan carcass.

But beggars can not be choosers, especially when said beggars are facing a future filled with forced insemination and the dubious pleasure of Levi Ackerman's company (or lack thereof).

With a sigh, you take the candies, the artificial colors staining your fingers a sickly shade of pink and orange. "Thank you, Section Commander Hange," you murmur, a flicker of something akin to gratitude warming your heart.

It is a small gesture, but in this world of power plays and political maneuvering, even a single candy feels like a rebellious act.

Erwin, ever the master of the forced smile, throws you a curt nod, his expression as comforting as a bowl of lukewarm gruel. "We will be in touch, Ms. Reader," he says, his voice dripping with a forced cheer that would not fool a particularly dim witted titan. "The doctors will brief you on the next steps shortly. Expect… extensive testing."

Right, because that is what you really need right now – a detailed medical lecture on the inner workings of forced procreation. You nod your head in acknowledgment, more to shut him up than anything else.

Levi remains silent, his back turned towards you like a particularly grumpy statue come to life.

He does not even grace you with a single glare, a dismissal that speaks volumes. Honestly, his disapproval is as refreshing as a cool breeze on a scorching summer day.

His approval, his disapproval, matters little in the grand scheme of things.

Suddenly, a slimy hand clamps onto your shoulder with the enthusiasm of an enthusiastic barnacle.

You whirl around, your heart leaping into your throat like a startled frog, to find Dhalis leering at you with the predatory grace of a weasel eyeing a particularly plump pigeon.

His eyes gleam with a disturbing hunger, "Well, well," he purrs, his breath reeking vaguely of last week's cafeteria mystery meat, "the breeding stock is all signed up. Ready for your… examination, shall we say?"

The man's words slither across your skin like a particularly unwelcome insect. You try to pry his hand off your shoulder, but his grip tightens painfully, like a particularly enthusiastic barnacle fused to your shoulder blade.

"Please do not be shy, Letta," he croons, his voice laced with a sickening sweetness that could curdle milk at fifty paces. "This is just the beginning of a beautiful… partnership. Think of it as your patriotic duty… with a few… extra benefits."

He winks at you, a gesture that solidifies your suspicion that the man has not seen the inside of a shower stall in a good long while.

The combined effect makes a wave of nausea roll through your stomach that threatens to erupt in a spectacular display of projectile vomiting.

Before you can even formulate a witty retort that would make him question his life choices, two burly guards materialize at Dhalis's side like particularly unwelcome sleep paralysis demons.

Their faces are as emotionless as a brick wall, their grip on your arms like iron clamps. Struggling against them is about as effective as trying to herd cats while wearing roller skates – a guaranteed recipe for disaster.

They manhandle you down the hallway, their rough hands leaving angry red marks on your skin.

You steal a glance back at Erwin and Hange, hoping for some shred of support, some sign of understanding in their eyes.

Their expressions, however, are as unreadable as a Rorschach inkblot test – a frustrating mix of what could be pity, amusement, or maybe just boredom.

But it is Dhalis's parting words that send a shiver down your spine, a cold dread settling in your gut like a particularly unwelcome dinner guest. "Enjoy your new home, Letta," he calls out, his voice dripping with a sickening delight that would make a corpse blush. "We will be seeing you soon… for the insemination. Consider it a… welcome gift."

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