#nothing wrong just another checkup

[squipa]

baby, i want some of your love

aka how you healed him

———

jason todd wears glasses now.

jason never really took care of himself after dying. his body was so hopelessly out of rhythm, everything slightly wrong and out of place. his bones creak underneath his skin, his muscles, which had nearly rotted and decayed, could never quite figure out how to relax. sometimes he’d forget to breathe, or blink, the actions no longer involuntary, and before you? he didn’t have it in himself to care. his health had fallen to the least of his worries.

but you were always so worried about him. you noticed things about himself he hadn’t even realized, how he winced when he chewed with the left side of his mouth, how he squinted at street signs whenever you went on walks, how his muscles were always tense until you massaged them into relaxation. you pointed them out, pouting whenever he’d shrug it off. to him, it was nothing, he was used to the pain, the inconvenience; he didn’t consider his own wellbeing important enough to pay any mind to.

to you, it was torture. watching the man you loved so dearly treat himself with so little care had you ruined. all you wanted for him was happiness and safety, for him to have what he had given you so freely, what he guarded himself from so intensely. he didn’t realize how much you cared until he noticed how much you finally pushed him to treat himself better.

“i scheduled you a dentist appointment.” you said, matter-of-factly setting down a few documents in front of him begging his patient history. he looked up to you, eyebrow raised, entirely confused. you answered his question before he could even think to ask it. “you wince when you chew.”

he wouldn’t say no to you. despite his disdain regarding the idea of a check up, he went. you came with him, fiercly speaking a language of medicine he didn’t understand. when he left the dentist, you gave him a lollipop. “i’m not five.” he ate it anyways, savoring the taste between strawberry-stained lips as you drove him home.

he stopped noticing when you made him appointments to get shots, or when you subtly slipped the card of a dermatologist behind the picture of you he kept in his wallet. he started actually caring about what he did to his body— gut health and all that. yes, he was jacked, his body had been built like a machine ever since it had patched itself back together in the lazarus pit, but he couldn’t remember the last time he ate a piece of fruit.

he didn’t realize how much better he felt until dick pointed it out for him. “you got glasses?” he asked, pointing to the thick black frames that sat on the bridge of his nose.

he nodded. he does wear glasses. he has silver caps on two of his teeth. he has a nice layer of body fat covering his muscles because he eats three well-balanced meals a day. he has a standing appointment with a chiropractor every other wednesday at two, and another with a therapist on mondays at one. he gets a checkup every six months and goes to the dentist every four, he’s been to the dermatologist three times in two years, he has all of his shots up to date, he takes vitamins in the morning and he sleeps at least five hours every night.

he cares about himself. he puts effort into making sure he stays healthy— and at first it was for you. only for you, to ease your constant worry about him. but now it’s second nature, your guiding hand has healed him, made him want to stay alive and healthy and whole, not for just you, but for himself.

the moment the realization washes over him of just how much you’ve given him, he rushes home and tells you in no less than a thousand ways just how grateful he is to have your love.

———

[meiieiri]

𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 [toji fushiguro]

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

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

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

word count. 3k~

“Why can’t you do anything right?”

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

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

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

“Water.”

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

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

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

“Shhh, I know, it’s okay.”

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

“It’ll be a painful decline.”

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

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

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

“A year, maybe even less.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright?!”

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

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

“—Save it.”

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

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

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

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

“There’s nothing embarrassing about you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, your giggles have gone silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He loses it at that.

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

You are left speechless at that.

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instantly, it dawns on you.

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

“She will,” he answers simply.

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

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

You were a devoted wife, through and through.

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

“Okay.”

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

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

“You seem happy,” you remarked positively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will. I promise.”

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

“Babe, can you say that again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile weakly at him. “Tiiredd—“

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

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

And you weren’t scared.

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

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

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

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

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

“Toji.”

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

[ak319]

(AN: Reader is 13-15, Arthur, 23-24)

Warnings: Not incest, strictly platonic, angst, fluff

You watched Arthur’s every move as he settled in, his face weary yet hardened, scrubbing off remnants of dirt and whatever else he’d encountered in the washing barrel. You lowered the clothes you were folding, feeling the slight twinge of nerves as you reached for his stew.

He liked it hot, which meant you had to reheat the pot. You realized you hadn’t eaten all day, but you brushed the thought aside. Taking the bowl in hand, you crossed over to him as he finally sat down, visibly exhausted.

“Here, Arthur." You said softly, extending the bowl to him.

He grunted in response, the closest thing to a “thank you” he would offer, and took it from you, his gaze giving you a quick once-over before returning to his meal. Routine checkup as you called it.

Trying to bridge the silence, you ventured, “So...how was it?”

Arthur barely looked up. “Was what?”

“The job…” You tried not to sound too eager, but the truth was, you were starved for any scrap of conversation, any glimpse into the part of his life that stayed cloaked in secrecy.

“Went well.” He replied curtly, still focused on his food.

A brief silence followed as you fiddled with a strand of hair, tucking it behind your ear. You felt a familiar ache bloom at the base of your skull and then another one at the abdomen, a dreadful sensation. Just then, it hit you, your period was due.

You froze, holding the empty tray as the realization dawned. Arthur looked up, stew mid-bite, and raised a brow at your sudden stillness, your gaze into space.

“What’s got you standin’ there like a ghost?” he muttered.

“Huh? Oh… nothing,” you managed to reply, trying to appear casual, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint flush that had spread across your face.

“Need... anything?”

"Um..." You started pondering which perhaps went on for a minute.

Arthur’s gruff voice interrupted your thoughts. He reached into his pocket and, with a casual flick, tossed a few crumpled bills onto the tray. “Your pocket money. Now, go brew the coffee.”

The whole thing felt like a bad joke. Arthur tossed you a few bucks every so often, calling it "pocket money," like you could waltz into town and buy whatever you wanted. But he was always right there with you whenever you went to the market, keeping a close eye on everything. Or you had to give him the list.

“Uh? Um... th-thanks.”

Arthur's brow furrowed, his gaze sharpening. "What’s wrong with you today? Why are you actin’ weird?”

You forced a chuckle, shaking your head. “I’m fine, actually. You’re the one who is wei-, um looks tired. I’ll get on with the coffee.”

Before he could question you further, you hurried off, trying to shake the unease settling in your stomach. As you set the coffee pot on, you remembered the stew you’d set aside for yourself and turned toward the wagon, only to see Pearson ladling out the last bowl for himself.

A pang of frustration mixed with the ache of hunger, you’d been so careful, setting everything up, and now even that small comfort had slipped through your fingers.

First, the looming sense of dread that seemed to haunt your every step, and now this, a missed meal because Pearson snatched up the last bowl of stew without a second thought. Emotions churned, thick and heavy, clouding your mind as you went about your tasks in a haze.

You delivered Arthur’s damn coffee, scrubbed his dishes clean, and finished up the rest of your chores, all while running on nothing more than stale biscuits and the last dregs of (tea/coffee). Asking others for food? You didn’t want to be seen as Arthur’s sister, the one mooching off his work, asking for scraps, felt cheap, when he practically carried the camp on his shoulders. The thought made your stomach churn with resentment and embarrassment. Yeah, not something a Morgan does. Although in your opinion, you shouldn't be doing anything if he earns the most...but whatever. Asking from your brother? If he found out you skipped lunch. He’d be livid, calling you reckless or worse for not managing the basics, you couldn't handle a scolding at the moment.

Frustration gnawed at you. It wasn't just the hunger, it was the constant grind of chores, endless and thankless, all because you were one of the few women in the camp. Susan wielded her age like a shield, always finding ways to rest while you and Annabelle picked up the slack. But even Annabelle was too busy, neck-deep in whatever business kept her hands clean of the daily tasks. And so, it fell to you.

You flopped onto your cot, hiding your face in the pillow as the pains of hunger and period mixed with a deeper ache, one of loneliness, exhaustion, and memories you could almost taste. You remembered your mother’s gentle hand on your forehead when you were ill, the comforting smell of warm food she’d bring, and the luxury of rest she allowed you. It felt like a distant, lost dream now. Here, rest wasn’t an option, it was a rare privilege you couldn’t afford. Great, now your pillow is also wet with tears.

⋆⋆⋆

You were knee-deep in a mountain of laundry, your temper simmering with each aggressive scrub against the washboard. The clothes bore the brunt of your pent-up frustration, wrung and scrubbed with a vengeance. Suddenly, something light and obnoxious hit the basket, a boy’s underwear. You knew immediately who the culprit was.

"How. Dare. You?" you snapped, eyes narrowing.

John, already a few steps away, stopped and turned, a lazy smirk creeping across his face. "What? You’re the one washing."

"Yes, I am the one washing, you jerk." You grabbed the offending article and chucked it back at him, hitting him square in the face. His eyes widened, and he gasped, genuinely taken aback.

"But I am not washing that!" you said, pointing at the ragged underwear as if it were a symbol of all your grievances. "Those are for you to wash, understand?"

John held the underwear in his hands, clearly bewildered. "What? Why? Is it not… a cloth? And why would I wash it? I’ve got way more important things to do." His voice grated against your headache, every word echoing like a drumbeat in your skull.

"Important huh? Okay. Then let's solve this problem another way."

You could feel your patience unraveling, and, without thinking, you yanked a pair of scissors from your belt and snipped through the fabric with one swift motion.

"Hey! That was one of my two pairs! What the hell is wrong with you?!" he yelped, clutching the scraps as if they were made of gold.

"Then maybe you should think twice before tossing them my way! Now go and cry." you shot back, but the anger and heat were taking their toll. Your vision blurred slightly, the world beginning to spin.

John’s voice rose in protest, but it sounded muffled, distant. You took a step back, steadying yourself on the edge of the wash basin, blinking rapidly to try and clear your head. "Damn heat… and damn you, John…" you muttered, but the words seemed to tangle and drift as darkness crept in at the corners of your vision.

Your eyes fluttered open, and the first sight that met you was Ms. Grimshaw, her familiar face creased with concern as she fanned you gently with a worn-out piece of fabric.

"Ah! You are awake, quite the theatrics you put on out there..." Her voice was both exasperated and relieved. You let out a soft groan in response, turning onto your side, trying to escape the brightness of the day that felt too harsh against your feverish skin. Your throat felt like sandpaper, and the heavy weight of your head pressed down against the pillow.

"T-time...?" you managed to croak, the words feeling foreign in your mouth.

"It's four," she replied, a hint of annoyance in her tone.

Your eyes shot open wide in panic. "T-the clothes? I-"

Susan rolled her eyes, cutting you off. "I washed them, don't worry. But tomorrow you gotta do them, got it? And what’s with you tearing that boy’s underwear?"

"Huh...? What?" Confusion clouded your thoughts as you reached for your canteen, the bitter taste in your mouth only worsening your discomfort.

"Forget it," she huffed, shaking her head. "Oh, I hear him. I think Arthur's back."

Panic surged through you as you struggled to focus, the realization hitting hard. Arthur. You had to see him, make his coffee, bring him his food, and make sure he knew you were at the camp and doing your part in the camp. But every instinct in you rebelled against the idea, your muscles weak and senses dulled as if they’d given up the fight.

Your vision blurred, and you sank deeper into the cot, eyelids heavy, your body refusing to cooperate. You barely registered Susan’s faint, dismissive muttering as she left the tent, her words blending into a haze of disapproval. For now, making sure Arthur was taken care of was the least of your worries.

Meanwhile, Susan spotted Arthur sitting by his cot, his irritation palpable. Freshly cleaned up from his last job, he seemed expectant, perhaps wondering where you were with his usual meal or coffee. Sensing an opportunity to stir up trouble, she approached him, her tone casual but dripping with judgment.

"Mr. Morgan," she began with a sly look, "your sister did nothing today. Not a damn thing. And right now? She’s sleeping in, like she's royalty or something."

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Why would she do that?”

“Who knows?” Susan shrugged with exaggerated indifference. “She had some spat with John, then just sulked off and refused to lift a finger.”

The moment the words left her lips, Arthur was on his feet, his expression hardening. Without a word to Susan, he strode to your tent and pushed open the flap, not bothering to knock. His gaze swept over you, expecting to find you feigning sleep, or maybe just ignoring the day’s tasks.

"What the hell is you-"

But the sight of you, lying pale and motionless beneath the blanket, immediately stopped him in his tracks. A faint flush tinged your face, and your breathing was shallow. His agitation shifted to alarm in an instant.

Arthur knelt beside you, his hand reaching to press gently against your forehead, feeling the unmistakable heat of fever radiating through his palm. “Damn it,” he muttered, guilt and worry flooding his face. He’d been ready to scold you for shirking camp duties, and instead, here you were, worn down to the bone.

Your eyes fluttered open, barely focusing as you tried to mumble something. “Arthur... I meant... to get your food… just…”

His jaw tightened, frustration directed inward. “You’ve been pushin’ yourself too hard,” he said, his voice low but edged with anger, at himself, at Susan, at anyone who’d failed to notice what you were going through. “You’re coming with me to the clinic, no arguments.”

You nodded weakly, relief and exhaustion settling over you. Without another word, he slipped his arms beneath you, lifting you up with a gentleness that made your heart ache.

As he carried you to the stables, he did not forget to throw a bloodthirsty look at Susan making her gulp. It clearly stated.

'You are dead if something happens to her.'

The air in the clinic was thick with the smell of antiseptic and the soft rustle of the doctor’s coat as he examined you. Arthur sat beside you, his brow furrowed with concern, his hand clenched into a fist resting on his thigh. You lay on the cot, shivering despite the blanket wrapped around you, your pallor alarming him even more than before. The doctor’s voice was a distant murmur, but the words echoed in your ears.

“She’s suffering from dehydration fever. It’s left her weak, but with proper treatment, she should recover. Make sure she stays hydrated, and she’ll need rest, here's the prescription and you can go home if you want once the drip is finished..” The doctor turned to you one last time with a gentle smile. "Rest well, alright? Lots of it."

As soon as the door clicked shut behind the doctor, Arthur turned to you, his expression shifting from worry to something sharper, more intense. “What the hell were you thinking?!” he snapped, his voice low but edged with anger. “You could have told me you weren’t feeling well. Instead, you’ve been pushing yourself like this?”

You flinched at his tone, the weight of his words mixing with the guilt that already gnawed at you. “I--but you said...that I gotta...work...” you started, but the words caught in your throat, and instead of explanations, tears began to prick at your eyes.

"FUCK WHAT I SAID!- "He rubbed his forehead in frustration. "I also said to take care of yourself, I am not always around! And just--look at you..."

“I--I didn’t mean to,” you stammered, your voice trembling. “I thought I could manage...”

“Thought!?” he echoed, incredulous. “You can’t just think you can handle it all when you’re this sick! You’ve been working yourself to the bone! Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you ask for help?” His voice rose with each word, frustration spilling over as he paced the floor, refusing to meet your gaze.

"And what did you just tell the doctor, huh? That this wasn't the first time it happened?! Are you kidding me?! Are you tryin' to waste yourself?!"

The harshness of his tone cut through you, and you couldn’t help the tears that began to spill down your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your throat tightening. As you looked into his furious eyes, the dam broke. The tears spilt over, hot and unrelenting as you remembered all the times, you put him and others first, in fear.

In fear of being left with strangers while Arthur is away and thinking that they might say or do something to you if you don't do the work properly.

"Damn it,” he murmured, his voice softening. “I didn’t mean to-”

“I was...scared and I-I--miss her,” you sobbed, clutching the blanket tightly around you as if it could shield you from the pain. “I miss Mama. She would know what to do. She would take care of me…please take me to Mama...” Your voice cracked, the memories of her soothing presence and the comfort she always provided weighing heavily on your heart.

Arthur’s anger faltered as he watched you break down. hearing you call for Mama again and again was agonizing. He felt his heart twist painfully at your words, the memories of your mother hanging heavy in the air. “I know,” he said quietly, his voice losing its edge. He reached out, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks, his own frustration melting away in the face of your grief. “I miss her too. But you can’t go on like this. You need to take care of yourself for her, for both of us. And why the hell are you scared, you are my sis' and as long as I am alive, no one can touch a strand of yours,” He pulled you in a side hug carefully.

"And listen here, from now on, you only do my chores. Fuck the camp." You pulled away slightly, in shock.

"W-what?"

He nodded with a playful smile. "Damn right. You get better and you do my work only. Susan can surely handle the others, right?"

You blinked up at him, your surprise turning into disbelief. “Arthur, you can’t just tell me to ignore everything else... I can’t put that on Susan. She-”

He interrupted you with a firm squeeze of your hand, his eyes softening. “I can and I will. You need to rest, and if that means I have to play the tyrant for a bit, so be it. Besides, Susan can manage. She’s been slacking off more than you realize. And if someone has a problem with it then they can come to me. Anytime.”

A small laugh, almost devilish, bubbled up despite your exhaustion, the tension easing slightly. You snuggled back into the hug to calm your shivering.

“That's...that would be fun to watch."

He nodded and you decided to press your advantage. “Um…so tell her to do your chores too-”

"Don't get too ahead of yourself now."

I hate you.

“Get well soon, and you better take your meds and all when I ain’t around.” Arthur’s voice held a rough tenderness, though he masked it with a gruff tone. Beneath his impatience, you sensed a genuine worry, a hint of eagerness for you to recover, not that he’d admit it, of course. His true motive, or so he told himself, was purely practical.

Pearson’s stew lacked the warmth and care you added to every meal, and coffee was never quite right unless you made it.

He groaned inwardly, imagining another week of choking down meals without your touch. But the look he shot you as he spoke was more protective than he probably intended, softening just enough that you knew he was looking out for you.

“Did ye’ even hear me, missy?” he muttered, noticing your eyelids drooping, his words somewhere between annoyed and fond.

You jumped, startled out of the drowsiness that was starting to creep over you, and gave a hum of acknowledgement.

⋆⋆⋆

John rushed up to Arthur as he emerged from your tent, having just ensured you were well-fed and rested.

"What is it, you rascal?" Arthur asked, turning to face him with a mix of curiosity and annoyance.

“Um... I was looking forward to a compensation…” John trailed off, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

“For?” Arthur raised an eyebrow amused, the impatience creeping into his tone.

“(Y/N), tore... she... tore my underwear, which is not fair...I only asked her to wash it...I mean....”

A smirk crept across Arthur's face. “She did the right thing, I am proud of her.” He grabbed John by the back of his neck, pulling him close with a playful yet threatening grin.

"My sis ain't your maid, boy, got it? In fact, nobody's maid here. Wash your shit yourself.” The playful banter vanished, replaced by a weighty silence as Arthur's gaze hardened. He gave John a firm shove, sending him stumbling back and casually walking back to his own tent, chuckling at the boy's foolish request.

[4linos]

twice the love

lee minho x fem!reader

synopsis/request: when you receive unexpected news, minho’s unwavering support becomes your anchor.

wc: 1237

You'd been feeling sick for weeks, nothing too serious, but enough to cause concern. It began with slight nausea in the mornings, which you downplayed as a stomach bug that will pass. But the exhaustion did not go away. You felt weak all the time, unable to finish a full day of work without wanting to nap or take a break. Some days, you couldn't force yourself to get out of bed, and Minho noticed, no matter how hard you tried. He has always done this. Minho had always been the more observant person in your relationship, noticing even the smallest changes in your attitude or behavior. And when it came to your health, he was unrelenting in his concern.

"Y/N, I don't like this," he murmured one morning, putting his fingers on your forehead to check for fever. "You have been like this for too long. You aren't just tired. Maybe it's time to go see a doctor." You quickly dismissed his worry. "It's fine, Minho. Really. It's probably a stomach bug. You know how it is." You tried to smile, but inside you were already terrified. You were afraid of going to the doctor, especially because you had no idea what was wrong. You hadn't really understood what was going on with your health, and you didn't want to hear any bad news.

Minho narrowed his eyes at you, but he knew not to push too hard. Instead, he replied softly, "Please. I hate seeing you like this. Just a checkup, okay? I just want to know that you're okay." You nodded, making a half-hearted promise, but deep down, you told yourself it wasn't necessary. You would be alright. Eventually.

It wasn't until a few days later that the discomfort became too severe to ignore. Your nausea had worsened, and you could no longer ignore the constant dizziness or strange aching in your lower belly. Something was clearly wrong, but you couldn't bring yourself to confront the thought of what it might be. Finally, after much internal struggle, you reluctantly scheduled an appointment. You could scarcely muster the bravery to enter into the antiseptic office, the frigid air within making you feel even more alone. The doctor took some blood tests and an ultrasound, and while you sat there waiting for the results, you could barely breathe. You tried to divert yourself by going through your phone, but your mind kept spiraling, imagining worst-case scenarios.

When the doctor walked in, he seemed calm, maybe too calm. He greeted you with a professional smile, which played a part in your anxiety. "Well, Y/N, I have the results," he said, and turned to the ultrasound screen. "You're pregnant." You froze. Pregnant? It did not even register at first. You stared at him blankly, your thoughts racing. "Pregnant?" you repeated, hoping that hearing the word again would help you understand it. "Are you sure?" The doctor nodded and motioned to the screen. "Yes. You're about a month along, and the ultrasound shows you're carrying twins."

It felt as if the world around you had stopped moving. You couldn't even digest the words completely. Twins? Pregnant? You were overwhelmed, surprised and part of you wanted to cry, but you weren't sure if it was out of fear or happiness. You never expected this. And certainly not under these conditions. It wasn't like you or Minho had planned for this. It had been so unexpected and quick that you felt a flood of panic wash over your body. The doctor offered you more information and scheduled another appointment to ensure everything was okay, but you couldn't hear him.

All you could think about was how to tell Minho.

You were mentally exhausted when you got home. Your body felt heavy, and the thoughts racing through your thoughts were too messy to process. You had assured Minho that you would be alright, and you did not want to break that promise. You didn't know how to tell him you were pregnant, much less that you were having twins. You had texted him earlier in the day to reassure him that everything was okay but you knew deep inside it wasn't true. You'd kept the news to yourself, reluctant to blurt it out. You assured yourself that it was for the best. He had a big day ahead of him, and you didn't want to overwhelm him with something that was so big. You needed to get your head around it first.

But now Minho was home. He walked in the door, his normal comfortable smile fading when he noticed your expression. He knew something wasn't right. He could know when anything was wrong without you saying anything. "How did it go?" he questioned softly, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of a response. You tried smiling, but it came out strained. You dug inside your purse and handed him the ultrasound image. You stayed silent, thinking he would understand.

He took it from you, and for a few while, neither of you spoke. His gaze shifted from the image to your face and back again. His expression shifted from confusion to disbelief. Then his gaze softened, and his fingers trembled as he examined the ultrasound. "Twins?" he asked quietly, his voice barely audible. You nodded, your heart racing in your chest. "I—I didn't know how to tell you," you stumbled. "I was really nervous, Minho. I wasn't sure how you'd react. Minho was silent for a long time, his attention fixed on the ultrasound. And then, just when you thought silence would take you whole, a tear rolled down his cheek.

Without saying anything, he reached for your waist and pulled you into his arms, as if he needed to hug you to make sense of his emotions. He buried his face against your neck, and his voice cracked as he said. "I can't believe this. Twins. "You're pregnant with our babies.”You felt a warmth spread through you that you had not anticipated. He wasn't upset. He was not angry. He was happy. The strain in your chest began to dissipate, replaced by a sense of release and awe. "I'm scared," you said softly, your voice quivering. "What if I'm not ready?"

Minho drew back slightly, holding your face in his hands, his thumbs softly brushing away the tears you hadn't realized had dropped. "You don't have to be ready right now," he said softly. "I will be here. We will be here together. We will sort it out, okay? I am so happy, Y/N. I—"I can't believe this is happening." He kissed you lightly at first, pressing his lips against yours as if to persuade you both that everything was well. However, it did not stay soft for long. The kiss intensified, and you felt all of your fear, worry, and joy flood through you in that one moment. When he finally pulled away, his face was flushed and his eyes were wide with amazement. "We're going to be parents, Y/N. And I’m going to be the best dad to our twins. I promise."

You smiled through your tears as your hands rested on his chest. "I know you will," you said quietly, the warmth of his hug erasing all your doubts.

The world outside was unknown, but when Minho wrapped his arms around you, you knew you weren't alone. You had each other. And that was enough.

//

masterlist, request list

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Dreamers | Rhysand & Daughter!Reader

Summary: After Madja is away in business for two months, he has to find a healer to replace her in her absence, which happens to be you, his bastard daughter, and unbeknownst to him, Azriel’s mate.

Word Count: ~ 2.3k

Warnings: Angst, bad family relationship, mentions of prostitution, implied sex, but it ends happy don’t worry (PLATONIC BETWEEN RHYS AND READER)

A/N: This request was like perfectly matching up with my daydreams so thanks !! hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

Throughout all your years of education and schooling, there was one truth you knew without having to be told.

You were unwanted. A mistake.

You’d always known that and hadn’t cared much for the first few years of your life. Your mother had been a prostitute, and your father had accidentally knocked her up. Whether it had been a mistake, or your mother had purposefully not used a contraceptive just to have a tie to the High Lord was still in debate, but you didn’t care much anymore.

He had tried to raise you, probably not wanting you to grow up a whore like your mother, but been trapped Under the Mountain, leaving you alone, your only real ties to him were through Cassian, who didn’t seem to care that you were a bastard child or your circumstances.

He felt like more of a father, sometimes.

You’d gotten your apartment in Velaris, working as an herbalist, and something of a medic, using the mingled magic of your mother and father to heal people. Some would say the job didn’t match your sometimes uncaring and blunt, even bitter demeanor. But you didn’t care what they said, and you never had. It paid the bills, and let you live relatively comfortably in your little shop when not in the apartment.

You had heard the rumors of Feyre, the Cursebreaker who’d freed your father, and by extension all the other High Lords from Under the Mountain. You’d seen the female and your father together, walking the streets happy as could be together, openly proclaiming their love, not to mention their baby.

After he’d been liberated, you hadn’t tried to seek him out, and he hadn’t with you. It was for the best, probably. You wanted nothing to do with his perfect little happy family and Inner Circle, you didn’t belong there, and you had no desire to. You hadn’t needed a father to grow up, and you didn’t need one now.

However, Madja was away on business, leaving you as the only other healer in Velaris capable of giving checkups to their child. It was for that reason, you suspected, that he invited you to a “family” dinner as if he’d ever treated you like family.

“It’ll be alright.”

Your mate, Azriel, spoke to you as he got ready to escort you into the House of Wind, where they wanted to have dinner that night. You hadn’t bothered to dress up nice or fancy, only donning some loose pants and a shirt, clothes you would usually work in.

Azriel had been your mate for nearly three years, having secretly accepted the bond, and decided to keep the relationship private for now, to let things settle down for now, and now had stretched into one year after another, until you were both content to live in the shadows.

“You know how I feel about them.”

You replied, sighing before quickly composing yourself at the clear mix of emotions on his face. His urge to defend his family and to empathize with you warring with each other in his mind.

You stepped forward, settling into his arms as you felt the shadows wrap around you, the environment shifting as your eyes remained open, and then you were there, the door to the House of Wind standing right in front of you. It felt wrong, to come back here after completely cutting off contact, only to be used for your healing abilities and medical knowledge for a half-sibling you’d never met.

Glancing over at Azriel, he gave a little nod, and you opened the door, setting foot inside the home and immediately confronted with the scents of multiple people. You could recognize some, Mor, Rhys, Cassian, maybe Amren? Only Feyre, Rhys, and Cassian were seated at the table, waiting for you. You’d heard news that Mor was visiting her private estate, and Amren off god knows where.

Expression as ticked off and blunt as you were feeling, you walked in, taking a seat as a plate of food magically appeared in front of you.

Rhys’ gaze ran up and down you, noting your clothes, simple cheap ones to get the job done, the herbs caked under your long nails, the calluses on your hands from handling your mortar and pestle so often, the way you didn’t smile at him or any of his family, or the same impassive and slightly annoyed look on your face. Something briefly appeared in his gaze, before being gone just as easily. Good. You had enough to deal with without any family problems.

“Hello, Y/N, I’d like you to meet -“

He spoke, voice sounding as confident as usual, but with a hint of a crack, as if testing the waters as he gestured towards Feyre.

“Your mate and son. I’m well aware.”

Your voice wasn’t like his, not with the silver tongue he had, tone blunt and straightforward. You didn’t refer to them by name on purpose, to make it seem like you hadn’t even cared to follow the news about him and his life. Like you were better. Feyre cast a sympathetic glance at Rhys, one that made your temper flare.

He shouldn’t get to be comforted for his past mistakes coming to bite him in the ass.

Cassian remained silent, exchanging glances with Azriel across the table. This was bound to happen eventually, and the General didn’t try any of his usual tactics to lighten the mood.

Rhys swallowed, opening his mouth to speak, probably to try and soothe you or make you less openly hostile, but you interrupted him.

“What do you want?”

You asked, tone blunt and cold, detached almost if it weren’t for the anger you held against him. He tried to hide his wince but failed to do it completely. That made you feel a bit better, at least. A sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. His expression sobered into one of resigned seriousness.

“Our healer, Madja, will be away on business for two months. You’re the most qualified to take her place if you would.”

He said. Feyre seemed a bit uncomfortable with the thought of you being the personal healer for their family for two months, and you didn’t blame her, considering your demeanor and history, but it still pissed you off.

“How much will you pay?”

You asked blandly, making it clear that the job meant nothing to you to get closer to them at all. All that mattered was the pay. Your mind was already calculating the costs, advantages, and disadvantages of taking the deal. He stiffened slightly, another small victory.

He stated a price, it was high, ridiculously so, in fact, but you weren’t complaining. Money was money. Even if you got it from your half-family.

“Sure.”

You said simply, still not touching your dinner. The food was tantalizing, but the thought of sending a message even more so. You wouldn’t dine at this table, not like how you had done so many years ago. Though your throat was parched, you didn’t touch the glass of water.

“Is that all?”

You asked, your mint green eyes, the same shade as your mother’s, meeting his violet gaze. Pure indifference was all you were determined to give him. After he’d forgotten about you, too obsessed with his mate and new child, the replacements, to bother with you.

“I was hoping you’d stay for dinner.”

He said quietly, a hint of pleading in his gaze. You felt a pang in your chest at that but shoved it down as you got up from your seat, not tucking it in. They could look at the seat pushed out after you left, and think about you. It would hopefully plague his mind like he plagued yours.

“Keep hoping. See where it gets you.”

You said dryly, walking out of the kitchen, out of that goddamned sentient House that remembered you even now, how it knew your favorite food, just the way you knew your mother had cooked it so long ago, or the way you’d loved the water from that river out back, one you still visited now.

You heard the harsh scratching of a chair against the wooden floor and footsteps, and before you could winnow away, you found that you couldn’t move.

Not metaphorically or rhetorically, you literally could not move your own body, and that’s when you became all too aware of the presence in your mind when your barriers had slipped because of your irritation. Your father finally released you as he stood behind you, you whirled to look at him, seething.

“Stay out of my head.”

You hissed, shoving him away from you even as he gave you a begging gaze.

“Please, I’m sorry, let me try, just give me one chance to be your father, one?”

He begged, voice cracking with desperation you’d never seen before, and it would’ve weirded you out a little if you weren’t frozen in place, throat even dryer now as you tried to think of something to say.

Despite how you denied it and wanted to be cold and vengeful towards him, deep down, that wasn’t what you wanted. Maybe a relationship with him wouldn’t be so bad. It wasn’t like he’d had a choice to leave you behind, he’d been kidnapped Under the Mountain, and been so busy putting his Court back together and handling a war that he hadn’t even been able to think about you.

You swallowed, sighing and giving a resigned nod.

“Just..meet me for breakfast tomorrow, I guess. At my apartment. It’s down the block to the right of Rita’s, you’ll know it when you see it.”

As soon as you said it, he pulled you into a gentle hug, feeling you stiffening under his touch. You weren’t the most touchy person with strangers, or people you didn’t know very well at that.

Breakfast tomorrow. Great.

*********************************************************

Az had already been late when he’d arrived at your apartment for the moment, his tedious little schedule for the recent mission already thrown off because of the extra time he’d taken bending you over a counter. Just as he gave you a little kiss on the cheek, opening the door to head out, he ran face-first into Rhys, the only thing stopping the two from kissing being the subtle height advantage Azriel had over his High Lord.

“What -“

Rhys began, and Azriel was gone quicker than you’d ever seen his shadows transport him. You dragged your father in, closing the door behind you.

“He’s my mate and has been for three years, but anyways, breakfast.”

You blurted in a rushed tone as you tried to ignore the obvious thing that had just happened. Rhys ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed, seeming exasperated but not surprised.

“I thought so, Cassian said he’s been coming home smelling like you lately.”

He muttered under his breath as you slipped an oven mitt on, pulling a muffin sheet out of the oven and hissing as the oven brushed against your arm, leaving an angry little red spot. Your father’s eyebrows raised at that, and he walked over and turned your sink to a lukewarm temperature, grabbing you and easily moving you over to it to run the burn under it. Protective instincts were probably already kicking in for him, albeit a bit dusty and not used for anyone other than his new son.

He grabbed a roll of bandaging that was on your counter, from the other night when you’d also accidentally burned yourself while trying to open the oven with your bare feet, hands too busy. The oven-related incidents were getting a bit too often, now. Especially since Azriel threatened to throw the oven out if you didn’t stop getting hurt.

“Thanks.”

You managed to mumble as his slender fingers skillfully wrapped some of it around you, securing it easily. He gave a little nod, slipping an oven mitt on and dumping the muffins out, just shoving them all onto one plate he set on the small table with two chairs, one for you and Az.

He sat down, you sitting across from him, grabbing a muffin and unwrapping it, before just awkwardly eating in silence.

“So..”

You said, swallowing as you tried to think about how weird this conversation would be. He sighed, running his hands through his hair again. It seemed to be a nervous habit of his.

“I’m sorry, for not being there. There was just so much going on, with the war, Amarantha, not to mention Koschei…”

His voice trailed off at the mention of them.

“I..get it. You were busy with all that.”

“I still should’ve been there. You’re my daughter, and you grew up without a father because of me.”

You swallowed, trying to bite back the emotions that rose because of this conversation. He seemed to notice, violet eyes softening as his chair scooted a bit closer to yours, wanting to comfort you but unsure how to do so without further upsetting you. You suddenly felt bad for all your remarks and attitude earlier. He’d been trying, you hadn’t.

“We can start over if you want. Just father and daughter?”

You nodded, sniffling slightly. At that tiny sniffle, he couldn’t resist anymore, getting up and pulling you into his arms. This time, you didn’t stiffen, didn’t struggle, or try to pull away, you just cried into his chest in a way you usually only could do with Az. He held you close, hand soothingly rubbing your back.

“I think I’d like that.”

You managed to choke out as the tears dried up, and you looked up into his violet eyes, now noticing the golden flecks in them, like stars you could wish on.

Stars promising hope and a future of warmth and acceptance.

Tags:

@judeduartewannbe

[brookghaib-blog]

Silence between hearts - IV

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: After Project SENTRY fails, Robert Reynolds is declared dead and sealed in a glass coffin to be hidden by O.X.E. Y/N, a doctor who secretly fell in love with him after a complicated path between them, refuses to believe he’s gone—fighting to save what’s left of him while grief and denial consume her, the path to look for him would ruin her, but to what extreme.

Word count: 7,1k

Warning: self-esteem issues, parental negligence, death

Chapter III

--

Y/N had barely slept.

She’d left Bob’s room without another word. Just a soft parting glance. The kind you give when you’ve already said too much, and anything more might make you crumble.

Now, she stood in the sterile bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror, her toothbrush hanging loosely from her mouth. Her lips still tingled faintly. Not from the pressure. From the meaning.

She turned the faucet on too hard. The water splashed.

She told herself to stop thinking about it. About him.

But the lie didn’t stick.

He’d held her like she was something he’d never been allowed to touch before. And it wasn't lust—not the kind she was used to. It was... longing. Slow, cautious. Honest.

It terrified her.

Bob hadn’t slept either.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall like it might provide some answers. His shirt was on now. Pants too. But he still felt bare. Exposed.

She kissed him.

And he kissed her back.

His heart had hurt. Not in a bad way. In a way he hadn’t let it feel in years.

No. Longer.

And now?

Now he didn’t know what the hell to do.

They saw each other again just after seven.

Y/N entered the lab with her tablet in hand, her hair tied back, white coat buttoned up to the collar like usual. On the surface, everything looked normal.

But the second their eyes met, something invisible passed between them.

Bob was already seated on the medical bed, legs swinging slightly, waiting like he always did for the morning checkup.

“Morning,” she said, casual. Maybe too casual.

“Hey.” His voice was low, quieter than usual.

She looked down at the file in her hands. “You slept?”

“No.”

“Yeah. Me neither.”

A pause.

She stepped closer, reached out to take his pulse like she did every morning. Her fingers touched the inside of his wrist, and for a second, it was like last night had never ended. Her hands stilled.

He looked at her—not intensely, but gently.

Like he was asking: Are we going to pretend that didn’t happen?

But Y/N didn’t meet his gaze. Not yet. Her throat tightened slightly. She cleared it and moved to take his temperature instead.

Bob said nothing.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he knew. If he said the wrong thing now, she might retreat completely. And she was already slipping into her walls again.

Instead, he offered her something soft. Something careful.

“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I liked talking with you last night.”

That was all.

Her hands paused. A beat of silence.

Then she finally looked up at him. And she nodded—just once.

“Me too.”

The day moved on. Tests. Readings. Silence broken by clinical terms and scribbled notes. But every now and then, something shifted:

—She handed him a glass of water and their fingers brushed just a little longer than necessary. —He cracked a joke about the ECG machine stuttering whenever she got close—and she didn’t deny it. —She sat closer than usual during their conversation at lunch. Not touching. Just... there. Present.

They didn’t talk about the kiss.

But everything had changed.

Their laughter was warmer. The silences were heavier. The space between them—the physical distance—felt charged now, like the air between magnets waiting to click.

And maybe they didn’t know what they were yet.

But they were something.

--

It began with a kiss. And then it kept going.

Not in declarations or confessions—those were too loud for the world they lived in. Their affection became a shadow, slipping between the cracks of duty and responsibility. Quiet, but constant. Never acknowledged in daylight, but always there—undeniable.

For days on end, Y/N and Bob carried on their secret like glass between their fingers.

It started subtly: she’d check his vitals longer than she needed to, her fingers brushing over his skin like she couldn’t help herself. Bob’s eyes would follow her when she walked across the room, his gaze soft, reverent, like she was some painting he was still trying to understand. At night, when the lab was dark and cold, they began to meet in secret.

Y/N had quietly programmed a five-minute camera loop override. It wasn’t perfect. It was dangerous. But it gave them enough time.

She never said why she did it.

And Bob never asked.

The first few nights, they only talked. Sitting across from each other, knees barely touching. Her hair would be down by then, her face stripped of the formal steel mask she wore during the day. Bob always looked at her like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like if he blinked, she might disappear.

Sometimes he would just stare at her in silence, then apologize.

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t,” she always said. Even if it did. Even if the way he looked at her made her feel things she wasn’t supposed to feel here.

One night, she turned off the cameras and walked into his room, and instead of sitting on the couch, she sat beside him on the bed. It was small. Cold. Not built for comfort.

But it became theirs.

He reached for her hand like he’d done it a thousand times. Her fingers hesitated—then laced through his.

No words.

They weren’t ready for words. They didn’t talk about what they were doing. Not really.

To speak it into existence might make it too real—might make it vulnerable, and they couldn’t afford that. Not when everything else in their lives was clinical and cold. Not when the world around them was full of white walls and threat analysis and the smell of antiseptic in the air.

So they built a world inside the silence.

In that world, he told her things he didn’t know he remembered: about the time he was six and fell off a tree and cried because his dad didn’t care, about the first time he tried meth in a motel bathroom. About the months before Malaysia when he’d stayed in an abandoned building, waiting to die, waiting for his powers to consume him or the drugs to finally dull it all for good.

And she listened. She didn’t look away. She didn’t flinch.

She held his hand tighter.

She told him things too—though never as easily. She told him about the university lab where she used to work, where her theories got mocked until her father stepped in and suddenly everything she did was "a gift from a legacy." She hated how they never saw her. Just a replica of a man she didn’t even trust.

“I didn’t want to use his methods,” she whispered one night, curled under a blanket beside him. “But I didn’t believe in my own enough to stand on them.”

Bob touched her hair, brushing it behind her ear like it was instinct. “Then why did you keep going?”

Her voice cracked when she said it: “Because when I found you, I had a feeling I wasn’t wrong.”

During the day, they went back to playing roles. Doctor. Subject.

Cold. Professional.

But it wasn’t clean anymore.

Sometimes her hand would linger just a little too long when checking a reading. Sometimes he’d lean too close when answering a question. Sometimes they’d lock eyes in the middle of a room and both forget where they were for a split second.

Dr. Ilari noticed the change. He never said anything directly, but the way his eyes lingered on her longer than usual after team briefings told her he was starting to suspect. One afternoon, he passed her in the hall and said, “You seem… lighter.”

She only nodded. Didn’t offer more.

He didn’t press.

But she could feel the edge of danger now. The tightrope between what was growing and what would happen if anyone found out.

And yet she kept going back.

They were sitting in his bed again. No camera, no clipboard, no reason. Her head was on his shoulder. One of his hands played absentmindedly with the hem of her shirt. Neither of them had spoken in almost ten minutes.

“Why do you keep coming back?” he asked softly.

She lifted her head. Looked at him. “I don’t know.”

He turned his face toward hers, so close now their noses brushed.

“I think I do,” he whispered.

Their mouths hovered.

He kissed her again. Slower this time. Gentler.

The kiss deepened, and time lost all meaning.

Bob's hands, careful and trembling, held the back of Y/N’s neck like he was afraid she’d break—or worse, pull away. But she didn’t. She leaned in. Pressed harder.

Her shoes had already dropped to the floor, and now her fingers were splayed across his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin shirt the lab had issued him. She could feel his heartbeat—it wasn’t steady. Neither was hers.

When they finally pulled apart, the silence was heavy. Not awkward. Just... fragile.

Bob searched her face like he was trying to read a language he didn’t speak.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered, voice rough with something that wasn’t just shock—it was self-doubt, buried shame. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Y/N exhaled shakily. Her fingers lingered near the collar of his shirt.

“I know,” she said softly. “I wanted to.”

He stepped back slightly, like he needed to be sure. “Why?”

Her voice caught for a second. Then, after a pause:

“Because I think I’m starting to feel something. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

Bob blinked.

“I understand,” he said. “I thought after a couple days you go grow tired, part of him thought that maybe this...was just another psychological experiment from you.”

She shook her head. “I was scared.”

His brows drew together. “Of me?”

“No. Of this.” She gestured between them. “I don’t know what we are. I don’t know what this means. But… when I’m with you, I feel like myself. And I don’t remember the last time I felt like that.”

He looked at her, stunned. Like someone had handed him something too valuable to touch.

“I thought I ruined it,” he admitted quietly. “After what I did that day. Hurting you.”

“You didn’t,” she said, her voice breaking just slightly. “That wasn’t you. And I knew that. I just didn’t know how to separate the parts yet.”

He stepped closer again, cautiously. “And now?”

“I see you, Bob,” she whispered. “And you make it easy to forget everything else when I do.”

Something shifted in him. His hand found hers again, tentative and reverent. “So what do we do?”

She let out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. “We keep quiet. We don’t name it. We don’t plan ahead. Not yet.”

“And if it grows?” he asked, almost afraid to ask.

“Then we let it,” she said. “One moment at a time.”

He nodded, then leaned forward again—his forehead gently resting against hers.

“I’ve never had anything like this,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d be allowed to.”

Y/N’s hand slid up to his face, her thumb brushing across the stubble on his jaw. “Me neither.”

And then—slowly, tenderly—they kissed again.

How could everything go down so easily.

--

2 weeks after - New York

The heavy oak door creaked closed behind her, muffling the hum of the Manhattan street outside. The air inside the townhouse was still—unchanged from her childhood years. The scent of aged books, old leather, and her father’s cologne clung to the air like ghosts she never quite escaped.

She walked slowly down the hallway, her heels echoing against the hardwood. Every step forward brought memories she had long buried—standing by the doorway after school with trembling hands, waiting for him to ask about her grades, to see if she had earned his approval or punishment. The hallway was still lined with framed articles, academic degrees, newspaper clippings of her father’s accolades. Not a single photo of her.

“Y/N.” His voice rang from the study down the corridor. Crisp. Controlled.

She straightened her spine, walked through the doorway of the room that had once terrified her, and saw him—Dr. Marcus L/N—sitting at his desk, papers spread before him, a glass of scotch half-full in his hand. He didn’t rise to greet her. He never did.

“Father,” she said curtly.

“About time,” he muttered, not looking up yet. “You were supposed to be here yesterday.”

“There were weather delays in Singapore,” she lied. “I came as soon as I could.”

His eyes flicked up at her then. Piercing, familiar, and devoid of warmth. “Excuses. You always had those.”

Y/N’s jaw tensed. She walked forward and placed a black folder on the desk between them.

“These are the results of the latest testing. Neural response time, muscle adaptation, cognitive expansion. He’s stabilizing. The uncontrolled episodes have decreased in frequency and strength since I took over the project.”

Her father snorted, flipping through the pages with practiced speed. “Stabilizing,” he repeated mockingly. “After how long? Two months and he’s still barely showing what the serum was designed for.”

“It’s not just a serum. It’s psychological conditioning. Emotional triggers. This is a different approach.”

“A soft one,” he muttered, setting the folder down. “That’s what I read between the lines. You’ve been coddling him.”

“I’ve been rehabilitating him,” she said firmly.

“And how does sleeping in his room fit into rehabilitation?”

Y/N froze.

Her breath hitched—barely, but enough that he noticed.

“I have eyes everywhere, Y/N,” he said, with a smug look. “You really thought Valentina wouldn’t mention the inconsistencies in your schedule? The missing footage logs? You think you’re smarter than us now?”

“No,” she said, calmer than she felt. “I think I’m better than the methods you forced down everyone’s throats. You turned every subject into a corpse. I'm trying to create something alive.”

“You were always too emotional,” he said. “Too delicate. You want them to like you. That’s your weakness.”

She felt her fists clench at her sides. “He’s not just them. He’s not like the others. He’s surviving—he’s responding to this. He’s not disposable.”

Her father stood up, slowly walking around the desk. Towering, still. His voice lowered.

“And what happens when he turns on you again? When he snaps your neck in his sleep? He doesn’t love you, Y/N. He’s addicted to whatever comfort you’re giving him. You’re playing nursemaid to a weapon.”

“I don’t want him to love me,” she lied, trying not to let it crack in her voice. “I want him to live.”

Her father scoffed. “That’s why you’ll fail. Again.”

She bit down on the anger. The shame. The way his words always cut too deep.

“I’m going back in a few days,” she said. “I’ll be done with the supplementary files and analysis by then.”

“Good,” he replied coldly, already walking back behind the desk. “Try not to lose sight of your purpose, Y/N. You weren’t hired to fix broken men. You were trained to make them useful.”

She didn’t answer.

She turned and walked away, her chest tight, heart heavier than when she arrived. The house felt smaller now. Colder. She passed by the childhood photos stored in drawers.

Y/N moved up the familiar staircase slowly, her fingers trailing over the polished mahogany railing. Her father’s words still echoed in her head—cold and clinical, weaponizing every inch of her life’s work and threading it back to her old insecurities. But it wasn’t over. Not in this house.

She hesitated outside the guest room at the end of the hall—her mother’s room now. A soft classical tune filtered through the door, piano-heavy, somber. She raised her hand to knock, but before she could, the door flew open.

“Y/N!” her mother cried out, eyes wide, arms outstretched.

Y/N didn’t have time to prepare. The woman nearly crushed her in a perfume-heavy embrace—familiar and suffocating. Her mother’s touch had always been too much, clinging like guilt.

“Oh my baby, finally. I was told you arrived hours ago! You didn’t think to see me first?”

Y/N gave a tight, awkward smile, her arms barely reciprocating the hug. “I had to meet with Dad. Project work.”

Her mother pulled back, holding her face between her manicured fingers like she was inspecting a glass figurine. “Mmm. You’re pale. Not sleeping, are you?”

“I’m fine.”

Her mother clicked her tongue, eyes trailing down. “Your hair’s dull. And what are you wearing?” She stepped back slightly, waving her hands at Y/N’s plain blouse and slacks. “You look like a secretary. Not a researcher.”

Y/N resisted the urge to roll her eyes a second time. “I didn’t come here to walk a runway.”

“Well, clearly. You could’ve at least done your lips. Or something with that hair.”

“Mom,” Y/N sighed, shifting her weight. “Can we not start this?”

Her mother blinked, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying, you used to be so pretty when you tried. You used to turn heads in this house.”

Y/N gave a dry smile. “Yeah. I remember. It’s probably why Dad ignored my science awards and only mentioned my prom dress.”

Her mother laughed lightly, missing—or ignoring—the venom in the words. “He’s old-fashioned, you know that. But you were always my little star. You could’ve done anything with that face. TV, fashion, even modeling.”

“I didn’t want to be looked at,” Y/N said under her breath, almost too soft.

Her mother didn't hear—or didn’t care. “But now?” She touched Y/N’s shoulder lightly, like she was brushing off dust. “There’s still time. You just need to take better care of yourself. A few spa days, maybe a personal stylist. You could still be stunning.”

Y/N stepped back, her smile completely gone now. “I'm working. I’m building something. That’s what I care about.”

Her mother tilted her head. “Working so hard you forgot how to be a woman?”

Y/N clenched her jaw and looked away, biting back the sudden rise of heat in her chest.

She’d come here for a week. A handful of days. And she was already fighting the ghosts that raised her.

“I’m going to bed,” she said abruptly.

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive—”

“I’m not,” Y/N cut in. “Just tired. Of being dissected like one of my subjects.”

And without waiting for a response, she turned and walked out of the room.

--

The sun hadn't even reached its peak when Y/N sat curled on the old study chaise, papers spread around her like fallen leaves. Her laptop hummed quietly as she updated her final findings to send to the board—gene response patterns, neurological baselines, all the data from the last month. Her fingers moved mechanically over the keyboard, but her mind was elsewhere. On gold eyes. On the way his voice changed when he was tired. On the way they hadn't said a single word about what was happening between them, but couldn't seem to stop touching.

Then the screen lit up.

Dr. Ilari - Incoming Call

She blinked. Clicked. “Doctor?”

His voice came in strained, shaky. “Y/N. How fast can you get back to Malaysia?”

She paused, blinking. “Uh, I don’t know—maybe two or three days. I’m finishing the reports now—why?”

There was a long, breathless silence on the other end. Then—

“Bob lost control.”

Y/N froze.

Ilari’s voice cracked through the line like broken glass. “It just—happened. We don’t know what triggered it. Two of the doctors are dead. He—Y/N, he tore through the lab like a storm. We barely got him contained. He’s locked in his room. Still not responding. His vitals are erratic. Whatever’s inside of him... it's awake. We need you here now.”

She was already moving before the call ended.

Y/N slammed her laptop shut and scrambled to her feet, swiping all the papers off the table into her bag. Her mind was racing. This couldn’t be happening—not now. Not after everything. You promised to keep this one alive.

She grabbed her phone, throwing open her bedroom door.

Down the hallway—her parents' voices.

“Y/N?” her mother called as she appeared in the doorway, startled. “What’s going on?”

“Why are you packing like this?” her father followed behind, voice sharp. “What happened?”

“I have to go. There was an emergency—back at the facility,” Y/N said, yanking open drawers, stuffing clothes into a suitcase with frenzied hands. “Something went wrong. Bob—he—” Her voice caught for a second. “He lost control.”

Her mother gasped. “Isn’t he the subject you said—?”

“I don’t have time,” Y/N snapped. “I have to be there. Now.”

Her father stepped into the room, arms crossed. “You’ll send me the research before you go, then.”

She stopped, mid-zipper.

“I’ll email it to your lab by tomorrow. I’m done here.”

“You know that’s not how we do things. I expect a full debrief. In person.”

Y/N turned to him, eyes blazing. “You want me to sit across from you while you rip it all apart? While you tell me I failed—again?”

“You can’t run every time—”

“I’m not running,” she snapped. “I’m choosing. For once.”

He glared at her. She didn’t care.

“You’ll get your report. You always do,” she said bitterly, hoisting the bag onto her shoulder. “But this time? I’m not giving you the satisfaction of killing it in front of me.”

“You’re being dramatic,” her father said, exasperated.

Y/N looked him in the eye. Cold. Certain. “And you’re still pretending you understand what I’m building.”

She turned to the door.

“I’ll tell you I failed over the phone. That’s what you want anyway.”

And without another word, she pushed past them and ran down the stairs—out of the house, out of her childhood, out of the old world that never saw her worth—and into the storm she was now part of.

Bob needed her.

She doesn't recall how many hours she was there stuck on that plane full of anxiety, her gut was telling that everything would be okay, but at the same time, she had only gone by two days how could this happen, she would only be gone by a week.

Her mind is foggy, going on autopilot, doing all of her ride and hours it took thinking about Bob and how he's suffering. Her team had received strict orders on what to do, but she had only schedule some trainning for him, knowing even if they wanted, they could hurt him, but could understand how to make his powers manifest and how strong he was getting.

The car ride from the airstrip blurred past her window like a dream she didn’t want to remember. The moment the vehicle stopped outside the hidden entrance of the facility, she was already sprinting. Her ID badge barely scanned before she was storming through the corridors like a hurricane, ignoring greetings, ignoring protocol, ignoring everything.

Lab coats turned as she passed. Some stepped back. They knew better than to get in her way.

“He’s in Operating Room 3,” a nurse called out. “Still unstable.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. Her legs pushed harder. Faster.

When the automatic doors hissed open, her heart nearly stopped.

Bob was strapped to the operating table, wires and sensors taped to his chest, arms, and head. His body was shaking—convulsing—his veins glowing faintly gold like molten cracks in stone. His skin was slick with sweat, chest heaving erratically. He looked half there. Half gone.

A team of doctors stood around him, frantically typing into tablets, adjusting IVs, shouting measurements. Panic radiated through the room.

“What the hell are you doing to him?!” Y/N screamed.

Heads turned. Her voice cracked the sterile silence like lightning.

She stormed across the room, pushing through the cluster of scientists without care.

“Move! Move!” she shouted, yanking a man away from Bob’s side. “You’re scaring him! You’re hurting him—get the hell away!”

“Y/N, he’s seizing—” someone said.

“He’s confused!” she barked. “None of you even know what’s happening—he’s not a machine! He doesn’t respond like one!”

She grabbed Bob’s face with both hands. His eyes were fluttering open and shut, dazed. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Hey. Hey, it’s me,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I’m here. I’m here now, Bob. You’re okay.”

She stroked the side of his cheek. “I got here as fast as I could.”

His fingers twitched.

Then—

Flatline.

The monitor behind her let out a sharp, deafening wail.

A long, straight line stretched across the heart rate monitor.

“No.”

Y/N turned, frozen.

“Get the defibrillator!” someone yelled.

People rushed forward—but Y/N held up a hand, stepping between Bob and the rest.

“Don’t touch him!”

“Y/N, we have to restart his heart!”

“No!” she screamed, her voice cracking in agony. “He’s in there—I know he is. Just—give him a second. Please.”

“His heart stopped—”

“I SAID WAIT!”

She turned back to him, leaning down until their foreheads touched. Her tears slipped onto his skin.

“You promised me,” she whispered. “You told me I gave you a reason to live. You don’t get to leave me now. You don’t.”

She pressed her lips to his temple, desperate, trembling. “Come back to me, Bob. Please. Please, come back.”

A cold, crushing silence fell. Time seemed to freeze.

“Bob... no.” Her voice was barely a whisper, broken.

Tears welled unbidden, blurring her vision.

The team scrambled to restart him, but Y/N felt frozen, her hands still on his cold skin.

He was gone.

The man she had begun to care for, the man she promised to keep alive... was dead.

Y/N’s world felt like it shattered into a thousand pieces, the sterile walls closing in around her as she stared at Bob’s lifeless form. The frantic beeping of the defibrillator ceased, replaced by an eerie, suffocating silence.

Suddenly, the heavy doors swung open with a sharp clang.

Valentina entered, her presence commanding and cold, eyes scanning the scene with clinical detachment.

She had arrived just as the finality settled in, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, slicing through the heavy air.

Dr. Ilari had called her as soon as Bob spiraled out of control, and now, standing before the still form of the man they all feared and pitied, she wasted no time.

Valentina’s voice was low but sharp, slicing through Y/N’s panic like a blade.

“Protocol 6X. Initiate termination.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her body trembling with disbelief and rage.

“No,” she whispered, her voice cracked and desperate. “You can’t just—he’s still—”

Valentina’s eyes narrowed, her tone unwavering.

“Bob is unstable, uncontrollable. The risks outweigh any potential benefit. You know this, Doctor. The project’s safety comes first.”

Y/N’s hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms, fighting the overwhelming wave of helplessness crashing down on her.

Tears burned her eyes, but her voice was steadier now, fierce with unspoken defiance.

“He was more than an experiment. He was a person... someone I cared about.”

Valentina’s gaze flicked coldly to Y/N, unyielding.

“Feelings don’t change facts. The termination will prevent further loss.”

The lab team moved quickly, cold and efficient, beginning preparations to remove Bob’s body from the room, as if he were nothing more than a failed project to be discarded.

Y/N stumbled back, her heart breaking anew with every step they took away from her.

She wanted to scream, to fight, but the weight of the moment pinned her down, crushing hope beneath the sterile lights.

She runs, trying to stop everyone, someone, took him away from them, there's no way Bob was dead.

--

The glass was thicker than it needed to be. Reinforced, sealed with polymer layers, and bolted into an alloy cradle designed to survive a small war. But none of that mattered to Y/N. All she could see was him inside it.

Bob.

Still.

Cold.

Lying there like a man who’d simply fallen asleep with no promise of waking.

The O.X.E. lab—once bright, bustling, and full of scientific ambition—now reeked of sterilizer and silence. They were shutting everything down. His project had failed, they said. Too unstable. Too dangerous. Too powerful. And now—too dead.

“Project SENTRY has been terminated. Containment protocol 6X is in effect,” droned a voice over the speakers. The kind of voice that never wavered. Not for ethics. Not for grief. Not even for love.

Y/N stood frozen as technicians fastened the final clamps onto the glass coffin. Her coat, still stained with dried blood from trying to stabilize him, hung limp around her. Her hands trembled. Her face was pale. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound came out.

Two security guards hovered behind her.

“Dr. L/N,” one of them said gently. “You need to let them take him.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped forward, eyes locked on the body within. Bob’s chest didn’t rise. His face was pale, serene—eerily calm for a man who had been made of light and rage. His golden hair framed a face that once radiated warmth, now drained of it entirely.

“No,” she whispered. Her voice cracked like splintered glass. “You don’t get to box him up. You don’t get to just erase him.”

“Doctor—”

“He’s not dead!” she snapped, finally spinning on the guards. Her voice echoed through the corridor, sharp and broken. “He’s not dead, he’s not—he’s not—”

But her knees buckled before her words could finish. She collapsed to the floor, her hands catching her barely an inch above the cold tile. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each one scraping her throat like rusted nails.

The guards hesitated, unsure whether to comfort her or restrain her.

Valentina didn’t.

Her heels clicked against the floor as she approached—always polished, always calculated. “This isn’t a romantic tragedy, Doctor,” she said, arms crossed. “This is containment. He was compromised. If you’d like to keep your clearance and your career, I suggest you walk away now.”

Y/N lifted her head slowly, tears streaking her face.

“I don’t care about clearance,” she hissed. “I cared about him.”

Valentina’s expression didn’t change. “Then you’re a liability.”

The moment stretched like wire pulled too tight.

And then, Valentina gave a cold nod.

“Seal it,” she ordered.

Technicians obeyed.

Y/N watched as a final hiss of hydraulic steam sealed the edges of the glass. The lighting inside dimmed, bathing Bob in a faint blue glow, like he was being buried beneath a glacier.

They strapped the coffin to a magnetic dolly, preparing to roll him out—out of the lab, out of history, out of her reach. Like he’d never existed. Like the nights they’d spent in quiet corners of the lab, whispering about the sky and everything he’d forgotten about being human, had never happened.

Like she hadn’t kissed his trembling hands after his first breakdown.

Like he hadn’t told her he was scared of the darkness inside him.

Like he hadn’t looked at her the night before the meltdown and said, “If I lose myself, don’t let them lock me away. Just tell me you loved me once. That it mattered.”

She scrambled up, stumbling toward the coffin, arms outstretched. She never told him that loved him. Once.

“Wait!” she cried.

The guards tried to intercept her, but she ducked around them, slamming her palms against the glass.

Her voice cracked as she spoke, forehead resting against the cold surface. “Bob. I’m here. I didn’t leave. I—I couldn’t save you, I’m sorry. But I remember you. Do you hear me? I remember everything. I do love you.”

No response.

She pressed her hand over his heart, her eyes tracing the shape of his closed eyelids, the curve of his lips. She could almost believe he was sleeping. Almost.

“Please,” she whispered, softer now. “Please come back. Just open your eyes. Just—just breathe. I’ll take all of it, everything I did to you. Just come back to me. I'm sorry I went away, I'm sorry I wasn't here, I'm sorry I never told you.”

Silence.

Valentina made a gesture. The guards pulled her away, gently but firmly.

“NO!” Y/N screamed, kicking and fighting. “You don’t get to take him! He’s not—he’s not a thing! He’s a person! He was mine! He didn't get to live what...what I promised, no, we didn't have our time yet Pleasee!”

But Bob remained still, and the glass began to fog slightly with the temperature shift as the containment unit rolled toward the freight elevator.

Valentina didn’t look back.

And Y/N—struggling in the arms of men who didn’t know who Bob was, what he had become, what he meant—finally went limp.

Her voice, barely a breath now, rasped, “Please don’t leave me here without you…”

The elevator closed with a heavy clang.

Then he was gone.

--

The days after Bob’s death passed like smoke. Thick. Suffocating. Fleeting. Y/N found herself moving through them without weight, her steps soundless on the cold tile floors of the lab, her hands numb even as they gripped report files, tablets, clipboards—anything to feel tethered to something.

His room remained sealed, but sometimes she still stood outside of it, pressing her fingers to the keypad even though she knew the access had been revoked, even though she knew he wasn’t inside. Not anymore. The air still felt like him. The silence was heavier than when he was there. And every time she blinked, she could see his face again—bright-eyed the night she’d kissed him first, tired and grateful the mornings after their stolen moments, hollow and terrified in that final room.

She didn’t sleep. Nights had become tormenting. The moment the lab’s synthetic lights dimmed and the halls emptied, her mind rushed back to them. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his room, laughing about stupid things. Her curled under his arm while they watched old movies from a pirated USB. Him whispering into the shell of her ear that he didn’t deserve her, and her telling him to shut up and just let it be good for once. Just let it be soft.

The bed was too big now. She hadn’t noticed how small she was until she tried to lie still, pretending it was his arm wrapped around her waist. His warmth. His breathing slowing. Her hand still clutched the bracelet he gave her one night—a silly little leather band he found during one of their “raids” of the storage closet, where they'd been looking for snack rations and instead ended up wrestling on the floor like teenagers. She had scolded him for acting like a child. He had kissed her like it was the last time.

But she hadn’t told him she loved him.

And now it was too late.

Every hallway held a ghost. Every chair, every lab monitor, every sample. There were notes in her drawer still written in his handwriting, things like: Don’t forget your coffee, boss. You get mean without it. She used to roll her eyes. Now she kept that note folded in her pocket, as if maybe, by having it on her, she could pretend he was still here. Still smirking behind her.

Dr. Ilari had tried to talk to her. Repeatedly. She hadn’t said a word. Not since the day of Protocol 6X.

Valentina had stood over Bob’s body like it was a failed machine. Cold. Ready to dispose. She hadn’t cried then. Not in front of her. Not even when she’d screamed that he wasn’t an object to terminate—that he was a man. That she loved him.

The tears only came when she was alone, curled in front of the door of Bob’s room, replaying the sound of his heartbeat disappearing from the monitors. Now she uses them to help her go to sleep, listenning to them as if he's there, somewhere. A sound that cut through her more violently than anything she’d ever known.

She hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

She would never again hear him laugh. Never again feel his hand in hers. Never again hear that shy, broken voice asking her, “Why would you care about someone like me?”

And now, all she had was the answer she never got to give him. That he made her feel alive. That he reminded her she had a heart. That maybe, just maybe, broken things could still love, and be loved, and heal.

She didn’t tell him. And she would regret that for the rest of her life.

The lab hummed around her like a distant storm. The world was moving on.

But she wasn’t.

And she didn’t know if she ever could.

The lights in the lab had never felt so sterile.

Y/N stood in the same office she had once stormed into, full of confidence and bright-eyed ambition. The walls hadn’t changed. The old monitor still flickered faintly on the far desk, and the whiteboard behind Dr. Ilari was still covered with scrawled calculations, doodles from late nights when they’d been too tired to keep their minds on science, but too stubborn to give in to sleep.

But now, all of it felt like an echo of someone else’s dream.

Dr. Ilari leaned back in his chair, watching her. He wasn’t smiling this time. His usual warm humor was gone, replaced by something quieter. Sadder.

“So,” he said, softly, “you’re really leaving.”

Y/N nodded, arms folded across her chest like she was holding herself together. “I already booked my flight. I should be back in New York by tomorrow evening. My father... he’s expecting me. There’s a position open in his lab.”

Ilari sighed, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Of course he is. And I’m sure he’s thrilled to hear his daughter’s project failed. He always struck me as the ‘told you so’ type.”

A hollow smile tugged at her lips. “He said he’d keep the seat warm.”

“Is that really what you want, Y/N? To go back to him? To... that lab?” Ilari’s voice was still gentle, but the concern in it was unmistakable. “After everything, after what you built here... you’re really going to let him pull you back?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers dug into her sleeves as she looked down at the floor, her voice strained. “The project’s done. Labeled ‘infeasible’ and ‘dangerously unstable.’ It’s over. And honestly, I can’t... I don’t have it in me to start over. Not again.”

Ilari’s brows knit. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I do,” she replied quickly. “I know.”

He waited. Gave her space to speak if she wanted. And for a moment, she almost told him everything. About the nights. The stolen time. The kisses, the laughter, the soft way Bob used to look at her like she was the only person on earth who hadn’t given up on him.

But instead, she only said, “He was the first subject I chose myself. The first time I felt like the project was mine. And I ruined it. I used my father’s methods. I treated Bob like a blueprint, not a person. I was so focused on proving myself that I forgot he wasn’t just data. He was...”

Her throat closed. Her eyes burned.

Ilari didn’t push her. He just waited, his silence louder than anything he could have said.

Y/N turned away from him, pacing toward the window that overlooked the jungle canopy outside. She watched the birds in the distance—free, weightless. The opposite of everything she felt. “Bob made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time,” she said, finally. “Alive. Like I wasn’t just surviving for someone else’s legacy. Like I mattered. To someone.”

Ilari rose slowly from his chair, stepping around his desk. “You loved him.”

She turned to him. Didn’t confirm it. She didn’t have to. Her eyes did the talking.

“I suspected,” he added quietly, “when the cameras started glitching every night at the same time. I didn’t say anything because... I figured it was the only joy either of you were getting in that place.”

She let out a soft, broken breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He placed a hand on her shoulder—steady, kind. “I just wish you’d told me sooner. I wouldn’t have stopped it. Hell, I might’ve encouraged it. God knows that man needed someone in his corner.”

Y/N’s lip trembled, and she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Yes, it does,” Ilari said firmly. “Because you loved. You risked it. That’s more than most people can say by the time they retire. And it meant something. Even if it ended.”

Y/N dropped her eyes. “It didn’t just end. It was ripped away.”

She hadn’t cried in front of anyone—not since the room. Not since his body went still under the operating light, while she screamed for someone to do something. But now, in front of Ilari, the tears came. Silent, hot, unapologetic.

Ilari wrapped her in a gentle hug, like an older brother or uncle—safe, understanding. “You don’t have to go back to him, Y/N. Not your father. Not that place. You can do something else. Something you want. Anything. Just... don’t let this grief turn into a cage.”

She nodded into his shoulder but said nothing.

When she pulled back, she wiped her face and gave him a crooked, sad smile. “You were always the best part of this lab.”

“Damn right I was.” He chuckled, but his eyes were misted, too. “You’ll always have a place here. If ever you decide to stop letting your dad control your career—or your life. Just say the word. I’ll make room.”

She laughed softly. “If I ever come back, it’ll be for the mango tea and your terrible jokes.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” He grinned, but it faltered at the edges. “Goodbye, Y/N.”

“Goodbye, Ilari.”

She turned toward the door, suitcase in hand. But before leaving, she paused in the hallway, just once, and looked back over her shoulder—like maybe, just maybe, he’d come walking through one more time. Laughing. Teasing. Kissing her softly like the world outside didn’t exist.

But it was just silence.

And she left.

Back to New York. Back to the city that raised her. Back to the legacy she never asked for. But this time, something in her heart had changed. Because even if she never said it out loud, she had loved someone—truly, deeply. And now that love would live in her like a scar.

[exhaslo]

Kinktober Day 28-Gynecologist!Miguel x Nervous!Reader (Teasing/Fingering)

*Requested by reader ;) Also, early update due to working both jobs tmw*

        It was that time of year again for you. It was always a nerve racking experience since you always worried about anything being wrong with you. After a long shower, you changed into a fresh pair of clothing, ready for your appointment. The fear of you smelling or sweating or anything for that matter made you nervous. It was just a regular checkup. Nothing changed from last year, so there was going to be nothing wrong.

        Besides, your friend, Lyla, worked at the gynecologist as an assistant. She always helped you calm down. Lyla even tried to set you up with one of her friends. A handsome man named, Miguel O'Hara. You had dated him a few times and found him very attractive. If only you weren't so timid. During those dates you barely uttered a word, just a small squeak here or there. You were honestly surprised that he even asked you out a few more times. 

        You were starting to get comfortable with him. Perhaps on your next date you could ask him about his job and his likes. Miguel was so kind. He was defiantly your type. You even thought about him at night. Gasping lowly, you slapped your cheeks. Now was not a good time to think about Miguel. It would be embarrassing to be wet for your checkup.

"(Y/n)~ Come on in!" Lyla chirped, motioning you inside.

        You took your regularly deep breathes, slowly following Lyla's lead. You friend gave you a quick hug before leading you into a private room. Lyla hummed as she closed the door and asked the routine questions.

"Alright, and did the front desk girl tell you about the new gyno? I hope so,"

"S-She did. I was okay with it being...a male," You whispered, trying to hide your stutter. Lyla just curled her lips into a smile,

"Don't worry, (Y/n)! You'll be perfectly fine! Anyway, how's it going with Miguel?" She asked, changing the topic. Your eyes lit up,

"T-Thank you again for giving me his n-number! He...He is really kind...and sweet. He doesn't r-rush me when I try...try to talk to him," You explained, "He doesn't mind me texting him....instead."

"I told you he was a good one!" Lyla grinned from ear to ear, "He likes you a lot too~"

"H-He does?!"

        Lyla chuckled at your flustered expression. Upon hearing a knock at the door, Lyla hummed as she got you ready. You were getting nervous again. She helped you relax before opening the door.

"Hello, Miss-(Y/n)??" Miguel paused as he stared at you. You squeaked in response before turning to Lyla.

"Oh, totally forgot to mention that Miguel is your new doctor~" She said with a wide grin, "Now I know I'm supposed to stay in here with you both, buuuuuut you guys know each other~ Bye!"

        Just like that, Lyla left both you and Miguel alone. Your face was a million shades of red as you tried to fit your gown, recalling that you were naked in front of the man you were dating. Miguel cleared his throat as he took a seat by the computer. He glanced over your files before turning towards you.

"This must be awkward," He started and read your body language, "Would you like your phone to text me?"

        You nodded violently in response. Miguel resisted a chuckle and went to your pile of clothes on the separate chair and looked for your phone. He glanced at your panties, restraining himself. He gave you the phone and grabbed his, waiting for your response. A smile on his face as he watched you. You were so cute. Someone worth his time. Someone worth his love. Miguel would do anything to keep you happy and relaxed.

'Did you know I was going to be your patient?' You texted him. Miguel glanced at the message,

"No, I just started here two days ago. I don't want to make you uncomfortable, I can get another doctor." He replied. You hesitated before typing,

'No, it's okay. I was just surprised. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.'

"Not at all," Miguel chuckled lowly and stood from his seat, "Just let me know when you want me to start. I'll take as much time as you need."

        Your eyes soften as you looked at Miguel. You remembered when you first met him. He was so tall and seemed so threatening. Putting your phone to the side, you played with your fingers as you took a deep breathe. You looked into Miguel's eyes and gave him a nod, allowing him to start.

        Miguel was slow and gentle. He asked you to raise your right arm before moving your gown. He watched your facial expressions, making sure that everything was okay. You whimpered quietly as his large hand took ahold of your breast, gently massaging it to check for any lumps. Normally, you would just tremble as the doctor checked you, but this was different. This was Miguel touching you. Something you only dreamed of. Not only was he making you shake from nervousness, but also giving you those dirty thoughts.

"All good on this side, now for the other." Miguel's hand gently trailed your back as he repeated the process on your other breast, "You're shaking, are you okay?"

"Y-Yes," You whispered lowly.

        You inhaled deeply as you tried not to focus on Miguel touching you. He was just doing his job. So what if his large hands felt good as they massaged your breasts. So what if he was more gentle with you than your previous doctors. So what if he smelled amazing? You were here for a check up, not to fantasize on him railing you. It wasn't like you were up for such a task anyway.

"Alright, you're all good there, no lumps. Now for the main part, just let me know when you're ready by propping your legs up for me, okay?" Miguel told you, rubbing your shoulder.

        God, he was so fine. You gave him a nod, watching as he got his gloves and tool ready. Now this, you were embarrassed about. You always hated this part. You could feel your heart about to leap out of your chest. Miguel was about to look at your pussy. You haven't even kissed the man yet and you were about to skip a bunch of steps. It was hard to think about his job now. All you could focus on was Miguel examining your wet pussy.

"U-Um," You gulped, reaching for your phone. Miguel handed it to you,

"Want some water?" He offered.

'No, I'm just...please be gentle with me. I know this is your job, but I can't help but feel even more nervous since we're dating.' You texted him. Miguel looked at his phone and chuckled lowly,

"Have I ever told you how cute you are?" He said, switching his glove, "I won't judge. How could I?" He gave you that sweet smile you loved.

        Nodding once more as he stole your breathe away, you got ready. You placed your feet in the little prompt set up they have and spread your legs. A shiver ran up your spine as the cold air hit your pussy. Miguel tighten his gloves and sat on his chair, rolling towards you. You bit your lower lip as he sat directly in front of your cunt, spreading your legs out even more. This was just a check up. Just a check up and nothing more.

        Miguel withheld a groan as he noticed your cunt already wet. Despite your nervousness, it seemed like you were practically excited for him to be looking at you, to be touching you. This was turning him on. Normally, Miguel would get these over with since every other girl would not hesitate to spread their legs for him. Miguel was loving this change of pace. He was loving everything you did. Miguel wanted to hear your voice. A voice only for his ears.

"Alright, let me know if anything feels uncomfortable. I'm just going to feel around for anything, okay?"

"O-Okay," You stuttered.

        Miguel had to bite his cheek. He proceeded to enter a finger inside you, with holding a groan at how tight you were. So wet and so tight, just for him. As he felt around your velvet walls for anything strange, Miguel could not help but hear a quiet whimper coming from you. He glanced at your expression, watching as you closed your eyes and biting your lower lip. God, Miguel was going to lose his patience with you. He knew that you were only like this because it was him. Lyla had told him about how difficult it was for other doctors to even touch your breasts. The fact that you were letting him do this was just so tempting.

"How are you doing?" Miguel asked. You gasped lowly as he pressed his finger up,

"F-Fine," You said, shaking from his touch.

        Miguel's finger was just exploring your insides for anything out of the ordinary. It wasn't like he was actually fingering you. However, his finger was so thick and it was making you hot. You tried to think of something else, but the idea of Miguel doing more was turning you on. You whimpered lowly as you felt yourself clench against his finger. Why did these thoughts have to come now? Miguel was just doing his job and here you were getting horny.

"I'm going to insert the tool now. It will feel uncomfortable for only a second, okay?" He told you.

        You just nodded in response and followed his orders. Once he finished with the tool, Miguel approached you. He was so close. Miguel took his gloves off, bringing his hand to your cheek,

"You did so good for me. Are you okay?" He asked you. 

"Y-Yes," You told him and rubbed your legs slightly, "U-Um...S-Sorry...But...I..."

        Miguel raised a brow and read your body language. Your perky nipples and the juices that were streaming down your cunt were just all so tempting. He glanced into your eyes that screamed, 'fuck me'. Knowing that he couldn't or he would lose his job, Miguel inhaled deeply. He leaned down to peck your lips,

"Can I just say, that you are so goddamn tempting?" He whispered, enjoying your expressions, "I know what you want, and I can't give it to you here...But I can help release that tension."

"P-Please?" You nearly squeaked.

        Miguel nearly cussed. He returned to his chair, sitting directly in front of your poor, lonely cunt. He leaned forward and blew against it, watching you twitch. A smile formed against his lips as he entered two fingers this time. He stood up and pumped his fingers inside you, watching your face contort in pleasure. You were so tight for him. So needy. 

"I want to hear your voice later tonight, could you do that for me?" Miguel whispered in your ear as his fingers pumped into you.

"Hah...hah....Y-Yes....I can," You whimpered a soft moan, raising your hips slightly. 

        Miguel hummed happily and curled his fingers right at your sweet spot. Your body arched as you grinded your hips against his hand. Miguel quickly swallowed your moans with a kiss, not wanting anyone to hear you. As much as he wanted to hear those sweet moans, he knew that if he did, he would fuck you right here and now. Feeling your pussy tighten against his fingers, Miguel curled his fingers again. You held onto him as you reached your orgasm.

"That's it. That's my good girl," Miguel whispered, removing his fingers and licking them, "Taste so sweet. I'll have to reward you later,"

"M-Mig," You whispered, panting softly as you sat up. You reached for you phone, 'Want to come over to my place after work?' You texted him. Miguel glanced at his phone,

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." He leaned down to kiss you again, "Get dressed. I'll see you later."

        You smiled softly as Miguel left. Quickly putting your clothes back on, you noticed that your panties were missing. Your face turned a million shades of red, knowing that Miguel must have swiped them. You whined softly before grabbing your phone.

'Please bring my panties back!'

'Sure, when I see you tonight.'

[petite-phthora]

I can be the Edward to your Bella

[DP x DC fic]

[Love at first… murder? - part 22]

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Part 1

Ao3

---

They separate after a moment. Once again, two pairs of glowing green eyes meet. They let silence wash over them once again as they gaze at one another, locked in embrace.

After a while, Danny breaks the silence with a small sigh.

“I guess I might as well explain some more, if you still have some questions? I haven’t quite explained everything you should know yet, I suppose,” He offers.

Jason gives a small nod.

“Yeah, I… I’d like to know more, if you don’t mind…” At Danny’s nod he continues. “You keep mentioning ectoplasm, which I think is what I have previously always known as Lazarus water. Could you tell me more about it?”

Danny smiles at him.

“This is ectoplasm,” Danny says, putting his open palm between them and letting ectoplasm pool on top of it.

Jason flinches and leans back a bit, eyeing the ectoplasm apprehensively.

“Yeah, looks like Lazarus water to me, apart from the lack of bubbling” He replies stiffly. “And you’re – we’re—made of this stuff?”

“Essentially? Yes. Though we are only partially. But that doesn't matter right now”

“It sounds like something that should matter right now”

“Nah, right now the important part is that your ecto,” Danny emphasizes by pointing at Jason, letting the ecto disappear in the meantime, “is not healthy.”

“Something's wrong with the Pit? Pfft, I could’ve told ya that” Jason huffs sarcastically.

“Well, this Pit you keep referring to seems to be some kind of corrupted or contaminated version of the standard ectoplasm. And this Lazarus water you mentioned? Well, ectoplasm is not supposed to be bubbling, so…”

Danny lets out a small hum as he thinks.

“Like I’ve said before, from what I can guess, this corruption might be partially responsible for the madness you’ve referred to. And it’s probably the thing that has stunted your core growth.”

“My what growth?”

“Your core. Each ghost has a core. It’s the entire culmination of their being. Their vital organs, heart, brain, soul, etc. No matter how damaged a ghost’s physical body gets as long as their core doesn’t get damaged they can recover.

“You can think of it a little like the gems in Steven Universe,” Danny adds on, slightly unhelpfully for Jason as he has never heard of Steven Universe before, but he just nods along.

“If the core gets damaged, or even worse, destroyed, then the ghost is ended. They fade away, their entire existence getting erased in the process. It’s a fate worse than death…” Danny trails off before shaking his head a bit to clear it.

“Anyway, each ghost core also has an element or theme it is inclined to. We call it a core-type. For example, I have an ice core, making it so that I don’t get cold easily, and it gives me some ice powers as well.

“But I also know someone with a shadow core, someone with an electrical core, a fire core, etc., etc. Baby ghosts haven’t quite grown into the core-type yet, so you have nothing to worry about for now.” Danny says reassuringly.

Jason pulls a face at being referred to as a ‘baby ghost.’ 

“Right, and I’m supposed to have one of these cores but, what, the ‘contamination’ in the Pit stopped it from appearing?”

Danny shrugs. “Yeah, pretty much.”

He then gives Jason a contemplative look.

“I might be able to get rid of the corruption myself, as ghosts have a built-in filter so shit like the Pit madness doesn’t happen.

“But seeing as I’m not a full ghost and I haven’t really seen contamination like this before, I’m not entirely sure it’s healthy for me…” He trails off before giving a small shake of his head. “And I’m no doctor, either. So, you’d probably have to see Frostbite for an official diagnosis and treatment plan.”

“Frostbite?” Jason inquires.

“He’s my ghost doctor” Danny explains. “I can talk to him about it beforehand, see if he knows more about this corrupted ecto situation. Though he might ask you to come by for a checkup either way.” He shrugs.

Jason agrees before bringing up another question. “So, whenever someone dies, they just,” he makes a vague gesture, “Go to the Ghost Zone and become a ghost? Why haven’t we really come across any ghosts like that before?”

“Not everyone that dies becomes a ghost,” Danny shakes his head slightly, “And not even every ectoplasmic entity, or ecto-being, is someone that has died.

“Ecto-beings can be people who died, if they died a traumatic enough death with enough raw emotion and enough ambient ectoplasm in the area for them to form a core.

“But that certainly doesn’t happen often. And not every ecto-being is like us either. Yes, you have those with a physical body, but then there’s also shades.

“Shades are formed when there’s enough ambient ectoplasm in the area they died to kickstart their core formation, but not enough to sustain the entire process.

“They have a core, but due to the lack of ecto during its formation they can’t use a lot of ecto at once and it takes longer for them to replenish. This also makes them unable to be tangible or visible for long periods of time.

“Besides the consciousness of dead people being ghosts, there’s also the neverborn. True to their name, the neverborn were never actually born in the traditional sense.

“They could be sentience given shape by enough raw emotion occurring in an area saturated with ambient ectoplasm, like most blob ghosts.

“Or then there’s also the ones who are more forces of nature and/or abstract concepts taken physical form. These are the Ancients, and they embody concepts like Time, Space, Weather, or Dreams, for example.” Danny explains.

“There’s the personifications of places or beliefs taken shape, and then there are also the neverborn formed through ghost procreation.”

Jason raises an eyebrow.

“Ghosts can give birth?”

Danny makes a so-so gesture with his hand.

 “Yes and no? It’s not exactly comparable to human conception, but two ghosts can come together and combine parts of their core to create? spawn? form? a child together?” He shrugs “I don’t know the exact workings or details, you’d have to ask Frostbite for more information.”

“Huh..” Is all Jason can say in response.

“Then you have the liminals, zombies, demons, and other dead-adjacent beings that I won’t get into right now.” Danny dismisses before pausing thoughtfully. “Though, I’ll clarify revenants a bit as that was what you were initially.”

He continues at Jason’s nod.

“A revenant is, in simplest terms, someone who died in an area without much ambient ecto, and with an immense need for revenge. A need so strong in fact that, despite the lack of ecto necessary to form a core in order to become a shade or full ghost, their potent emotions remain after death.

“And these emotions are what tie the remains of the person’s soul to their body, which together are able to take control of the corpse in order to enact that revenge, despite the mind of the person being long gone.

“Now, as soon as they have been avenged, they usually go back to their grave, if they have one, and well, die again, I suppose... The emotions fading and letting go of their hold on the soul…” Danny rubs the back of his neck before moving on.

“Well, last but not least, there’s us, the halfas. There’s only about four—well, five—of us in existence currently.

“Like I’ve said before, halfas are half-dead and half-alive. We have a living human body, and a ghost form we can transform into that is completely made out of ectoplasm, like the average physical-bodied ghost.

“We also have all the basic ghost powers, like flight, invisibility, intangibility, overshadowing, ecto-rays,” as Danny starts listing the basic ghost powers, he ignores Jason’s interjection of “I’m supposed to have ghost powers?!”

“But each ghost, depending on their power level, can also have some powers exclusive to only them. I know of a ghost with musical mind controlling powers, a ghost with wish granting powers, there’s my ghostly wail, and more.”

“So… If I get cleansed of this uh, corrupted ectoplasm, I’m gonna have ghost powers?” Jason asks again, a strange and thoughtful expression on his face.

“Yeah, probably. Though we won’t know which individual powers you’ll get till you get them.” Danny shrugs. “I’m also not quite sure how fast your core development will be and how fast your powers will appear once the corrupted stuff is gone.” He admits.

“While the stunted growth could have slowed the entire process down permanently, there’s also the chance that, once your proto-core has the freedom to grow, with some healthy ecto as a boost, your core might grow instantaneously because it’ll finally have the space to do so after being repressed for so long.” He looks at Jason’s chest, deep in thought, before shrugging again.

“But like I mentioned before, I’m no doctor. So, we’d need to consult with Frostbite first to be sure. And as for not being aware of ghosts before and not having met any, that’s just mainly due to the lack of reliable portals around.” He explains.

“There are only two semi-permanent portals that I know of, both of those artificial, and one of those is in my parents’ basement. Natural portals do occur, but ghosts rarely use them if they happen to come across one.

“It’s because the locations and duration the portals stay open are random. Besides, whatever time period they open in is also unpredictable. If you’re not careful, you could end up in ancient Rome.” Danny pulls a face before shaking his head a bit to clear his mind.

“Lastly there’s ghosts who have the power to open temporary portals themselves, but it’s quite rare amongst ghosts, so most just rely on the artificial ones to enter this dimension.”

Jason throws him a questioning glance. “Why do ghosts wanna enter this dimension anyway, if their home is in this Ghost Zone, I’m assuming? Is unfinished business like an actual thing, or?”

Danny pauses, thinking over his answer.

“Well, each ghost has their reasons for coming to this dimension. Some wanna view this dimension like tourists, others might come through the portal to visit for a quick brawl—”

“They come here just to fight?”

Danny nods.

“It’s very socially stimulating and healthy for ghosts to throw down every once in a while. It’s basically the ghost equivalent of puppies playfighting or friends checking in on each other and asking how you’ve been, you know?

“It helps them feel more, well, alive. We, as halfas, don’t really have the urge to fight other ghosts as much due to still being half alive, obviously. But some still visit me sometimes just for a quick fight.

“Though I do have to remind them sometimes that I’m more squishy than them, as the attacks they use sometimes would be fine for a full ghost, but for a human...” Danny winces before quickly moving on.

“But anyways, another reason for them leaving the Zone could be cause it’s just easier to manage their Obsession in this dimension than in the Ghost Zone.”

At Jason’s interjecting question of “What’s an obsession?” Danny elaborates. “Each ghost has an Obsession, capital O, and it’s what keeps them mostly sane and keeps them from fading.”

“For example, my Obsession is space, though we thought it was something else at first. But then you have other ghosts, who might be Obsessed about things like boxes, being remembered, technology, etc.

“Ghosts can also have multiple Obsessions, but it depends. It all varies from ghost to ghost, but that’s the basic gist of it. And for a lot of ghosts, it could be more difficult to fulfil these Obsessions in the Ghost Zone, instead of here, where they might have more access to their Obsession.

“Though, either way, for us halfas it’s a bit different. Because we’re still partly human and alive, we’re not as bound by our Obsessions as other ghosts might be.”

Jason nods a little, taking it all in. At the small lull in conversation, Jason brings up a slight change of topic, having enough information he still needs to digest for now.

“So, ghosts, huh?” He starts. ”And here I thought you were some kind of vampire meta”

Danny sputters after hearing Jason’s admission.

“A vampire meta?! What gave you that idea?”

Danny looks at Jason incredulously. Jason gives him a considering look before starting to list his ‘evidence.’

“Well, let's start with the fangs and pointed ears—”

“That doesn't have to mean anything!”

“—Next off, you’re cold to the touch, impossibly strong, impossibly fast, as you appeared in no time after I texted you about your sister— “

“But I have an ice core! And that was— “

“Not to mention the fact that when I asked how you got there onto the roof that fast, you told me you flew, which, you could do if you were, oh, I don’t know, a bat—”

“I wasn’t a bat though! I’m not that good at shapeshifting yet—”

“And besides all of that, I’m around 90% sure your sister drank some of my blood when biting me. And family members with the meta gene having similar powers isn’t uncommon—” 

“That’s just how Ellie is! I think she got that from Vlad more than anything,” Danny protests.

Jason raises an eyebrow before putting on a fake serious tone of voice.

“I know what you are…”

Danny blinks and pauses before pushing him gently with a laugh. “Jason—”

“So, you’re telling me you don’t sparkle in the sun?” Jason asks with a grin.

“Dude, you’ve seen me outside during the day before!” He smiles.

“It’s Gotham! The sun doesn’t shine here, which is obviously why you moved here. So, you wouldn’t easily be found out by going outside,” Jason argues teasingly.

Danny falls still for a moment, giving Jason a pondering look before grinning.

“You wanted to be like Bella Swan, with your own dramatic romance novel moment, didn’t you?”

Danny’s grin widens as Jason stills.

“That’s it, isn’t it?!”

“No. No, no, no—” Jason starts vehemently denying it as Danny pushes on.

“You want to be a main character in a YA romance novel—”

“I do not—”

“It’s alright, Jason. For you, I’ll be the Edward Cullen to your Bella Swan” Danny tells him reassuringly, patting his back lightly as Jason just sighs and hides his face in his hands.

“You’re gonna be the death of me” He groans.

“Well, fortunately for you, ‘till death do us part’ doesn’t really apply to us, Ghost Boy.” Danny jokes.

It does the job, and Jason gains a small smile on his face as he shakes his head at Danny with a huff. He then moves his gaze from Danny back to the side, onto Gotham. Danny follows his gaze.

They stay seated in each other's hold, enjoying the other’s company and presence. It was getting quite late.

“Shall we go back?”

They gaze out over the city from their spot, city lights reflected in their eyes.

“Yeah… let’s…”

---

Taglist:

@i-always-say-yea @uraniumwizard @why-must-i-be-like-this @griffinthing @i23432i @imsotiredfanficlovertm @jaguarthecat @arkita-shadow @noideawhatshappeninghelp @jaitwin5 @apple-juice16 @mossy-bonez @harvestandhearth

[yuff7e]

heyy i was hoping you could hear me out on this female reader x bakugo fic request. this might sound so weird but pls stay w me. when u give a guy head it can bruise the back of ur throat. (obviously isn’t perm) and dentists can actually tell and see the bruising. so i’ve jus been thinking about going to a dental appointment with Bakugo the next day after giving him that head and the dentist being able to tell and lowkey teasing about it. how would bakugo react lol. thanks!!!!

♬ ₊˚. dental appts w bakugo katsuki !! .🎧⋆✧ sfw / fluff / light mentions of nsfw / mentions of mouth poking

female reader

hi anon !! this is such a funny request i HAD to do this !!! i literally giggled when i read it :3 that’s so silly i bet he’d be so flustered, enjoy <3

the cuties song -> www.spotify.com (LMFAOO)

your boyfriend, katsuki, was driving you to your dental appointment today. you two were doing the usual, listening to music and talking occasionally as you gaze out the window. you usually don’t like going to the dentist, but you knew you had to get a few things checked eventually.

once katsuki pulled into the parking lot, you grabbed your purse and your phone and hopped out of his car - fixing your hair in the window once you shut the door. “let’s go!” katsuki shouts, you huff - moving another strand of hair into place and catching up to him.

“you look fine, baby.” he grumbles, pulling your hand into his - you shoot him a quick smile before walking in the doors. once you’re inside katsuki speaks to the receptionist at the counter and lends her your information as you look around, you haven’t been to the dentist in forever.

eventually you two sit down, katsuki crosses a calf over his knee and puts his arm around you - watching the kids fondly and glaring at the men that walked past and looked at you. you pull out your small compact mirror and fix your hair once more, earning a small chuckle from katsuki.

“what?” “nothin’ you’re just cute..” a pink hue frames your cheeks and you look back into the tiny mirror, suddenly the door entering the dentists office calls out your name and you both stand up - following the woman into the room where the dentist is at.

“hello ms.[last name], take a seat.” the dentist greets you kindly and you sit, katsuki sitting in the other chair in the room. the dentist looks at your records and assures everything is fine with your teeth and that they just want to do a short checkup to double check that everything is normal.

you sit back once you hand katsuki your purse and essentials, opening your mouth for the dentist to examine. as he’s poking around in your mouth he stops for a second and gives you a look, you look back at him quizzically and he just chuckles - glancing at katsuki as well.

“what? is there somethin’ wrong?” katsuki questions, sitting up in the chair. the dentist tells him there’s nothing wrong, but that there seems to be some.. bruising, in the back of your mouth. katsuki coughs at his confession and you glance between katsuki and the dentist, suddenly - you start giggling. your face has turned a light shade of pink that the dentist points out, which just turns the hue darker as the dentist continues the teasing.

katsuki stares at the dentist with wide eyes and sits back in the chair, clearly embarrassed. “it’s quite alright, it doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong. it’s just always funny to notice and tease the patients about, don’t worry - this is not an uncommon thing.” he speaks as he clicks his mouse against the mousepad, eventually he spins back around in his chair toward you and tells you that everything is fine and that you don’t have to come back until a few months pass.

you thank him and grab your things from katsuki, before you two could walk out the dentist stops you - “make sure to not get another bruise, now.” katsuki stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at the dentist “wh—- hey!” before he could continue you place a hand on his chest and push him out, “sorry, and yes sir - i won’t.���

the dentist smiles at you both fondly as you walk out, katsuki keeping a tight grip on your waist as you make it to his car. before you open the car door you place a hand on your forehead, giggling breathlessly to yourself - “oh my, that was so embarrassing.” “yeah it sure fuckin’ was, why’d he care so much anyway?” katsuki mumbles to himself as he gets in the car.

you get in as well and place a hand on his arm, “don’t worry, now that we know in advance we’ll do something else before going to the dentist.” you flutter your eyelashes at him and he just gives you a “really?” look. you laugh at his silent response and he puts the car in reverse, revving loudly before backing out and speeding off.

—

yay !! this was actually so fun to write and super easy !! thanks for the amazing and silly request !! i love requests like these :)

REQUESTS : OPEN

[invis-o-william]

Dannymay 2025 - Day 17: Water

Danny had thought it was nothing at first. The first incident, after all, had happened less than a week after The Accident. He had chalked it up to nerves and the lingering shock of what had happened in the portal.

But it kept happening. Every time Danny approached the river separating Amity Park and Elmerton, he became uneasy. Something in him was just physically repelled every time he got near the river, and it made him queasy every time he had to cross the bridge.

That had been only in human form though. He had never had an excuse to go across the river in ghost form before, seeing as the ghosts who attacked the mortal realm seemed intent on staying in Amity Park. When he asked Clockwork about it, the ghost had said something about Amity's ‘concentration of ecto-radiation’, whatever that meant.

So ten months after stepping into the portal that fateful day, Danny found himself just as confused by his ghostly form as he was on day one. He had been enjoying some night flying since ghost activity had been low (a rarity to be sure), and decided to fly over the river and maybe follow it to the lake. Nothing unusual there, a perfectly harmless idea, right?

Except when he arrived at the riverbank, he found he couldn't go any further. Every time he tried to fly over the river, his body wouldn't physically let him. His core screamed in pain and warning, icy cold energy radiating out from his center to his fingertips, and it felt like every cell in his body was trying to push him away from the body of water. 

What was going on? Was something wrong with his ghost half? If it was, he needed to see Frostbite for a checkup ASAP. First though, he transformed and grabbed his phone out of his pocket, speed dialing Sam's number. 

She answered on the third ring, and before she could get a word out Danny blurted out his fears about his ghost half and the river.

“...I don't know what to do Sam, should I go see Frostbite? He'd know better if something was wrong with me, right?” He rambled on, only stopped when Sam interrupted him.

“Danny, you need to calm down! We should do some research on this before jumping to any conclusions, right?” She said, which caused Danny to let out a slightly stressed chuckle.

“You sound too much like Jazz.”

Sam snorted, but didn't deny the claim.

“All right, I'm adding Tucker to the call. I've already sent him a text with the basics of everything.” She said as she hit ‘Call’ and their other friend's phone connected. 

It didn't take long for Tucker to look online for the solution, one that in hindsight, they should have known about when they were first researching ghost myths in an effort to help Danny after The Accident.

“Apparently, ghosts can't cross running water, man!” Tucker exclaimed. “You've only gone across the river in your human form, so you probably feel weird because your ghost half is still part of you, right?”

Danny nodded, though neither of his friends could see the action over the phone. 

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense? Does it say anywhere why ghosts can't cross rivers and stuff?”

Tucker snorted, “I mean, yeah, but like from which source? Heck, even which part of the U.S.? There are too many beliefs to count!”

“Hmm,” Danny mulled it over. “Are there any that make sense to you?” At this, Sam spoke up.

“I'm looking too, and I found this cool bit of folklore that says crossing a river is too much like crossing the River Styx from Ancient Greece! Ghosts who can't cross over are stuck like how if you couldn't pay the ferryman, then he wouldn't row you across the Styx to the rest of the underworld.” She rambled on, engrossed in the myth.

“So what, I'm just stuck going across water as a human and getting sick to my stomach?” Danny asked, getting frustrated at yet another strange addition to his halfa life.

“Well, it seems like it. Sorry Danny.” Tucker said, short and to the point. Danny sighed. He never was going to catch a break with these ghost powers, was he?

[wrenaspun]

OMEGAVERSE

Ok listen - my dark secret is that I've spent years going Oh I don't know, I don't think I'll ever write omegaverse... and you sent this in to clown on me but GUESS WHAT! when I try my hand at something I take it SERIOUSLY. This is 6k. It has scene breaks. Bon appetit -

Laurent hated his annual checkups. This was not a quality he appreciated in himself, but it was difficult to reason the feeling away. He saw Paschal in a old house converted to incorporate a homey front-room office, nothing like the old cliche of white walls and antiseptic, but there was still the indignity of being poked and prodded, the feeling of being under examination, the crawling flush of humiliation whenever he flinched from a harmless touch. It was unpleasant. He didn’t like it.

He had always made a point of getting in and out as fast as possible; there was no reason why this appointment would be any different. Except, when Paschal clicked around on his ancient-looking brick of a desktop computer and said, “I’ll renew your suppressant prescription for next year, then,” Laurent found himself tensing.

The word bubbled out of him before he could think: “Wait.” He heard himself as though from far away; it took a moment to register that something had come from his mouth. Paschal blinked once, twice, and then turned to Laurent with his eyebrows raised halfway up his forehead.

The silence stretched out to fill the room. Laurent wanted to say — nevermind, forget it. It was on the tip of his tongue. It wouldn’t quite come out of his mouth. Eventually Paschal was the one to say, “Yes?”

Laurent said, “You’re the one who’s always saying I should cycle off them. Have you just been saying that for fun?” His voice was snappish, too aggressive.

Paschal knew him too well to react. “No, of course not,” he said slowly. “I still believe it would be good for you.”

Laurent waited, half-hoping and half-dreading that he would continue, would say something prevaricating: but you don’t have to, or, you’ve never even entertained the idea before, or even just, what changed?

Paschal offered none of these escape routes. “All right,” he said mildly. “I’ll adjust the amount on your prescription. If you change your mind, you can always make another appointment with me.” It was as good as a taunt, Laurent thought resentfully. They both knew he wasn’t coming back here any sooner than he absolutely had to.

And because no good deed went unpunished, he had to sit through an extra five-minute explanation on how to cycle off his current weekly dosage before he was finally released, clutching his adjusted prescription, blinking and stumbling down the stoop like some new strange creature who hadn’t ever lived in the world before. The paper in his hands felt oddly heavy, weighty. There was some part of him which believed it couldn’t be that easy, and another which wanted to turn around and say to Paschal that there had been a mistake, that it’d been a joke, some strange trick. It wasn’t — he wasn’t —

He kept walking. It was done, he told himself. There was no changing it now. He would have the requisite conversation with Damen tonight, and then he could direct his mind elsewhere until —

Even now, he shied away from thinking about it. Events would unfold of their own accord. There was no point worrying about it. He got his prescription filled and tucked the innocuous little bottle into an inner pocket of his bag where he wouldn’t have to look at it.

—

That evening, he said, “I have to talk to you,” over dinner, “about the checkup.” And then the words dried up; Damen’s interest became concern and then outright worry.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, a little tentative, his broad hand a little too tight around his fork. “Laurent, don’t keep me in suspense.” It was half a joke and half a plea.

Laurent shook his head. Forced himself to say, “Paschal recommended I cycle off my suppressants. At least once. Since I’ve been on them for so long.”

Damen was so lovely that, absurdly, it made the words difficult to say. Any other alpha would accept it without question — would be eager, even — if Laurent had said to them that he needed to go through a heat. Those were exactly the kinds of alphas who’d be put off by Laurent’s first date declaration, I’m never cycling off my suppressants, ever, it’s not even on the table, who’d roll their eyes and walk out on him muttering about frigid bitches —

Not Damen, who had just nodded. All right, he’d said, so unquestioningly open that Laurent had found himself saying more, I don’t like how it feels, except that Damen had only smiled again and said that he didn’t have to explain.

Perfect, at the time, but now he looked worried, and Laurent didn’t know how to reassure him. “You have to?” he asked. “Is there — some kind of problem —?”

“No,” said Laurent. “It’s precautionary. It’s just letting my body reset itself.”

“Right,” said Damen. The silence stretched out, awkward, between them. Neither of them were eating anymore. Finally, Damen said, “Do you want me to — go somewhere —?”

“No!” Laurent barely stopped himself from snapping, that would defeat the whole point, idiot. He felt his jaw twitch. If Damen didn’t want to heat with him — it would certainly be one of Laurent’s graver miscalculations. But this was Damen. The thought that he’d want to leave Laurent alone through a heat was inconceivable.

When Laurent finally looked up, Damen was watching him, brow furrowed. “Laurent,” he said.

Laurent’s cheeks felt like they were on fire. “Are you going to make me say it?” he demanded, and Damen’s face opened into a hesitant little smile that did strange things to Laurent’s stomach.

“Sweetheart,” he said, “I’d be honoured.”

For a moment it was difficult to breathe. It was as though there was something inside Laurent’s chest, blocking his lungs, blocking his throat. He turned back to his food, staring down at the blue florals. “Good,” he said. And then, “It probably won’t happen any time soon.” His body was too used to the suppressants.

“That’s good,” said Damen. “If you change your mind —”

“I won’t change my mind.” Sharply.

“All right,” said Damen, voice soft. Then he reached over and twined their fingers together, under the table, and said nothing when Laurent’s hand tightened as though clutching a lifeline.

—

It took four months, in the end. Long enough that Laurent had stopped thinking about it, for the most part. He didn’t even realise — what was happening, when it first started. He thought he was coming down with something. The ecology textbook he was meant to be editing didn’t seem to make any sense; the words on the page in front of him were swimming slightly. His face felt flushed and overheated, maybe feverish. He tried a few times to put his hand to his forehead, second-guessing the way it felt.

It was confusing mostly because he hadn’t had the chance to get sick recently — it’d been a quiet few weeks, mostly nights at home with Damen. The textbook had him a little stressed because he didn’t know the first thing about ecology, but it was no worse than any other job that the publishing house had pushed on him. But that was how sicknesses worked, he supposed. Random unlucky encounters while they were out running errands. They’d done the groceries — was it last weekend? He couldn’t focus properly.

He kept going anyway, mostly because to curl up in bed sounded a little too tempting, and there was the hope in the back of his mind that he’d be able to fight through it by sheer force of will. He did take a couple of the emergency paracetamol that Damen had stashed in his desk, but he didn’t feel much effect.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Laurent startled and looked at the clock: sure enough, the rest of the workday had ground by. He’d been working overtime for half an hour, actually. What was wrong with him today?

He shook his head just in time for Damen to poke his head into the little office, a frown already on his face. He started, “What are you —”

“Don’t come near,” said Laurent hastily, attempting to roll his chair backwards to little effect — the desk was a rather immovable obstacle. “I think I’m getting sick.”

Damen was looking at him wide-eyed. He’d trailed off, but his mouth was hanging a little open. Laurent wanted to kiss it. He wanted to get up and wrap himself in Damen’s arms and get rid of their clothes, fast, the better to have Damen over him, skin-to-skin…

“Sweetheart,” said Damen, “I don’t think you’re getting sick.”

Laurent still didn’t realise, not even then. It was only when Damen inhaled, a long, slow, indulgent breath that would lay Laurent’s scent thick and heavy on his tongue, that the pieces clicked.

Laurent said, “Oh, fuck.”

He’d been such an idiot. The signs had all been there — the irritability, the flushes of heat, the lack of focus. The way his mind kept returning, like a dog with a bone, to thoughts of Damen’s naked body, the way he’d look pressed up against Laurent, the way his hands would feel… Laurent loved Damen’s hands, broad and capable, graceful and gentle.

“We can still get you on suppressants if you want,” Damen offered, quiet. “They have the medical-grade ones for late-stage preheat. We still have enough time to drive to the hospital.”

There were medical-grade suppressants that could stop a full heat in its tracks, even. The offer hung between them, tantalising.

“No,” said Laurent. “Don’t think you’re getting out of it this easily.”

Damen’s mouth ticked up, which usually would have sent a little thrill through Laurent’s blood and which now made him feel on the point of explosion. He stood up so forcefully that his chair was propelled into the desk behind him, crashing unpleasantly against the wood — Laurent couldn’t bring himself to care. He was darting into Damen’s arms. Damen caught him up without any effort at all, and Laurent buried his face into Damen’s neck where the scent of him was strongest, the earthy, deep smell which was nothing but a comfort.

“Laurent.” Damen’s arms tightened around him, and Laurent felt a little of the tension leave his body. Oh, it’d been such a long day. “Laurent.”

“Hmm?”

“I — we can’t, yet —” and the arms began to push Laurent away, which was awful. “Laurent, please.”

“Don’t you want —”

“I want,” said Damen fervently. There was a hint of a growl in his voice. Laurent realised, in an abrupt moment of clarity, that he was wet. “We need to prepare. You need to take your heat leave,” nodding at the computer behind Laurent. “I’ll email my work. And then I need to get some meals ready.”

“Some meals?” echoed Laurent.

The look Damen gave him was heated. “I’m not letting you out of bed for three days, sweetheart.”

“I — oh.” Even through the faintly feverish texture of preheat, Laurent could feel himself blushing.

Damen tipped his chin up with one finger and kissed his lips very lightly. “You can prepare the bedroom while I’m in the kitchen. I’ll be up in no time.”

“All right.” Laurent could hear the sighing breathiness of his own voice. Damen kissed him again, still light, which was a mercy; Laurent didn’t think he would survive it, if Damen had kissed him properly only to pull away.

“Soon,” said Damen, in the tone of a promise, and then he was pulling away, and then he was gone.

Laurent stood uselessly in the doorway for a full five seconds after Damen had ducked into the kitchen and out of sight, blinking hazily, focusing entirely on resisting the urge to follow Damen like a little duckling.

Email, he thought finally, and tore himself away from the threshold. He tapped out a cursory notice to the publishing house, cc’d his client, slammed the laptop shut.

He was preoccupied as he made his way upstairs, thinking about Damen, about the abnormal sensations within his own body, and so it was only once he had entered the bedroom that he realised he had no idea what Damen meant when he’d said Laurent could prepare the bedroom. What did that even entail? Laurent regarded the room with some bemusement. It was decently clean — neither of them were particularly messy — with a few belongings scattered about on the dresser and bedside tables. Laurent took a breath, but it was difficult to think. Did Damen want the room cleaned before they spent three days rolling around in the sheets? He had never been particularly fussy about such things before. Was there something he wanted, or was it more of a general expression, to prepare the bedroom? Laurent could practically feel the gaps in his knowledge taunting him. Was there a wrong way to prepare a bedroom?

He didn’t know how much time he wasted just standing there, looking over at the bed. Finally, the thought struck him: sheets, obviously. Damen had gone and bought a nice set of mattress and duvet protectors after Laurent had cycled off his suppressants. They were meant to go under the normal sheets, because everyone said the same thing, that heating was a messy experience, that it was hell on bedding. Laurent went to the linen closet on light feet, feeling almost like he was floating from the relief of having found something to do.

He hadn’t actually seen the protectors before; Damen had just called on his way home one day and asked whether Laurent preferred one brand or the other. Laurent didn’t care, didn’t want to think about it, so Damen had made the decision and put the package away when he got home.

Laurent should probably have paid more attention, if only to curb Damen’s tendency to extravagance. He’d bought — it didn’t even seem possible that a single box could hold so many sheets. It was at least twice the amount of bedding that one would find in a standard set. Probably three times as much. Surely heating wasn’t that destructive.

He took what he needed and returned to the bedroom. It took a little longer than usual to change the sheets — they usually did this together, if only because the mattress was ridiculously large — but he managed finally to get everything where it was supposed to be. He was too nervous for it too feel like a real achievement. There was a raw, jagged feeling under his skin, a physical sort of ache. He wanted Damen. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something he’d missed.

Just as the crest of impatience was tipping over into a crisis, Damen’s footsteps echoed up the stairs. Laurent, dignity abandoned, leapt to the doorway, looking out. Damen was carrying a bag, one of those reusable totes from the supermarket, heavy enough that his biceps were straining a little with it. Laurent felt his heart pulse irregularly. He was halfway down the corridor, wanting the heady elixir of Damen’s attention and focus.

“Hello,” he said breathlessly, when Damen smiled at him. The smile widened. Damen’s dimple was a lovely tease.

“Hello,” said Damen, bringing his free hand up to cradle Laurent’s cheek. “Do you want to eat now?”

A quick glance down revealed that the tote bag was full of tupperware, all of it steamed up from being freshly cooked. But — “I couldn’t,” Laurent admitted. It was true. His stomach was in knots.

“It’ll keep,” said Damen. “Can I come in?”

Absurdly, Laurent realised that some part of himself wanted to say no. He quashed it carefully and said, “Yes, of course.”

He was watching Damen’s face as they walked; that was why he saw the quick flicker of surprise, of dismay, which crossed his expression as he came into the room. Laurent blamed his hormones on the fact that this felt like being stabbed. He felt himself flame up red, blood rushing to his face.

Damen was looking down at him uncertainly, which was terrible. Then he said, gently, “Laurent, are you sure you want —?” which was worse.

“Of course I want,” snapped Laurent.

“We can still go to the hospital —”

“Shut up.” This was more painful than being stabbed. “I said I would, and I will. I want to — I — why would you think otherwise?” And under the force of Damen’s gaze, Laurent heard himself say, “What did I do wrong?”

The bag of food dropped inelegantly to the floor. Damen was taking hold of Laurent around the waist, still a warm and comforting presence. “It’s not wrong,” he said. “I misspoke.”

“But there was something,” said Laurent, and forced himself to step back. Damen hesitated. “Damen, just say it.”

Damen said, “I thought there would be a nest.”

It was so unexpected that for a moment Laurent’s mind did not compute it. Damen might as well have said, I thought you would grow an extra limb. “What?” he said. “Why?”

A helpless look. “I don’t know,” said Damen. “I suppose it must be more common in Akielos.”

“But nests are —” Laurent hesitated. The words from his adolescence bubbled up, but felt somehow wrong to say. Unhygienic. Primitive, backwards, unsophisticated.

Damen’s expression flickered, as though he was hearing the words anyway. Laurent changed courses and said, “You’ve heated with others before. Other Veretians.”

Now it was Damen’s turn to hesitate, eyeing Laurent carefully as though nervous he would burst into flames at the thought. When this did not occur, he said, “Yes. And there was always — so I suppose that’s why I assumed.” And then, quickly: “But it doesn’t matter, obviously. We can do what you want.”

He stepped forward, but Laurent stepped back, thinking — he felt like his mind was overheating like a faulty computer. He was thinking about books, about movies, the way that the height of romance was always a nest. At the time, he’d thought it was cheesy, mawkish, a cultural signifier more than a gesture real people would be likely to make, the same as covering a mattress with rose petals or turning out all the lights to have dinner by candlelight. And he was also thinking about how the voice in his head was his uncle’s, cold and amused. The extra sheet protectors, Laurent thought, with another flush of embarrassment. It wasn’t overly-stocked out of generosity or even out of extravagance. He was supposed to have used them in his nest.

“Laurent,” said Damen, “I’m sorry I raised it —”

“How,” said Laurent abruptly, and Damen cut himself off, “do you build a nest?”

Damen briefly looked like he was struggling to speak. After a moment he said, “You don’t have to.”

“If I wanted to,” said Laurent. “How would I?”

Damen said, “Have you never…?”

“Never,” said Laurent. And, absurdly, a flicker of anger crossed Damen’s expression.

But all he said was, “You start with the heavier things,” voice even, “and work your way to the lighter blankets. You shape it around you. It’s meant to be comfortable. There’s no wrong way to do it, really, except that going from light to heavy can be less stable.”

Laurent said, “Show me.”

Damen looked at him a little helplessly, but he at least did Laurent the favour of not asking yet again whether he was sure. “Wait here,” he said, and went off to the linen closet, came back with what looked like its entire contents heaped in his arms.

Something about the sight — Damen’s strength, his bulk, harnessed for the purpose of carrying around piles of cloth — tugged fiercely at Laurent’s heart. “Damen,” he said.

Damen said, “Don’t come too close, sweetheart. We don’t want your heat to set in yet.”

It took a moment to understand what he meant; Laurent was not a fan of feeling this slow, this stupid. It was fairly well known — and there were studies to back it up — that preheat would graduate to full heat much faster in the face of skin-to-skin contact with a partner. It was awful, to stay back. Damen knelt on the ground to separate out the different blankets, and then looked up at Laurent.

“It might be better if you sat on the bed,” he said. “I can pass you what you want.”

Laurent went and pushed the single duvet aside and sat. It felt — stupid. It was hard not to feel self-conscious, sitting on an almost-empty mattress and looking over at Damen. “Give me the heavy one, then,” he said.

Damen did. Laurent tried to hold it in his hands, but it was too large to be contained, and tumbled eventually to pool around his legs. Damen was watching him.

Again he said, “It doesn’t matter how you do it. There’s no wrong way.”

Easy for you to say, Laurent wanted to snap, but he restrained himself. He didn’t like feeling this way, hot and angry and resentful.

Damen said, “Do you want me to go?”

“Why,” said Laurent, unable to keep the jagged edge from his voice, “would I want you to go?”

A swallow. Damen said, soft: “It’s an intimate thing, to build the nest. Even more than being invited into it. If you feel uncomfortable —”

“Shut up,” said Laurent. “Shut up.” And he shoved the duvet to one side of him, kicking it into a rough curve around his left side. “Give me the other one.”

Damen shut up and obeyed. Laurent put it along his other side, mirroring the first.

“Next,” he said, and Damen obliged him again. The next blanket was a little lighter. Laurent said, “Take that end and hold it.”

Damen did. His eyes were a little wide, in the manner of one who hadn’t expected this. An intimate thing, he’d called it, and his tone had been soft and reverent. Laurent tamped down on the emotions in his chest and tucked the blanket demonstratively over the top of the duvet beside him, nodding for Damen to do the same.

The worked together, then, layering the blankets around Laurent, the nest slowly building in shape and solidity. Damen’s hands were so — wide and capable, manipulating the fabric, making sure everything fit together, taking time and care with every movement. Laurent heard his words again, an intimate thing, and this time he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Who did you build nests with, then?” He felt hot and jealous and uncontrolled. He wanted to go find whoever it was and tear their throat out with his teeth. “Jokaste?”

A surprised look, which melted into something like a smile. “No,” said Damen. “She didn’t like heats either. She was on suppressants most of the time we were together.” And then, when this clearly did not satisfy Laurent, “When we heated, she built the nest. Alone.”

“Who, then,” Laurent gritted.

Damen grinned at him, wide and dazzling. “My mother,” he said. “In Akielos — we nest as a family, when the pups are young. It’s very common. And she always let me help.”

The knot of jealousy abated. Laurent felt his jaw twitch, humiliation warring with satisfaction. From a distant vantage point, some small part of his remaining sense decided that he was being foolish. But Damen was grinning at him still, his scent rich with pleasure, and it was impossible to feel too badly in the face of that relentless happiness.

“Hurry up,” said Laurent, and he could hear the way his voice came out — nowhere near as sharp as he had intended. He sounded sappy, a little shy. Very stupid. It only made Damen smile harder. His dimple was trying to dig its way through his cheek.

“Yes, sweetheart,” said Damen, and he was the one who took the last blankets and settled them over the edges of the nest, shaping the construction carefully. He looked at Laurent, a little quizzical, and then said, “Lie down.”

Laurent did. It felt — it was difficult to describe how it felt. He’d never known this was an option. Carefully, he turned his head into the soft bedding, inhaling, smelling the detergent they used. It was good, he thought. It was soft, warm — even though he knew it was a simple pacifier to his baser instincts, the appeal came through loud and clear. It was primally, viscerally satisfying to lie in a nest of his own creation, safe in a way that very little else had ever been. Absurdly, he had the thought that he wanted to add curtains to the bed. He wanted to shut out the rest of the world, to have it be just him and Damen…

Damen said, “If you don’t like it, we can push it off and go with your original way.”

“I didn’t say that,” Laurent muttered.

“Speak louder, baby.”

“Come here,” Laurent said louder. Damen’s hand brushed against his wrist.

“Yeah?”

“Hurry up,” snapped Laurent. Damen laughed a little and levered himself carefully into the nest, and oh —

All of a sudden, it was perfect. It was as though Damen had been the only thing missing. Laurent launched himself forward, arms going around Damen’s neck, breathing in, wiping out the rest of the world so that Damen was the only thing that existed, Damen’s warm steady body, Damen’s scent — Laurent inhaled and inhaled until he was faintly dizzy from it. Damen was murmuring into his ear, sweetheart, you’re so lovely, you’re so good, words that made Laurent want to bite him.

He could, he thought dizzily. There was no reason not to. Damen made a pitchy, breathy noise when Laurent’s teeth closed against his neck, and then graduated to a long groan.

“Laurent,” he said, “Laurent —”

Laurent was too busy to reply. Damen’s hand came to cradle the back of his head. Laurent’s whole body felt like it surged in response to the touch, his breath crushed from his lungs, his heart hammering in his chest. Damen groaned again, but this time there was a new timbre to the noise.

“Oh, there you are,” he said, running a hand up Laurent’s side. “Do you feel that?”

Feel what, Laurent almost said, and then realised — he was in heat. Full, proper heat now, roaring through his veins.

It was fierce, all-consuming, and yet it felt nothing like Laurent had remembered. His first heat had set upon him like a wild creature, digging teeth and claws through him. It had been an experience chiefly significant for its pain, for the way he sweated and cried and shook his way through it, the way he had felt fever-hot and thought his heart would burst for hammering. That’s it? he’d thought, in the aftermath, that’s what everyone goes wild for? It was an insane thought to him that anyone would choose to go through it again. He’d arranged to be put on suppressants as soon as he could walk again.

This felt nothing like that. This wasn’t even hot — it was warm, like sitting just slightly too close to a fireside, and it ran through his veins like liquid gold. Everywhere that Damen touched, he felt himself respond, but there was no pain to it, none of the fierce shrieking need which he had suffered before.

Vaguely, he heard himself murmuring, oh, oh, Damen… Nonsense sounds, mostly, interspersed with Damen’s name, and every time Damen acted as though he’d shared the secrets of the very universe, cooing back with his whole heart. Laurent took control of his mouth again and said, “Damen, please. I need you.”

“I’m with you,” Damen murmured. He was working Laurent out of his clothes, fingers fumbling around the same buttons he could have undone in his sleep last night. “Laurent, I’m here. Oh, look at you…”

Laurent looked. Damen was looking at the slick between his legs, the dampness across his thighs. His gaze was bright and eager. Laurent said, “Don’t tease me.”

Damen’s eyes flickered up to search his face. “No?” he asked.

Laurent bit his lip. He was already red and flushed, he thought, which at least camouflaged his reaction. “Not — as much, then,” he said. “Unless you want me to die here,” and Damen grinned. It felt obscene, the wholesomeness of the expression, his peeking dimple, when one considered what he was smiling about.

“Noted,” said Damen, and brushed a finger over Laurent’s hole. Laurent heard himself make a sound like he was dying.

Before Damen, he’d never liked being teased. He’d never liked drawing it out; even when it was just himself in the bedroom, perhaps especially then, he’d used to bring himself off quickly, efficiently, and then box up the experience without dwelling on it. Damen was — the opposite of that. He loved to touch; sometimes he would touch Laurent aimlessly, all night, drifting his fingertips along Laurent’s shoulders and collarbone and neck, his sides, his stomach… And in bed, he would touch Laurent everywhere, light touches and long caresses and cruel little pinches and everything in between. He loved to draw it out; he loved for Laurent to lose himself to it, surrendering his tightly held self-control to start pushing back mindlessly into everything, to make soft noises with his mouth, to say yes, yes, Damen and please, right there.

Even the first time, when Laurent felt most strongly that he should have hated it, he didn’t. He couldn’t. There was something about the way Damen looked at him, awed and sweet; and there was something about the way that every touch became a promise, the tease itself becoming a token of Damen’s intentions.

Damen didn’t break his word. There was something horribly satisfying about begging, knowing that everything one wanted would come. It became a pleasure in itself to say Damen, please, I need you inside, and to be briefly denied, knowing that Damen would do everything, fulfill every promise. Damen would probably fight a god to make Laurent feel good.

“Ah, sweetheart, your scent,” Damen groaned. And then he put his face against Laurent’s neck and just inhaled, long and luxurious. It was like Laurent had been kicked in the stomach, the sudden blow of arousal.

“Damen,” he said, not sounding like himself at all.

“I know,” said Damen. “I know — just let me —” and he moved down, nudging Laurent’s knees apart, inhaling again, god — like it was bliss, like Laurent’s slick was —

And then his mouth was on Laurent, hot and wet and ravenous, and Laurent’s mind went utterly blank. Damen’s touch — his tongue — Laurent came like that, a brutal wave of pleasure that wiped everything else away, the whole rest of the world. All that mattered was Damen, the way he groaned, the way his hands tightened around Laurent’s thighs, the way he kept going and going and going —

Laurent had to push him away after the second peak — had to use far more force than usual. The whole lower half of Damen’s face was wet when he finally raised it, and he was breathing hard. Laurent could feel the movement of those broad shoulders in his thighs.

“Damen,” he said dazedly, all of a sudden finding it difficult to remember why he shouldn’t just let Damen lick him through the whole rest of his heat.

“Laurent,” said Damen, with a grin that was absolutely filthy. He rose to his knees and came up the bed towards Laurent, and he was truly just — a magnificent specimen, all broad shoulders and rolling muscle and strong shoulders. Laurent could have just watched him in that moment and been happy for the rest of his life.

Except not, obviously. Damen kissed him and desire ran through him like a shockwave. He was saying — something, he didn’t know, his mouth was utterly out of his own control —

“I know,” Damen was saying now, lining their bodies up, “you don’t have to beg, sweetheart, I’ll give you everything, anything you want,” and clearly he meant it because he was pushing inside, and Laurent heard himself make a noise he didn’t think he’d ever made before. “I know,” said Damen, biting his neck gently, and the resultant wave of pleasure was so great that it was like coming, just like that.

It was all Laurent could do to grab his shoulders and hold on. His whole body was torn between the urge to melt underneath Damen and the desperate need to move against him, to drive them to go harder and faster.

“Like this,” Damen murmured, kissing Laurent again, holding his hips and pushing inside in just the right way. Laurent’s head fell back helplessly. It felt so good. His mind was breaking apart, almost unable to comprehend it all.

“Knot me,” he said then. His voice was raw; he’d been moaning, he realised belatedly. “Damen, please —”

“I know,” said Damen again. “Sweetheart, you’re so good, you’re so perfect. Like that, yes, Laurent —”

His knot was starting to swell; it was all Laurent could feel, the whole of his awareness narrowing down to that single point between them.

One of Damen’s hands slid to the inside of Laurent’s thigh, pushing his leg outward, making everything feel more sensitive, more overwhelming. His knot was almost too large now, taking real effort to shift in and out of Laurent’s hungry body. Laurent was grasping desperately at Damen’s shoulders, panting, open-mouthed, as his pleasure built impossibly high and then crashed over him like a wave, knocking him off his feet, sending him into unfathomable depths.

“Inside me,” he begged then, feeling beyond his own limits, as though he had been broken into pieces. “Damen, please, I want it —”

Damen groaned and kissed him desperately, their mouths open to each other, and then he finally thrust in properly, tying them together, stretching out the last aftershocks of Laurent’s orgasm.

It was like nothing Laurent had felt before, the way that everything was drawn out — even more than regular knotting, the fact that his body was in heat seemed to mean it was grabbing, greedy, at every chance for pleasure. And Damen was moving slowly, crooning into Laurent’s ear, telling him how lovely he was, how sweet and warm and wet, and Laurent was shuddering helplessly against him.

But even once that wave had crested, and they came back to themselves, it was still new and wonderful; Laurent reached out with one hand to touch the side of his nest, the sheets which were sheltering and protecting him.

“I want curtains,” he said blurrily, his own impulse control too thin and worn to check his words. “On the bed. Around.”

“Yes,” Damen said. It was almost a groan. He was nosing at Laurent’s neck, inhaling. “Anything, sweetheart. Whatever you want.”

“I want you,” Laurent said breathlessly. “Kiss me.”

Damen did, open-mouthed and luxurious. And then — he began to move, shifting his hips in tiny, infinitesimal motions that crashed through Laurent’s sensitive body like a tidal wave. The huge bulk of his knot was overwhelming when it was still. It felt impossible that he could fuck Laurent on it. It felt absurdly good.

Laurent wound his arms around Damen’s neck, ran his fingers through the beloved dark curls. “Damen.”

“Once more,” Damen murmured, kissing Laurent’s neck, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. His hands were skimming along Laurent’s sides, the kind of light, gentle touch which drove Laurent utterly mad. “Come for me one more time, sweetheart.”

“I’m already — I’m close.” The heat was lurking under his skin, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

Damen kissed him again, brought one hand down to caress the inside of his thigh, and Laurent was gone. The pleasure was so intense that it was like blacking out, his vision growing spotty, ears ringing. He couldn’t hear the noises he was making, only knew they were coming out because he felt the way Damen’s kiss to his throat vibrated.

They were both panting afterwards, both holding very still, too sensitive. Every time Laurent tensed around the knot inside him, Damen would react, shuddering or groaning or both.

“I lied,” he said eventually, and Laurent was too pleasure-soaked to feel even a flicker of concern. Damen nosed at his jaw. “It’s not going to be just the once more.”

A breathless laugh. Laurent wound his arms around Damen’s neck, kissing his cheek, his eyes, his lovely nose. “It better not be,” he said. “Didn’t you promise me three days?”

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

for Natasha, Seele, and Bronya, March 7th and Kakfa

With an S/O who likes tease and try to fluster them think on same level as Yae Miko from genshin

(Honkai: Star Rail) Natasha, Seele, Bronya, and March 7th's S/O teasing them

No Kafka just yet on this blog, but eventually there shall be!

Natasha actually loves S/O's teasing.

It'd make other patients within earshot groan, but Natasha chuckles delightfully while having a hand cover her mouth.

The only time she'd find it annoying is if she's in the middle of work, which thankfully doesn't happen if the operation is life-threatening.

Otherwise, Natasha doesn't mind the attempts to tease her and finds it really fun to play along with their antics.

Unless it's in front of the kids.

Then she actually gets very flustered and very irritated if they don't shut up.

(Natasha) "S-S/O! Not in front of the children!"

(S/O) "Hm? Why so serious all of a sudden, dear? You didn't seem that hot and bothered when I said to you in private-"

Natasha glared at them.

(Natasha) "S/O!"

(Hook) "Natasha, what are they talking abou-"

(Natasha) "Nothing. In fact, I think it's time for S/O's checkup."

(S/O) "...Does it require your grenade launch-"

(Natasha) "You're going to be in bad shape, so yes. It will."

Seele sighs loudly whenever she hears S/O trying to get a rise out of her.

It was kind of working, but the it just made her want to punch them instead of being flustered.

At least the ones in public. Since S/O would like to not be cleaved in half by her scythe.

Seele is at least impressed by their tenacity, but she supposed that went for everyone with Wildfire.

They were a pretty stubborn bunch.

(Seele) "Ugh, my back is killing me..."

(S/O) "Well, we did-"

(Seele) "Finish that sentence, and I will be killing you."

Seeing that shit-eating grin on S/O made Seele roll her eyes. One of these days, she was going to give them a taste of their own medicine.

Otherwise, if they try to make any wise-cracks like that in front of the Chief or Natasha, the bottom of her fist hits their head both gently, yet firmly.

(Seele) "Shut your trap, already."

Bronya is very easy to fluster, go figure.

She can keep her cool when in professional settings, but all it takes is S/O cracking a very inappropriate joke to shatter that, at least when there's not many people in the room.

If she is in the middle of important business, she is going to glare at them until they take the hint.

But her threatening aura is somewhat diminished when her cheeks go red.

Bronya reacts far stronger when it's just the two of them. Part of her is thankful that is where the worst of S/O's teasing comes to the front, but she would prefer not to deal with it that much.

(S/O) "My, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to kill me with your gaze alone."

(Bronya) "I'd very much like to, S/O! You can't just...s-suddenly grab me like that!"

(S/O) "Hm? But I thought you liked-"

(Bronya) "NOT ANOTHER WORD!"

She tries to clear her throat and grumbles hearing S/O's laughter.

They're lucky Bronya adores hearing it...

Depending on the situation, March will either play along or begin stuttering like crazy.

If it's the two of them only, March becomes smug and tries to outplay them.

But if its in front of the Astral Express crew, more than likely she'll be trying to shut them up.

(Stelle) "Keep your flirting in your room, you two."

(March 7th) "H-HEY! S/O STARTED IT!"

(S/O) "What's wrong, March? I thought you'd want everyone to hear about our undying love, as you put it-"

(March 7th) "Ugh, SHUT UP!"

Himeko laughs while Welt and Dan Heng simply shake their heads.

(S/O) "You know, just last night she was-"

(March 7th) "OKAY! Putting a veto on that thought, any objections?!"

(Welt) "No."

(Dan Heng) "No."

(Himeko) "I'm curious-"

(Stelle) "...So am I-"

S/O laughs at everyone's reaction, making March pout and hit them on the arm.

[camimadra]

Unruly Patient ◇ Zayne x reader ◇ fluff ◇ 2,249 words

You take deep breaths as you walk along the corridor, convincing yourself that you’re doing the right thing. Earlier, you’ve been at the hospital for a checkup when you’ve been told that Zayne is sick himself and another doctor will check on you.

While you’d rather have Zayne as your doctor, you went along with the checkup, knowing full well that he would be angry with you for skipping it. Afterward, you still kept thinking about Zayne, and that’s how you ended up here, at his place.

After another deep breath, you knock on the door, hoping that Zayne won’t chew you up and spit you out for just dropping in without warning. It takes a few moments until the door finally opens, and your breath hitches when you see Zayne.

His eyes and nose have a slight red tinge and he looks tired. There’s nothing left of his usual vitality and energetic aura and even worse is the fact that he’s wearing sweatpants and a plain shirt. You’ve never seen him look so vulnerable and out of his element.

“Yes?” he asks, his tone and expression quite pensive, but both grow softer when his eyes fall on you. “You’re here? Why?”

“Hello, Dr. Zayne,” you say, trying your best to keep your voice steady. “I just finished my checkup and got told at the hospital that you’re sick.”

“Call me Zayne, please. I know well enough that I’m a doctor,” he says, and his usual stoic expression returns to his face. “If your checkup is finished, then why are you here?”

“To help you get better, of course. You take care of me when I’m sick, so I might as well return the favor.”

You hold up the little basket you brought, filled with medication and home remedies that he could try to get better. Thanks to your grandma, you certainly have a lot of those.

“I think we just established that I’m a doctor,” Zayne says as he raises a doubtful eyebrow at your basket. “It’s my job to take care of you. You on the other hand risk getting sick yourself.”

You assumed it would be hard to persuade him, but you’re not giving up just yet. “Considering that you’re the best doctor I know, I thought you would want to get better as quickly as possible so you can care for your patients again. Maybe I was wrong.”

Zayne lets out a small growl, but then he steps aside and opens the door wider for you. “Show me then what you have in there that can heal me.”

You walk through the door and make the mistake of taking a deep breath as you pass Zayne. Usually a little bit of the hospital clings to him, like the smell of disinfectant, but now it’s like walking through a snowy forest, the trees covered in morning frost. You imagine a low rising sun, making everything glitter in the first light, and a sense of calm washes over you.

Only when Zayne closes the door behind you do you manage to snap out of it. He steps up to you and points to a door. “In here.”

You walk into a surprisingly comfortable living room. Judging by Zayne’s office, you imagined his home to be just as minimalistic, but the room is dominated by a huge blue sofa on a fluffy rug, one side covered with a whole array of pillows. The walls are lined with wooden shelves, most of the space used for books, but there are a few little trinkets you wouldn’t mind looking at a little closer. You don’t want to pry though, so you wait for Zayne and follow him to the sofa when he sits down.

“Will you tell me your secrets now?” Zayne asks, leaning over to you. For a moment you’re unable to speak, but then you remember the basket in your hand.

“These are the medications I usually use,” you say, handing them to him, and your hand tingles when Zayne’s fingers brush against yours. 

He does you the favor of checking them all thoroughly although you suspect that as a doctor, he probably recognizes them on sight. Finally, he hands them back. “These are similar to what I already take, so you better keep these in case you get infected.”

The words are accompanied with a frown, telling you that Zayne still disapproves of you being here. “I never get sick. Hurt maybe, but not sick. You should know that.”

Zayne’s face grows even more grim, but he still hums in agreement. “I guess that’s true.”

“Anyway, what you really need is this,” you say, pulling out a small container. “Best soup for when you’re sick. You’ll have to heat it up, but then it’ll do wonders.”

“You cooked this yourself?” Zayne asks, and something in his voice twists your stomach into knots. He sounds surprised and somewhat touched, making you wonder if nobody ever cooked for him when he was sick.

“Yes, I did. It’s a special recipe from my grandmother. No sickness has a chance to survive this one.”

Zayne takes the soup from you and studies it for a moment before setting it down on the table. “Thank you for making the effort. I have just eaten, so I have to try this later.”

“No worries,” you say, “we can start with this instead.”

You pull out a small cream jar and open it up to hold it under Zayne’s nose. “This is great to help you breathe better, especially when you sleep.”

You’re about to pull your hand back, but Zayne holds on to your wrist. His fingers are cool against your warm skin, and the tingling feeling is back until he tugs lightly to get the jar closer to his face. “That does smell good. Where do you apply it?”

“Under your nose,” you say, “although it feels a little cold to the skin. You might prefer to put it on your chest and get under a blanket.”

“I don’t mind when it’s cold,” Zayne says, and while he lets go of your wrist, he studies you intendly. “How about you? Does the cold bother you?”

You’re not sure if he’s talking about your medicine or himself, but you want to make sure that he doesn’t feel bad in any case. “No, I quite like it. It feels nice, especially when you’re running a fever.”

“I don’t think I do,” Zayne says. “As my self-declared nurse, will you check my temperature?”

There’s a taunt in his voice, but he will learn that you don’t give up easily. He can make fun of you all he wants, but you’re determined to take care of him. 

Swallowing a lump in your throat, you muster up the courage to lift your hand and put it on his forehead. For a second, he draws back, but then he holds still, the tiniest of smiles appearing on his lips. "Measuring my temperature like this won’t give you any valuable results. Even you should know that.”

“Even I can tell that you don’t have a fever,” you say, taking your hand back. “So my methods are perfectly fine. You just need to be a better patient.”

Zayne seems to ponder that for a moment before he looks at the jar in your hand. “My nose is not the only problem. I had trouble sleeping due to a light cough. Would you recommend putting the cream on my chest?”

“Of course. That way it will be the most effective.”

Maybe you should have caught on to his scheme sooner the second Zayne stopped arguing with you, but you’ve been so invested in making him better that you never stopped to think how he might tease you.

Without warning, Zayne pulls his shirt over his head. He brings his arms down to cover his stomach with it, but that still leaves his naked chest. You try to look away as he leans back against the pillows, but Zayne’s eyes don’t leave you for even a second. “Will you apply the medicine then? After all, it’s your duty as my nurse.”

You know he’s doing this on purpose to get you to cave, but you certainly won’t give him the satisfaction. He might make you nervous, but two can play this game, and you certainly did way more frightening things in your life than touch your crush.

“Fine,” you simply say while scooting closer. Then you put a generous amount of cream on your fingers and lean over Zayne. He still has this triumphant look in his eyes as if there’s no way you could keep going. 

You prove him wrong by dapping little blobs of the cream along his collarbone before turning your attention to his chest. The cream needs to be rubbed in to work properly and you start by making little circles with your fingertips, prompting Zayne to close his eyes and lean his head back. 

While you’re no longer under his scrutiny, you use the chance to study his face. It’s a little unfair that he can be this pretty while sick and tired, but you’re glad that he tries to relax. Fighting the urge to run your hand through his hair, your focus on rubbing the cream into his skin wherever it makes sense. It’s soft and warm to the touch, and you get a little lost in what you’re doing.

Zayne opens his eyes and lifts his head while raising an eyebrow at you. “I might not be a nurse, but I don’t think this is supposed to go there.”

With horror, you realize that you ran your fingers along his neck, your thumb still following the sharp line of his jaw. You quickly take your hand back and get to your feet. “I need to wash my hands.”

“The bathroom is at the end of the corridor,” Zayne says and you fly out of the room, your heart pounding.

As you wash off the cream, you can’t stop picturing Zayne just lying there and letting you take care of him. Usually, he pushes everybody away who even suggests that he needs help. Does that mean something, or is he simply trying to be nice?

After a few deep breaths, you walk back into the living room, finding Zayne going through the basket. He put his shirt back on which might actually be healthier for you at the moment and you dare to sit down next to him.

“All these things you brought,” Zayne says, his eyes finding you again. “One could think you were trying to take care of the whole house, not just me.”

“I don’t care about the whole house,” you say before you can stop yourself. The implication is pretty clear and something in Zayne’s eyes seems to shift. You bite your lip and decide that maybe you made enough of a fool of yourself for today. “I should probably go.”

You try to get up, but Zayne grabs your wrist again. The touch is light and you could still get free, but you’re rooted to the spot as Zayne looks up at you. “I’m still having trouble sleeping. Shouldn’t my nurse help with that?”

This time, he doesn’t sound like he’s teasing you, and you wonder if he doesn’t want to be alone. After all, who doesn’t want to be taken care of while sick.

“If you have a cough, you should try to lie a little elevated,” you say, propping up some of the pillows behind Zayne. “Try it.”

Zayne lies down, but frowns. “This isn’t particularly comfortable.”

He takes a big, soft pillow and puts it into your lap, and before you can ask what he’s doing, he lies down on it, looking up at you. “Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you say, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “Is that more comfortable?”

Zayne turns to the side and closes his eyes, his nose barely an inch apart from your tummy. If he leaned forward just a tiny bit, he could bury his whole face in it. “It’s perfect.”

You wait for a bit to make sure that he stays this way, and since he’s the one who got into this position, you find the courage to touch him again. He doesn’t move when you trail your fingers over his forehead and tousle his hair, and when you pet along his ear and neck, he lets out a soft hum and looks up at you. “This is nice. I already feel better.”

“Nice try,” you say in a mocking tone although your heart tries to beat out of your chest. “You need sleep, so close your eyes.”

Zayne actually does as he’s told and you go back to petting him. He whispers a small “Thank you,” and you’re pretty sure he falls asleep right after. It’s not exactly the most comfortable position for you to be in, but you don’t mind at all.

It’s nice to see him relaxed and comfortable, especially when you’re the reason for it. Now you only have to figure out your own problem. When you came here, you thought you were helping a friend that you have a bit of a crush on, but looking down at him now, you know it’s way worse. You might be a little bit in love with Zayne, and knowing him, it’s going to be impossible to tell if he feels the same way about you.

[lovelynim]

Fabi dearest Fabi congrats on the incredible milestone, you deserve every follower and many more! For the request *makes funny face* can I please ask something with Dr. Zayne x Lee!Reader, maybe reader is having a health checkup but Zayne's touch tickles too much. Or something. 🙏 🥹

Ginnyyyyy!!

Thank you so much! ~ Eheh, I kinda expected you to ask something with dr. Zayne (I'm also the one to blame for it). Now, I wonder how this one will turn out (and let's hope it's all cover by our insurance!)

“Do you still have trouble sleeping at night?” Zayne asked in his usual cold, serious voice tone as his eyes went through page after page, carefully reading the results of your exams. Regardless of it being his working hours, you couldn’t help but wish he was a little sweeter - you two were dating, after all.

You let out a sigh, crossing one ankle over the other and resting your hands on the examination table to support your body as you leaned back. “Not anymore, doctor,” You looked up to the ceiling. It would be better to avoid the small talk - you didn’t need Zayne reminding you about how you needed to keep personal feelings outside the hospital and blah blah blah. Boring.

“But are you getting 8 hours of sleep?” Zayne looked up from the pages in his hands, raising one eyebrow as he waited for your answer. Busted.

“W-well, most of the days, yes, I think,” you let out a nervous chuckle and Zayne simply shakes his head slightly in disapproval.

“Your exams show nothing to worry about and it seems your condition is stable so far,” Zayne explained, carefully arranging the pages on top of his desk before picking the stethoscope up from around his neck.

You straighten your posture as soon as you notice he is approaching you and, for some reason, you feel a little nervous. It’s just another run out of the mile check-up, you tell yourself inside your head, trying to shrug off the feeling of uneasiness.

Zayne places the earpieces on his own and looks at you, seemingly puzzled. “Is there something wrong?” He asks, standing inches away from you.

“...no, doctor,” you hesitate for a moment, looking back at him in the eyes.

As if trying to figure you out, Zayne delays himself for a couple more seconds before wrapping one arm around your body. “Then, excuse me,” he warns, moving the chestpiece inside the back of your clothes and holding it against your bare skin.

The coldness of the metal makes you gasp and flinch, but as you attempt to move away from the stethoscope, Zayne gently squeezes your side, making you jump back into the cold object on your back. “Stay still and breathe deep,” Zayne instructs, his voice close to your ear.

You press your eyes shut and feel a faint heat reaching your cheeks.. Was he teasing you on purpose? Or just being painfully oblivious like he always was? As you try to follow his instructions and stay still, your body can’t help but tremble a bit - half because of the coldness on your back, half because Zayne’s touch against your side is making you stay on the edge.

“Is something wrong?” Zayne mutters softly, breaking the room’s silence, “your heart is beating… really fast.”

You let out a shaky sigh and a nervous smile take place on your lips. Of course I’m nervous, you dumb doctor, you think before looking at him.

[ofaatuu]

Similar

Ronal x Tonowari x poly!reader

part 4! Part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here.

it’s been so long I’m so sorry guys I got super duper busy with work, but I’m back! Words spoken in blue is spoken in Navi. And words in this is basically you talking to yourself.

You heard norm and max bickering over some bs while you were eating your breakfast when you get a call from Jake. “this is Y/n speaking, what’s up Jake?” You say answering the call, “hey y/n are you guys checking up on Kiri today?” You sigh “not sure why what’s goin on?” “She said she’s been having some weird dreams lately and I was wondering if norm and max can come check up on her.” “Got it, bye.”

“Normmmm, Maxxxxx.” You say while walking the halls of the lab, you enter a room and see them standing next to your avatar. “What Y/n.” “Jake wants a checkup, sayin Kiris having some weird dreams.” you mumble out while cleaning the inside of your nails, “alright we’ll get ready we’re heading over soon.

You wake up and find yourself in your avatar. As you head over to your beloved aircraft you see norm and max loading equipment in and offer to help. “Yeah actually thanks, can you go grab the rest of the stuff in the lab room?” “Got it.” You run to grab it and run back. As you’re setting the stuff in the aircraft your stomach starts to bubble with nerves, you haven’t seen Ronal or Tonowari in a few weeks and it’s nerve wrecking seeing them again. Ronals big yellow eyes.. Her thick course hair, don’t get me started on Tonowaris hair, you think about his big ass arms and beautiful tattoo work on them. Just like yours, when you were 18 you decided you wanted a tribal tattoo just like your father and got it as soon as you could. After thinking and snapping out of your haze, you jumped into the front pilot seat and asked the two nerds if they were ready, they replied yes and you started the aircraft named “Mahina”, by you of course and took off.

As soon as you got their multiple navis gathered, still very interested in the aircraft after seeing it multiple times. You unloaded things for Norm and Max set it into Jake and Neytiris mauri. You felt the same set of burning eyes on the back of your head, but didn’t look back yet. “Hey guys, how’s everything?” You ask trying to make conversation because it’s too quiet.. “good, what about you Y/n?” Jake replied seeing what you’re trying to do and giving into it. “Could be better.” like sleeping..

You then turn around and see Ronal. You smile nervously at her, just like how you did when you first ever met her. You walk over and greet her, “Hello Ronal, how are you?” You say trying not to make eye contact with her big ass eyes.. kind of hard to do, “Demon, it’s been long, where have you been? How’s that big cut on your shoulder? Have you been growing your hair? Are you staying the night here at the reef again? “Do you wish to sleep in our mauri?” Your eyes widen as you’re bombarded with so many questions, “woah slow down tsahik, yes it’s been awhile. Yes I’m staying here for awhile, me and my partners need to stay for kiri due to her dreams being a long-lasting test their running. And I am growing out my hair thank you for noticing.” She notices your gaze is focused on her nose and not her eyes. “Demon is something wrong? Why will you not look me in the eye?” “It’s nothing Ronal, how’s Tonowari and your children?” “Their fine, come to my mauri let me look your gash.” As you’re walking to her mauri you start sweating, this is so nerve wrecking and you don’t know why. As your getting checked you hiss due to her pressing on the gash, which turned into a scar very quick. “The paste worked. I told you it works on everyone.” you continue to talk to her as you hear the mauri flap being opened by no other than Tonowari, “Hello syulang.” great another reason to sweat even more.

translations; Mahina; Moon, Syulang; flower

ughhhh it’s been so long since I wrote, sorry if this was rusty. tag list! @sakuuo @zoexme @ellabellabus07 @yeosxxx @im-in-a-pansexual-panik @ratchetprime211 @musictheatrenerd16 @unicornicopia1 @manumanulau @belos-simp69 @weepingwhitchofthewest

[oharabunny]

⋆✮↪ Warning: rambles, tangents, soft yandere!Miguel, weird Miguel, OOC!Miguel probably but idc, shy and useless reader

╭─── based on my first yandere!miguel tangent ┆ ╰⪼ I want to dive into slightly more detail of how far Miguel goes in taking care of you. We have to keep in mind that Miguel has lost a lot, a whole universe, and his daughter. I imagine he'd be more of a normal boyfriend had he met you in normal circumstances. However, I also don't think you would've been his type for normal Miguel. You're more compliant, shy, and normal. You're also ditzy, clutzy, and barely scraping by in your home world. In front of the great geneticist of Alchemax and Spider-Man, he was definitely out of your league.

But, your normalcy and dysfunctional living habits create the perfect relationship for current Miguel. He's able to get away with so so so many things with you.

(You almost ran away once one night, but you stopped in front of the exit and hesitated. You were alone in this universe with no family, no version of your family existing in this world. You'd be a burden to the other Spider people, and Miguel is the only one doing more than just giving you a place to stay.)

For one thing, he sees you as a fragile little doll that was abandoned on the side of the road. Or a cute kitten. But more than a pet, he has to take care of every little inch and aspect of you. Having lost damn near everything, he needs to keep a close eye on the one he cares about.

The one he cares most now is you; you're all he's got.

Back to some of the things he'd do to you, well, they aren't harmful, just unnerving. He almost never lets you do anything yourself around the house. He let you cook once and you burned yourself slightly, and Miguel made sure no kitchen appliance like the stove or blender can turn on unless given a passcode. Even kitchen utensils especially knives were locked away. Don't get me wrong though, you can cook, but Miguel would rather die than see you wince in pain again.

You're allowed at least a microwave and airfryer to heat up food when Miguel's not home to do it for you, under Lyla's supervision. Believe me, if he's home, you're never lifting a finger in the kitchen, including dishwashing.

Speaking of cleaning, he actually quite enjoys cleaning the house, especially spaces you occupy in the most. He even carefully washes all of your clothes and underwear, and folds them away for you. The rest can be handled by other robots of course. He believes only he can provide you the best conditions to live in, no one and nothing else.

That includes care for your body. This is going to be the most prominent and unnerving aspect of his care for you. While him bathing you from head to toe almost everyday is tame, he's very particular in his details. Like mentioned before, he'd do your manicure and pedicure, your skincare routine (he even knows the weekly masks you put on), and haircare and hairstyling (he's done so much research, you'd think he's done this before. Mans multi-talented). But, there's a point when too much care becomes too much, taking care of your looks alone is not enough. Your health is PARAMOUNT to this man. Looks fade, but your health should not. He'd be a little strict on your diet. He'd frequently take blood, urine, and stool samples (and of course he does it for you, don't fuss, he will do it with force if he has to no matter how gross it is for the both of you) to monitor every part of your body. Depending on your family's history and genetics, he'd constantly test for anything that you may inherit that could harm you. Yes that includes your usual checkups like you would at your doctor. He is your personal doctor too at this point. It's not like you have insurance in Nueva York 2099, a whole foreign universe.

God another gross thought I have to put out there is that he used to watch you use the restroom until you convince him to just stand outside. He justifies that bathroom related accidents are more common than you think. 💀🤢🤮 (He does NOT have a piss and poop kink he's just WEIRD)

As for usual yandere behaviors, he'd obviously won't let you go outside of the house. If he has you in an actual house with a backyard, that's where you get your sunlight, but if he has you in an apartment, then the shielded off balcony and sunroof will suffice. For vitamin D purposes. Otherwise, he makes you take supplements if you are deficient.

The only thing, and I do mean only, he asks of you is to give him babies. Pregnancy and birthing are huge huge risks depending on your constitution. I imagine Miguel messing with your DNA so you can safely deliver him babies. (Or for you kinky folks, he'd rewrite DNA somehow to make your milk jugs overflowing with milk constantly)

Taking care of you is something that of a ritual for him. Something he looks forward coming home to doing, despite the countless responsibilties he has in the Spider Society. He'd actually get so upset if you took care of yourself without him. If the whole canon events theory he has is debunked, I imagine he retires and full sends in taking care of you 24/7 in every hour of the day. He already relays more tasks to Jess, Peter, and other Spiders than usual, so he can be home with you more.

With all the cooking, cleaning, and self care routine being completely done by Miguel, you basically can do everything else you want, within Miguel's reason. Only safe hobbies, like drawing, reading, shopping, watching TV, etc. He still monitors when he can, especially shopping, since he is watchful of where his money moves, but to also see if you're purchasing anything that could hurt yourself. He hopes that whenever he can, he could join you in your hobbies. He particularly enjoys dressing you up in his favorite outfits on you. He'll see a style online he wants you to try and spin his own twist to it. You'd be his little fashion model. He'd also definitely have photoshoots just for you. You also love dressing him up as well and making him join in on the photoshoots.

I feel like I have a few more unnerving ideas about my version of yandere!Miguel, but I'm stopping right here cuz its 2 am and I can't think anymore. Till next time. (I'll write an actual fic I swear I will!)

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🎧✮

Tags: @belle-oftheball34, @mrs-oharaxx, @sukunash0e, @miguelswifey04, @wreakingmarveloushavok, @ghostofwinter, @crystalcrynight (LET ME KNOW IF I MISS TAGGING YOU OR WANT TO BE TAGGED FOR FUTURE WRITINGS)

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