#steel testing lab

[jancylabs]

Why Is Soil Engineering Important In The Construction of Roads?

Soil engineering plays a crucial role in the construction of roads, ensuring their stability and longevity. It involves conducting thorough soil testing to assess the properties of the soil at the construction site. In Madurai, there are reputable soil testing labs that offer reliable and cost-effective services.

The importance of soil testing in road construction cannot be overstated. By analyzing the characteristics of the soil, engineers can determine its load-bearing capacity, compaction properties, and potential for settlement. This information is vital for designing a road that can withstand heavy traffic loads and environmental factors.

A reliable soil test lab in Madurai will employ experienced professionals who utilize advanced equipment to accurately evaluate various parameters such as moisture content, density, shear strength, and permeability. These tests provide valuable insights into the suitability of the soil for road construction.

By investing in proper soil testing services, road constructors can avoid costly mistakes and ensure that their projects are built on a solid foundation. The data obtained from these tests allows engineers to make informed decisions regarding design modifications or necessary reinforcements to ensure safety and durability.

In conclusion, choosing a reputable soil testing lab in Madurai is essential for any road construction project. The cost of these services is a worthwhile investment when considering the long-term benefits of constructing roads that are safe, resilient, and capable of withstanding various environmental conditions.

[jancylabsmdu]

Why NABL certification is important for building material testing labs?

Certification from the National Accreditation Board for Testing and Calibration Laboratories (NABL) is essential for guaranteeing the caliber and dependability of testing facilities, especially when it comes to the testing of building materials. This certification, provided by the NABL, an independent organization operating under the Department of Science and Technology's auspices in the Government of India, attests to a laboratory's adherence to strict guidelines and best practices for performing tests.

[fanservices123]

FAN SERVICES Provide Lables Testing Lab Services |Lables Tensile testing,Labels Steel Strength Testing,Labels Testing As Per ASTM Standards Pune, Ahmedabad, Aurangabad, Chennai,Nashik, Indore, Nagpur, Hyderabad,Coimbatore, Mumbai, India

[makelemonade]

Test Subject

Characters; Dottore x Female!Reader

pt2

Warnings; 18+, insane probably horribly written smut, aphrodisiacs, non-consensual drugging, you're married to each other, slut-shaming tbh, degrading + slight praise, boob play, bondage, blowjobs, lots of mentions of cum, you're literally his test subject- hence the title, he has a fat cock, subtle ahegao, hentai moaning, fingering, several positions, overstimulation, rough sex, dumbification, oral sex, honestly idek what else just lemme know if i need to put something

Il Dottore was a hard working man; Always doing whatever he can to please his majesty, the Tsaritsa, and always helping out- even if it’s not by his own will- his coworkers.

But he’ll always work the hardest for you- his lovely wife.

He was working on some sort of machine down in his lab, and in full honesty, you were too hungry enough to ask what it was.

Well, you weren’t insanely hungry, but you were parched, and it’s not like you could go around and get food somewhere; You barely knew this castle and you were scared to run into one of the other Harbingers.

Hmm, maybe you could risk it- Childe could’ve been around somewhere and could’ve gotten you some water.

“What’s on your mind, dear?” Dottore asks, still looking down at his…project. He knew you so well. He 

“I’m quite thirsty, my love.” You admit, sheepishly. 

A smirk appears on Dottore’s face as he finally looks away from his project and at you; You were sitting on a steel table- almost like the ones for surgery- dangling your legs.

“I actually have a few drinks down here.”

He walked over to a shelf full of vials, some were full and some were empty. He scanned it for about a minute, until he made a noise, indicating he found what he was looking for. He grabbed two vials, walking back to you.

Handing them to you, you looked at them with hesitance. It was a light pink, but it didn’t look dangerous. It wasn’t bubbling, or smoking. It seemed like water but with food-colouring.

“It’s a sweet drink.” There was something behind his devilish smirk, and you couldn’t read it, but you trusted your husband and chugged both vials.

He just smiled. “Good girl,”

As much as you loved the praise, you were slightly confused, but decided to just let him continue working.

However, in the next few minutes, you noticed that you began too sweat. It was weird, given the fact this laboratory was insanely cold.

You took off your blanket, throwing it to the side, but that did not help, as in the next few minutes, you began to become hotter, to the point you were panting as if you were running a marathon.

You didn’t notice the subtle writing Dottore was doing in his book, and in the next few minutes, you found yourself becoming faint as you started to feel yourself completely aroused to the point it was seeping through your tight clothing.

You were letting out shaky breaths, everything being too hot for you and you laid back onto the steel, the cold table bringing you comfort for about a minute until it was too hot for you.

Your vision slightly blurry, you noticed Dottore now standing above you, his project long forgotten as you were now his new project. 

“Dottore..” You breathed out, and he just smirked down at you before reaching under the table; There were straps under it, and you realized what was happening when one went around your waist.

“Dottore,” You breathed out again. “Did you- did you drug me?!” You panted, and he just laughed. 

“I’ve been meaning to test the aphrodisiac out for a while now. I just needed a perfect time to use it on you.” 

He started to unbutton your shirt and you whined, the touches of his cold fingers on your stomach making you heat up even more somehow.

He took your blouse off and you let out a whimper- he made sure to write that down too.

He reached around to your back, not lifting you up much due to the strap holding you down onto the table. With his might, he yanked at your bra, ripping the back completely and you gasped.

“I’ll buy you a new one.” He laughed, throwing the ripped bra to the floor. 

He unbuckled himself, but made no move to take off his pants. Instead he pushed your arms all the way up and you felt too weak to stop him, letting him tie your hands with his belt. 

In seconds, your pants and panties were off- You don’t even know how, but the drug was making everything seem so fast, but at the same time too slow.

You tried to do anything to help your arousal, and even started humping the air but it was helpless with the strap holding you down. Dottore laughed at your attempts.

“You’re so needy, my love. Be patient, dear, I’ll attend to you soon. I just need to see how you react.”

He placed a hand down on your stomach and you gasped, starting to twitch. His other hand started scribbling down in his book as he moved his hand around, and the heat became unbearable once he reached your chest.

“‘Tore,” You whined, then a sharp gasp came out of you as he placed his index and thumb around your hard nipple, starting to pull.

“Nghh-oh!” His mouth moved down, starting to suck on the other one and you started to thrash, but the table could only wobble slightly as you were held down tightly.

“So sensitive,” He breathed out, the breath making your nipple twitch and you whimpered. He started to go a little harsher, his teeth grazingg over your nipple as the only started to twist and pull.

“Oh! Dottore!” You gasped, moaning loudly as he kept up at it and yet somehow his other hand was still scribbling stuff down- how he did it? You had no idea.

You whined when his mouth and fingers left and he spread your legs open a little, the cold air bringing little relief to your seeping pussy. 

“I wouldn’t even be surprised if you almost came from that,” He chuckled, taking a closer to look to see your arousal was now a pool pouring onto the desk, slowly dripping off the sides.

“Let’s see how you beg.” 

You were about to ask what he meant, but let out a loud gasp when his finger to prod at your hole and you moaned, despite the fact he was barely touching it.

He was teasing you, touching you everywhere down there but refusing to finger you.

“Do-dottore,” You whined, trying to thrust your hips towards his fingers but you could hardly move.

“How does It feel, baby?”

“So- so sensitive.” You whined, “I need you.”

He groaned at that, fingers inching a bit closer. “Yeah? How bad?”

“S-so bad..” You slurred, becoming drunk on just his fingers, “need to feel your t-thick fingers..”

You screamed when he plunged two into you, wincing at the pain but moaning at the relief. He slowly began to scissor you, and his fingers were sooo long they reached you so deep.

“Oh-! Nghh, please, pleasepleaseplease”

“Please what?” He chuckled breathlessly. “M-move faster please..”

He grinned, shoving his fingers even deeper as he started to go faster, stretching you wide and you moaned loudly when he added a third finger in.

“FUCK!” You gasped, “fuckfuckfuckfuck!” He started to practically pound you with his fingers once he added a fourth one in, and you found yourself cumming in one minute with a wail, but he didn’t stop.

“T-tore!” You whined, “too-too much!”

But he didn’t stop, instead going faster, and you were thrashing around so much he had to stop writing down stuff with his other hand to hold your waist down, despite the fact you were tied down already.

“DOTTORE! DOTTORE!” You screamed, feeling yourself cum once again; This time, your arousal squirting everywhere to the point it reached his face, spread onto your paper and was on the ground.

He didn’t let his fingers out until you finished, and you let out a wanton moan when his fingers left you.

“Your pussy is gaping over nothing,” The way he spoke sent shivers down your spine. “Dirty slut, squirting over my fingers? My, what a mess you made!”

You panted, feeling absolutely out of it just from squirting, but you needed more. So much more to get rid of this heat.

You heard shuffling, then steps as he walked towards the side of the table to your face. 

He grabbed your head, moving it to the side and you were met to his long, girthy cock that was leaking precum just inches away from your face.

You found yourself sticking your tongue out, reaching to lick the tip and he groaned. “You look like a dog,” He laughed breathlessly, looking at the way your tongue was all the way out, panting. 

“Little bitch in heat,” He spat, “C’mon, suck. Suck like the good slut you are,”

You wasted no time in wrapping your mouth around his dick, struggling in trying to move your head up and down- It was hard when you were tied to a table.

“Insufficient,” He scoffed, but really it was an excuse to loosen the strap to help you move closer to the side of the table. He grabbed the back of your head, shoving you down as you let out a yelp. 

Your nose was right against his pelvis and you started to gag while he just let you sit there and struggle. He let out a groan, then a sigh of content.

He started to move your head up and down, dragging and pulling on your hair. You looked up at him, eyes rolling back as you continued to gag on the Doctors thick cock.

“I love it when you do that,” He panted. “You look so fucking- uh! Sexy…” He started to go faster. “Cockdrunk whore.”

You just moaned at the title and he laughed, “you love it when I degrade you, don’t you? You know, I’m debating on if I want to come in your mouth or all over your face, even when I rail you too.” 

You were becoming dizzy with how fast he was moving you, your throat becoming sore as tears rolled down your cheeks. 

He took another look down at you. “Maybe all over you. I’ll make it a masterpiece.” 

He took his dick out and you gasped, but only to be met with his hot, salty cum all over your face. Dottore not being a human sometimes had it’s perks, because he produced so much more “cum” then anyone as it even reached your chest.

He panted, standing there for a bit. Then, he walked away, and came back holding up a kamera. “Say cheese,”

You were too fucked out of it to react, flinching at the light it produced. He looked at the picture through the lenses and smirked. “I’ll be keeping this one.”

He moved back to his book, writing some more stuff down. He did so quickly, wanted to move onto the fourth and last phase of his project.

He got rid of the strap completely, and you thought it was over- but no, instead he grabbed your hips, dragging you across the table all the way to the end so your bottom half was completely off, your legs over his shoulders.

You gasped at the feeling of his dick prodding at your entrance. “Nghh- Dottore! I’m still s-sensitive!”

He didn’t care, instead pushing his cock all the way in- It stretched you out even more then his fingers and reached places they couldn’t and you wailed.

He didn’t even go slow, instead deciding to go straight into it and fuck you fast and rough. “F-fuck…” He gasped, “You’re so tight, my love. You feel so good, like you were made for me? Wouldn’t you agree? Agree with me, my cocksleeve

“Y-yes!! I-i’m just-nghh- perfect for YOU! Yooourrr cockslEEVE! YOURS!” You screamed as he went even harder, and you felt like you were gonna cum once again.

He could feel it too when you started to tighten, and you screamed when he pushed down onto your stomach. “I-I’ve decided,” He paused to give you a harsh thrust, “That I’ll cum so much, in you and on you.” He laughed, and you came with a scream.

“F-fuckuuhuh! No-no more!”

“Yes more.” He laughed, not stopping. “We have so many more rounds to go, sweetheart. Don’t you wanna be filled up with my cum? Bred? And painted with it too,”

“Y-yes! Yes! Fill me up…fill me up! Please!”

He pulled you closer, instead now moving your legs towards your chest to reach even deeper into you. “NgHH~ oh~ fuck! Y-yes, yes!”

The next hour went by through several different positions; Full nelson, standing full nelson, doggy style, whatever he wanted to take you in! He’d take turns cumming in you and pulling out, and by the end, you were completely passed out, cum all over you and cum pouring out, dripping onto the ground.

He draped your past blanket over you, deciding he’d attend to you in just a minute. He finished writing down his analysis, reading it out loud.

“Subject came a total of 12 times and squirted for 3. Next goal will be 15 and 10; Maybe Pantalone can help out with it.”

[satorusugurugurl]

It’s Alive!

Summary: After losing you beloved husband You seek out the help of the renowned doctor; Satoru Frankenstein, to bring him back, With some upgraded ‘equipment’!

Pairing: Kenjaku!Geto Suguru x AFAB!Reader

Warning: Frankenstein themes, language, size kink, monster sex, unprotected sex, cream pies, ( it’s monster sex—kinda)

Word Count: 2.1K

A/N: Kinktober day Twenty-Six: Frankenstein! I kind of struggled with this one I had like three versions going. But this one was The one I was most happy with.

He was cold. Too cold.

Your eyes watered as you remembered how your husband Suguru’s remains were rolled past yours on a cold steel table a week ago. A white sheet shielding your eyes from the irrevocable damage done to his body. This felt wrong on so many levels. But you needed him; you couldn’t lose him.

That’s what brought you to this old rickety castle, hoping Dr. Satoru Frankenstein could get your beloved husband back to life. He, of course, agreed, with no cost either, all because he was eager to test his new equipment. It almost seemed too good to be true.

“Missus.” A deep, smooth voice drew you out of your spiraling anxiety. “Missus, it’s time.” You turned to look at the young man before you. A black arrow tattoo crossed the bridge of his nose, while two additional arrows went down his cheeks, one under each eye.

“Choso.” You greeted, fingers gripping the front of your gown. “I-I’m ready.”

He led you up the stairs to the tower. You gripped the railing, climbing higher and higher until Choso opened the door to Satoru’s lab. Lightning flashed, machines hummed, and Satoru ran around his lab, round black goggles shielding his eyes from the flashing machines and whirling wind from the open hatch in the ceiling. His prestigious white hair and lab coat whirled around as he glanced toward you and his assistant.

“Ah! Mrs. Geto, Choso, hurry, it's almost time!”

Choso nodded, ushering you to the side before rushing to help Satoru. Your eyes fixed on the clothes body they were lifting into the opened hatch—your beloved husband. You clasped your hands together, bottom lip quivering, as you prayed for this to work, for him to be okay.

Lightning flashed, and thunder roared as Satoru jumped down from the stairs he was on, rushing towards a wall of valves and electronic machines. “On my word, Choso!” He shouted as his assistant ran to the room's other side, grabbing a lever. Satoru’s attention was transfixed on the flashing lightning strikes in the dark skies above. He was focused like the mad scientist he was. “Steady—steady!” A giant lightning bolt striped the mechanical structure. He had set up outside the tower on the roof. “Now!!”

Choso flipped the lever, and as he did, electricity sparked, flowing down towards the table. You screamed, covering your eyes and ears as the machines cried out screaming. Gojo laughed maniacally as the sparks continued to spark until they died down. It was only then that Gojo lifted his goggles before grinning.

“Choso! Bring him down!”

You felt a swell of anxiety as Choso began lowering the table, and you rushed forward, watching as the form underneath it began to twitch. You swallowed, watching as Satoru rushed forward, yanking the sheet off of your husband. Stitches ran along his forehead and different body parts that had been stitched back together. As your eyes roamed over his body, he suddenly blinked. One violet eye, one brown, stared up at Satoru before darting towards you.

“Oh!” You gasped, placing your hand over your chest with wide eyes. “Suguru?”

Your husband slowly sat up, looking down at his hands before his attention focused on you. You stared at one another in shock and hope. Your breathing hitched as you stepped forward, gently, taking him much larger on your own. Your husband looked puzzled at the gesture for the briefest moments before his fingers curled, clasping your hand and his.

“It’s alive,” Satoru announced to Choso. “It’s alive! It’s alive!” He laughed madly as Suguru pulled your hand up to his mouth, pressing a kiss against it.

“O-Oh Suguru!” You chirped out as your relief and joy overflowed like a fountain.

Suguru kicked the rest of the sheet off before standing before you. His frame is much larger than you remembered it before. He towered over you with a sly smirk before cupping your cheek. You learned into it, fighting a sob as Satoru cleared his throat.

“I have made several improvements to your husband. Please take the time to get reacquainted with him.”

Without another word, the two men left you and your husband alone. You listen until the door shuts behind them, and when it does, you finally allow yourself to look up at Suguru. He smiled fondly before lifting you by the hips and carrying you to the nearest wall.

“Suguru?” You swallowed, staring up at his tall, muscular form. “Darling, what are you—“ you gasped, recoiling as he bunched your skirts up, lifting it to your hips. “O-Oh!”

“Wife~” he cooed, growling as he towered over you. His large muscles pulsed as he leaned down next to your ear. “You’re so small~ I can easily lift you.” You gasped as he ran his hands down, groping your thighs as he forced you to wrap them around his waist. “So cute~ so small, I’ll protect you.”

And you knew he meant every single word he said. Because you wanted him to protect you, he was tall, muscular, and strong. Your body shivered against his thick form, making you drip with need as he reached his hands up, tugging your lacy undergarments to the side. You couldn’t remember the last time you were so aroused; Suguru always had that effect on you. But his newer, stronger form made you even wetter.

“Suguru~!” You cried out, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him down to your mouth, kissing him with a force so strong it almost knocked the wind out of his lungs.

He kissed you back, snarling as he did. He wasted no time as he reached down, stroking himself with three quick pumps before he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance. His cock was larger than you remembered causing you to hiss out in slight discomfort that slowly eased into pure pleasure. This must have been the additional upgrade Satoru had been talking about. Suguru paused momentarily, allowing you to adjust, his body as stiff and rigid as a rock.

“Are you okay?” He whispered against your lips, his two different-colored eyes examining your face.

“Yes~ I missed you so much, Sugu!” You shot out, kissing him eagerly as he continued pushing inside of you. You moaned, burying your face in the inside of his neck as he stretched your inner walls out like you had never been stretched before. He rested his stitched forehead against your shoulder, dark hair tickling your heated skin as he completely bottomed out inside of you. You never thought being fucked with such a big cock would feel good. But it felt so fucking so good, fuck it just felt so right, like he was meant to be inside of you despite the size difference.

When your body finally adjusted to the size, you pulled your head away just as he did. You lost yourself in his eyes, panting softly as you panted softly as he began rocking his hips. The head of his cock brushed right against your g-spot, drawing out a shaky breath from you as you dug your nails into his back. Suguru hissed against your skin, leaning back to plant kisses along your sensitive neck. Each roll and rock he pushed into you had his cock moving deeper inside of you. Until the head of it brushed against your cervix. The sensation was almost electrifying, making you arch off the wall.

“Fuck, fuck, holy fuck!” His grip on your hips tightened as he began pounding into you. You grabbed a handful of black silky locks, pulling at it.

“Princess,” he roared, “you’re so wet and tight for me.” His finger dug into your flesh, making you rock them faster. “You have no idea how fucking good you feel.” Suguru mewled as his cock throbbed deep within you.

The coil deep within you began to tighten; you were growing close to your release. Suguru grunted and growled in your ear, his cock sliding in and out of your slickened folds as he thrust his hips up, nearly causing the wall behind you to crack. One robust and large arm held you in place while his free hand reached up, gently choking you. His huge fingers squeezed around your delicate neck as he let out an animalistic sound as you rocked your hips against his faster and harder.

“Haah! Suguru!” You gasped, your erect nipples rubbing against his bare stitched skin. “Nngh fuck yes!.”

“Princess, I-I’m gonna cum, fuck, I’m so close.”

“M-Me too!”

He didn’t need to be told a second time; his thrusts became erratic as he cut off your airway just a bit. That left you desperate. Your eyes rolled back as you continued moving, trying to push each other over the edge, and everything continued to build until you both came simultaneously. Your body stilled as Sugurue growled as his cum came out in ropes painting your walls. Your pussy clenched tightly around him, cumming harder than you had ever come before. You both stayed there gasping and panting roughly until the waves of pleasure died down. You grinned as he leaned back to look at you; his cheeks were faintly flushed as he smiled back. The two of you leaned in for another kiss, only to jump as someone bangs on the door.

You blinked, looking at the door, and several people came running in with torches and pitchforks. But they—weren't people, they were vegetables? The fuck? They yelled and screamed, not seeming to care that Suguru was balls deep inside of you. Your husband didn’t even mind them as he stared at you.

“Princess?” Your vision began to fade as Suguru called out your name several times. “Hey, wake up.” When you blinked again, you found Suguru’s violet eyes on you. “Hey, sleepy head, we're home.”

He was wearing all black, bolts sticking out of his neck. Stitches had been drawn across his forehead, smeared here and there. Huh, you glanced around before looking down at yourself. You were in a white dress and could feel the sticky, tacky face paint on you.

Oh yeah, you went to Satoru’s Halloween party. You had too many shots, and getting home was a bit of a blur. But your tall, large husband was anything but blurry. He was all muscle and kind. He agreed to be the DD for you both so you could have a fun time! And you had a fun time but were craving a different kind of fun now.

“Mmm, I had the craziest dream.” You yawned as Suguru unbuckled your seatbelt before carefully scooping you into his large arms. “You were Frankenstine’s monster, and we had hot monster sex.”

Your husband gave you a judgmental look with a laugh before shaking his head as he carried you inside. “Hot monster sex?” He shook his head. “So that’s why you were moaning and squirming the whole ride home. Because I was fucking you as a monster?”

“I was not!”

“Yes, you were, Little Monster Fucker; I bet when you get into the room, those panties are gonna be soaked.”

You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest. “They are not.” You stuck your bottom lip out. “And I’m not a monster fucker!” Suguru gave you an incredulous look.

“Says the person who dreamt of me as a reanimated man fucking her.”

You open your mouth to babble, shut it as a thought, and roam over your mind. “Wait, does that count as necrophilia?” Your husband stopped dead in his tracks, turning his head slowly to stare down at you.

“You know what, I was gonna fuck your brains out against the wall, but that was the least sexiest thing you could’ve said.”

“Wait! Please fuck me. I’m sorry!”

Suguru rolled his eyes. “Only because you said please, you little necrophiliac.” You grimaced, shaking your head in disgust.

“Eww, no, I would much rather be a monster fucker.” You sighed dramatically, going slightly slack in his arms. “Oooh, please, Mr. Monster, don’t do the nastiest things to meet Daddy!”

“Oh my god,” Suguru laughed softly, shaking his head as he carried you into the bedroom. “I want you to remember this moment when I get you a T-shirt that says: ‘Proud Monster Fucker’ on it for Christmas.”

“It’s better than ‘Proud Necrophiliac’!”

Sugar dropped you on the bed, sighing deeply. “Stop saying that damn word.” He turned his jeans down, freeing his monster-sized thick hard cock out, rubbing the tip over your bottom lip. “And put your mouth to better usage.” You grinned slowly, taking his thick, monster-like length into your mouth. Maybe you were a monster fucker, but you were proud to be one for him!

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3 @wil10wthetree @msniks @lana18918 @draculemon

Kinktober Tag List:

@candy-s72

[heartfullofleeches]

I want to teach Carnis that normal foods can be sweet too like they likes. I bet they ate a lot of oatmeal back in the facility but those monsters probably gave it to him plain and boring and bland.

I make a MEAN bowl of oatmeal. I would add cinnamon and nutmeg, liberally sprinkle brown sugar, and add some honey drizzle on top. Maybe I should cut some apples up in there too, they like fruit.

I just imagine it being the early days and he gets nervous when I serve him the bowl because he's used to being treated badly but I gently encourage him to try it and he eats like 3 bowls.

Yan Lab Experiment Drabble

The last thing Carnis wanted was to come off as ungrateful.

The debts they owed you could never be paid in full. Their freedom was one thing, but finding a purpose for themselves is what gave their sheltered life new meaning. You gave them that purpose. Carnis longs for the day he'll understand the outside world the same way you do. Until then, the experiences you hand pick for him are more than they could ask for or repay from anyone.

Carnis would follow you through every bump and hurdle. Regardless of their blind faith in you, they didn't know if you could guide them through this.

"I r...remember...this stuff."

They always hated it. On top of tests and questions, Carnis dreaded mornings for the very meal placed in front of them. It was like stuffed wet paper into their mouth- Near tasteless, plain, some days they weren't even given the luxury of having it warm.

Yours, on the other hand- Could the two be placed in the same category?

For starters, yours was thicker than they recalled. If their memory served them correctly, the right word to use for the texture of your oatmeal was creamy. The smell was.. undefinable. The warm scent of cinnamon spliced with the soft, sweet aroma of honey. Carnis was lucky to receive a sugar packet or two from the kind doctor who took pity on them. Coupled with the fresh chunks of fruit you topped with oatmeal off with it was like breakfast and a snack in one.

Carnis stirs awkwardly in his chair; hunger digging at the walls of their stomach yet their hands lay in their lap - fingers picking at the skin of their palm. The oatmeal looked good. Smelt good too. They wanted to appreciate all your hard work, but after so many years of eating the same slop - their eyes lacked the appetite their stomach was cursed with.

"Ah!"

Their spine shoots straight as an arrow as hands rest gently between their shoulder blades. Sensing their distress, you massage at the center point of the tension in their back, mindful of their sensitivity to touch.

"I know what you're probably thinking. I didn't think it looked the most appetiting when I first tried it, but one bite and I was in love. It's one of my favorites to eat now-"

"Favorite?... Favorite..." If someone as kind as you likes it as much as you claim, surely it can't be that bad...

Carnis tentatively wields their spoon, brushing the chunks of apple off to the side as they dig in. If they really weren't a fan, surely eating some part of it would still make you happy, right? They bring the spoon closer to their mouth, tensing as the metal clinks against their teeth. The hybrid steels their nerves and the tremors of their hand - shutting their eyes tightly as they take a bite.

...

"You did really well today... Carnis... I brought you something new to try. Keep it a secret between me and you, alright? I'll tell you what it is when you're older."

Sweetness. Their first taste of it can after one of the worst experiences they had in the lab. He couldn't feel his legs for days- Had they not been able to see them, Carnis would've believed they had been cut off for good. A sugar cube was granted to them for all their suffering- And it was worth it.

Carnis didn't know what they did to deserve this.

The spoon is swiftly discarded. Carnis picks up the bowl with both hands, switching to one as the oatmeal pours into their mouth too slowly for their liking. Using their fingers, Carnis inhales every oat - Their feast cut short by a small chunk of apple catching in their throat.

"Carnis!" As the cow coughs, you quickly lift the untouched glass of milk on the table to their lips for them to drink. "Slow down- It's not gonna run away from you."

Carnis barely seems fazed by nearly choking themselves on a slice of fruit.

"M...more? Please? I'd like more. I-if it's not too much trouble."

Desperate hands cling onto the hem of your shirt. You wipe stray tears from his eye as he begs. "There's a whole pot on the stove- You can have as much as you want."

"Y..you... Can.. can you teach me? How to.. make it? Oatmeal...and other goods food- I wanna make things for you.. too... I want you to be.. be happy too...."

[lipglossanon]

Day 22

Kink: Bondage

Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x Las Plagas!reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, bondage, Leon POV, coercion, noncon with hints of cnc, aphrodisiacs, dirty talk, degradation, unprotected sex, breeding kink AND breeding 👀, creampie

not proofread

Leon thinks it’s a lab he’s stumbled into; it would make sense with all the other crazy shit down here. Like who the hell needs killer laser grids as security?

But it’s different from the other ones he’s been in so far; there are full fledged humans floating in tanks in the middle of the room with a bank of computers off to the side. Walking over, he checks the screens to see if he can make heads or tails of anything. 

That’s when you stumble into the room, wearing an ill fitting outfit, like a girl playing dress up as a scientist. 

He turns, gun aiming at you but with his finger off the trigger. 

“Who’re you?”

“Me?” You blink at him, one eye at a time like an owl. 

Frowning at you, he quickly glances to make sure his safety is off before stepping closer. 

“What’s your name?” 

He tries a different approach; you look like you’ve been rode hard and put up wet—in other words, fucked. 

You look around in confusion, hand raising up to press against your temple. 

“I-I don’t remember,” you whisper. “I don’t know where this is or, or how I got here.”

You stutter over your words, voice rising in panic. Wild eyes turn back to him. 

“Did you bring me here?!”

Holstering his gun, Leon holds his hands out placatingly, “Hey.. hey, I can help you. The name’s Leon.”

Your brows furrow cutely and he gives you a little smile. 

“Why don’t we take a look around and see if anything jogs your memory?”

He poses it as question although it’s more of a directive. Something to give you some focus. Leon takes point and covers the entire room with you as his shadow. Coming across a clipboard on the corner table, he pauses to look through the list of names. Each line holds a name with a description of the person, all next to a little box that lists what experiment they fall under as well as any outcomes. 

The next to last name is smudged to hell and back, so Leon can’t make it out at all, but you fit the description to a T; alarm bells blaring in his brain, Leon steels himself to read the rest. 

A handful of words jump out at him:

Infected. Test run: Queen Plaga. ACTIVE. 

It takes a lot to make Leon feel caught off guard—especially since he’s already neck deep into this nightmare mission—but your presence at his back makes him feel vulnerable in an entirely different way. 

Placing the clipboard back down, he tries to keep up his nonchalant, helpful persona. 

“Is anything coming back to you at all?” He turns around to face you, but it’s only empty space. 

His eyes catch on a door closing on the other side of the room; it blends in perfectly with the walls once it shuts, so he keeps his eye on it as he walks over. Gently easing it open, he raises his gun as he moves into the room. It’s an office, divided with partitions into three cubicles from what he can tell. 

Leon can hear you moving around at the far end, muttering to yourself. Sneaking closer, he steps around the gray divider, pointing his gun at you. 

“Let’s just take it easy,” he glances around to make sure the office is truly empty; in doing so, he misses the tail slowly descending from your lab coat. 

Quicker than a flash, you wrap your new appendage around his chest, pinning his arms in place. A quick swipe of your hands at his own, makes him drop the gun and he listens to it hit the ground with a metal clatter. 

You shove him down into a chair, tail tightening around him so he can’t move. His mind flashes to the fight he had earlier with Rámon’s right hand.

“I-I didn’t want this,” you tear up. “I was sick. They said they could help me, so I came here and now I.. I-I’m different.”

“Don’t panic,” Leon softens his voice. “Look, we can get you help. There’s a machine down here that can get rid of it.”

Hands shaking, you bring them up to squeeze your head. 

“I want that, but—“

Doubling over, you gasp in pain, hands dropping down to your pelvis. Leon watches as you collapse onto your knees. He wiggles, but your tail doesn’t budge an inch. You convulse for half a minute as he watches on in sympathy. He struggles again, but it leads to nowhere. As fast as your symptoms came on, they stop. 

Under his gaze, you push yourself back up onto your feet, body moving oddly, like a marionette. 

“Are you okay? If you let me go, I can help—“

Your head snaps up and you give him a big toothpaste ad kinda smile. 

“Oh, everything’s fine. Perfectly in sync.”

You frown at him and Leon’s heart rate picks up. Something’s off in a big way and he’s practically a sitting duck. 

“But you, you got rid of my gift.”

It feels like ice water douses his veins. 

You click your tongue, “And that just won’t do, will it, Leon?”

He tries harder to get out of your grip, but after a few minutes he slumps back into the chair, winded and defeated. 

“Silly,” you shake your head, turning your attention to the desk. 

He eyes the cables you begin to rip out of everything. Once you think you have enough, you walk right up to him. Your hands make quick work of tying his arms and legs to the chair. Once he’s secured, you remove your tail. 

“There,” you step back with another smile. “We can have a civil transaction.”

He tugs at his arms uselessly, the power cables cutting into his wrists and making him bleed. 

You straddle his lap, “Now, be a good boy and this will all be over soon.”

Dread weighs heavy on his chest as you quickly undo his pants and pull out his soft cock. He bucks underneath you, but it doesn’t do any good. You tease your fingers across his tip and he starts to chub up. Leon’s always been easy, but he’s never hated himself for it more than now. 

“Don’t do this,” he pleads. “We can—“

“Uh uh,” you chastise playfully, pushing three of your fingers into his mouth. “Good boys are seen not heard.”

His cock leaks at your words. You feather your fingers up and down his growing length until he’s stiff and heavy in your hand. His tip blurts precum when you giggle at him. 

“My, my, what an eager, little boy,” you whisper at him like it’s a secret. 

His cock throbs in your hand at your mocking endearment. 

“Now, Agent,” you sit up straighter in his lap, fingers tapping against his tongue. “Since you so cruelly removed my sweet plagas from your chest, you’ll gift me with your seed.”

Your other hand slowly jerks him off and he whimpers. 

“Breed me and we’ll call it even,” you murmur, eyes half lidded; Leon can’t stop his cock from twitching. 

“Oh?” You grin, tail coming up to wrap around his chest again. “You like breeding soft, hot cunts, don’t you?”

He wishes you’d just kill him, embarrassment and shame filling his chest as his cock stiffens and bobs in your grip. 

“Don’t worry,” you let go of his dick to pat his cheek. “You’re going to creampie me for as long as I need.”

You slide your fingers from his mouth and kiss him, drooling so much saliva he has to swallow before he chokes. Pulling away, he coughs as you shove your fingers back into his mouth. 

“A little aphrodisiac never hurt anyone,” you laugh, raising your hips to slide your slacks and panties completely off.

The blood rushing through his ears muffles anything you just said. You settle back down, sandwiching his cock between your thighs to grind your wet slit against him. Using your free hand, you grab the base of his dick and notch it at your drippy hole. Leon groans against your fingers as he feels you sink all the way down on him, balls pressing against your ass. 

You raise up with a mewl and sink down on his cock again. 

“Oh, this feels…” you trail off with a moan. 

He can’t stop himself and starts sucking and laving his tongue against your fingers. His whole body feels like it’s on fire and wants nothing more than to cum deep in your fat pussy. He knows he shouldn’t like it, but Leon can’t think past the slow deep strokes of his cock fucking your cunt. 

“Good boy, you’ve learned your place so quickly,” you croon and he groans, arousal making his thoughts syrupy. 

“Your balls must be so full,” you simper next to his ear, walls fluttering and squeezing his cock like crazy. “It aches, doesn’t it? You just need to empty those fat, heavy balls deep into my pussy; it’ll feel so good.”

Leon can’t take it, your snug little pussy gripping his cock like you were made for it. Shuddering, his eyes roll back as he spills deep inside your cunt. 

“Ooh, yess, that’s it Agent, breed me full,” you murmur against his ear and he shoots off a few more ropes of cum into your clenching hole. 

“Doesn’t that feel nice? Breeding such a wet, needy pussy?”

His thighs twitch and he whines around the fingers in his mouth. It’s like you’ve dosed him with something, he thinks, as his cock thickens again, stretching your cum filled pussy once more. 

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” you promise. 

[motorsport-halloween]

⇨ VISIT THE AO3 COLLECTION HERE ⇦

【 ART 】

☠︎ beauty, a machine that’s working by Eggyyolk - android George, rated T

☠︎ ANATOMY OF A HAUNTED HOUSE by @subaru-copilot - Charles/Seb and Ferrari

【 FIC 】

☠︎ THE PURGE: DRIVE TO SURVIVE by @disarmd - Max/Daniel, 12k, rated E (complete)

The New Founding Fathers have taken control of the FIA and implemented Purge rules on race weekends, which means that all crime, including murder, is legal.

☠︎ Let Their Kingdom Come Tonight by @rollingest-hills - Daniel/Cyril, 4k, rated E (complete)

When Cyril spoke his voice was even. Nico, though, caught the eager tremors rippling through their connection. “Very well. Come in, Ricciardo.” Daniel’s face finally split into a smile. The smile of a wolf, Nico thought, if it loved its prey. “Call me Daniel.”

☠︎ Feed My Frankenstein by @shineon3 - Max/Daniel, 2.5k, rated E (complete)

Daniel is an eldritch being and Max is the only one who seems to notice.

☠︎ the phantom knife by ecorone - Max/GP, 18k, rated M (ongoing)

Something is rotten in the state of Red Bull Racing.

☠︎ three’s a crowd by @ctimenefic - George/Alex, 15k, rated M (complete)

“Hi there. I’m Alex.”

“I know.” The clone swallows, and sounds slightly less like a drowned cat when he speaks again. “Memory transference was up to 98% effective to biological age, and 87% effective for discrete knowledge thereafter.” His eyes slide across to George as he makes the pronouncement. If he’s looking for approval, he doesn’t find it.

☠︎ house of trick by @officialmood - Max/Daniel, 10k, rated E (complete)

Max listened at the door before he went into the lab set. He could hear the familiar metallic clink of the chains against the stainless steel table. Most people couldn’t resist testing how securely they were bound, even if they had paid a lot of money to be there.

☠︎ Dollfaced by @123pixieaod - George/Alex, 1.5k, rated T (ongoing)

Alex is cursed by a haunted doll called George. He lives with two vampires called Charles and Pierre. Sometimes, it's a lot.

☠︎ Escaping Twenty-Seven by MarieSerena - Max/Daniel, 3k, rated E (ongoing)

At twenty-seven years old, with the world at his feet, the devil was coming to take what Daniel had been promised to him.

☠︎ The Living and the Dead by @ctimenefic - George/Alex, Logan/Oscar

It hadn’t made any sense, how right Albon seemed. They always come back wrong.

⇨ JOIN US NEXT WEEK, OCT 22, FOR ROUND TWO! ⇦

graphic by the incomparable @racecrafting

[merakiui]

fairy-tale felicity.

yandere!riddle rosehearts x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy relationship/behaviors, obsession, horse hybrid!reader, age gap (reader is 20/21 and riddle is 31), brief mentions of past abuse and neglect, codependency, kidnapping note - the lab has rescued a horse hybrid, and riddle is tasked with rehabilitating her. he bites off more than he can chew when, as his relationship with you progresses and the program boasts promising results, he finds himself getting attached.

As soon as Riddle clocks into the facility, right on time as usual, an assistant researcher barrages him like a freight train. Her entire demeanor kindles concern, a cloying, clawing sort that gives way to uncertainty and, subsequently, confusion.

Before he can ask, she interrupts in a clipped tone: “Dr. Crewel’s called you to the exam chamber.” She hurries along so quickly that he struggles to keep up, soles squeaking against too-clean linoleum.

“What’s happened?” He matches her pace and fixes her with a sharp stare. “Is everything all right?”

“There’s this horse…thing he found and—well, it’s hard to explain. I’ll let you see for yourself.”

Riddle doesn’t push the matter further, sensing he’ll know soon enough. Crewel’s assistant wastes no time in leading him even though he has the lab’s layout memorized. It must be severe, whatever this horse-thing is. If it requires his specific presence, surely there’s a sensible explanation. After all, science prides itself on explaining the unexplainable.

He’ll take his chances and prepare for the worst.

The door is shut and the glass is frosted, indicative of privacy, but Riddle doesn’t hesitate to knock. At his superior’s command, the door slides open on smooth hinges. Riddle swallows hard and steps through with steeled nerves.

He was expecting this horse-thing to be distinctly centaurian or monstrously grotesque, so he’s surprised to see a woman lying on her back on a metal examination table, arms and legs outstretched and tied down. Her eyes are shut, and she’s dressed in a thin hospital gown. Riddle is about to ask what’s so odd, but then he sees your ears and legs. 

So not a centaur. Perhaps something akin to the fabled faun he’s read so much about?

But that’s not what’s so surprising. What is, actually, is the rough state you’re in. There are bandages wound tight around your arms, legs, and throat, and Riddle theorizes scratches, bruises, and lacerations are hidden beneath those clean fabrics.

“A timely arrival,” Crewel comments, looking at him from a handful of documents. 

Medical reports, Riddle assumes, watching veterinarians flit about to take vitals and run tests to gather heart rate, blood type, and even the status of your fertility. Invasive, yes, but the lab is thorough—a facet Riddle is most proud of. He shuffles closer, hazarding a glance at your bandaged legs. Ghastly chips and cracks run up and along your hooves. He notes you’re without horseshoes and grimaces.

“Dr. Rosehearts.”

“Yes? You called for me, Dr. Crewel?”

Taking one final look over what appears to be data on your current health, Crewel finally addresses Riddle properly. “I have a task for you.”

“Involving this hybrid?”

“Correct. If I recall, you mentioned you’ve dealt with horses before.”

“That’s true, yes…” He knows the path Crewel is treading and he’s dreading it. “In my youth, I participated in competitive horseback riding. One of our responsibilities in the Equestrian Club was to care for and look after our horses.”

“How many years was that for?”

“Eight or so. Admittedly, it’s been some time since I’ve kept up with it.”

“I see. Then I assume you’re aptly aware of their biology?”

“To an extent, yes. I know their diet and habits. How to handle one. How to calm one. How to ride one. Etcetera. I’d say I have my fair share of experience.”

Toeing the line of piqued curiosity, Riddle keeps his eyes pinned firmly on Crewel even though the doctors’ hushed chatterings reach his ears. He tamps down the urge to turn and watch the hybrid.

“Internal structures are intact. Minor fracture in the left wrist,” one observes. “We’ll insert the microchip between her shoulder blades soon. Be prepared to move the specimen.”

“What’s the plan after rehabilitation? Are they going to sell her off to a farm? Is it morally right to put her in a livestock show?” another adds, detached but inquisitive.

“Not just that. Is it possible to breed her? If she’s more human than equine, does that not qualify her as a beastfolk? Although most of them are centaurs, right?”

“Yeah, but Dr. Crewel’s calling her a hybrid.”

“There’s a difference?”

Riddle wonders that, too.

Crewel clips the pages together before handing them to Riddle for his perusal. “We responded to a call regarding her.”

Her meaning you, the hybrid. Riddle leafs through the documents, scanning each with his discerning greys. Calls weren’t uncommon; most of them were usually false, the result of people who didn’t understand that the meaning of a rehabilitation lab is found in its title and that they can’t just call to report their friend for being a fool in need of treatment (which was almost always untrue). But sometimes there were genuine calls—the ones in which hybrids needed help or rescuing or intervention of some sort. This seems to be the latter case.

“And does that explain the state she’s in?”

“Mostly. What we know so far is noted in the report.”

He finds it then—the official reasoning behind your condition. “Physical abuse and neglect,” he reads, running down the list as it grows longer and sadder with every word.

“I suspect she’s become averse to humans as a result of this severe maltreatment. She was given a sedative via tranquilizer dart. It was the only way we could cut her free from the cuff without harming her.”

“The cuff?”

“The shed she was locked in. Cuffed to a post—nearly frostbitten, poor thing—and fed scraps.” Crewel’s eyes narrow with disdain. “Rotten mutts, the lot of them.”

Riddle hums, speechless. What a tragic situation.

“Were the ones responsible caught?”

“Most of them.” Crewel brushes past Riddle to observe the hybrid up close. “She’s the result of unethical breeding, which isn’t as uncommon as we wish it was. But the case is in the hands of the authorities now. I’m not going to trouble myself with the misdeeds of a few bad dogs.”

“What will become of her? I imagine rehabilitation is our top priority?”

“Precisely. This is where you come in.” Crewel gestures to the slumbering hybrid. “You’re one of our best good boys, Dr. Rosehearts. As such, I’m entrusting you to look after her.”

“Look…after,” he parrots, tongue heavy in his mouth. “I’m sorry, what? You can’t possibly mean—”

“The lab is no place for her. Not in her current disposition. You’re in charge of rehabilitating her from home. Prove to her that humans aren’t all naughty pups in need of proper discipline. You’ll report your progress and findings directly to me.”

“I… I can do it. Naturally.” Confidence swells within him; he’s satisfied to have been chosen for such an important duty. But rehabilitation from home, in which he won’t have all of the helpful tools the lab carries, is daunting in its own right. “I can’t guarantee I’ll have willed her fear away. She might always fear humans.” He gazes sidelong at the hybrid and straightens his posture. “With all due respect, I’m a scientist, not a therapist.”

“I don’t expect you to be one.” Crewel turns away, tailored lab coat swishing with the motion. “You aren’t required to work miracles. That’s not within your job description. Besides, an ambitious pup will never succeed if he adopts Icarus’s mindset.”

Riddle scoffs around a laugh. “I have no intention of flying too close to the sun. I’ll do it in accordance with the rules.”

That earns him an approving nod, which is really all the validation he currently needs, before Crewel steps back to watch the vets prepare you for the microchip. Riddle stands beside him, hungering for more information.

“Aside from her past with humans, is there anything I absolutely must know? How old is she?”

“We’re thinking somewhere between twenty and twenty-one in human years. A fully mature adult by equine standards.”

He cringes at the gap. “I’ve no idea what the youth are like nowadays, especially not one who’s yet to be integrated into society.”

Crewel chuckles, folding his arms across his chest. “Will that be the foundation for your method of approach?”

“Ideally, I’d like to establish some form of connection—whether that’s by appealing to her human traits or simply appearing non-threatening. I can’t treat her like an animal. She’s human, too. But then… Well…” He shakes his head, sighing. This is a difficult equation with an unclear solution. Normally, Riddle adores these problems—the ones that get his brain turning. But this is troubling, and he can’t be clinical about it as if it’s something mathematical. He peers at the file once more. “She’s a thoroughbred? Huh. Vorpal was the same.”

“So you’ve experience with thoroughbreds.”

“I have experience with thoroughbred horses, not thoroughbred horse hybrids. But perhaps her thoroughbred nature matches that of Vorpal’s.”

Riddle worries his lip between his teeth. Thoroughbreds are notoriously hot-blooded. This may prove to be more challenging than I thought.

It’s not the first trial he’s been handed, and it won’t be the last. His entire life has been one big trial, lived out rigidly and righteously, and he’s learned to weather the difficulties by conforming to the long and often unspoken list of rules prescribed by his mother. There are rules for everything. Rules for when one should sleep if they wish to get a full eight hours. Rules for when one should speak if they wish to follow the guidelines for group etiquette. Rules for when one should have a certain flavor of tea or tart depending on the occasion. For thirty-one years of his life, he has followed all of them near-perfectly.

This circumstance is no different. The task has been assigned and, as he has dozens of times prior, he’ll follow the rules to see it through to the end.

But what exactly are the rules in dealing with a damaged hybrid? It’s the only word he can think of when he looks at you, however offensive it may be. It’s an objective observation: You’re damaged and alone, certainly afraid. He doesn’t want to picture the horrors you’ve endured—the dehumanizing experiences you’ve been subjected to at the hands of humans.

Riddle is human, and so this is very conflicting. How can he, a human, help a hybrid, who fears them like they’re nightmarish monsters? And they definitely are to you. If anything, he’s less of a human and more of a cruel beast in your eyes.

“Wouldn’t it be better to keep her here?” he ventures. The vets sedate you once more when it becomes clear the drugs are wearing off. Your tail swishes, fingers twitching, and then you fall still once more. His eyes track the IV tube to the needle pricking the top of your hand. “Safer, too. There are too many variables in my home. It wouldn’t be a suitable environment.”

“It’s separate from the lab, though—a fresh, stress-free space. Less chances of running into us, and we’re the last people she wants to see.”

“She won’t want to see me either.”

“One is better than a roomful.”

Riddle can’t refute that.

“I’ll do it,” he says, “but on the condition that you refrain from interfering directly. If I’m to rehabilitate her, then it is only me she’ll see. For now, at least. Before she can interact with other humans, she must first learn to trust one and that will be me.”

“Very well. Those are acceptable terms.”

“And I’ll need a week to prepare.”

Crewel considers the request before nodding. “A week gives me time to study her further, so I’ll agree to it.”

I’ll need to hybrid-proof the house, gather textbooks and information on horses and horse hybrids, look into dietary needs, write up daily and weekly schedules, research phobias and ways to treat them, draw up a plan of action… A backup plan, too. Just in case.

Surfacing from his inner ruminations, Riddle fixes Crewel with a stern look. “You’re going to study her in a way that isn’t hurtful, yes?”

“Of course. This requires patience and tact.” He leans over the examination table to peer at your ears as they twitch. Still sound asleep. “Rest assured, Dr. Rosehearts. No harm will befall your hybrid.”

“S-She is not my hybrid.”

“She is for the time being. I’ll give you one year.”

“A year is a long time to provide room and board for a hybrid. Besides…” He hesitates to think the logistics over before adding, “You’re asking me to shape my life around her needs. Not that I’m unwilling, mind you. It just feels…long. We can’t even be certain of the results.”

“If you’d prefer I send her to Dr. Hunt—”

At the mention of the morbidly eccentric researcher, Riddle shakes his head, a flicker of possessive fidelity sparking in him. 

“There’s no need. I’ve already agreed.”

“Good boy! Then I’ll take this week to collect more data, and by Friday morning we’ll deliver her to your doorstep.”

“I’ll be ready,” he says, but he doesn’t believe it.

Just how ready can one possibly be for an assignment as sensitive as this? He supposes he’ll find out in a week’s time.

In classic Riddle Rosehearts fashion, he drives himself mad with preparation.

If his meticulous schedules and plans are worth anything, he’s about as ready as he’s ever been. He feels as if he’s about to welcome a glass sculpture rather than a hybrid into his humble home, what with its many precautions. Corners have been covered with rubber guards, dishware and utensils have been locked away and swapped with paper and plastic, and he’s blocked off the second story with a safety gate. The type used for pets and children. It was the only thing he could think of while he debated whether he should lock the medicine cabinet or just move everything upstairs.

For one year—that’s exactly 365 days—he’ll live out his life on the ground floor of his home. And he’s ready.

Is he, though?

He pored over the files day and night, reflected on new data from Crewel, and drafted dozens of plans in preparation for your arrival. Most of these plans ended up crumpled and tossed in the rubbish bin, accompanied with a groan and a muttered complaint, but last night he reached an epiphany after finishing his third read of a psychology textbook on phobias.

Anthropophobia is the fear of people, he’d jotted in a new notebook just as the clock struck midnight. For many phobias, exposure therapy is a useful and valid method of treatment. Seeing as I’m not a licensed therapist, CBT is not a possibility and I can’t bring her to a therapist myself. That would involve its own setbacks and hurdles. Therefore, I’ll keep track of her progress as I attempt exposure therapy.

The textbook recommended he try approaching it with harmless hypotheticals: Imagine you’re interacting with a few people. At first he thought it might work, but in order for you to even listen to him you’d have to trust him. And you can’t trust someone if you’re fearing for your life. For a moment, he considered purchasing a horse costume and masquerading as one himself, if only to ease your anxiety, but that would constitute a dishonest practice.

Now, sleep-deprived and uncertain, Riddle attempts to bolster his confidence. He stands at his front door like a prisoner awaiting punishment, tapping his foot against the floor out of nervous habit. A grandfather clock ticks behind him, calling out seconds and minutes in low, slow, foreboding tocks. He flips through his notes to refresh himself even though there’s no need for that; he’s already reviewed five times since he woke up.

You’re overdoing it, he tells himself. But is he? It’s better to be overly prepared.

The sudden rap at the door startles him. He hurries to open it, almost tripping on the hardwood. Inhaling a steadying breath, he holds it for a moment and then releases it. He’ll be okay. He’s a scientist. A scientist in hedgehog slippers, but a scientist nonetheless. He can do this.

“Good morning, Dr. Crewel.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting when he peers out at his snow-dusted lawn, but it definitely wasn’t this. You’re bundled in a thick coat, boots yanked up to your calves, and a woolen hat is pulled down over your eyes. To hide your equine features, he realizes. Hybrids are something of a taboo subject, especially those who can’t be classified as standard beastfolk. The divide that separates both is a slippery slope.

“She’s sleeping now, but I suspect she’ll wake in an hour or so. Her left wrist is still healing, so do be mindful.”

Riddle frowns. It’s not very kind to drug her every time you need to transport her somewhere…

The week and its events were rough on you. He knows this because he was there for the briefing. Riddle’s seen needles and pills forced into you more times than he’d like to admit, and he’s heard Crewel’s trademark, “This is the only way to keep a pup docile,” so often it’s become a haunting mantra. The first rule, he decides right then, is that there will be no sedation unless absolutely necessary.

How else is he to rehabilitate you if you’re unconscious for most of it?

Crewel steps through the threshold and lowers you onto the sofa. Riddle stands rooted to his spot, observing him as he ducks out momentarily and then returns with a suitcase.

“Clothing,” he explains, setting it down in front of Riddle. “As well as a few sedatives and sleep aids. Prescribed medications and supplements. Nothing you’re not already familiar with.”

Thank the heavens, he thinks with great relief. I didn’t even think about purchasing clothes for her.

“I won’t need them.”

At least not the sedatives and sleep aids.

“Whether you use them or not is entirely up to you. It never hurts to resort to old tricks when training a dog.”

For once Riddle’s glad he’s the one in charge. Crewel views everything through the lens of a behaviorist and Rook Hunt is…Rook Hunt. Obviously, by process of elimination, he’s the most qualified for this job. Who else is going to advocate to get you fitted for new horseshoes?

“Would you like me to come into the lab at any point during this?”

“If you deem it necessary. If not, you know how to reach me. I expect an email detailing her progress every two weeks.”

“Right…” His gaze pans over to you. “What will happen after the year’s over?”

“The higher-ups will decide.”

As they have for every other case we’ve dealt with, his brain fills in the blank. Riddle doesn’t like that. Crowley does his research most of the time, but it doesn’t seem fair to send you off to Queen-knows-where if you’ve just started opening up to humans. Riddle recalls the furtive mumblings of the vets—Are they going to sell her off to a farm? Is it morally right to put her in a livestock show? Is it possible to breed her?—and feels himself growing ill.

“All right. Sure. Yes,” he babbles dumbly, shaking those thoughts out of his head. “I won’t let you down, Dr. Crewel.”

He’s not sure that’s possible anymore. Not when the stakes are so high. This is an expectation, not an experiment he can toy with as he pleases.

The last of Riddle’s withering courage goes out the door with Crewel, swept up in a flurry of snowflakes. He heaves a sigh and then deflates, exhausted even though the day has just begun.

“What have I gotten myself into?” he mumbles, wringing his hands to calm himself.

He considers removing your boots and coat but thinks better of it. For a minute, he simply lingers. When it becomes clear that you aren’t going to wake anytime soon, he resolves to get started on breakfast to pass the hour. He may not be a five-star chef, but he’s had enough practice to know how to cook passable, edible meals. Although passable is not perfect, and even though he knows he should devote more time to cooking he’s never had that chance. He’s up before the sun’s risen, lukewarm coffee poured in a travel cup, and then he’s off to the lab. An unhealthy habit he ought to snuff.

Now that he’s homebound, he should make an effort to try a little harder. After all, he has a guest now. Riddle wants to impress, if only so he can finally hear someone other than Trey tell him his cooking is good. Genuinely good. He knows Trey only says so because good is a safe word with many interpretations, which is almost always succeeded with a line about how he’s willing to share a few pointers for improvement.

For now he settles on something easy, keeping all of your dietary needs in mind: oatmeal, diced fruits, an assortment of nuts, toast, and scrambled eggs. It’s less cooking and more arranging, but it’s the best he has to offer right now.

He’s in the process of setting the table for two when he realizes it’s highly unlikely you’ll be joining him. Gathering your plate and cup, he brings both into the next room over and sets them down on the table alongside a napkin and plastic utensils. With his hands on his hips, Riddle surveys his handiwork and beams.

It’s better than nothing.

His eyes find the suitcase then. It looks fit to burst, bulging with clothes. Crewel must have overpacked, but then that makes sense. Fashion is his passion, and he’d sooner shrivel than send you out into the world, which is currently limited to Riddle’s house, with plain attire. He wonders if any of the contents were designed by him or simply selected from the racks with taste and style in mind.

Riddle supposes it’s not important right now, so he drags the suitcase down the hall and into his room. Technically, it’s his study. But it will serve as his bedroom for the duration of this program. Your room—the eternally empty guest room—is right across the hall. The bed is small, but it’s cozy enough. He thinks you’ll like it, if only because it’s better than the dull lab with its hard tables and blinding lights.

He’s about to begin unpacking when a jarring crash pierces the air. Startled out of his skin, he stagger-runs out of the room just in time to see you splayed on the floor, plate overturned and food spattered. He opens his mouth to snap at you and then stops short. You notice him then, your eyes blown impossibly wide, nostrils flaring, and you scurry back as if burned.

“Wait!” he exclaims without foresight. “You’ll hurt yourself!”

He surges forward, intending to come to your aid. You make a noise that sounds like a gasp and a squeal, your breaths coming in panicked huffs and puffs. He watches you curl into a cower and his heart aches at the sight. Gathering his composure, Riddle peers at the mess and then back at you.

Distance, he reminds himself. And patience. Take it slow.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.” He issues you an apologetic smile that sits awkwardly on his face. His tone is soft, an even approximation of tenderness. “I’m not going to hurt you. You may not believe that, but it’s the genuine truth. My name is Dr. Rosehearts and I’m here to look after you. You remember Dr. Crewel, don’t you? The researcher with the black-and-white hair.”

Paralyzed, you blink back at him.

“W-Well… Ah—um. Ahem. Starting today, this will be your home.” Riddle risks another step towards you and promptly stops when your arms fly up to shield your face.

What did the book say? Proceed with caution, use an indoor voice, let the subject approach you… I don’t expect her to warm up to me right this very second. Still, there has to be some way to show her I mean well… If it was Vorpal, I’d adopt a calm demeanor and make myself appear harmless. Standing too tall would make me seem like I’m a predator. But that might not work. She’s human, too.

“I know you’re scared. I’d be the same if I was in your place. That’s perfectly understandable. You don’t know much of this place or who I am—and you might think it’s scary right now—but I promise this will be good for you. This place is nothing like the ones you’ve been at before, okay? It’s safe. Nothing will hurt you here. I’m not going to get any closer. You can stay there if that’s what makes you feel comfortable.”

Minding your skittish temperament, he retreats to the kitchen. When he returns, he notices you’ve pulled your hat over your eyes and shaped yourself into a ball in the corner of the room.

Gingerly, he sets his plate on the table.

“Breakfast,” he says. You don’t say anything. “It’s good for you. The most important meal of the day, actually. Studies show that eating a healthy breakfast improves—” He swallows the rest of the statistic, flustered. Now is not the time, Riddle. “T-That aside, eat only if you’re hungry. I won’t force you, but it’s here in case you want it. I’ll be in the room just down the hall if you need me.”

Riddle departs for his study-turned-bedroom. He sits at his desk, opens his notebook, and takes a pause.

Was that the right method of approach? I introduced myself in an amicable manner, I was patient, and I didn’t show any signs of hostility. Despite everything, she probably finds my mere presence hostile… I shouldn’t have shouted like that.

With a regretful groan, he pens a reminder: Keep voice and tone in check. Always.

On some level, he understands. Or he’s trying to, at least. Every time he puts himself in your shoes, he winds up back in his childhood home, sitting at a desk piled high with thick texts on every core subject. And the one responsible for his entrapment in youth? A woman who is more warden than mother. His life has been a predetermined fairy tale since he was conceived. Even now, sitting successful in a relatively cushy position at the lab, he still feels like someone else is writing his story.

They’re holding the quill, scrawling his existence onto mystical pages, and he’s stuck following the script, bound by rules both known and unknown.

By the time he’s finished jotting notes, an air of dissatisfaction falls over the room. He should take a walk, clear his head, do something thoughtless. Anything to distract him from the encroaching bitterness of a bad mood. Riddle catches the time on the analog clock. An hour has passed. It’s been eerily silent. He doesn’t worry because he knows there’s nowhere for you to go.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to check.

Unsurprisingly, you’re still plastered to the corner like a fly caught in a spider’s web. Grey eyes sweep over the room, finding the breakfast he left you untouched and congealed. He’s about to frown when he notices something peculiar. The floor, which had once been a mess, has been cleaned. Riddle’s thoughts stall out into confused static.

Did she eat the contents off the floor?

Perhaps it’s not so farfetched. If that’s how you’ve been conditioned to eat, it’s only natural you’d follow that habit. He knows about routines well enough, for his entire existence has been lived out in strict, demanding routine, but this habit is one that fills him with an immeasurable pity.

You shouldn’t have to do that here. In fact, you shouldn’t have had to do that at all. No one should.

“I hope it was delicious,” he says, allowing a smile to bleed into his inflection. “I’m not much of a chef, but I’ll do my best to make sure you’re fed delicious, healthy meals. You won’t have to eat anything off the ground anymore.”

No response. He wasn’t expecting one. He knows you’re capable of speaking, for he heard your voice in the lab during the moments where you were kept awake for important procedures. Truthfully, he’d prefer to hear your voice when it isn’t filled with sorrow, fear, or a mixture of the two. But this is just the beginning. He doesn’t expect results within a day. A start is a start, and patience is a virtue.

“Dr. Crewel tells me you’re afraid of humans.” At that, your ears flatten on your head. “I can’t begin to imagine the things you’ve been through for that fear to have developed.”

Riddle hesitates, unsure of the point he’s attempting to make.

“I understand—sort of, I think… Well, not exactly. But, to a relative extent, I understand how it feels to be alone and misunderstood with no one to turn to. Sooo.”

Not even a day in and I’m ruining it. At this rate, I’ll just look foolish and she’ll never want to trust me, let alone other humans.

“I’ll always be here if you need me. My study is right down the hall, and across the way is your bedroom. Dr. Crewel’s left me with plenty of clothes for you, so you can take that coat off if it gets too warm. Your boots and hat as well. Oh, and I’ve also got your vitamins and supplements. Those are important to take. I’ve yet to arrange them, but once I know when and how often you’re intended to take them we can start there.”

He needs this rigidity. It’s comforting. It’s familiar.

“The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Um… You can use it at your leisure. The same goes for everything else here. You’re free to explore this floor or grab something from the cupboard if you’re hungry. I won’t mind.”

It occurs to him then, standing there and watching you huddle, that familiarity is one of the best medicines when taken in healthy amounts.

Inspired, Riddle rushes back to his study, plops down in his chair, and opens to a blank page. He’s got it—the perfect schedule. And it’s all formatted around familiarity! He writes like he’s coming up on a deadline, pen soaring across lined paper in a blind rush. His handwriting may be illegible, but the messy scribble is his and his alone. He understands the intent in the chicken scratch.

Adjusting my approach slightly. Going forwards, I’ll build our routine around familiarity, reads the concluding statement of his newly improved three-page plan. He tucks the journal away in a drawer, feeling more ready than he’s ever been.

At first, time felt slow and sluggish—an agonizing crawl into a far-off future. But before Riddle realizes it it’s already been one month, and he’s spent that time dutifully following his schedule. He wakes at seven, showers at eight, and begins breakfast at nine. You sleep on the floor and eat your meals in the sitting room, wordless and anxious. He learned you won’t eat if he’s watching you, so he’s taken to having his meals in the kitchen. It was awkward at first trying to gauge just how quickly you’d eat so that he could clean up—and one time he walked in on you scarfing down your lunch in a rush, which had given you such a fright that you almost choked—so now you have a little handbell you ring whenever you’ve finished.

Since you first started living with him, you’ve taken to eating from plates and bowls rather quickly. Riddle surmises he’d be the same if he just learned there are cleaner surfaces to eat food from. But he’s happy with this development. He wasn’t expecting you’d take to plates and utensils so rapidly.

In the beginning you regarded most of your meals with suspicion, so Riddle would take tentative bites out of his portions to prove the validity and safety of each. He’d say the same thing every time—“It’s very delicious. I think you’ll like it.”—and you would submit with flattened ears, feasting with your hands. He attempted to teach you how to use the plastic cutlery, but you’d been too fearful to let him get any closer and so he put that plan on pause.

Now, after plenty of dedication and determination, familiarity has been established. You’ve since shed your coat, boots, and hat—though they’re kept close in the corner; you won’t let him touch them—and now you dress in the clothes Crewel provided. He moved the suitcase into the room when it became clear you only ever get up to use the bathroom, allowing you to pick and choose outfits as you please.

Riddle wasn’t expecting it, but you’re surprisingly self-sufficient. You bathe without complaint and you clean up after yourself, stacking your paper dishes to make collection easier. You even take your vitamins and supplements without pitching a fit! He’s honestly impressed; his expectations were, admittedly, rather low when he watched you kick and scream in the lab. But this space is different. It’s nothing like the lab. Maybe you recognize there’s some sort of comfort in that.

You’ve yet to venture into the guest bedroom, but he won’t push it. This is already good progress and it’s only been a month. You may be nervous around him, hiding at every sudden, loud sound and trembling when he strays too close, but at least you’re somewhat receptive to him and the things he provides.

So it’s a surprise when, on a mostly unremarkable Tuesday evening, you call out to him.

“Dr. Rosehearts…”

He forces himself to act normal, replying from the other room in the calmest tone he can muster, “Is something the matter?”

“Are… Are you really not going to hurt me?” The question is uttered so softly he almost misses it.

“I would never.” He rises from his chair, monitoring his noise level, and creeps closer. “May I look at you?”

“Um… S-Sure. That’s fine.”

He peeks around the corner and waves. “Hello.”

You flinch. “H-Hi…”

“Do you have a name? I’m afraid I don’t know what to call you.”

“I don’t, sir.” 

Riddle blinks, taken aback by the formality. “There’s no need for ‘sir.’ Just call me Dr. Rosehearts.”

You avert your eyes and drag your knees into your chest. Taking a few deep breaths, you mutter a cursory apology.

“It’s all right. If you’re not opposed to it, may I give you a name?”

“Okay.”

He pauses, reflecting on the ones he’d written in his notes based on his observations. “How does (Name) sound?”

You nod your approval. “T-Thank you…for the name.”

“Don’t push yourself if you’re scared or uncomfortable.”

“But I… I want to talk! Ah. S-Sorry for being loud…”

“It’s all right. What would you like to talk about?”

“I… Um, sorry. I don’t… Um.” You bury your face in your knees. “I… I can’t look at you… I’m sorry.”

Riddle can’t believe it. You’re willingly engaging in conversation. It’s only been a month—not even, actually—but you’re talking! He wonders what’s working because something must be if you’re already trying to overcome your discomfort to speak. Is it the schedule? Is it the routine and all of the little things in between that help make it easier for you—the handbell and the distance and the patience? Or is it positive social contact you crave, so much so you’re shrugging off the fear in order to make a connection?

You don’t have much of a choice regarding socialization, considering he’s the only other living creature here, so maybe this was inevitable. Still, it’s amazing progress. He’s already itching to notify Crewel of this development.

“I think I can talk if I’m like this. Looking at someone’s eyes is too much for me.”

“Are you certain? I don’t want you to push yourself.”

“I’m sure. It’s not so scary if I’m looking at the floor.”

“All right.” Riddle gazes at your empty plate. “Dinner was good?”

“Very good. Thank you.”

“Really?” He can’t stop himself. The question falls free. “Do you really mean that? You’re not just saying that?”

“I mean it. It’s delicious.”

Riddle smirks, feeling very accomplished. You can’t compare his cooking to anyone else’s, aside from whatever they fed you at the farm, and so that makes his the best. It’s an honor, even if said honor is awarded by default.

“I’m…not known for my cooking prowess, so I’m glad you find it enjoyable.”

“I do. I’ve never had anything like it before.”

He quirks a brow. “What have you had?”

“Round and red thing. Um… Orange thing with a green stem. Bland foods. Dry stuff.”

“Red… Apples?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a fruit. They’re sweet. Very nutritional.”

“Oh, that’s what it’s called? I never knew that. I like them a lot.”

“I’ll have to buy some then.”

“Will you really?”

“Of course. It wouldn’t do you any good if you were forcing yourself to eat something you hate.”

I should know. My mother’s cooking isn’t the most delightful cuisine.

Unseasoned some would call it. Ridiculously healthy, down to exact portions and perfect calorie counts. Riddle’s since learned to be more lenient with his meals, eating until he’s full rather than following the strict parameters he was once held to. Instead, he eats what he enjoys and keeps his health in check. He hopes to impart the same wisdom to you. You’ve already lived a nightmare. Now he’d like you to start living a wondrous dream.

“Oh. Um… T-Thank you.”

“There’s no need. I’m just doing my job.” He smiles even though you’re not looking. “I’m aware you’re not very partial to human interaction, but if you’re willing I’d like to help you get comfortable with it.”

“I can’t.”

An immediate rejection. No surprises there.

“Would it be okay if we start small with just me? You don’t have to agree. I can leave you alone if you’ve had enough.”

“I…can try. You’re not very scary and you’re not mean. You’ve never forced me to do anything either…”

“I’m here to help you. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“You’re not lying? You… You won’t trick me later?” You lift your head to look at him, warily eyeing his face to search for a fib that isn’t there. “You won’t send me back to the farm or that cold place with the humans?”

I can’t promise that last one. Anything but that, he thinks. Once the year expires, you’ll be handed over to Crewel, where he’ll determine what to do from there under the jurisdiction of the higher-ups. But Riddle can’t share confidential information with you, especially since it’s something you won’t want to hear.

“I won’t do any of that. You have my word.”

The entire point of this program is to treat your fears and get you accustomed to humans. By the end of the year, you’ll probably be begging him to let you see and meet others. At least, that’s what he hopes will happen.

“And you won’t make me take any sleep medicine?”

“No needles or pills. I only ask that you continue taking the other medicines as prescribed.”

Nodding your acquiescence, you rise to your feet and take a reluctant step towards him. Silence stretches between the both of you. He watches, anticipating. But then you shake your head and take three steps back, pressing yourself against the wall.

“S-Sorry. I thought I could… Never mind.”

“You’ve only been here a short while, but you’re already making an attempt to communicate with me despite your apprehension. You’re very brave, (Name).”

“W-Well, you haven’t given me any reason to be scared. So… So I think I can trust you. Maybe…”

Trust is a powerful thing. A responsibility and a privilege all in one. Therefore, he won’t squander it.

That night, while in the process of drafting an email to Crewel, Riddle listens to your hooves on the hardwood as you move down the hall. He glances past his monitor to the small sliver of space between the door and wall, wondering if he imagined it due to his lack of sleep, but then he hears the guest room door creak open and shut softly.

Unbelievable, he thinks, stunned into silent amazement. She’s sleeping in the bedroom.

It feels too fast and too slow. Major progress on a minimal timeline. Again, he thinks he’s dreaming and so he steps out of his study to check the sitting room. It’s empty. You’ve even taken the suitcase with you. His mouth hangs open in muted shock.

Is she starting to feel comfortable here?

What felt like an impossibility at first is gradually becoming a reality.

The schedule worked.

Good things only ever come to those who wait. Perhaps this is a plausible proverb worth its salt. As the weeks pass and you continue to interact with him, Riddle begins to take note of your personality. You’re not nearly as fiery as Vorpal was, but you are very lively—so much so that it’s almost hard to keep up with sometimes. Riddle wonders if this is a side effect of the circumstances you came from. Forced to live a life of solitude, in which you were condemned to exist in silence and act as if invisible, you’ve taken to the idea of companionship rather swimmingly.

As the old saying goes, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Riddle has done everything in adherence with his own set of regulations, strict in his dedication to personal forbearance. And you’ve made miraculous progress, a testament to his persistence. Crewel seems to approve of the results, voicing his opinions in emails worded with pleasant praise. Riddle couldn’t have predicted where he’d be by this point, but with this steady stream of improvement he theorizes you’ll be more than ready by the end of the arrangement.

He told himself he’d keep a healthy distance, if only to avoid feeling even more sympathy and thereby compromising this study, but he can’t help it. You’re growing on him.

In the wake of everything, he’s managed to amend his own schedule. Riddle thought he could sleep at his desk and all would be well, but you didn’t seem to like that he was neglecting his health in order to look after yours. To his surprise, you nagged him: “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? It’s your job to know someone’s health, so don’t forget about yours.”

Aiming to placate you, he made the sofa in the sitting room his bed. He does that a lot—placate you. It’s not his intention to be a doormat—and he’s not—but he doesn’t like seeing you in pain or upset. Once, when he tried to slip out of the house to go grocery shopping, you interrogated him as if he was guilty of some serious crime, fearful that he’d leave and never return. No matter how much he assured you, you didn’t believe him and so, wanting to keep your eyes free of tears and your heart unburdened, he decided to order groceries online and have them sent to his doorstep. It was simpler and it chased away any thoughts you might have had regarding an abandonment that would never come to pass.

Riddle doesn’t take issue with it. You’re learning as you go, and he’s realizing that hybrids are much more complex than he once imagined. Of course they’d be, though. They’re half-human, too, possessing much of the same emotional intelligence as complete humans. And sometimes you prove to be more insightful than he is—he, the researcher who spent the majority of his early twenties shackled to his schoolwork.

He wonders if you have any goals for your life. Any important items on a bucket list you might want to cross off. Or maybe you’ve never had the pleasure of indulging in these kinds of musings, for you’ve never been allowed that happiness.

Riddle stares at his reflection in the milk, stirring what’s left of soggy cereal with his spoon. It’s New Year’s Eve, but this will likely be the first year she’s ever felt truly free. Twenty-something years of nothingness… I can’t imagine what that’s like.

But he can. Partially. He lived it, grew up with the hollow in his heart—a void that needed to be filled with validation (and sometimes still does today). He was only ever whole when his mother recognized his efforts and told him what was right from wrong.

He’s not like that anymore, but some days it really does feel like he’s falling back into inherited habits, a caricature of the imperfect.

A paper plate drops down onto the table. Riddle flinches out of his spiral to find you lowering into the seat across from him.

“I hope it’s okay to sit here. It’s just that… Well, you looked sad and lonely eating by yourself. I thought I’d keep you company. It gets boring sitting in the next room over.”

“Right. Yes, of course.” He coughs, coltish. “I’ve finished here, so you don’t need to force yourself.”

“Who said I was forcing myself? I want to sit here. If it’s okay, that is.”

“Oh. All right then.”

You beam at him, eating as if nothing’s amiss. He sits in silence. This is the first time you’re eating with him. Crewel will enjoy hearing about that in the next email.

“We’ve an hour until the new year,” he says, still awkward despite having known you for a little over three months now. It’s occurred to him that what he lacks in socializing he makes up for in logic. Although sometimes he envies those who can have stupid, mindless fun and not have to fret over reputations and repercussions. “Do you have any resolutions?”

“Resolutions for the next year… What’re those?”

“They’re like goals. Things you hope to accomplish throughout the year. There are all kinds of goals—personal and social and financial.”

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

“New Year’s resolutions are notorious for being forgotten or discarded. Most people usually follow them within the first week before giving up.”

“Why’s that?”

“There’s appeal in wanting to fix something you’ve been putting off. Sometimes we need excuses to do the things we don’t want to.”

“Do you have anything like that?”

Riddle hesitates around his answer. I should call my mother. It’s been some time. I should also reorganize my study. It’s starting to look a little cluttered. I should get better at cooking. I should learn new recipes…

“Not exactly,” he says instead. “My only resolution is to help you.”

Your ears perk up at that, and your tail swings freely from side to side. He cracks a small smile at this visible sign of merriment.

“I want to help you, too! I’ll talk more and I’ll help you in the kitchen. That way you’ll never be sad or lonely again.”

“Did I truly look so distressed?”

“It doesn’t fit on your face. I like seeing Dr. Rosehearts when he’s in a good mood, so please feel better.” You hold your hand out. “You’re the first human to be nice to me. I want to return the favor.”

Riddle peers at your outstretched arm. You’re standing up and leaning over the table in order to reach him. It’s an endearing sight. “I’m just doing my job. It’s nothing special,” he admits, modest.

“But it is to me. So… So thank you. I hope all of your resolutions come true, even if you don’t know them yet.”

He nods, finally closing his hand around yours. It’s warm in his grasp, a rightful fit that fills him with felicity. This is what life is all about, he soon realizes. It’s not just endless studying or mundane days spent cooped up in the lab. It’s about simple, slow pleasures—about little joys savored in peaceful solitude. It’s getting swept up in the sweetness of housebound happiness.

Riddle thought this was the stuff of legend, an impossible, idealistic fairy tale. Now he knows that’s not true because he’s living it, and it’s the most flavorful dream he’s ever encountered.

“Oh, that reminds me! They’re playing the New Year’s program on TV. Shall we watch the last few minutes together?”

You gasp, your eyes bright with wonder. “Can we?”

“Absolutely. I think you’ll like it. Do be warned, though. There may be fireworks. I know loud sounds aren’t exactly comforting for you.”

Riddle recalls the first time you heard the grandfather clock announce itself with its booming chime. You hid in the corner, trembling all throughout the night. At the time he could only try to talk you through the fear, unable to offer physical comfort. But now you’ve grown accustomed to the clock and its sounds.

“I think I’ll be okay. You’ll be with me, right? And you can just turn the volume down if it’s too loud.”

Humming his agreement, he stands from the table. He aims to be suave and falls short, the feeling bleeding into surprise when you release his hand and dash into the sitting room. He clicks his tongue and follows after you, amused.

The room seems much brighter when you’re in it.

“Hurry! Hurry! You said there’s not much time left. I wanna see the countdown.” You pat the sofa insistently.

Riddle claims the space beside you, grabbing the remote and turning the TV on. He flips through the channels before landing on the right one. Just in time, too. It’s two minutes to midnight. With your stare pinned on the screen, Riddle’s free to admire you in secret. You’re practically vibrating with excitement, shifting and bouncing in one place. It’s impossible to imagine anyone wanting to hurt you when you’re too good for this world and its humans.

Perhaps that’s what makes it unfair.

The host holds a champagne flute in one hand and a microphone in the other, lifting it towards her co-host as they practice a playful toast. One minute left and then this tumultuous year will be behind him. He could spend it reflecting on every notable event from every month, on past years lived and lost to loneliness, but that would be futile. Nothing can compare to the time he’s lived with you, for those months are priceless and precious.

A timer displaying ten seconds flashes on the TV, descending through the numbers one by one. You stare, transfixed by the lights and sounds. Riddle watches you, drinking in your wide-eyed expressions like a man parched. The New Year is welcomed silently under his roof. No boisterous celebration needed. Distantly, just beyond his house or within the scene on TV, fireworks resound in joyous, explosive bangs. He intends to wish you a happy New Year, but you lean over and rest your head against his shoulder. He flinches, almost moving away out of instinct, but he remains seated. The contact is new but not terrible.

Opting to bask in the quiet alongside you, he clicks the volume down and watches what’s left of the program until you’re dozing. He’s never known peace quite like this before.

And while he guides you, sleepy and disoriented, to your bedroom, he wonders why he was ever trying so hard to stay impartial.

Three weeks into the New Year, Riddle’s woken at the ungodly hour of two in the morning. He blinks through the groggy haze of sleep, blindly feeling around for the switch on the coffee table. Lamplight casts the space in a pale yellow glow. You’re standing in the hall, fidgeting from hoof to hoof. He blinks, certain he’s dreaming, but you remain.

“(Name)? It’s late. What’s going on?”

“H-Hot,” comes your reply, thick and raspy.

Alarmed, he throws the covers off and sits up on the sofa. You flinch back, the reflex engraved into your being no matter how long it’s been.

“Sorry… Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Just—ah. Um…” He swipes his tousled fringe out of his eyes, clumsy and half-asleep. “Come to me instead. It’ll be okay.”

You hesitate for a beat before staggering towards him, knees wobbling all the way. He listens to the shaky clip-clop of your hooves on the hardwood. “Feels weird,” you elaborate. “My head is all foggy…”

Upon closer inspection, Riddle realizes you’re sweating as if you’ve just run a grueling race. Now he’s wide-awake and worried. A potent combination.

“Let me check.”

He makes sure you see his hand first before he reaches to touch your neck, assessing your pulse. It’s pounding beneath his fingertips, a wild thrum of barely restrained ardor. He moves to touch your forehead next, but you seize his wrist. He stares at you, bewildered.

Shuddering like a leaf in autumn, you guide his hand to the space between your legs. Riddle’s breath hitches when he feels the wet patch soaking through your shorts. He stumbles away in his shock, tearing his arm out of your hold. You shrink back, looking hurt and betrayed.

“Fuck,” he breathes, dazed while he watches you rub your thighs together.

Not good.

He knew this was coming, or he thought he knew. Admittedly, it was one of the last things he considered when making plans to house you. A major oversight that’s come back to bite him.

“W-What’s wrong? Is it bad?” You peer at him through lust-lidded eyes, your speech on the verge of slurring. “Am I gonna overheat and die?”

“What? No. No, of course not. It’s—you’re in estrus. I… I should’ve known better, but I didn’t and now—”

“Estrus? This isn’t sickness?”

“Have…” He swallows hard, palms unnaturally clammy. “H-Have you not experienced this before?”

“Mm, not that I remember… No, I usually—round things. A…pill. I was given pills,” you ramble in between high, reedy breaths, lashes fluttering. “Dr. Rosehearts, I can’t take it… S��hot all over. Make it stop. Please.”

Suppressants, he thinks and drags a hand over his face. It’s been put off for so long and now that you’re no longer on them it’s crashed into you all at once.

“I see. All right then. Well…” Riddle peeks at you through the cracks in his fingers. “I’m sorry. Had I known… If I was more adequately prepared, I’d have made sure to get you something… S-Something to help with…it…”

“You… You know how to make it go away, r-right?”

Riddle inhales sharply. “I…”

Riddle Rosehearts, don’t you dare, he reprimands himself. You know better.

Does he, though?

His mouth moves faster than his brain, sparing him the consequent morality crisis. Before he can slip into that debate, he instructs you to sit down and spread your legs.

“A-Are you sure that’ll help?”

“I promise,” he whispers, stressing the syllables. You take another moment to watch his face before nodding and obediently following his commands. He lowers to his knees like a sinner on trial, holding yours apart before they can close. “I’m here for you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, body tensing.

“Relax. You’re okay. It’ll pass.”

“When?”

“It’ll be a few days. The estrous cycle for a mare usually lasts around twenty-one days. There are two phases—you’re in the first. You’ll feel like this for about a week, but I’ll do my best to help where I can.”

If I can.

You whine when his fingers drag against your skin. They hook around the waistband of your shorts and he slides them down.

Sensitive, he notes, lips curving up into a tiny smile. Cute.

He knows he shouldn’t go any further than this. His thoughts are enough to scandalize even the most open-minded researcher, and he can’t possibly include this in his biweekly report. Just what would Crewel think of him? What would any of his colleagues think? You’re a specimen, the focal point of his research, and he’s kneeling before you with a head full of obscene imagery. Riddle really should stop before he crosses the line between right and wrong and surpasses the point of no return.

There’s no coming back from this—no chance of returning to the dynamic of scientist and subject.

But what else can he do? Leave you in this state, where you’d feel sticky and miserable throughout the week? At the very least, if he’s going to throw morals aside and embrace depravity, he might as well relieve you of this biological burden. He can deal with his own later.

If he wanted to be clinical about it, he could dress in his uniform, don a pair of rubber gloves, and put on a surgical mask. Perhaps that would ease his guilty conscience. But he’s already come so far; it’s too late for any of that.

“Just breathe. You’re all right.”

You do so, inhaling and exhaling in shaky intervals. His dick, half-hard and yearning, throbs against his pajama pants. Pressing two fingers to the damp outline of your pussy, he feels your slick soaking through the fabric and knows it’s pointless to try to will his erection away with bland, boring thoughts. He couldn’t even if he wanted to—not when your voice is in his ears, your every gasp more alluring than the last.

“Please…” You grab at the blanket, throwing your head back against the sofa. “Please.”

You don’t even know what it is you’re begging for, but you’re begging nonetheless. Riddle finds the sight adorably addictive. He pokes and prods, tracing your folds through your underwear to estimate the exact shape and size. He’s proven correct when he peels the sodden garment away, tossing it over his shoulder.

“You’re very pretty here,” he observes, the ribald remark coming out more refined and flattering than he intended. “Like a rose in bloom.”

You shiver and whine impatiently. “Hurry… Make it go away—please, Dr. Rosehearts.”

He wants to take his time exploring, the researcher side of his brain infinitely intrigued. But that’s not feasible when you look just about ready to melt into a puddle of sweat. So he does away with any ideas of foreplay, abandoning the thought of building tension when it’s already at its peak, and slides two fingers along your puffy slit. You gasp and shiver when those digits circle your clit, massaging the area generously. He’s not sure what he’s doing at first, the motions foreign to his clumsy fingers, but he’s studied so many anatomy diagrams in his time and it boosts some of his confidence. That’s really all that guides him along. There’s also the lust, but he’s ignoring it. Sort of.

Not really.

Riddle slides his fingers deeper, amazed at how easily they’re sucked in. You cry out and buck your hips up to meet his hand.

“M-More—oh!”

“Greedy thing,” he mumbles, but there isn’t any bite to the non-insult. “I’ve only just put them in and you’re already feening for more.”

“Sorry. Sorry… I—haa—I can’t help it.”

“It’s all right. Only fair, after all.” He glances up at you and smiles angelically. “This is to be expected. It’s your first heat.”

“First heat… You mean there’s more?”

Riddle’s breath catches in his throat. How should he explain it—that this will happen every breeding season and there’s nothing to stave the inevitable? Unless, of course, medicine is used to tamper with hormones and cycles. Riddle wonders if Crewel would send some over if he asked, but that would require telling him about this and he doesn’t want to risk being too grossly candid.

“It’s…complicated. You don’t need to concern yourself with the specifics right now. Let’s just focus on getting through this one, okay?”

“Okay.”

His other hand rubs appreciatively along your inner thigh. “Good girl.”

You smile and sink back against the sofa. Riddle sets to work driving his fingers in and out, curling them every now and then to stretch you and admire the way your pussy weeps. It’ll be a pain to clean the couch, but it’s not like he’s particularly attached to it. He’s due for a new one anyway. Your gasps fill the room with pretty pitches of pleasure. He gazes at your face as it flickers through desperation and desire, both blending together to make you look perfectly blissed-out. If you had any thoughts in that head, they’re all but pomace now. Surely, otherwise you’d be more coherent in between shameless moans.

There’s a side of Riddle that knows, and it takes all of his willpower not to address it. It’s just part of any animal’s biological clock. Of course you’d be thinking about it, whether consciously or not, during your heat. At the very least, if not your brain, your body recognizes the imperative to sink down on his three fingers all at once as if they’re a cock.

But he can’t lose in his internal war with ethicality. Because if he loses it’ll end with you pumped full of as much cum as he can possibly give, and then he’ll be known as the man who knocked up his hybrid specimen. It’s tempting like the worst drug, a sure-fire way to distort his linear logic. It’s bad; he knows. But it would be so much better to replace his fingers with the real thing and fulfill mutual urges in unison.

I wish.

He can’t, so he won’t fall prey to the charm of concupiscence.

It takes a few more determined thrusts and a pinch to your clit, and you’re squirting on his fingers with a pornographic squeal. He stares at the mess dampening the blanket in muted astonishment.

Riddle didn’t know a reaction like this was possible.

He’s humiliated at his inexperience. His lessons in anatomy have always been strictly scientific, and he’s never explored anything outside of that box. He’s never been horny enough to masturbate to porn either. To think the human body is capable of such a feat when caught in the throes of ecstasy… Just what else can you do?

You’re panting when you come down from your orgasm, eyes pinned on the ceiling. He knows you’re nowhere near satiated and so, after determining you’re okay, he continues his ministrations. He’s just being greedy now. Can you blame him?

“Dr. Rosehearts, I want—” your fingers wrap around his wrist, testing his restraint, but he resists the temptation— “I want more… Deeper. Bigger. Please…”

“I… I can’t,” he manages, the words strained with regret.

He wants nothing more than to plaster you to the sofa and rut into you with reckless abandon, hard and fast and then soft and slow. Enough times to ensure you’d be staggering on unsteady hooves come morning. He’d do so in a heartbeat if not for the repercussions and the rules, an entire novel’s worth of them reminding him of the facts. He can’t win in a match against nature. It’s impossible.

“I’ll be good. I won’t ask for anything ever again. So please—”

Riddle heaves a mournful sigh. “I want to help, but this is as much as I can do—as far as we can go. I’m sorry.”

The risks are greater than the reward. I can’t.

But he wants to.

I could lose my job. I’d be outcasted. They’d never look at me the same.

You fix your lips into a despairing moue and pat the space beside him. “Then… C-Can you come up here? Sit next to me.”

With his fingers still thrust up inside you, he rises from the floor and moves in to kneel on the cushions beside you. His arm wraps around you to keep you steady while the other remains between your legs. This newfound proximity allows you to cling to him, and you fall back onto the sofa with him on top. Riddle adjusts the position to straddle you, trapped between your legs as they close around his waist. He props himself up with his other hand, placed right beside your head. You loop your arms around his neck and drag him down, endeavoring to pin your bodies like priceless art on a wall. He doesn’t object, allowing himself to be pulled.

Riddle peers into your glossy eyes. Fairy-tale tears cling to your lashes, trickling down your cheeks in delicate droplets.

“How do you feel? Any better?”

“Still the same,” you grieve, chest heaving. Your eyes trail down to the very obvious tightness in his pants, and you quickly blink overstimulated tears away. “You… You’re in estrus, too?”

He almost cums right then when you press your palm against his crotch. Momentarily stunned, he bows his head and tamps down a gratuitous groan.

How, pray tell, is he supposed to win the war when he’s the weakest soldier of all, tethered to his restraint by a flimsy set of morals?

“No, not estrus. No, this is—” He hisses through his teeth, his brows furrowing. “H-Hold on. If you touch there…”

As he says it, he rocks against your hand. You squeeze him through his pants, and the hand that had been diligently caressing your cunt stops for a brief second. He can’t get carried away, but he’s already on the verge of cumming and you’ve only touched him twice. Not even skin to skin but through fabric! That must be a new form of pathetic.

“I wanna help you, too.”

“Yes—right, I understand. But it’s not—” 

Riddle swallows the rest of that sentence, breathing hot and heavy. His attempt to feign composure is weak. He knows there’s no point to it, but he tries anyway. A wasted effort. Before he can think any further, he reaches down to grab your hand. He lifts it to his lips, hesitates, and then presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles. You watch him through hazy eyes, warming beneath him like cinders in a hearth.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

You grip his hand with renewed affection. “Are you sure? You don’t look fine.”

Riddle can feel the blush setting his face aflame. “Perfectly fine. This is normal.”

His fingers delve deeper, searching for that special spot within, and the discussion ends there. Your protests taper off into lewd incoherency. He decides then that he’ll buy you a few toys to make up for tonight.

Better bloodless silicone than something with real risk, he concludes, watching you twitch and writhe.

He’s made up his mind. 

Or so he thinks.

You reach for his cheek, brushing your fingertips along his jaw. He smiles and leans into your touch. It’s fleeting, a mere few seconds of sweetness, and then that same hand is at the back of his head. You yank him down with surprising force and smash your lips against his. He freezes like he’s just fallen into arctic waters, his fingers halting inside of you.

It’s Riddle’s first kiss at thirty-one.

He doesn’t outwardly panic, but his mind is a muddle. He should kiss back, shouldn’t he? But he’s never kissed before! How does one even go about kissing? Is there a technique he should practice to perfection? Does that even exist? He’s drowning in so much distracting doubt that he almost misses the way your tongue slides across his lower lip.

If there exists a method to his madness, this is surely it.

Riddle kisses you like he’s dying. There’s no rhythm to the exchange. It’s a mere meeting of mouths and minds, brought together for the singular purpose of hedonistic indulgence. His thoughts are all but dumb mush by the third kiss. Not that he really needs to think about anything at all. You’re teetering on the edge once more; he can see it on your face. Your ears twitch at every new sound he makes, curious and content. You’re not afraid.

He’s so relieved. You trust him, and he trusts you.

Gasping into your mouth, he pulls his hand from between your legs and grabs hold of your hips, dragging you closer. He doesn’t need to look to know he’s already soiled his underwear, cum dampening the fabric. All at once he feels like less of a level-headed adult and more of an insatiable adolescent who’s just learned of sex for the first time. Which, technically, this is his first time. Yours, too. 

And he’s ashamed. Not because he came from kissing alone, but because he didn’t get to do it inside—and it’s a dangerous thought like this one that stokes the shame in his belly until it’s near-volcanic. Despite this, he can’t stop himself from rutting against you, still fully-clothed and achingly stiff. 

“Dr. Rosehearts…”

“What is it?” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead.

A sob shakes through your body like a seismic tremor. “Please… Please just put it in. I can’t take it anymore. Hurts.”

“Next time. For now…” He swallows the lump in his throat. It’s not wise to make promises like that, but he’s come so far already. “This will have to suffice. I’m sorry.”

You nod even though you look like you want to argue. To make up for it, he peppers your face with quick kisses until a dreamy grin sprawls on your face.

“There we are. A pretty smile for a pretty lady. No sadness, okay?” He brushes your clit again and you’re gone, tipped over the edge into a mind-numbing climax. “Just relax for tonight. You’re in capable hands, my dear.”

The hours stretch on into a vicious cycle of hot and cold. You emerge from the haze long enough to snack on apple slices and toast before you’re inevitably pawing at his arm for assistance. He suspects the days that follow will be the same, exhausting not only his body and its physical and mental capacities but his patience as well. It’s nothing he can’t handle. He didn’t survive years of higher education just to lose to his dick. What sort of researcher would he be if he allowed that to happen?

Embarrassingly, the first item on Riddle’s list for next month’s necessities is a box of condoms. I won’t need it, but it’s important to be prepared, he reasons. Just in case. But even he knows that’s a bald-faced lie.

So he decides he’ll get two boxes.

Partway through the program, Riddle receives a benumbing email. Notwithstanding the upbeat, jazzy notes spilling from the record player, the melody doesn’t put his frazzled nerves to rest. If anything, it serves as background music for his worries.

I’ve been in contact with the higher-ups. They’re quite impressed with your results. If all continues to go well, we might just be able to find a home for her. A few buyers have already expressed interest. Keep up the fine work, Dr. Rosehearts.

- Divus Crewel

Riddle must have read those five lines a dozen times before he decides to confront the truth. The lab is making plans to sell you after rehabilitation.

“There’s no feasible way… What is he thinking?” Riddle mumbles, scrolling through old emails to distract himself. “This is a process. He can’t just—he can’t shove her into society and expect all to be well! She’s not some pet to be sold off either.”

He lowers his head onto his desk, fighting the urge to yawn and simultaneously filter through the stages of grief. It’s late. He should get to bed. But how can he sleep with this weighing heavy on his mind?

“Ridiculous,” he snaps with a scoff, returning to the email once more. “Risible, even. I won’t allow it.”

His fingers tap the keys one by one, hesitant at first. Eventually, he types a harsh, angry message that reads more like a rant than a respectful email. Riddle simmers in that tension while he deletes every word. It helps a little—grounds him enough to start drafting a real email. He types in time with the energetic sax and drums, each blending together to form a seamless flow. Relaxing in his office chair, he taps his foot to the rhythm.

Just then, his door opens. He sees your ears over the top of his computer and pushes away from his desk to take you in from head to toe. You look comfortable in your satin nightgown, tail frizzy and tangled from rolling around in bed. He’s reminded of the times he’d brush Vorpal, smoothing down his coat with even strokes.

“Dr. Rosehearts?” you mumble, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Did I wake you? Sorry… I’m a little busy with work right now and I lost track of the time.” He glances at the record player. “I’ll stop this so you can go back to—”

“Oh, no! No, please don’t. I like it.”

“Ah, is that so? In that case, come closer. Let’s listen together.”

He lifts the tonearm to play the song from the beginning. Music soon filters out of the turning vinyl. You hurry to his side, placing your hands on his desk and leaning in close to peer at the record player. He watches your tail swish languidly.

“Amazing… How does it do that?”

“Play music?” You nod eagerly, and he smiles. “The needle runs across every groove on the record, and from there it takes the vibrations from the moving record to make sound.”

“Wow. That’s so fancy.”

Riddle chuckles. “Actually, it’s a bit dated. I’ve had it for quite some time. Nowadays, everyone’s streaming music from their phones because it’s easier.”

That’s what the youth do, right? he thinks desperately, as if you might correct him.

“But this is so wonderful! I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s like…magic.”

“Is it really?” Riddle doesn’t realize he’s propped his elbow against his desk, his cheek resting casually in his palm. He snaps out of the daze moments later and clicks the email away even though he knows you can’t understand it. “Here—pull up that chair. You can move the books.”

You do as you’re told, dragging it over and plopping down without hesitation. “So what’s this song called?”

“It’s a classic. ‘Fly Me to the Moon,’ to be more specific.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a metaphor of sorts. He’s singing about how much his loved one makes him feel—that he feels very happy whenever he’s with them. Up in the clouds. On the moon. Of course this is an impossible feat for just anyone to accomplish—flying to the moon, I mean—so that alone is supposed to describe just how elated he is with his lover.”

“Lover? Is that like you and me?”

He knows you don’t mean it in that context, but he still flusters. Awkwardly, he coughs into his hand. “N-Not exactly… This is a love song. A romantic love song.”

“Ohhh.” You gaze at the record as it spins, head cocked to the side. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s like—” Riddle pauses, unsure of how to properly explain the concept of romance when he himself has never understood it. His mother and father are not a romantic standard by any means. Still, he has to make an effort. “There are different kinds of love. Romantic love is…love in which you can share intimacy and affection with another person. Like kissing or holding hands. Dating and marriage. At least, I think it’s something like that…”

“Then what about that time you helped me during my heat? Is that also romantic love?”

Riddle shakes his head, recalling that night with ferocious clarity. “That’s a little different.”

“How so? We kissed, didn’t we?”

“Y-Yes… But that was just a physical way of expressing desire.”

“Desire?”

“You don’t have to be in love to kiss someone. Sometimes it’s a matter of physical attraction. Besides, you weren’t thinking clearly that night.”

Neither was I, but that’s besides the point.

“Oh. But, Dr. Rosehearts, I like you because you’re nice. I think you’re very smart, too. And you’re always here to help! Physical or not, you’re amazing.”

Riddle blinks back at you. Your bold, plain-spoken nature never fails to surprise. He exhales a long breath, as if he’s losing air and slowly deflating, and places his hand on your head. You allow him to pet you, your eyes falling shut. He scratches behind your ears, carding his hand through your scalp. A wave of intense sorrow washes over him. In just two months, you’ll be on your way out the door and he’ll never see you again. He can’t allow that. But what else is he supposed to do to prevent that? He has a job to do and rules to follow. What he really needs is more time. More months to stall the inevitable.

A year passes much too quickly when it’s lived out in serenity. He’s gotten too used to living like this—to the beauty and bliss of friendly coexistence.

“Thank you for saying so,” he murmurs, his hand sliding down to your face. You lean into his palm, eyes flicking open to watch him. He runs his thumb over your cheek.

In just two months, he’ll lose the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

The song swells once more before trickling into a joyful conclusion. His arm falls to his side. 

“Let’s listen to another one, yes?”

“Can we really?”

“We can listen to as many as you’d like.”

“You’re the best!”

With a chuckle, Riddle rifles through the many records on his shelves, each organized by decade and genre. He skims through them until he lands on one in particular, pulling it free from its confinement. He admires the design on the sleeve for a short moment before taking the record out and exchanging it with the former. It’s packed away in its original casing, placed back on the shelf in its rightful spot.

“This one’s good, too. I think you’ll like it.”

“What’s it called?”

He sets the tonearm down. “‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.’ Another classic.”

You sit and listen to the music alongside him, absorbing every honeyed lyric. And then, after the instrumental has reached its excitable peak, you grin knowingly. “You sure like your love songs.”

Riddle laughs sheepishly. “It does seem like that, doesn’t it?”

Some of his first records were albums and single songs purchased from his time abroad. He can’t remember what compelled him to poke his head inside the little record store set into some obscure, hole-in-the-wall location in a quiet corner of the city. Maybe it was curiosity or a longing for a new learning experience. He’ll never forget the wise words of the shop owner, though: “Music is special in that it’s like food. There’s something for everyone. And if nothing else, music brings us together and allows us to forget our troubles for a moment to soak in the song itself.”

Since then, Riddle’s developed an affinity for collecting records. New and old, they’ve filled the shelves in his study over the years. The shop owner’s words are abundantly clear now. Sharing music is a lovely thing. Sitting with you, delighting in the stories and messages woven into beautiful instrumentals, Riddle realizes he’s never known this feeling before. This gentle connection. Maybe he’s happy someone else can appreciate these songs alongside him, or maybe there’s more to it than simple enjoyment.

“Love songs are so beautiful…”

He hums his agreement, basking in the singer’s whimsical voice as he admits, “‘And let me love you, baby. Let me love you…’”

You fall silent then, and he assumes you’re listening and imagining all sorts of fluffy scenarios to pair with the tune. But when he turns to check if you’re still sitting there, he finds you staring at him.

“Is this one no good? I can change it. Would you like to hear something from another decade or in another language? We don’t have to stay in the fifties and sixties.”

“No, this is fine. I’m just looking at you.”

“May I ask why?”

“You looked so peaceful. The Dr. Rosehearts I know usually looks stressed or sleepy.”

Now acutely aware of the dark circles under his eyes, Riddle winces. He does have that look about him, doesn’t he? The gloomy, sleep-deprived sort that puts into question whether he’s the sociable type.

“I’ll make an effort to fix my schedule.”

“Please do so as soon as possible. You have to promise.”

He snorts, amused. “I promise, Dr. (Name).”

Your once-serious expression softens, and you giggle. “You’re the doctor here, not me!”

I’m not a very good one, he thinks. Good doctors don’t feel these things for their patients.

Frankie Valli fills the quiet with his heartfelt declarations: “I love you, baby. And if it’s quite alright I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night.”

He’s not sure what he’s doing when he leans forward. The tug is magnetizing, tension budding and blossoming in time with the rhythm of the song. You meet him halfway to close the gap. It’s an innocent peck. Nothing as libidinous as last time. You drift away slightly, still staring into his soul. If he felt like it, he could move in for another kiss.

“C-Can we—”

And he does. Unlike last time, his lips mold to yours naturally. He’s still not very confident in his technique, or lack thereof, but this time he’s led on by a desire more potent than bodily cravings. Riddle places his hands on the chair to cage you in. You reciprocate in this manner, grabbing his shoulders to drag him closer. The both of you kiss each other breathless, unable to keep away. You dig your fingers in his hair and melt into the messiness. Riddle knows he’s not dreaming. That assumption withers into nothing after the fifth kiss.

It’s when the song has ended that he pulls back, his heart in his throat and his eyes blown wide. A single strand of saliva connects your mouths, snapping when you move further back. The feeling that courses through his body, electrifying his nerves with pinpricks of anxious excitement, is exhilarating.

“Yes,” he manages, hoping you’ll understand. His fingers interlace with yours. “Yes, we can.”

The tonearm is lifted from the record, but that’s as far as he gets before you’re seizing his wrist and yanking him towards your bedroom. He just manages to snatch a handful of condoms from his desk drawer on his way out.

Rather impatiently, you shove him down on your bed. He stares, stunned by your intrepid temperament, so much so that he’s almost boneless when you make quick work of his clothes. They’re thrown aside in your haste. You strip yourself of your nightgown next. The frilly fabric pools at your hooves. He’s not sure why his first instinct is to give you privacy, shielding his view. But then you’re crawling onto the bed and pulling his arms aside. You peer down at him, smiling hopefully.

Lying flat on his back, Riddle thinks he just went to Heaven and met an angel.

You palm him through his underwear, and he’s ashamed that he’s already hard and leaking pre-cum. You don’t seem to mind. In fact, he watches your tongue as it darts out to wet your lips. The one thing he deprived you of in the midst of your heat when you needed it most, and now you get to have it. He’d be a fool to try to deny the fact that he’s also just as eager to sink himself inside you and make good on a promise he uttered long ago.

He squeaks when you seat yourself on his lap and wiggle your hips like a slut. Despite the fabric preventing raw skin to skin contact, he can still feel the outline of your pussy pressing against his erection. He’s dizzy and overwhelmed, still in disbelief that this is even happening.

“I think about you a lot,” you admit suddenly, and his eyes flick from your waist to your face.

“What?” he mutters oh-so-smartly.

“When I’m in the bath, I think about that night you helped me and I—” You bite your lip, coy and shy and so cute. As if you couldn’t get even more appealing. Oh, you’re driving him wild. “I touch myself and pretend it’s you. I use the toys you got me, but it’s not the same. It’s not you.”

Riddle’s eyes widen to a comical size. “Does…” His mouth dries up. “Does it have to be me?”

“Yes, it has to be you. Who else?”

His fingers dance along your bare stomach, tracing a path towards your breasts. Indeed, who else? Who else if not him, the only human qualified to care for and protect you?

“You should’ve told me sooner. I would’ve helped.”

“Why didn’t you before?”

“It was reckless. I couldn’t…”

You rock your hips. He hisses through his teeth. “I don’t care about risks and consequences.”

But I do.

Does he, though? Does he, Riddle Rosehearts, really, truly, honestly care about those things? He thinks he does—knows he ought to—but he doesn’t. Not this time.

He’s still going to use a condom. So maybe he cares a little. He’s not that impetuous.

It takes some persuading, but he manages to convince you to get off of him long enough so he can pull your panties off. His underwear goes next. He intends to switch to missionary, hoping to be romantically memorable, if not predictably traditional. But you push him back down. He doesn’t object to this. Witnessing you take charge is more fascinating than anything he had in mind. Most of his ideas for tonight are plainly vanilla. He’d probably cum if you traced the palm lines on his hand.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asks, fumbling to unwrap a condom. He’s impressed when he rolls it on one-handed. He practiced that same trick weeks ago, determined to master it then and impress you later. It’s not a useful skill by any means, but it looks attractive. “If you’d rather we take things slowly—”

“I can’t wait any longer. Please,” you beg, querulous. “I need you right now or I’ll die!”

He laughs at your dramatics. “Well, in that case, we best not delay.”

Riddle drinks all of you in as you wrap your hand around him. He sucks in a shuddering breath, tensing on instinct when you line yourself up. The head of his cock prods at your folds. Suddenly, he has no idea what to do or where to put his hands.

“Relax. It’s okay,” you murmur, squeezing him for good measure. He throbs in your hand. How is he going to restrain himself when he’s already on the precipice? You’ll be the death of him.

Your face contorts with concentration, brows knitted and lips pursed, and you bore down slowly. He doesn’t want to miss a moment of this, so he forces his eyes open. Awkwardly, he searches for your hands and, finding them, holds on tight. You offer him a wobbly smile, your fingers curling sweetly around his. It’s a slow process. You don’t seem to be in any rush and neither is he. Inches are swallowed gradually. He’s certain it’d feel better without the protection, but that’s something to consider for the future. Right now he’s focused on you, on the way you gasp and dig your nails into his hands, on the way your walls clench around his cock in a slick, sinful embrace.

“You’re doing so well.” One of his hands slides from your grasp to rub your hip. “Take your time.”

“Dr. Rosehearts—” you place your hand over his, flustered— “Dr. Rosehearts—”

“Riddle,” he blurts. “My first name.”

“Riddle… It’s lovely just like you.”

He flushes scarlet up to his ears. “Is it?”

“Mhm. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I… I don’t know. I guess—” he groans when you shift on his lap— “guess it never occurred to me.”

I was trying to distance myself. If I’m Dr. Rosehearts to you, it’s easier to avoid the obvious. He sighs, but it comes out pleasured instead of wistful. What even is the obvious?

He can’t admit it outright because then it would be real—more so than a passing thought. He can’t even be sure if you feel the same! Why ruin a good thing? Riddle wonders if that question matters as much as it used to. After all, none of this will mean anything in two months.

“I’m gonna start moving.”

Your voice brings him back to the present. Why is he even looking ahead in the first place? Two months is plenty of time. Even though he soothes himself with this fact, he knows it’s not enough. He’s acting greedy and spoiled, coveting more than just temporary tranquility.

He’d grouse that it’s not fair, but it’s never been fair. He has no room to voice his complaints, and even if he does he’s certain he won’t be heard. This is a reality he must accept.

You lift yourself off of him and slam down in one quick motion. Throwing your head back, you gasp in unison with him. It’s snug and warm, but it’s perfect. You squirm and search for the right pace while he encourages you with a patient smile. Within no time, you settle into the rhythm, fucking yourself on him like a natural, and he can only admire your figure from below, his hands permanently laced with yours. You look and feel soft. It’s the only adjective flitting about in his head while he follows your bouncing tits, entranced like they’re the most fascinating thing on the planet. And to him, a virgin at thirty-one, they most certainly are.

The hand that had been petting your waist glides over to the space between your legs. He marvels at the way you’re stretched around him, inches sliding in and out with your gyrations. Loud, bawdy moans spill from your parted lips. Finding his confidence, he grinds his thumb into your clit to watch you come further undone. It prompts more whines from the depths of your throat.

“Yes! Oh, thank you, Dr. Rosehearts. Please keep touching me there!”

“Unless you tell me, I don’t intend to stop.” He didn’t even know his voice could reach a pitch as deep as it does, tinged thick with a ravenous lust. “You’re such a pretty girl… So sweet for me.”

“It’s—ooh!—just like the song.” You tilt your head at him, eyes glittering in the dimming dark. “I can’t take my eyes off of you.”

Riddle thinks he’s losing his mind because, though it’s so far from funny, he giggles like an infatuated schoolgirl. “‘You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you,’” he quotes, beside himself with euphoria. He meets your plush ass halfway, bucking his hips up into you. Your grip on his hand tightens. “Do you remember the rest? ‘Pardon the way that I stare…’”

“‘There’s nothin’ else to compare.’” 

“‘The sight of you leaves me weak. There are no words left to speak.’”

“That’s it!” A bright smile blesses the beautiful face that’s left him besotted. It’s taken time, but you’ve blossomed under his care. He’s proud of you. “I’ve got good memory, don’t I? I only listened to it once, but I remembered the line.”

“You have excellent memory,” he praises, rewarding you with another gentle massage to your clit.

“Will you—mmh, haa… Will you play more love songs for me?”

Riddle hesitates. It’s just music. There doesn’t have to be any deeper meaning involved, and he doesn’t want you to get the wrong idea. He thinks he should distance himself, dig a cavern before he falls any further, but that’s impossible when your bodies are so closely connected. And he likes sharing slices of his life with you. It’s like marriage but without the legalities or ceremony. You’ve never had a surname of your own. You could take his and the unofficial could become official within the confines of this little paradise.

“O-Of course,” he answers around a groan, his composure cracking.

The conversation falls apart when you set to work fucking yourself on him. It’s salaciously slapdash, the way the squelch of skin on skin reverberates in the room. He’s nearing the edge of ecstasy, as are you, and he feels free. Unbound by the rules, if only for tonight.

He allows himself to wade through passionate waters, his body ablaze with unquelled vehemence. Time trickles onwards. He rubs you to your peak, witnesses you squirt with a noisy cry. You call out for him and something in him snaps. His fingers dig into your hips and he drags you down on top of him. Riddle fucks you through your orgasm, fueled by your tearful gaze. You babble senselessly—how good it is, how you never want him to stop, how it’s too much and too little and just enough all at once. It’s not long until he’s reaching his apogee. Eyes shut, lips pressed in a thin line, he holds you still when he spills over.

Riddle comes back to himself seconds later, blinking through the fog. You pet his hair fondly, flopping beside him. Instinctively, he brings his hand up to your head to return the gesture. The two of you are a tacky, breathless mess, reeking of sex and sin. It’s an invigorating smell, waking him right up.

“Again,” you plead.

You shimmy enough for his cock to slide out. Riddle doesn’t know his limits yet, but he expects to be mostly flaccid. So it’s a pleasant surprise to find he’s still somewhat hard. Vibrating with a woozy sort of giddiness, his stomach a butterfly garden, he removes and ties the condom filled with his spend. He almost doesn’t believe it. His first time with you. More than just fingers and kisses. Sex.

He pulls you closer, flipping the position so that you’re caged beneath him and he’s on top. “Give me a minute and then we’ll go again.”

You open your mouth to demand more, so he grants that unspoken wish with a kiss. Your fingers wrap carefully around his cock while you lick languidly into each other’s mouths. It’s dangerous, the hold you have on him; he ought to have a new condom within reach. Just in case.

“You’re not tired?”

Riddle grins, smug. “I should be if I want to fix my schedule.”

You pout. “Do that tomorrow.”

“Doctor’s orders?”

“Doctor’s orders.”

The night is long and sleepless, but, tangled in your arms, it’s the most bliss he’s ever known.

Like a dreadful harbinger of calamity, destined to descend at the expiration of two months, Crewel arrives a day earlier than what Riddle was expecting.

“Shit,” he mutters, carding his fingers through his hair. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Dr. Rosehearts?” You peer at him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“This isn’t what we agreed upon,” he’s rambling to himself, pacing before the door. “I specifically said I would bring her in tomorrow. We still have one more day. This isn’t—this is completely unfair!”

“Dr. Rosehearts?” You tap his shoulder and he startles.

“Oh, (Name)! Hello. Did I worry you? I’m a little…troubled. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” He smooths his hair down. “Can you wait in the bedroom? I’ll be back. I just need to talk to someone. I won’t be more than a few minutes.”

Riddle flashes you a soothing smile that’s mostly forced, but it does the trick. You linger for a moment before turning and retreating down the hall. Inhaling a steadying breath, he grips the handle and steps outside. The door shuts softly behind him. He feels brittle, like he’ll break at the slightest tap.

“Dr. Crewel, this isn’t what we discussed.”

“I thought I’d come a day in advance. That shouldn’t be a detriment to the results.”

“It is, actually. I haven’t had time to tell her about…” He shakes his head. “You can’t take her. Not today. She isn’t ready.”

“If your emails are any proof, I’d say she’s plenty ready.” Crewel folds his arms and eyes Riddle dubiously. “Furthermore, I don’t believe this is the proper place to hold a private conversation.”

“I urge you to reconsider. She’s—Dr. Crewel, it’s only been a year. She’s not ready for other humans.”

“But she’s at peace with you.”

“And she won’t be with you—or anyone else, for that matter.” He steps in front of Crewel when he strides forward to grab the door knob. Riddle bristles, threatened. “I refuse to throw her back into an unsafe environment. We can’t even be sure the buyers will treat her well.”

“Of course we can. Background checks exist for a reason. She’ll go to a good home.”

“She doesn’t need a ‘good home.’ This is wrong, Dr. Crewel. I agreed to rehabilitate her. That was all.”

“And you’ve done just that. Nothing more and nothing less.” Crewel sighs. “Dr. Rosehearts, I understand your attachment is coming from a place of sympathy, but a good trainer knows to separate himself from the pup he’s looking after.”

You’re wrong.

Riddle opens his mouth to object, but Crewel’s eyes narrow. “Before you speak, I advise you to take your surroundings into account.”

With a stiff nod, he submits and opens the door. Crewel steps inside and peers around the interior in search of you. It’s then when Riddle notices the pack slung over his shoulder. It reminds him of a medical kit. His heart drops into his stomach.

“Who are these buyers? Are they safe? Trustworthy? Do they have any criminal offenses noted on their records?”

“The Felmiers are a reliable lot. They run a family-owned apple orchard in Harveston. They have a son around her age. I’m certain she’ll get along with him. Arrangements have already been made to deliver her by next week or so. Should all go well, I intend to follow that schedule.”

Riddle stares at him, gutted like a goldfish.

“You…” He barks out a hollow, disbelieving laugh. “You’re serious?”

“Did you think I wasn’t?” Shrugging the pack off, Crewel sets it on the table. He slides on a pair of latex gloves before procuring a syringe from inside. He flicks the needle before turning towards Riddle. “Now then, is the hybrid around?”

“Are you mad?” he hisses, intercepting Crewel on his way down the hall. “No needles. No sedatives. She’ll go peacefully if you give me time to talk to her. With all due respect, Dr. Crewel, your sudden arrival will stress her out. She’s not expecting you. She’s only comfortable with me.”

“That’s why I plan to put her to sleep. We can avoid most of that.” Crewel gestures to the syringe. “Would you prefer to do it instead?”

“I’d prefer to do it another way.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have time for that.” Crewel brushes past him. “I’d like to be back at the lab before noon.”

Riddle grits his teeth, frantically scraping his brain for a solution. There has to be something he can do—anything! He’s a researcher; it’s in his blood to be innovative and intelligent. But what else can he do? He has to protect you. He has to comfort you. He’s supposed to do all of these important tasks, and Crewel’s ruining it. Putting hard work and progress aside, he doesn’t want to destroy the trust you’ve placed in him.

Before he can get swept up in a panic, your frightened whinny pierces the air. His heart crumbles in his chest.

“Dr. Crewel, wait!” He hurries into the room just in time to find the lead researcher gripping your arm. You lock stares with him from where you’re cowering in the corner, tears running down your cheeks in salty rivulets. The uncertainty flashing in your eyes is almost tangible, spotted with flecks of fear. “Don’t panic. It’s okay! He’s just—we’re bringing you back to the lab for…tests. You’ll be okay. He won’t hurt you.”

But that’s a lie. All of it is.

You attempt to yank your arm back, but Crewel holds firm. “Be a good pup and listen to Dr. Rosehearts.”

“No! Let go of me!” You thrash, kicking out with your hooves and narrowly missing Crewel’s ankle. You glance fiercely at him, your expression broken and betrayed. “Dr. Rosehearts, you promised! You said you wouldn’t—you promised!”

He did, didn’t he?

With a clenched jaw, Riddle turns his back on you. There’s nothing he can say or do to make it better. You fight Crewel with everything you’ve got, crying out when the needle pierces your skin, and you continue to struggle up until the sedative takes effect. Eventually, your sniffles and sobs grow silent and your body falls still, breathing evening out into something peaceful. Riddle frowns at you when he turns around.

“You care. That much is apparent,” Crewel comments as he gathers you in his arms, passing Riddle the empty syringe. He stares at it, frigid and unfeeling. “But I expect you to exhibit just a little more professionalism next time.”

“Of course. It won’t happen again,” he grinds out, stepping aside to allow Crewel passage. “I’ll pack the suitcase and then we can be off.”

The drive to the lab is made in stifling silence. Riddle follows behind Crewel, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles blanche. By the time he’s made it to the facility, he’s a numb husk.

I should’ve done something.

But what can he do? This was unavoidable.

Like an empty puppet, he walks woodenly beside Crewel. He’s back where he began: the examination room where he first encountered you. Only this time it’s not for a meeting but, rather, a departure. Crewel lays you down on the metal table, delegating orders to the few lingering assistant researchers. They spring into action and strap you down. It’s the same rigmarole as before. Nothing new.

“The Felmiers… Have you met them in person?” he asks, absentmindedly skimming the file on the family in question. He reads what he can stomach and, though he hates to admit it, they really do seem like a safe match for you.

“We’ve talked over the phone a few times.” Crewel studies your hooves, checking each in case you’re in need of new horseshoes. Unlikely. Riddle made sure to reshod you two weeks ago. “You’re welcome to accompany me to their farm. I’m sure the hybrid would appreciate a familiar face.”

“I’ll consider it.” He sets the file down on the counter before reaching into an open drawer to procure cotton swabs, gauze, and antiseptic wipes—among a few other useful items. “I would like a moment alone with her once she’s awake.”

“I’ll give you ten minutes to clear the air. Is that enough?”

Riddle considers the speed at which his deft hands work. “Twenty would be better. She’ll be disoriented and frightened when she wakes. She’ll need time to settle down so that I can properly explain her situation.” He glances over his shoulder at Crewel. “I’ll need a sedative in case she lashes out.”

Crewel nods towards an assistant researcher. “Get that for him, will you?”

She nods and speeds out the door. By the time she’s returned, the rest of the researchers have finished their assessment of you. Crewel smiles approvingly.

“She’s much healthier than she was a year ago.”

“Aside from correcting her eating habits, I made sure she took her vitamins and supplements.” Riddle rifles through another drawer for a scalpel and forceps. “We exercised regularly. Walked laps in the house. Stretches in the morning and at night.”

“Good.” Crewel runs a gloved hand through your tail. “I assume you used the special shampoo I recommended?”

“Of course. (Name) enjoyed it. Said it was very gentle on her hair.”

“You named her?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let her live nameless under my roof,” he snaps, feeling around for the bottle of enzymatic detergent in the very back of the cabinet. He places it beside the growing pile on the countertop, pauses to reflect on what else he’ll need, and then crosses the room to grab a few cups from another shelf. As he pours the substance, he adds, “Did you expect me to call her ‘hybrid’ for the duration of her stay?”

This should be enough, he thinks, dropping the surgical tools in to soak.

“No. Although it did surprise me. There’s no mention of that name in your reports.”

“I wrote them in accordance with our protocol, hence why she’s referred to as the hybrid specimen.”

“I see. In any case, good work, Dr. Rosehearts. You’ve done well.”

“I always do.” Riddle smiles thinly. He doesn’t feel proud. He feels filthy—a liar who’s broken his promise.

You don’t deserve this. He gazes forlornly at you. You shift in your sleep, your ears perking as if listening.

Crewel notices you jerk in and out of slumber and snaps his fingers. The assistant researchers file out at once. “Twenty minutes,” he reminds Riddle as he departs. “Keep her calm.”

Riddle nods, watching the door slide shut behind Crewel. And then, after he’s disappeared around the corridor, he bounds over to lock it. The glass frosts over. Privacy at long last.

He yanks another drawer open in search of latex gloves and a surgical mask. Finding them, he heaves a relieved sigh and dons both.

“You… I trusted you,” you croak, struggling weakly on the metal table.

Riddle pivots on his heel. “I’m sorry. I—” He surges forward and stops when you squeeze your eyes shut in fearful anticipation. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You already did.”

“And that’s inexcusable. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I should’ve told you sooner. But I—” He hesitates, frowning behind his mask. “I’m going to fix things, okay? You have to trust me on this.”

You shake your head slowly. “I can’t. Because of you, the other human… You let him… The needle and the sleep medicine—”

“I know. I know and I’m sorry.”

“You promised, Dr. Rosehearts.” Feeble like a foal, you tug against your restraints. “Please don’t send me back… I’m begging you…”

“I won’t! (Name), I’d never. I’m here to help you.” He taps the needle twice. “We’ll talk later. I don’t have much time. Please cooperate.”

Your eyes slide from the ceiling above to the syringe. That’s when the real struggle begins. Animalistic, driven by instinctual dread, you thrash on the table. Your shrieks are shot through with stress, each whinny a reminder of unpleasant pain.

“Stay away from me! Get away! Don’t come any closer! Dr. Rosehearts—Riddle, please don’t…”

He hardens his resolve, wipes the area on your arm with a prep pad, and holds tight. “I’m sorry, but I must do this. You’ll understand soon enough.”

The needle pricks your skin. You hiccup around a blubbery sob.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, rubbing the area to soothe you. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m going to be here every step of the way.”

“No… No, please don’t. Riddle, I wanna go home. Take me home.”

“And you will. Soon. I promise.” He stands dutifully at your side, watching the sedative run its course. Time drags on. Your eyelids flutter shut and snap back open. You’re desperately trying to stay awake. “Rest well, (Name). You won’t feel a thing.”

Your fight seeps away just as your body grows sluggish and still. “Don’t hurt me, Dr. Rosehearts…”

He smiles even though you can’t see it. “That’s a good girl. Just relax. I’m here for you.”

And with that, you fall.

He works swiftly, undoing the shackles and flipping you over onto your back. You slump like a limp, boneless fish, arms hanging loosely. If the circumstances were different, he’d be a bit more careful in handling you. But he’s working on a tight time constraint and there’s no room for error or struggle. 

Calm down. You can do this. Steady hand. Steady mind.

He exhales softly and then reaches to undo the tie at the back of your gown. The clothes you originally arrived in are packed away in a bag. He hopes you aren’t particularly attached to them because they’ll likely be left behind after he’s finished.

I think I could work at a coffee shop, he muses while wiping you down with another pad. Or I could do freelance work. Something low-profile.

His fingers waltz across your back, pressing down in search of a bump. He finds it right where he expects it to be: between your shoulder blades. He’s about to do something bad. Something against the rules. But, as he retrieves the tools from the cup and dries them off, he knows this is for the best. You can’t survive on your own in some quiet corner of the world. It doesn’t matter if Harveston is safe and peaceful. It doesn’t matter if the Felmiers will take care of you.

You belong with Riddle. He’s meant to look after you. It’s part of his job as a researcher. It’s because he’s the first human to have ever treated you with compassion that he’s allowed to do this. What may look like a bad thing to everyone else is just a step in the right direction. This is good.

He needs you just as much as you need him.

Riddle cuts into soft skin with precision, slicing along the area in which the microchip is contained. His heart is thudding in his chest, but he doesn’t let the idea of getting caught and punished deter him. He knows it’s wrong. He knows there will be severe repercussions. He knows he’ll never be able to show his face around the lab ever again. But if that’s the price he must pay in order to protect you from dirty, deceitful humans, he’ll gladly forsake his lofty station.

Anything to be able to spend the rest of his life with you.

He unearths the chip and plucks it out with the forceps. It comes free with minimal resistance. After setting it aside, Riddle pats the bleeding wound with cotton gauze. Crimson seeps into pristine white as soon as it makes contact. With a resigned sigh, he leaves it to soak up as much as possible before crossing the room to retrieve the sutures and remaining tools. It’s not a clumsy operation, even if he currently feels that way. Regardless, he would never do anything sloppy—no matter how important or inessential it may be. Although, if he were to admit to the truth, he works faster than he normally does, stitching you up with expert, unfaltering fingers.

Riddle’s not sure how much time he has left when he dries and bandages the area. He isn’t looking to find out.

“Let’s get you up,” he mumbles after tying your gown. It’s awkward, more struggle than success, but he manages to drag your unconscious body off of the table. Steadying you in his arms, he glances around the room to ensure he isn’t forgetting anything. It’s surreal—the last time he’ll ever find himself in this environment—but he’s ready. He has to do this.

If he doesn’t, he’ll never see you again. And who can say you’ll enjoy your life in Harveston? Who can say you won’t immediately call out for him when you wake in an unfamiliar home, greeted by unfamiliar people? He’d never forgive himself for abandoning you.

Riddle only hopes your grudge can be soothed. He’s not like the other humans you’ve feared your entire life. He’s shown you he’s different, and you believed in that—in him.

It’s not wrong. It’s a rescue mission, he assures himself, but the delusion doesn’t stick.

Instead of wallowing in his crime-in-progress, Riddle drapes your arm over his shoulder and, tucking the scalpel away, helps you over to the door. He staggers more than he walks, having to account for the dead weight, but he doesn’t let this hinder him. Worst of all, it’s not even the fear of getting caught that bothers Riddle.

It’s the fact he left the examination room a mess! The guidelines are there for a reason, but he completely ignored them and neglected to clean up after himself. That’s tantamount to stealing the specimen!

Not really. It does feel like it, though.

Riddle pokes his head out the door, glancing down the empty hall stretching on either side. He’s actually doing this. He’s breaking the rules—the law!

It’s worth it, he realizes. Every moment spent with you is a dream come true; he’s never been happier in this idyll.

Down the hall he goes, his lanyard swaying with every step. His keys jingle noisily, but he presses onwards. There’s no way around the cameras or the guard at the front of the building. He can bypass the latter with a smooth lie—so long as nothing stands in his way—but he can’t do anything about the mechanical eyes peering down at him. Riddle reckons it’ll only be a few minutes before the facility’s put on lockdown and Crewel gives the command to apprehend him and secure the hybrid subject.

To no one’s surprise, that’s exactly what happens minutes later. The intercom crackles to life and with it comes Crewel’s threat-tinged inflection: “I do hope this isn’t a blatant display of insubordination, Dr. Rosehearts. I’m willing to overlook this slight if you return the hybrid at once.”

So much for cryptic getaways… He’s almost certain Crewel suspected this from the beginning. Perceptive even in the midst of surgical chaos.

Riddle stops halfway down the hall, stares into the red eye of the CCTV, and raises his middle finger. The surgical mask conceals the nasty glower scrunching on his face.

And then the lights flick from blindingly white to deep, dangerous vermillion. The sirens come next, angry blares that nearly burst his eardrums. Riddle’s relieved you’re unconscious. The sounds and sights would have definitely startled you.

He sets off half-running, half-stumbling the rest of the way, narrowly ducking around the corner just as three guards rush past. For all of his adrenaline-laced courage, the thought of surrendering never crosses his mind.

Holding you close, Riddle takes a tentative step into the hall and yelps just as something zips past his face, nearly grazing his cheek. His arms wrap around you with a possessive firmness. A tranquilizer dart lies on the tile. Riddle’s certain it would have embedded itself in his neck had he been just a centimeter closer.

That can only mean one thing.

Rook Hunt missed on purpose.

“I must thank you for the glorious chase, Roi des Roses. It was as invigorating as it was enjoyable!” He beams and, rifling through the pockets of his lab coat, produces another dart to load into the barrel. One shot. This one, Riddle knows, will hit its mark. “I’m afraid this is where our paths must finally intersect.”

As a last-ditch effort to have some parody of the upper hand, Riddle draws the scalpel out and points it at Rook. “I’m not going to fight you,” he says, his tone a smidge louder than necessary. “I just want to make it to the exit.”

“You’re more than welcome to without the extra baggage. I’m sure you of all researchers should know how important the little trickster is.”

“And I’m sure Dr. Crewel’s told you to use any means necessary to subdue me.”

He smiles an odd, secretive smile, the type of which betrays any and all sentiment. “It truly pains me to turn my arrow on a fellow companion. What indescribable woe!”

Riddle stands unyielding, holding you as far from Rook as possible. He considers his options. Hand you over to Rook and face the severe consequences for equally severe actions, or attempt to escape even though it may be impossible by now. Any other researcher would have proven significantly less difficult, but this is Rook Hunt. He knows how to corner and capture his prey with unapologetic swiftness.

Riddle’s more miffed that he got so far and still failed. Was he doomed the minute he met you? Forever fated to never know another ounce of felicity ever again?

He looks down the hall, his hardened features set in grim determination. Even if failure looms on the horizon, he lives to beat the odds. He’s Riddle Rosehearts! It isn’t in his nature to fail. He always overcomes adversity. This is no different than a perplexing equation he studied to death in grad school.

“I understand it’s wrong,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “I know what I’m doing and I’m content with my choice. I can’t let you take her from me.” He turns his fiery stare on the researcher, unaffected at being held at gunpoint. “I’m resigning, and she’s coming with me. I’m not going to compromise, so I’ll have to ask you to stop standing in my way.”

It’s as simple as that.

Rook’s sharp gaze softens into something sympathetic and, much to Riddle’s shock, he lowers the tranquilizer gun. “You love her, don’t you?”

Oh.

That’s the emotion he could never place. One he’s ignored for so long. All this time, Riddle Rosehearts, who thought himself incapable of it, is in love.

“I do,” he confesses, a strain in his voice. He holds your unconscious body close, one arm wrapped securely around your waist. “I love her, Rook. And I—there’s no way I can allow this. You have to let me go.”

“I intend to.” Rook tucks the gun in its holster and holds out a brass key and a folded slip of paper. “I only wanted to see what you’d do when faced with a challenge. As expected, you aren’t so easy to sway once your mind’s made up.”

Riddle peers at both, suspicious, and glances at the security camera mounted high in the corner. Rook follows his line of sight.

“It’s been disabled, courtesy of moi. I can’t say for how long it will remain so, but we’re free to talk at our leisure for now.”

Riddle wonders if he’s telling the truth. There’s no time for deliberating. The emergency lights fulgurate; sirens scream. He has no choice but to trust him.

“Why?”

“Love is a marvelous, mystical thing. To take that from another person—to bury it when it’s only just beginning to blossom—do you not find that unfair?”

“I… Yes, I suppose so. But—”

“I only wish to bear witness to the beauty of love in all its forms. Your love is a spectacle worthy of an audience.”

“But this is…” Riddle lowers his voice even though it’s drowned out in the wailing alarms. He’s not sure why he’s trying to get Rook to debate him on it. “This is illegal. I’m stealing.”

He laughs. “Aren’t we all? Whether stealing hearts or tangible materialism, we’re all thieves.”

That…is not how that works.

“You’re really going to let me go? You’re risking your job, Rook. Everything.”

“So be it. How else can I call myself le chasseur d’amour if I’m not willing to put everything on the line to do so? If I were to falter here just because of a little danger, I wouldn’t be able to observe your romance.”

“I…see. Well, thank you. Sincerely, thank you.” He swipes the key and paper from Rook. “And this is for…”

“An address to an unused residence.”

Riddle’s brow furrows.

“Vacation homes. We use them sometimes. This one hasn’t had company to fill its walls in a while. Perhaps you’d like to stay there with your amour?”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch at all! The house is small but secluded. No one will suspect a thing. Your secret is safe with me.”

“And you’re just…giving this to me?”

“I’m not using it, and you can’t return to your current residence. Where else are you to rendezvous if not the countryside?”

“I appreciate it. If there’s anything I can do in return—”

“Oh, Roi des Roses, you’re much too formal! All I ask is that you live happily with her.”

A faint smile pulls at his lips. “I will. That’s a guarantee.”

“Then please don’t let me stop you. Be on your way. I’ll buy you some time.”

He nods and pockets the items, keeping his eyes on Rook while he hobbles past with you at his side. The promising enchantment of a bright future looms distantly ahead.

If there’s one thing Riddle misses most about his old life, it’s the music. Late nights spent holed up in his study, relaxing to slow, soulful notes or tapping his foot to match the tempo of a fast, fluffy falsetto. Sometimes he wonders if the bushes out front are trimmed or if the flowers crawling up the trellis on the side of the house are getting enough sunlight and water. Sometimes, if he flicks through the people in his life like channels on TV, he wonders what they’re saying.

As far as anyone’s aware, Riddle Rosehearts is no more.

He’s since built himself up as a phony, bleached his hair a pale, cool-toned white-blond, and changed his identity. Rook helped where he was needed, a self-proclaimed master of disguises. Riddle doesn’t go out much, but when he does it’s in a small corner of the country—an area with sprawling farmlands, where neighbors are nonexistent for stretches. The town is tiny and quaint. It’s quiet here. The ideal getaway.

And it’s all his. A comfortable life filled with nonstop joy.

He really wishes he had his music, though. It’s just not the same turning the dial on the radio in hopes that one of the stations will reach and have a good queue.

It was difficult adjusting to the change, the scenery, the environment of a new house. You slapped him across the face when you woke up, called him a liar and hid from him. He deserved it. Mostly. It was with great patience that he explained the situation, insisting he never had any plans to hand you over to Crewel or the Felmiers. You came around after the third day, plodding into the kitchen and wrapping your arms around him from behind. You made him promise a real promise, one sealed through hot, heady kisses. One that couldn’t be broken so easily.

For the hour the pasta bake sat in the oven, he vowed to never lie again. Over and over, a record on repeat, Riddle spoke those words with sincerity. They punctuated each thrust, pressed into your mouth like a delicate tongue tattoo.

It’s been a year since then and Riddle, for whatever reason, has yet to confess to a very important truth. By this point, he assumes it’s evident. An unspoken understanding. But then you haven’t said it either. He wonders if you know how.

Does he know how?

“I was thinking,” you mumble, sitting pretty in your floral-print sundress. The window’s cracked slightly to let in a spring breeze. It brings with it thoughts of damp earth, fresh produce, and budding flowers. Backdropped by reflective glass, where a plot of empty garden waits just beyond, you’re a reverie taken and transplanted in reality. “We should plant something in there.”

Riddle sets his cup on its accompanying saucer, following your gaze to the soil outside. “What would you like to grow?”

“Strawberries. Definitely strawberries.”

Briefly, he imagines picking a basket’s worth of strawberries with you. Standing side by side in the kitchen, mashing them into paste to make marmalade or syrup. Baking dozens of tarts with them. Dipping them in chocolate. Eating them as they are. Truly, strawberries are one of the best fruits.

“We can do that.”

“Wouldn’t that be so cool? We could have an entire backyard of strawberries! You’d never have to worry about going to the market again. Not for strawberries, at least.”

He chuckles. “I like the sound of that.”

Humming your agreement, you lift an apple slice to your mouth. Riddle watches you nibble with a smile. Whenever he looks at you he feels weak and wordless, dumbly entranced. An infatuated fool.

You lick your fingers clean next, seeming quite pleased with yourself. Riddle moves thoughtlessly, leaning over the tea table and taking your hand in his. You blink up at him once and then his shadow is eclipsing you. The gap closes; mouths press together. A wind chime sighs, caught up in a breeze. Riddle moves around the table to get closer to you, resting his hand on your thigh. You grab at every part of him—his shoulders, his arms, his back. Fingers creep along your leg, brushing your dress up higher and higher. You hum against him, your body warm even though the house is relatively cool.

In the crisp, sunny afternoon, you taste like apples and green tea. He savors it with every kiss, chasing after it like it’s to be his final meal.

As if unwrapping a gift, he slides your dress from your shoulders. Bare skin winks back at him, a soft, unmarked landscape begging to be tilled and filled with love. He’ll never get over the sight. It always leaves him breathless. You respond in kind, tugging at his clothes and whining impatiently.

He nudges at your clit, rubbing you through your panties. You slacken against him, gasping around the tongue tangled with yours. He’s not sure how much time the both of you spend kissing and fondling, but you’re perfectly dazed when he tugs your underwear down. It’s soaked through with your slick. He marvels at you—beautiful, blissful you. Sweat sticks to your body, but with the sun pooling in through the parted curtains it looks more like a delicious glaze. 

He’s hurrying to pull himself from his pants when he stops. “I shouldn’t. Your heat’s scheduled to start any day now. I really shouldn’t…” Foolishly, he attempts an escape, but you grab his face and hold him still. Looking at you now, Riddle realizes he doesn’t want to leave your embrace.

“It’s okay. Don’t hold back for my sake.”

“Are you sure? What if you—”

“That’s the whole point of why I go into heat, right?” you murmur against his mouth. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were in heat now with how you burn holes into his eyes. “Why wait until then when we could do it now?”

“But do you—” He frowns, suddenly self-conscious. Life has been too comfortable lately. Surely he’s in for something terrible… “Do you want this?”

You give him a strange look. “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?” Your thumbs brush along his cheeks. An affectionate giggle falls from your lips. “I love you.”

“Yes, I’m aware, but even so I worry. Without proper planning… Not that it’s risky or anything… I just want to be prepared for when—” The rest of that sentence cuts off abruptly. He stares at you, dumbfounded.

Your laughter is musical. “I love you, Riddle.”

A wide, toothy smile claws at his face, lifting it with a boyish jubilation. He feels silly, but he’s happy. So overwhelmingly happy.

Riddle wraps you up in a hug. “So do I! I love you—so, so much.”

You match his enthusiasm with celebratory laughter, drunk on abundant emotion. He said it and it came easy. He said it and he means it.

He said it and you reciprocated.

Oh, what a magical thing love is! To be wrapped up in it as if it’s a blanket fresh from the dryer—it’s refreshing and joyful. Warming his soul, melting the ice in his heart. He’s smiling so much it hurts, but he can’t help it. He’s in love and it’s so freeing. So weightless and wonderful. Like floating down the sweetest stream, living the love from his dreams. It’s everything he’s never known, and it feels good.

What comes next is a rush of wandering hands and never-ending kisses all over, stamped into each other’s skin. He doesn’t bother to strip you completely, and you’re much too desperate to pull him out of his clothes. Everything’s messy, a theatre for the half-dressed.

It’s to a relieved sigh when he finally enters you from behind. Relief trickles into tears, and the both of you are crying through your moans. He plasters you to the windowpane, unbothered by the noisy debauchery of it all. Soft breezes filter in and mingle with the scent of salt and sex.

“I love you,” Riddle confesses again, leaning over you to grab your chin and turn you towards him. You kiss him desperately, clawing at the windowpane for support. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

It’s an addictive, spirituous phrase.

“M-Me too—ooh! So much! I—mmh!—love you so much!” you babble, ears pricked forward. A delirious smile curls on your lips.

He peers at your reflection in the window, admiring the bunched ruffles in your sundress and the way your palms press against the glass. He wonders what he’d be doing if he hadn’t met you. Perhaps he’d still be the same Riddle Rosehearts, enduring lonely, cyclical days. Working for a purpose he thought he’d lost. Bent over a metal table, dissecting all kinds of stuff for his research. Feeling the empty void grow larger and larger with every passing year.

There’s no need to entertain those dismal recollections any longer, though. He has a purpose now. He’s fulfilled.

Riddle doesn’t need to look too far into the future to know he’ll be content. Whether it’s tomorrow, next week, or years from now, he will always know happiness when he’s with the one he treasures most.

Pinned to the window, you’re falling first. Riddle runs his fingers through the soft strands of your tail, cooing at you like one might a pet: “That’s it. Go ahead and cum for me, my dear.”

Obedient thing that you are, you heed his command.

He rubs your hip encouragingly. You’re on the verge of collapsing, so he grabs your wrists and yanks you back up against him. He ruts into you with more force, knocking you against the window like you’re nothing more than a boneless doll. And then he’s driving home in a final thrust to flood your gummy walls with his spend.

Blinking through your tears and panting heavily, you float back to reality. He steadies you when you stagger on wobbling hooves, feeling only slightly bad that he’s to blame for that. But the prideful part of him relishes in having fucked you so good that you can hardly stand.

He kisses your cheek. “You did so well.”

“I wanna go again…”

He slides out, much to your displeasure, and helps you sit down. “Let’s take a break. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Another cup of tea?”

Stubborn to a fault, you pout at him. Sitting grumpy in that chair with your ears flat on your head, looking a right mess, you’re the cutest, most darling sweetheart he’s ever seen. It almost convinces him.

“Come now. We have all afternoon to waste away.” Riddle cups your cheek. You turn from him with a huff. He watches you scowl at nothing in particular. “Don’t look so glum. I never said we couldn’t go again.”

“But I can go again now! I don’t need a break.”

“You almost fell over. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

You cross your arms over your chest, refusing to dignify that with a retort. He takes your chin in a gentle grasp and guides your head towards him. You hold his stare with unwavering resolve.

“My pretty girl,” he whispers, leaning down to close the space. “That dress suits you.”

“It’ll look better on the floor.”

“Will it?” he asks, playing along with a raised brow.

“It will and you know it.” You throw your arms around his neck, your voice tickling his ear. “So take it off properly this time, okay?”

Riddle intends to do just that.

[feroluce]

So I've already seen this one pointed out, but in the new CG, Boothill's older human form doesn't really match what people thought it should. Of course it could just be neglect on Hoyo's part like I've seen speculated, but personally? With the other lore we got from this patch, combined with some of the stuff we already had, I'd love to think there is a possibility that is way, WAY more fun.

(fun for me and all the other whump enjoyers, anyway, RIP Boothill fjkasjkdj)

In Boothill's lc, we see him in the middle of his surgery where he threw away his flesh and bone body for steel and cybernetics. We know it was The Big Surgery and not just like some sort of tune up or modification because of the description attached to the lc:

Which is where a lot of the dissonance comes in, because in this lc, Boothill's hair is much, much longer than in the cg.

And as someone who also has super long hair, I can tell you that it would take like. Multiple years to grow it out to this length.

There's also the fact that these cybernetic arms don't even match, the lc is the one that looks like our Boothill does now. And there's no reason for Boothill's shirt to be ripped up and in tatters like that; it even states he takes off his clothes before the lc surgery. If it were a matter of Hoyo needing to censor nudity, there were plenty of other methods they could have used that would make more sense, like a hospital gown, a blanket, surgical partition, etc

When will I get to see Boothill with all his scars, Hoyo, when, quit cockblocking me!!! OTL

But there was also another piece of new lore this patch that hit me like a fuckin' brick- the fact that Boothill was tortured by the IPC.

He just drops this out of nowhere! Just says it and then moves right along!! BABY, PLEASE. I WANNA KNOW MORE SO GODDAMN BAD.

But anyway as Hydrachea pointed out to me, this means the torture definitely had to happen before the lc surgery, because being whipped with a belt soaked in saltwater (fucking OUCH) wouldn't work on someone with metal skin.

So, we know that the IPC did, at some point, capture Boothill. And this is reaching further back to previous patches, but we also know from the Luminary Wardance event in 2.5 that the IPC also dabbles in cybernetic arms, because of the one they foisted on Luka.

The model there is a new one they're debuting, but we see in a flashback sequence that the IPC has been part of the cybernetics game for at least 700-800 years, because they also manipulated Igor into getting one too, and this could have only happened before the Eternal Freeze on Jarilo-VI.

It's never stated just how old Boothill is, or how long ago the genocide on Aeragan-Epharshel took place.

But I doubt it was more than 700-800 years ago.

I really don't think Boothill is that old, or has been doing this for that long. So he definitely would have been captured at a point that the IPC was manufacturing cybernetic arms, and had a known history of amputating perfectly healthy patients to use them.

I wonder if all their test subjects were willing.

(This part is entirely unnecessary for the new cg showing Boothill being a forced lab rat as part of the IPC torturing him. But it is a fun, delightful, bloodily gruesome twist of the knife nonetheless.

Boothill was also betrayed by his own brothers-in-arms on Aeragan-Epharshel. For the IPC. Just saying.)

[musings-of-miss-j]

no rest for the wicked (nor the foolish)

part eight: in which you're forcibly removed from your comfort zone by none other than the resident ginger, and you meet a certain someone's alter ego(s)

a harbingers x gn reader series!! (includes dottore, childe, arlecchino and pantalone x reader. the rest of the harbingers will not be romantic interests)

notes: surprise surprise, the burn is still slow!! mentions of blood, gn reader with a dosage of snark that probably exceeds the recommended value

series masterlist

author's notes: *daddy's home plays faintly in the background, slowly but surely increasing in volume as i approach you on a hoverboard with a comically large witch's hat on my head and a ridiculous pair of sunglasses on*

word count: 4725

*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*

It was, by all accounts, supposed to have been a completely normal lab session. You were planning the reaction route you’d take to test the enzyme you’d synthesised and the various ways to ensure its effectivity other than the rate of the reaction and the yield as you waltzed through the door (the inscriptions were glowing a pretty purple-pink hue reminiscent of sakura blooms that day). The redox apparatus from two days prior was sitting exactly where you’d left it, nothing out of the ordinary there. The abnormality came in the form of a segment currently in the process of detaching the round-bottomed flask where your product had accumulated from the condenser; the first thought to register was the sheer audacity for anyone to even contemplate touching your experiments, while the second, this is my chance to study the constitution of these ‘segments’ up close, wasn’t far behind. Glancing up sharply, your flask still clutched in his un-gloved hand, (a voice in your head shrilly protested his lack of adherence to safety procedures) the segment began moving away, no doubt to disappear to wherever him and the rest usually stayed. With more agility than you thought you possessed, you rounded the workbench and grabbed him by his sleeve.

“You. What are you doing with my condensate?” You demanded, grabbing the flask from between his fingers and setting it down on a stand. Now that the imminent danger of your work going to waste was neutralised, you took the time to analyse this segment of your supervisor’s while you had him cornered. This version of Dottore was at least five years younger than the one you were familiar with, probably from his late Akademiya years. And he wore no mask, leaving two brilliant scarlet eyes on full display, rimmed with pale blue lashes and dark shadows beneath them. The segment coughed and fidgeted, trying to find a way to escape your clutches.

“Hold still,” you ordered, reaching up to touch his face. You were startled by the smoothness of the skin, having expected something cold and metallic. How in Teyvat did he pull this off? You tilted the segment’s face this way and that, looking for hidden wiring or steel plating or anything else that would belie machinery, yet you found nothing. You gave his cheeks an experimental squeeze, and were further surprised when your fingers dug into what seemed to be soft skin, then dropped your hands, stumped.

“Huh. You look very human.”

“Prime did tell me that was the intention,” the segment agreed, flushed in the face and still trying to discreetly push past you.

Even his voice didn’t sound robotic in the slightest, riddled with natural dips of tone and perfect inflection for the context. Your eyes took in every detail, every movement, still failing to spot anything that would’ve given him away as a machine.

“Incredible. Did he give you a name?”

“No. Prime wouldn’t waste a second thinking about something so inconsequential.”

If you weren’t mistaken, the segment sounded almost bitter, staring blankly down at the wall with those striking eyes. You felt a twinge of pity; being a clone for Dottore was probably a thankless task. “Would you like one?” You offered, not unkindly. “If your system permits that sort of input, of course.”

“I- I have no use for such things.” It was strange to think that your Doctor, impenetrable and unmoving as he was, had been capable of stuttering to the point where he himself recalled and implemented the trait.

“How about Theta? I’ll need to distinguish between you lot somehow.”

 “It’s of no difference to me,” the segment- Theta- mumbled, before shooting you one last look, then disappearing in the split second it took to turn your head in his direction. You wondered where he’d gone, and why he was so wary of you.

Oddly enough, you didn’t see the Doctor for the entire morning and well into the afternoon. It was far from ordinary for him not to be in the lab the moment you arrived, (you suspected he slept there, if he even slept at all) muttering under his breath as he worked and occasionally ordering you to hand him the wrench or scalpel or graduated pipette in a tone so entitled it tempted you to bash him in the head with the very equipment you handed him. Still, you couldn’t deny his usefulness. Having two pairs of hands was always easier than one, especially when the other pair was as experienced as they came; you could bounce any question off him and receive a convincing answer, even if he could never resist throwing in a mocking remark about ‘how shameful it must feel to have such a rudimentary fact slip your mind.’

However, you had much better uses of your time than fretting over the location of your boss, such as extracting a sample of noradrenaline from the brain of a body so fresh you half expected the eyes to open in the midst of your operation. Even after such a time-consuming procedure, the Doctor had yet to make an appearance. You wrote it off, assuming he wouldn’t be present that day, and ate all the fruit tarts you’d brought while boring holes into your notebook with your eyes and trying to determine what exactly had gone so wrong amidst your calculations that the percentage error was at an unforgivable fifty seven percent.

“One hundred cubic centimetres of sulphuric acid sounds unreasonable,” a voice from over your shoulder remarked. You blinked, refocusing on the sheet of paper. A whispered curse slipped past your lips as you registered where you’d went wrong; the decimal point of the volume of acid was indeed one too many zeroes to the right. You twisted to see who’d given you the hint.

It would’ve been incredibly easy to mistaken this segment for Dottore himself,  but he lacked the jagged scar spanning from above the mask to his chin and cutting right through the corner of his lip. This segment’s face also wasn’t as harrowed, unlike Dottore’s hollowed cheeks and deathly pale complexion. You probably would’ve missed the difference yourself, if you weren’t so accustomed to the tiny details of the Doctor’s countenance. The segment grinned lazily.

“Like what you see, sweetheart?”

Oh, for the love of-

You shoved him away with a roll of your eyes. Not quite as Dottore-like as his appearance suggested, then.

“You segments are rather friendly today. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Since Prime isn’t here to hassle us about disturbing you, we thought we might as well make use of the main lab.”

A frown formed between your brows as you mulled over his response, absent-mindedly scratching out the mistakes in your calculations.

 “Main lab? There’s others? And why would the Doctor forbid you from utilising it on my account?”

The segment leaned over, resting his elbow on the workbench and his cheek in his hand as he watched you. “What do you mean why”- a delighted expression crossed his face, and his resounding cackle made you look up apprehensively from your notes. “Oh, what a scream. You mean you don’t know?”

The notion of ‘not knowing’ made the scholar in you bristle. “Don’t know what?” You snapped, crossing your arms and turning to subject him to the full force of your glare.

“You’ll find out soon enough, lovey,” he replied with another laugh. You scowled.

Patronising piece of-

“I heard you even gave one of us a name,” he said, interrupting your furious train of thought. “I didn’t think you were so besotted.”

You clicked your tongue dismissively, waving him off. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s counterproductive not to know the names of one’s assistants.”

It was the segment’s turn to bluster. “I am no one’s assistant!”

“Mhm. Be a dear, Gamma, and pass me the dichloromethane so I can make some aspirin for the inevitable headache you lot are going to give me.”

Muttering and grumbling and secretly preening over his namesake being a highly dangerous electromagnetic wave, he slid you the bottle and even a measuring cylinder and pipette to boot. You rewarded his extra efforts with a small smile, and Gamma suddenly understood every nonsensical thought that Prime had experienced since you arrived in Snezhnaya.

Throughout the day, more and more of the segments appeared from Archons-know-where and took to hovering around you while you go about your business, or chattering and doing a fine job of distracting you from whatever you were reading, or even rushing to assist you. You didn’t complain; it was fascinating seeing these different facets of the Doctor. Most of the older segments are rather similar to him, although Gamma had a rather prominent flirtatious streak, while another you’d named Omega was more snappish and impulsive. The younger ones were unfailingly comical; Theta was so easily flustered and a little more apprehensive about explosive compounds than the rest, and Pi, whose name referenced the pastry that was such a direct contradiction to his character, was rude, arrogant and reckless.

(“Since you’re such a bitter pill to swallow, I’ll call you Pi.” You grinned at your own joke. “No other aspect of you is remotely close to sweet, after all.”

Pi scowled animatedly, shattering the beaker in his hands from how hard he’d gripped it. “I won’t answer to a name given by a simpleton.”)

“Pi, clean the mess you made in the fume cupboard! Some of us have organic lungs that can’t handle toxic fumes, you know!”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” he snapped back, then slunk off to do as you’d told him when you weren’t looking.

The youngest of the segments, who barely reached your waist and had yet to even speak in your presence, had taken to trotting after you wherever in the lab you went, weaving between your legs and staring up at you with wide eyes half-hidden by a mop of messy blue hair. You’d come immensely close to tripping more than once, but you couldn’t bring yourself to scold him at all, instead nudging him out of the way like a cat sitting in the middle of the hallway. The segments were helpful enough, even if you’d been talked back at more times that day than your entire career as a lab technician in the Akademiya supervising young recruits, and by the time you were contemplating the prospect of heading to the dining hall for a bite to eat everything was in order; reagents alphabetically stored in their cabinets, counters wiped and glassware washed, even the enormous, curved windows were polished to a high shine. You spared them an approving look as you walked past, arms laden with bottles of (carefully separated) acidic and basic waste, admiring the aerial view of the snowy forest below, draped over the mountainside like a shaken-out blanket. The young segment was still tailing you, a lollipop you’d fished out from one of your pockets in his mouth; his utter disregard for where he was stepping had put you on your last nerve, but every time you sat him down in a safe corner he’d stare dolefully up at you before reappearing in your peripheral vision a few moments later. It was a wonder you hadn’t lost your temper, really.

“Epsilon, I can see your reflection in the window,” you pointed out in an unimpressed tone to the segment who’d been on the verge of grabbing your shoulders in an attempt to startle you. He huffed and grumbled, shaking the hair out of his eyes and cheekily tipping the neck of one of the bottles you were carrying as though to let the acid milkshake within, so to speak, spill, then pranced away from your scathing glare with a merry tune on his lips. You didn’t know how the segments seemed so familiar with you, as though they’d known you all their lives; Pi somehow knew how much value you placed on your leather gloves, as he’d threatened to use them for chromium extraction when you didn’t let him take one of your fungi petri dishes, Gamma had off-handedly mentioned how it was a shame your ear piercings had closed up years ago because you couldn’t match with their fluorescent blue test tube earrings, and Theta wordlessly handed you a pile of the expensive cider wood parchment you preferred to use and hurried away before you could say anything. It was baffling, to say the least, but you appreciated the extra help. It meant you could skip off to have a rather overdue lunch without fretting over something or other you might have mistakenly left over a Bunsen burner, even if it was strange leaving the lab without the Doctor’s voice criticising your lack of commitment to your education as the door swung shut behind you.

You weren’t even surprised to find Childe outside, leaning against the doorframe and tossing a dagger through the air, letting it flip over itself before catching it once more. When you opened the door, he stumbled into you and the dagger slipped from his hands as he nearly knocked you backward; but in a rare moment of swift reflexes you jumped to the side to snatch it from mid-air before it could stab either of you in the leg, only for Childe to latch onto your cloak as he fell and subsequently landing you on top of him. For a long, drawn-out moment, you just stared at each other; one of your hands pressed to the floor near his head while the other gripped the knife a safe distance above you. You quickly noted two things. One: Childe was bony and being draped over him was overall an uncomfortable experience; the apex of each of his ribs dug sharply into your chest, and two: his eyes were a peculiar, beautiful shade, less like the sea and more like heavy velvet thrown over something that glowed bright and blue, dimmed by the weight of the fabric.

Childe was finding it difficult to process anything other than your closeness. Yes, you were even more breath-taking up close and yes he would’ve given anything to place his hands on your waist and pull you closer still, but he was even more enamoured by the dips and points of your knuckles where your hand gripped the dagger, the creases in your leather gloves around each finger and the oddly calculating look in your eyes as you appraised him. You could stab him, he realised with a rush, staring up at you. You could drive the blade down and lodge it between his ribs and he probably wouldn’t be able to react fast enough because it was you, and his blood would stain your cloak and blouse and a coppery taste would fill your mouth. He wondered if Signora was right, and whether you really would look better in red.

You cleared your throat, breaking the spell, and Childe suddenly noticed all the other tiny little things he probably wouldn’t get close enough to see again. The notion that such things would remain secret almost made him panic, and it took considerable effort not to clutch at you as you rose to your feet and dusted yourself off. You extended your hand to him, and he allowed himself a split second of self-indulgence, the liberty of seeing your outstretched hand reaching towards his collapsed body as something more than it was; he let himself believe that you, so bright and resplendent in your every trait you might as well have been the moon, were offering him, a creature writhing in the darkness, salvation or even just a moment’s respite.

You hauled him up from the floor with a grunt of effort (he couldn’t possibly be as bony as he felt. All that weight had to come from somewhere), then took off your glasses and held them to one of the wavering white lamps, handing him the dagger.

“Hello, Eleven.” You frowned at the new scratches on the lenses and started rubbing them with the hem of your blouse, even if you knew it was a fruitless endeavour. “How long were you waiting out here?”

“Long enough,” he all but whined in response, slinging an arm around your shoulder and ruffling your hair. Your only protest was a half-hearted grumble as you shoved your glasses back on, and his chest warmed with the thought that you no longer instinctively rebuked his touch. “C’mon, Trixy. I didn’t think you were the type to ghost someone after a date.”

“What are you talking ab- oh, for heaven’s sake,” you said exasperatedly, shooting him a look as he walked towards the stairs with you in tow. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

He beamed so widely you nearly stumbled on the steps, blinded by the intensity of his glee.

“So you’re not denying it was a date?”

You sighed out an incredibly inappropriate curse, drowned out by Childe’s hearty laughter.

“You are an incorrigible man.”

“Well you went on a date with this incorrigible man,” he countered cheerfully and not without a healthy dose of smugness. That earned him a withering look, and you detangled yourself from his side as you walked down the corridor.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” you said with a shrug, laughing slightly when he let out an indignant splutter. Childe bristled, trailing after you with an exaggerated pout.

“You should apologise for hurting my feelings, Trixy.” “If I were to apologise every time I bruised your fragile ego I’d never have time to say anything else,” you teased, linking your arm with his and pulling him along. “Now come on, they serve an exquisite pumpkin soup on Wednesdays.”

You wondered at what point you’d become so friendly with the Harbinger, to feel relaxed enough to so casually poke fun at him. Maybe your self-preservation instincts were decaying. Maybe it was worth it.

“I don’t want to see that… Arlie again,” Childe protested. You looked at him sidelong.

“Oh?” You asked, feigning surprise. “Why not?”

Because she outranks me and I don’t like having to share your attention, he thought. “She beat me in a fight once,” he admitted grudgingly. It wasn’t even a lie; that bitter defeat was indeed part of the reason he felt less than ecstatic around her, though the atrocities she’d carried out to become the fourth Harbinger were impactful too.

 “Infighting between members of the same organisation should not be the norm,” you stated, shaking your head. “You Fatui are ridiculous.”

Childe laughed, tugging you closer by your linked arms to elbow you in the ribs. “You’re one of us ridiculous Fatui now, remember?”

“I am not!” You protested, affronted, before sighing at the self-satisfied expression on his face and changing the subject. “Tsk. So you refuse to speak to her just because you lost to her once? That’s immature, even for you.”

“No, no, defeat is all part of the battle. I don’t like that she refused a rematch.”

You hummed thoughtfully, chewing over his response.

“So you believe you’d win this time?”

“Maybe,” he replied with a shrug, steering you past the dining hall’s entrance. “It doesn’t matter though, does it?” He continued, as though the idea of combat for the sake of combat was the most normal thing he could possibly conjure. “Sparring with a strong opponent is the real goal. Say, Trixy. Are you any good in a fight?”

You snorted. “I’m a scholar, Eleven, not a warrior. And even if I was, I wouldn’t spar with you.”

His face took on an almost comically wounded expression. “What? Why not?”

“Because I know when I’m outmatched,” you replied dryly, letting him drag you along. A dejected expression you felt compelled to ease fell over his face. “Although I do have passable aim with a bow and arrow,” you reluctantly offered, and the change in his demeanour to unadulterated ecstasy was laughable.

“Really?! You’ve got to show me.”

“What? No, absolutely not.” Your reply was swift and decisive, but Childe was nothing if not meddlesome and persistent.

“No, no, no, you’re not getting out of this,” he jubilantly exclaimed, tightening his hold on your arm as if to prevent you from running off. “We’re going to one of the training grounds right now, and you’re going to do some target practice.”

“I’ll use your bloody head as a target if you don’t drop it, Eleven,” you threatened.

“Great idea, let’s try that too!”

Even as you lamented his utter insanity, Childe steered you to the west wing of the palace where you’d never been before. Upon looking around, you concluded that all forms of combat training happened there; the sound of crashing steel and muffled gunshots, interspersed with the occasional crackling, sloshing or rumbling from what was probably from Vision holders practicing how to utilise their elements in battle. The silver in the walls was twisted into different patterns from what you’d become familiar with, abstract depictions of battles long-past and a whole wall of solemn, important-looking text gleamed almost menacingly, commanding the attention of any who walked past it. From your passable fluency in the Snezhnayan tongue, you deciphered it to be an oath of sorts where the reader swore to carry out a myriad of jovial things such as turning the snowy landscape into a ruby’s facet with the enemies innards or their own, and wreaking havoc within the heavens until it rained scarlet. All in the name of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa.

Wow. Bloodthirsty much?

You eyed the oath distastefully, missing how reverently Childe mouthed it as he led you into an empty archery range. Rows of targets stood on the other side, pockmarked and their paint scratched, with a few of them sporting an unfortunate red-brown stain. You were grateful that there was no one there, at least; if you were a little rustier than you remembered then there was no one to witness your mediocrity other than Childe, who was presently looking through the extensive selection of bows and chattering about the various advantages and disadvantages of different models. You riffled through one of the many quivers of arrows scattered haphazardly about, admiring the high-quality steel of the heads. Some of them even had meticulous patterns along their shafts, no doubt hand-painted, and you appreciatively traced a particularly striking golden dragon with tiny, methodical scales spanning the entirety of the arrow, ending at the head where the dragons jaws were open in a roar.

“Well, Trixy? What bow are you going to use?”

You glanced up from the quiver, twirling the dragon arrow between your fingers, eyes skipping over the countless bows laid across the stands. You noted the ones tossed carelessly across them with a disapproving glance, and eventually picked the one that was the most similar to what you remembered using, long-limbed with a straighter taper and made from wood you recognised as Yumemiru from the distinctive diamond-shaped whorls.

“Why that one?” Childe asked, mesmerised by the sight of you in his element with a weapon at your fingertips. What were you thinking about when your hands reached for that particular bow? Did you have any specifications, preferences in regards to size or even the type of wood it was made from? Were your eyes drawn by the faded blue leather wrapped around the handle? Would you prove to be better, smarter, quicker than he was? The thought sent his heart racing and his brain spiralling with the prospect of having you as a competitor, an opponent.

“Does it matter?” You replied with a shrug, testing its weight in your hands. “I’m no expert when it comes to the craftsmanship of weapons. The bow I learned to shoot was probably older than me with a string practically on its last life.” You frowned slightly, looking up at him. “Why do you ask? Is there some sort of technique or guideline I should follow?”

“No, no, don’t worry about doing something wrong,” he reassured, his back to you as he assembled a quiver of arrows. You lowered the bow to stare at him, flabbergasted that he’d so quickly and accurately read the involuntary hesitation in your answer.

“Usually we have beginners start with a compound bow, but you probably have your own inclination by now,” Childe continued, oblivious to your astonishment. “What you’ve got there is a longbow,” he added, tossing you an archery glove. “They’re generally more difficult to master and harder to use.”

You pulled off your glove after making sure his back was still turned before replacing it with the one he gave you, and then picked up the bow again with new interest.

“I see. And yours?” You asked, nodding towards the one he had picked, white wood gracefully curved and narrowed at the tips.

“This one’s a recurve bow. They’re better at close range and generally need more strength to draw.”

Childe couldn’t help but be entranced by your contemplative expression, all furrowed brows and a distant gaze as you took in the new information. He had to agree that you really were a scholar before all else; the pensive look you so often sported might as well have been made to be worn by your features. In your eyes, even an archery range became an experiment, a mystery to untangle. You sighed and turned to face the targets, nocking the arrow and drawing the bowstring back to touch your chin. Childe watched as you adjusted your aim, mentally evaluating your form, then let the arrow fly. He let out a low whistle of appreciation when it hit the centre with a satisfying thunk.

“Clearly your aim is more than just passable,” he remarked with an excited glint in his eye that you didn’t quite like.

“Accuracy is all I have,” you replied with a shrug, lowering the bow and gently pressing your fingers into the indent the bowstring left in your chin, perfectly aligned with the barely-visible scar there. You’d forgotten how tender the skin could get. “I doubt I can still hit a moving target, for one.”

“But you can get the bullseye every time?”

“Not every time,” you corrected, making your way to the target to pull the bow out of the wood. The painted dragon really was a masterpiece, and you took a moment to admire it before heading back to the archers’ stand. Childe grinned and followed after you, bow temporarily forgotten.

“So most times then?” He pressed, trailing closely behind you.

“Where are you going with this, Eleven?”

 “I still think we should spar,” he replied brightly, so close he was practically breathing down your neck. “We’ll make it so that if you manage to shoot me even once, I go down, or we could”-

You twisted around to poke his chest with the fletching of the arrow, cutting him off. “No.”

“Please?” He implored, rounding on you whatever direction you turned to avoid him. “Please, please, please?”

“No!” You repeat, louder and with the full force of your irritation. “I’m not dying before I get this damned certificate!”

There was a beat of silence as he stared at you, slightly aghast. “You think I’d kill you?”

“…I don’t think you’d do so on purpose, no,” you conceded, taking out your pocket watch. “But your strength exceeds mine to the point where fearing for my life in a duel wouldn’t be unreasonable.”

“It is unreasonable to assume I’d ever hurt you,” Childe groused, continuing to block your path every time you tried to move past him. “Stop trying to get away,” he added, bending over to pinch your cheek. You stared at him, utterly at a loss for words, then quickly smacked his hand away with an irate grumble.

“I need to get away, I still have lab work to do.”

Childe flapped his hand as if physically shooing away the idea. “You work too hard, Trixy. Take a break.”

“And what do you think this little exercise was?”

“A chance to impress me with your archery skills, of course,” he replied without missing a beat, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly. You rolled your eyes with a quiet huff of laughter, pushing past him, and he dutifully followed after you.

“You’re not very difficult to impress, are you?” You teased back.

Only when it comes to you, he thought wistfully.

*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*

taglist:

@viridian-coffer, @vvzhyxx, @darifes, @whore-of-many-hot-men

@aenishas, @lovel3tter, @randomidk-123, @autistic-deer

@luvenus702, @zoriaisasimp, @ra404, @crownohomo

@diamondcookie45

if i missed you somehow please message me directly, bold means i’m having trouble tagging you! to be added or removed please comment on the masterlist post of this series <3

[jancylabs]

Construction soil testing: why is it so important?

Soil testing is an essential step in the construction process, and its importance cannot be overstated. It provides crucial information about the properties of the soil, which directly impacts the stability and durability of any structure built on it.

In Tamil Nadu, particularly in Madurai, there are reputable soil testing laboratories in Madurai that offer comprehensive services to ensure the quality of construction projects. These laboratories employ advanced techniques and equipment to analyze soil samples accurately. To Know more

[taleeater]

Lab Rat Part 1

TMNT 2003 x Reader

Opening setting inspired by the blood draining scene in the 2014 TMNT bayverse movie.

Reader has she/her pronouns.

The turtles are captured and taken to a secret laboratory to be tested on. But they are surprised by what- or who they find there. With seemingly no hope for rescue, they are forced to rely on the strength and bravery of their frail and timid new friend.

Warnings: violence, torture, abuse, mention of experimentation, blood, injury, electrocution, whump

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

A pulsing headache, bright lights searing through his eyelids, muffled voices, and the subtle scent of ethanol. This is the uncomfortable sensation that greeted Leo as he drifted into consciousness. He blinked his eyes open to a squint, his blurry and slightly concussed vision trying to adjust to the room. In front of him, he saw a few figures moving around the wide open room of a low lit laboratory. Though it was hard to really make out the shapes past the bright spotlight shining in his eyes. He groaned and tried to move, finding his limbs restrained, arms stretched out on either side of him. Upon further inspection, he noticed a long thin plastic tube attached to his inner arm that snaked around the metal restraint on his wrist and fed down and out of sight. Squeezing his hand he tested the confines of the wrist strap.

“It’s a venipuncture IV… they’re draining our blood.”

Leo’s head snapped up to his right at the sound of his brother’s voice. His vision swayed at the fast movement and steading to find his purple clad brother restrained beside him.

“Donnie…? Where’s Raph and-“

“Hey!!! Leo’s up! How’s that concussion bro?” Mikey’s joking tone sounded further away.

Leo leaned forward as best he could and looked down past Donnie, seeing Raph and then Mikey strung up in a similar fashion as he was. Raph was still out cold with blood dripping from a wound on his temple.

Donnie followed his eyes and interrupted his thoughts.

“Raph got hit a bit harder than you did, he might still be out for a while.” He said with a sympathetic tone. “Do you remember what happened?” Donnie asked, in typical fashion checking for any brain damage.

Leo blinked for a moment, allowing for his mind to focus. “We were on patrol…”

The memory flashed before his eyes. It seemed routine, stopping a weapons deal from going down under a bridge by the Hudson. But when they had swooped down to start knocking out thugs, they had suddenly all been shocked with high voltage electricity. They were too stunned to find the source, the thugs stepping in quickly to knock them all unconscious before they could recover. The next thing he knew, he was here.

A low groan sounded from between Don and Mikey.

“Raph!” They all exclaimed, trying their best to turn their attention to their brother.

“Turn the lights off, will ya? My heads killing me…” He mumbled groggily.

Suddenly, a single loud clap sounded across the room, drawing their attention.

“Ah! I see you’ve all awoken. Well, mostly…” The dark figure snickered. His shoes clicked on the tiled floor as he walked closer and slowly emerged from the shadows.

A gangly pale man, slightly less than average height, thinning hair, and a white lab coat approached the podium. He stopped just shy of the base of the short staircase leading up to where the turtles were being held on display.

“I am Dr. Cobble. I am sure you are familiar with my close associate, Mr. Bishop?”

Leo, Mikey and Donnie all groaned.

“Him again? Doesn’t he ever give up?” Mikey bemoaned dramatically.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Yes, well, he was kind enough to supply us with this wonderful titanium steel adjustable medical grade holding platform. See how nicely they’re working? We can plug you full of needles and you can’t move an inch.” His giddy rambling shifted into an evil sneer that had Leo glaring daggers at him.

“In exchange, I am to provide Bishop with plenty of samples… of you four mutants. After all his trouble, I’m surprised by how easy it was to capture you!” He openly laughed at them as the brothers glared at him with trepidation.

“Now-“ Not allowing anyone time to respond, the doctor loudly clapped his hands again. This time the rattling of a dingy supply cart squeaked as it pulled up next to Dr. Cobble, pushed by another person in a lab coat. “Today, we are starting out with plenty of blood samples while you four get settled. In the meantime, I’ll have my assistant here patch up any open wounds. Wouldn’t want any festering to poison our precious samples after all!” He said in a sing-song voice and strolled away to another part of the room.

“….I really don’t like him.” Mikey groaned.

“Don’t worry Mikey, we’ll find a way out of here soon!” Donnie comforted him. Raph was still worryingly quiet from his head injury.

Leo had his eyes trained on the lab assistant gathering up a tray of what appeared to be bandages and antiseptic and carried it up the stairs, approaching Leo first.

Leo bared his teeth at him and glared with sharp eyes, a warning not to try anything funny.

The intern just looked at him with tired eyes and huffed, clearly unbothered as he instead passed Leo by and walked down to start with Mikey instead.

“Woah, hey- careful with that! Ow!” Mikey loudly protested. Leo and Donnie worriedly leaned forward as best they could to watch the assistant clumsily and not-so-gently rub an ointment from his coat pocket thoroughly into the large bump on Mikey’s head and slap a large square bandage over it. Luckily their brother’s injury was not severe enough to break the skin.

Mikey whined irritably as the bored lab assistant moved on to the seemingly unconscious Raph. He gathered some antiseptic on a piece of gauze and reached his hand up to wipe away the blood trailing down Raphael’s face. When suddenly, quick as lightening, Raph’s eyes flashed open and he lunged forward as far as he could, snarling and snapping at the assistant causing him to startle and stumble backwards out of range. He dropped his tray with a loud clatter and lost his balance, tumbling off the edge of the podium with a loud gasp. He hit the tiled floor with a thud followed by a long groan. Several of the other scientists in the room rushed to his side to check if he was okay.

Raph chuckled darkly. Despite the bleeding head wound he still had some bite left in him.

Leo looked over and gave his hot headed brother an amused smirk. Mikey was chuckling and Donnie sighed in relief, deflating a bit in his restraints.

“What happened??”

Dr. Cobble strut back to the front of the room, looking frustrated. Two other scientists rushed up to him and spoke to him quickly, while the group gathered at the base of the podium dispersed when two scientists carried away the injured assistant off to another room.

“I leave you idiots alone for TWO MINUTES and you’re losing control of the test subjects. It seems like you all need a little reminder as to what to do when that happens.” Dr. Cobble stepped forward and pulled what appeared to be a remote out from his pocket. He turned a dial and flipped a switch, and in seconds Leo and his brothers were alight as electricity surged through their bodies from the restraints on their wrists.

Dr. Cobble laughed shortly as he watched them struggle, before eventually flipping off the switch.

The turtles were left panting as they tried to catch their breath.

“See? Easy as pie. Any time they act up, just use a remote! That’s what we had them updated for, to include the new additions!“ He shoved the remote back into his pocket and regarded his team. “Now, who would like to volunteer to finish cleaning up these *animals*?”

No one spoke up or stepped forward. There was a hush over the room as the few left standing around shifted uncomfortably. Clearly less than enthusiastic about approaching the red one again.

“Really? No one?!” The doctor's expression pulled into a sneer as he clearly became angry.

After a brief pause, a small reached up from the back of the room.

Someone had volunteered.

Dr. Cobble's expression morphed into one of twisted amusement as he straightened.

“Ah… my dear (y/n)… Have you decided to make yourself useful today?”

There was another pause and the small frame concealed in shadows shifted uncomfortably. They weren’t wearing a lab coat, Leo observed.

The doctor appeared to grow agitated at the lack of response and curled his hand into a fist.

“Come. Here.” He jabbed at the space in front of him as he ordered.

There was a quiet gasp from the small form, followed by the padding of bare feet across the tile as they approached the doctor.

The room was still. Leo’s breath caught in his throat as the form of a frail young woman in a white papery hospital gown and a ratty gray cardigan, crossed into the light and stopped timidly in front of Dr. Cobble, her eyes downcast. She appeared to be close to Leo and his brothers in age.

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” The doctor cooed in mock comfort. But it didn’t last long. He frowned at her with cold eyes and thrust a finger in the direction of the abandoned supply cart.

“Take some bandages and disinfectant up to the mutants and treat their head wounds. And be quick about it.” He followed with another loud clap that made her jolt, before she quickly nodded in confirmation and scurried over to grab what she needed from the cart. The rest of the laboratory personnel easily returned to their duties, no longer paying attention.

Leo looked over at Donnie and caught his brother watching the small figure with the same puzzled stare as he was. The purple turtle caught his eyes and they shared a questioning look before turning their attention back to the girl. She piled up a tray with gauze, bandages, and another bottle of antiseptic, before carefully ascending the stairs towards them.

She locked eyes with Leo first, and tried to offer him a small shy smile as she stopped in front of him. Her hair appeared to be unkept and overgrown, and noticed a strange metal collar fixed around her neck that caught the light as she moved. The skin peeking out underneath looked red and chapped.

“Hi…! Um… I’m (y/n)… what’s your name?” She quietly asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She wasted no time crouching down to place the tray at his feet, carefully extracting some disinfectant onto a piece of gauze as she glanced up at him intermittently to show she was listening expectantly.

“Uh…” He glanced around first to check that Dr. Cobble had left. “Leo… my name is Leo.” He offered, feeling his brow ridges crease in confusion.

The girl straightened up and faced him again, poised with the gauze in hand.

“Leo!” Her expression seemed to brighten marginally. “Can I touch you with this? I need to disinfect your cut before I put a bandage over it. I-If that’s okay.”

Leo was honestly a little taken aback by the request. “S-sure, do what you need to.”

He watched her nod at his consent before slowly reaching up in his line of sight, so he could watch what she was doing, and gently dabbing the damp gauze at the tender spot on his head. He flinched and hissed a little at the sting, making the girl pull her hand away and locking eyes with him.

“I’m sorry, I know it hurts a little. Can I keep going? I promise I’ll be careful.” Her eyes carefully searched his, her brows knit with concern and a hint of uncertainty.

Leo hesitated at such careful treatment. It almost felt like a trick. What did she have to gain from this? Who was she?

With no other current options, he sighed and pulled a half-smile. “Go ahead.”

She searched his eyes for a moment longer before returning to her task. Diligently swiping away the dried blood on his temple before stooping down and returning with a thick bandage.

“I’ll just apply this bandage and… there! We’re done. Thank you Leo.” She flashed him a small grin before pulling the tray over to work on his brother.

Leo blinked as he processed the interaction, lightly baffled. Then Donnie’s stuttering caught his attention.

“Y-y-y-yes! That would be fine, Miss (y/n). Please proceed.” He looked anxious as he watched her bend down to handle the supplies. She must be giving him the same treatment.

“Luckily, it looks like you aren’t bleeding anywhere… so I’ll just need to apply a little bit of this salve before covering your bruise with a bandage.” She held up the tin and let Donnie thoroughly look over the packaging, patiently making sure to flip it over so he could read through the ingredients and instructions. Once he seemed satisfied that the salve would be safe to use on his skin, Donnie gave (y/n) a grateful nod of approval. She then opened it in front of him and swiped out a little glob of the ointment, lifting her hand up slightly to his face after Donnie leaned down to try and smell it.

“It might hurt a little when I apply it… is that okay?”

Donnie met her eye contact and shyly smiled. “Yes, go ahead.”

And in the same manner she did with Leo, she gently dabbed on the ointment, doing her best not to prod at the swelling lump. Donnie made no noise of complaint. Then she reached down and retrieved a bandage.

“Okay, last step. Almost finished...” She looked very focused as she flattened the bandage into the right spot on his head. “All done! Thank you Donnie.” She pulled her hands away and looked at him kindly, before collecting her tray and moving over towards Raph.

This left Donnie with a similar look of bewilderment that Leo had from the exchange. He seemed a little lost in thought as his gaze drifted over to meet Leo’s, to which Leo raised an eyebrow at him, quietly asking the same question he was thinking.

“Oh no. Get that shit away from me.” Their attention was drawn over to Raph’s venom.

“I-I’m sorry! I won’t do anything you don’t want me to! I- my name is (y/n)…”

“And why should I care? I don’t want no scientist’s lackey touchin me. Now get lost.” Raph bit out angrily before settling again, his head hanging forward a bit limply as he relaxed. The girl looked downcast and seemed a bit lost, but fixed her hands together in front of her and made no move to touch her supplies or Raph.

“Don’t mind him, he’s always grouchy. Nice to meet you (y/n)! I’m Mikey.” The final brother piped up and pulled her attention. She looked over at him surprised, but quickly changed into a light smile.

“Nice to meet you too, Mikey. Is your head okay?” She asked him a little less quietly, seemingly emboldened by his outgoingness.

“Oh this? Yeah, this is nothin! You should see the other guy-“ Mikey spoke as animatedly as he could while fixed in place, his head moving around while he spoke. She giggled a little bit.

“Say, you don’t look like a scientist. Do you work here or somethin?” Leo and Donnie immediately perked up at the question, Mikey hitting the nail on the head.

“Ah- I-!” She stammered, looking nervous.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING???” A booming voice burst through the room.

All the boy’s eyes shot up to the sound of Dr. Cobble angrily striding back over to the podium. (Y/n)’s whole body was wracked with a violent tremble as she suddenly shrunk in on herself. Leo and Donnie couldn’t see her expression from their angle, but from Mikey’s eyes flashing between her and the angry doctor, his expression faded from deeply concerned to mad. Raph lifted his head up to regard the doctor with glaring annoyance.

“You should have long been finished tending to these freaks. And now I’ve caught you conversing with them?? I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK!! Now…” The mad doctor’s eyes drifted over to Raph, and with wide eyes looked him over. “Oh…! Oh ho ho…!! And it appears you still haven’t finished your job!!”

He took a step closer to the stairs, his head tilted in question and his wild eyes bore into (y/n)‘s trembling form. The girl hiccuped and shuddered as she tried her hardest to muffle her erratic breathing. She did not dare move.

Dr. Cobble reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out the remote again, not breaking his stare. (Y/n) flinched with her whole body at the appearance of the remote, but remained quiet. The boys all narrowed their eyes at the doctor in challenge, ready to feel the jolt hit.

The doctor’s face stretched into a grin, and with the remote’s setting turned up high, he flicked a switch.

But it wasn’t the same switch.

“AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!”

To all of the turtle’s shock, the electricity didn’t hit them. (Y/n) shrieked at the top of her lungs as her whole body tensed from the powerful volt that erupted from the collar around her neck. The poor girl dropped to her knees and hugged herself tightly as she spasmed, unable to escape the waves and waves of painful electricity that wracked her body.

“Hey… HEY!!! STOP THAT!! THAT'S ENOUGH!!!” To everyone’s surprise, it was Raph who started yelling.

“QUIT IT, SHE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!!” Mikey joined in, furious.

Dr. Cobble only laughed as he watched the show. After what felt like far too long, he toned down the dial and shut her switch off. (Y/n) fell limp into a slouch on the floor. The smell of burnt flesh and iron reaching their noses. Their only sign she was still conscious was her shuddering breaths.

“Was it not you who volunteered for this job? You disappoint me, (y/n)! I let you roam around the lab today! Gave you a responsibility! And you not only neglect your duty, but I catch you speaking behind my back!”

The doctor paced back and forth at the bases of the stairs like a predator, easily ignoring the murderous glowers from the turtles as he kept his attention trained on the young girl.

“I’ll give you another chance to prove yourself…” Dr. Cobble’s voice softens in mock empathy. “Finish up your job, quickly and silently, and your testing today will be minimal. Am I understood?” His tone was cold and final. (Y/n) nodded quietly from her spot on the floor.

“Good. Now hop to it.” And with another loud clap, (y/n) startled into action.

She grabbed the gauze and spilled some disinfectant onto it, and leapt to her feet. Dr. Cobble stayed put, his eyes boring into her back as he watched her do her job. But still she paused. She sniffed wetly, biting her lips into a line as she hesitated in front of Raph. Her hand poised and trembling in front of his face but not moving to clean his wound.

“…hey. Hey hey hey, it’s okay. You can do it, okay?? I give you my permission, or- whatever. Just do it!” Raph scrambled to encourage her, realizing that what she was waiting for was his consent. He looked her up and down with palpable concern, actually seeing her now.

She reached up, and still with trembling hands, cleaned the gash oh so gently until it was cleared of blood. Then quickly retrieved the bandage and carefully smoothed it over the tender bruised spot on his head.

When she was finished, she picked up the tray, and almost stumbling from her shaking, rushed down the stairs past the overbearing watch of the doctor. She placed the tray on the cart, and joined by two men that appeared to be armed guards, was quickly escorted out of the wide echoing laboratory down a hallway that led out of sight.

The brothers were stunned in silence as they watched her go, flinching slightly as the sound of a heavy metal door slamming shut broke the spell.

“Well! I think we all learned a very valuable lesson today.” Dr. Cobble started cheerily, seemingly relaxed from his crazed state. He turned to the four turtles, regarding them strung up and half bled dry on their steel crosses, and sneering smugly.

“Do not disappoint me.”

To be continued.

[hanrequest]

test subject in restraints type whump...

honestly lab whump is one of my absolute FAVORITE whump tropes, especially involving test subjects being restrained against their will...

imagine:

whumpee having restraints bound to each of their limbs, wrapped too tightly around their wrists and ankles so that it stings painfully every time they twitch or move. their arms ache from being held in a single position for hours on end, they can't feel their legs anymore, their entire body thrums with unrelenting pain....

whumpee having cords attached all over their body-- on their chest, their forehead, their ribs, stomach, thighs. they have no idea what the purpose of these cords and cables are, all they know is that the metal tips at the end feel too cold against their exposed skin, they feel so vulnerable, and all they can do is wait fearfully for whumper to arrive and carry out whatever sick experiment they have planned this time.

whumpee being strapped down to an operating table too tight-- whumper tightens the strap across their abdomen, causing whumpee to choke and gasp from the pressure of it up against their lungs, instinctively thrashing about under their bonds. all they can do is scream or sob or curse, eyes blown wide in terror as they watch whumper prepare all the tools needed for the experiment; steel and metal glinting menacingly under harsh white lights, rows and rows of neatly-lined scalpels, scissors, needles...

yeah. i need more of this!!!!

[radioactive-reactions]

How would the companions react to discovering not only Vault 111 but also the frozen Sole Survivor

Whether they saw it as a potential treasure trove, a nostalgic relic, or just a safe, quiet refuge, Vault 111 always seemed to attract the odd scavenger or adventurer. After slipping past the door, however, this particular intruder would end up stumbling upon something far stranger than they could expect...

Cait hadn't really taken the time to scope out the Vault before diving into it headfirst- having a pack of feral dogs nipping at your heels will do that to you. Coming face to face with the frozen Sole Survivor down there is freaky enough to give her a heart attack, but as the perfect audience for her rambling stories and a nonjudgmental drinking buddy they soon become the centerpiece of her impromptu hideout. As for actually getting them out? Fuck if she knows how.

Codsworth knows full well what the Vault up the hill contains, of course. How could he not? Much of the aging robot's time is spent tending to his owners' pods: tightening every bolt, polishing the glass, keeping the steel casing free of even a single speck of rust. The only thing that keeps him going is the thought that on some level, under that thin layer of frost, they might know he's there for them.

Curie's unbridled excitement at making contact with another Vault is quickly tempered once she actually sets eyes on the denizens of said Vault. With nothing but time and centuries' worth of medical expertise to work with, she immediately sets to the task of bringing Vault 111 back to life- not just the Sole Survivor, but everyone consigned to a cold and inglorious fate in those cryopods. This is a mission worth spending another two hundred years on.

Danse has been assigned to scour the Vault as part of a routine sweep for useful technology- a task entirely beneath a Paladin, but what he finds there more than makes up for it. Immediately, a whole field research team is dispatched to the vault and the cryopods are airlifted out one by one. The Sole Survivor's first memory of the new world is waking up to the harsh white light of a Brotherhood lab, bombarded with questions and shoved blearily through a battery of tests. Not a great first impression.

Deacon still thinks the Vault would make an ideal fallback hideout, even with the rows of corpsicles. The eerie blue glow and residents in cryosleep are pitched to Desdemona as enhancing the ambience, but the suggestion is soundly denied for the Vault's visibility. Even so, Deacon maintains a post outside, just in case one of those poor bastards stumbles out one day.

When Hancock inexplicably wakes up in the Vault after partying a little too hard, he immediately assumes he's still hallucinating- that, or he's been picked up by Zetans. It takes him hours of trying to pry the Sole Survivor's pod open in a hungover haze to finally give up, writing the place off as another of the Old World's many sins and decent subject matter for his next speech.

MacCready almost feels at home in the vast underground chambers of the Vault. Almost. No matter how convenient the Vault is as a last-ditch hideout, its residents creep him out too much to stay there for any real length of time. He tries his hardest to avoid their frozen stares, endlessly grateful that it's them in there and not him.

Valentine relates to the frozen Sole Survivor a little more than he'd like to admit. Two abandoned relics, used to serve a greater purpose and then thrown out like so much junk when they were done. He knows more than anyone what a harsh awakening they're going to have- if they do wake up. Every so often, he'll wander back to check on them, sharing a yarn about his latest case and watching for any progress. On the day that pod does unseal, he'll be there to lend a helping hand... but until then, all he can do is maintain a file. It's one hell of a cold case.

Piper feels a little guilty that her first thought is how good of a story this will make. 'Pod people slumber among us', maybe? She doesn't want to risk the Sole Survivor's life by touching anything, but maybe if she spreads the word someone out there will be able to help them. That's how she justifies it to herself, anyway- now if only there was some concrete link to the Institute she could work in...

Preston has been surveying the area around Sanctuary for potential threats to the burgeoning settlement... and he still isn't entirely sure that this doesn't count as one. It takes a moment to line up the resident registry with the names on Sanctuary's rusted-out mailboxes, but once he does, he has the Vault sealed up again out of respect for those who came before. If he and his scant resources can't help them, he can at least let them rest in peace.

Strong hammers away at the pod to no avail before stomping off in a huff to seek his next victim somewhere else. Canned food clearly isn't his thing.

X6-88 is here for a routine checkup - nothing more, nothing less. Although the Director had been cagey about what exactly he wanted to be kept safe down here, there was nothing X6 wouldn't be prepared for... so he thought, at least. The sight of a person, frozen and contained, gives him a rare moment of pause and elicits an uncomfortable, involuntary comparison to the dormant synths rolling off the assembly line. Nevertheless, he makes sure the cryopod is still functional and returns home, all the while trying to forget their strange resemblance to the Director.

[ravenna-reid]

The Tortured and the Test Subject

Jason Todd x Cadmus Test Subject Reader

This one is a lil different to what I usually do. A mix of what happened to Super Boy in Young Justice (Cadmus Labs) and Eleven in Stranger Things. But I hope you all like it anyways <3 Pls lmk if you would be interested in a Part 2!

Warnings -- swearing, mentions of death and torture

The deafening sound of a distant motorcycle reverberated off of the walls of the batcave. As the tires screeched and the smell of rubber filled the air, Jason came to a stop, turned it off and held his helmet in his hand. Looking around, the batcave was eerily quiet and empty.

“Hey Bruce, you in here?”

The only thing that answered him was the echo of his own voice. And the sound of soft shuffling against material and a faint, constant beep. Weary of his surroundings, and what crazy things he might find in this cave, Jason edged in the direction it came from. As he walked past one of Bruce’s large technological whatevers and turned the corner, he froze in his tracks. 

Lying on one of the med beds, with restraints strapped on her arms, legs, and across her stomach, was one of the most stunning girls Jason had ever seen. Skin like porcelain and dark eyelashes fanning over her cheeks. She was dressed in some sort of grey jumpsuit, the numbers 09714 embroidered near her left shoulder. But there was one key detail that really stood out to Jason. The white streak that ran through her hair. Pulling his eyes away from it, Jason looked over at the machines she was hooked up to, each one of them saying that she had no heartbeat. No breath. Nothing in her at all. An unsettling sensation instantly washed over him as he dared to creep closer. 

“Jason.”

With widened eyes, Jason whirled around to find Bruce standing behind him, dressed in his Batman suit with his mask off. Hardened expression painted across his face, Bruce seemed completely unfazed with having a dead woman in the batcave. 

“Bruce, who the hell is this?” Jason asked, voice accusatory and brows furrowed. 

Ignoring him, Bruce moved past Jason over to his many computers. He brought up images of what seemed to be a secret lab – another Cadmus Lab Jason realised – and it looked like it was in Blüdhaven. Dozens of police cars were parked outside of the building, the lab disguised as an industrial factory. 

“Dick had been working with others to locate another hidden Cadmus Lab and bring it down. Once they’d broken in and detained the scientists running it, he and Starfire tried to save as many as they could. Including her.”

Bruce brought up an image of the girl that lied motionless behind them. Eyes bright and gleaming, a soft smile gracing her face. Jason took every detail in. 

“They were running some kind of tests on her. I’m still not sure what. But interestingly enough, once Dick and his team entered the facility, remaining scientists quickly let off some sort of knockdown gas in her cell.” Bruce let out a deep sigh as he turned back to face her. “All I know is that she was their only successful test subject. And that even though she is alive, technically, she’s dead.”

Jason’s stomach dropped down to his feet.

“What?” What the actual fuck. Could the Lazarus Pit be involved? No, because his heart was still beating, whereas hers….

In that moment, the restraints attached to her began to rattle against the steel of the med bed. Turning to look at you, Jason watched as you began to stir from your deep slumber, his eager eyes looking between you and the machines that were telling him you were dead. 

“I guess we’re about to find out what she’s capable of. I’m going to go get Dick, stay here and watch her.”

“What? Bruce, no. I just came here to –” It was pointless finishing his sentence, Bruce was already gone. 

A soft hum came from you, and all Jason could do was watch and wait. Suddenly your eyes flew open. Large and bright, intensely taking in your surroundings. You began to try and move your arms and legs against the restraints to no avail. Jason wanted to say something, but what would he even say?

Suddenly, your focus settled onto him and something got caught in his throat. Silence enveloped the room until he forced himself to speak.

“Finally decided to wake up, huh?”

All it took was a single breath. A single blink of his eyes and suddenly you had torn off all of your restraints, were on your feet and had him pinned against the wall. 

“Fuck.” He hissed, shocked by your immense strength. Your touch was ice cold and unforgiving, your glare just as harrowing. 

“Who are you?” You snapped, your face just inches from Jason’s. 

“Usually, I’d ask you out on a date before letting you get this close to me.” He strained. 

Your glare faltered, a confused frown occupying your face now. 

“You’re mocking me?” Your grip tightened on his shirt. 

“No, no I wasn’t mocking you.” He began. Jason searched for a distraction. Searched for something else to say to you, anything. “Do you remember what happened? Remember Cadmus?” 

The mention of that place obviously struck a nerve. A glint of fear quickly passed through your eyes and Jason felt a tinge of sympathy. What the hell did they do to you in there?

“I’m not there?” You asked.

“No, you’re not. You're safe now.” Jason’s breathing mellowed out a bit as he watched the gears in your head turn. As he watched you hang off of every word he said. 

“Are you going to take me back there?” 

“No, I promise. But I’m going to need you to answer a few questions. for me and --” 

Your glare was back, and this time you came in even closer, your breath fanning his face. His heart skipped several beats.

“Swear it. Swear you won’t hand me back over to them.” 

“Cadmus is destroyed. Everyone that worked for them is going to prison.”

He could tell his answer wasn’t enough. Jason brought his hand up to where his heart was, and made a cross over the fabric of his shirt with his index finger.

“Swear on my mothers grave.” 

Looking down at the shirt you held onto, you saw an array of silver streaks on his skin peek out from behind it. Scars. 

And for some reason, you felt you could trust him. That if anyone could ever be able to understand what you had been through, it was him. You had no idea why.

After that, Dick and Bruce had returned, astounded to see the restraints on the floor and you holding Jason against the wall. Bruce tried to be rational with you and Dick tried to work his sympathetic charm, but your eyes remained on Jason.  They all sat around you now as you fiddled with the sleeves of your jumpsuit.

“We just wanna know what they were doing at that lab. Doing to you.” Jason asked, and you didn’t seem to mind how blunt he was. 

So you told them everything. How you’d been taken in when you were 18. How they were eager to see whether or not they could create a metahuman. Or at least turn a born human into one. How the tests were torturous, and how you ended up developing a few abilities thanks to the chemicals that they had pumped in you. Of course, it resulted in you dying and coming back to life... However, your vital organs were no more. No more breathing. No more blood rushing through your body. You tried to ignore that part. Tried to romanticise it by telling yourself you were like the vampires from the shows you watched in high school now. 

“So, superhuman strength? Durability?” Bruce began as he took notes. 

“It’s hard for me to die.” You added, another unique ability you knew you had. Neither of the bat boys wanted to know how you knew that. 

“But I can also heal. That’s all though.”

A silence settled over the room like a weighted blanket. Jason watched you and couldn’t help but feel like he could understand you on some sort of level. Understand how it felt to be tortured for so many days on end. To have someone try to turn you into something you’re not. And becoming successful in doing so. Jason was also pretty pissed that Dick was the one who found those assholes working at Cadmus, cause if it was him, he would have killed every last one of them for what they did. 

Bruce’s gaze settled on you and the boys knew it all too well. It was his pity look. It was the look he gave when he was about to say something that would be better left unsaid.

“Do you know how long you were there for?” He asked.

You shook your head, almost not wanting to know the answer. “No.” 

“Based on the information I retrieved from their database, you've been stuck in Cadmus for almost three years. You’re turning 21 in four days.”

You closed your eyes, the realisation of how long it’d been since you left that damn building hitting you like a truck. You could feel the hot tears sneak up on you as they made their way to your eyes, but fought hard to suppress them. After a moment to yourself, a shaky breath left your body. 

“Hey, it’s ok. At least you're out now! You’re free y/n.” Dick began. 

A pain so deep and fervent began in Jason’s chest. A pain he hadn’t felt since Bruce betrayed him and replaced him with Tim.

Jason got to his feet and Bruce and Dick’s eyes followed him. 

“Come on, we don’t need to discuss this anymore. We have all that we need.”

“Jason –”

He cut Bruce off. “No Bruce. She just woke up. She probably hasn’t even seen the sun since she was taken to that hellhole. Just give her a break for a second.”

Dick’s mouth almost fell open, his eyes meeting with Bruce’s.

“Alright.” Bruce replied coolly, intrigued by how Jason was handling the situation. ‘Mr. doesn’t want to be involved.’ ‘Mr. revenge and hate.’ 

You sat nimbly though, lost in your thoughts and eyes trained on the floor before you spoke up. “I don’t have anywhere to go.” 

You fought for the memory that was buried deep at the back of your mind. “I’m an orphan. I was staying in dorms…I was there for just one week.”

“It’s alright, you can stay here.” Bruce concluded, and with that, he got up and left, preparing for another night of patrol.

“Hey,” Your eyes flickered over to the boy who had similar hair to you as Jason grabbed your attention. Dick simply sat back and watched. “I can show you around if you want?” 

You gave a nod before both you and Jason left the batcave so that he could take you to Wayne Manor. So he could take you to your new home.