#yes that is a doctor strange shirt

[popcorn-plots]

Elephants!!!! Toby (5'3"/160 cm) for size :')

[shouyuus]

doctor, doctor

zayne; 3,377; fluff and smut, no "y/n", knowing use of sex drugs, handjob, oral (f!receiving), face riding, shockingly soft intermission, missionary, internal creampies, banter (it's zayne duh), needy!zayne

summary: zayne volunteers as a guinea pig to test out an antidote to a new love drug. spoiler alert: the antidote sucks.

a/n: phew! i haven't written this much porn in... /checks watch/ well ever really. but im not that mad about it! it's a genre i've always felt a bit weak in so im glad to get some practice :) pls enjoy!

aphrodite made me!! masterlist

─── 黎深 YOU KNOW SOMETHING’S WRONG the second he gets home. There’s a bright flush to his cheeks, a glassy look to his eyes, and he reaches out to brace himself against the counter almost as soon as he’s through the door, sucking in a deep breath.

“Z-Zayne? What’s wrong?” you rush up to him, reaching out to press a palm to his cheek, lashes fluttering as you pull it away, startled. “Oh my god, you’re burning up!”

“No — it’s fine. I’m fine.” He tries to push you away, but can’t help the soft groan that leaves his lips as he nuzzles into your touch. You frown, letting him press into the palm of your hand before he turns to drop a kiss to your skin, looking down at you with hooded eyes. “It’s… not what you think.”

“Not what I…” you blink up at him, worry slowly being eclipsed by a trembling uncertainty.

Something’s not right, you think, but judging by the way he’s still able to hold himself steady, he’s not that sick. So then —

“Ah… fuck —” he curses, leaning forward to bury his nose into your shoulder, tugging you to him in a sudden embrace that has you squeaking, startled by the strength of his hold. And you’re not imagining it; up this close, you can feel his thready heartbeat reverberating through his chest to yours, and his arms around you — is he… trembling?

“Zayne?”

It’s so rare that he curses so easily, so openly. Usually, this kind of language is reserved for the bedroom but —

You go still in his arms, heat washing up the back of your neck into your cheeks as you feel the unmistakable hardness against your hip. Your mind grinds to a startling halt as you try to reconcile these two pieces of strange, incompatible information.

He’s sick… but he’s hard?

“Sorry — I just —” he tries to pull away, shaking his head as if to clear it but his eyes are still glazed when he stumbles back and lets himself sag against the closed front door. You let your eyes take stock of him — his ruddy cheeks and fluttering lashes, the shiver in his limbs, the clench in his jaw as he looks anywhere but at you.

“Zayne. What’ going on?”

He almost hisses at the sharp edge to your tone.

“There’s a new drug out on the market,” he says, his voice thin even as he cards a hand through his hair and tries to take a steadying breath. “It’s… being sold underground, and it’s a potent —” he swallows, tugging at his collar, and it’s only then that you notice the thin sheen of sweat glistening over his skin, “— a potent love drug.”

Your eyebrows skyrocket as you blink up at him.

“A… love drug?”

Zayne sighs, frowning slightly as he jerks at his tie, pulling the knot loose to let it hang around his neck as he thumbs at the top button of his shirt. His fingers, usually so quick and nimble, seem strangely uncoordinated. And after a second, you reach out to gently swat his hand away, popping the top button for him, blushing as he hisses out a breath and lets his head thump back against the door.

“Yes,” he answers, his voice clipped as he tries to look anywhere but at your face. “Our R&D department has been developing a cure and —”

“And?” you ask, letting your finger trace down the thin band of his exposed chest to catch on the next button of his shirt.

“And…” he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he purses his lips, “they needed willing participants to —”

Understanding floods through you like a wash of cold water. You let out a disbelieving laugh.

“You volunteered to test the antidote,” you say, staring up at his flushed face, his sweat-slick skin, the unfocused fracture to his eyes, the way his pupils are blown so wide they look almost entirely black.

You lick your lips, feeling another wave of heat crest through you as tingles shoot down your spine at the thought.

“Yes,” he answers again, sounding aggrieved and relieved both that you’ve finally understood.

“But…” you let your words trail off, letting your eyes rake down his trembling body and back up again.

Zayne sighs, shaking his head, “Well, it’s a work in progress.”

“Mm,” you hum, biting back a laugh that you know wouldn’t be entirely appropriate, given the desperate look on his face. Still, that forbidden knot had started to twist in your gut as you assess the situation.

It’s not every day that chance delivers your boyfriend so pliant and willing to your literal shared front door. And you’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“So?” you say, taking half a step back and folding your arms, reveling in the way he tips forward immediately to chase your warmth. “How do we —” you wave a hand towards him, feeling a strange, impossible fit of giggles threatening to spill from you at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Zayne slates you a rueful look before leaning back to pinch at his nose bridge.

“T-the researchers say that the effects —” he pauses to take another deep breath. You can’t help noticing the increasingly obvious bulge in his work slacks and you feel your own thighs tense as the knot in your stomach twists just a tad tighter. “The effects should wear off on their own in a few hours but…”

“But?” you prompt, lacing your hands behind your back as you teeter on the balls of your feet, feeling an ever-familiar tingle race from the nape of your neck to the tips of your toes.

“But… there’s nothing much to do except to —” Zayne’s fingers twitch as he forces himself to open his eyes and stare at a nondescript point over your shoulder, “to ride it out, as they say.”

At this, you break — you fall into a fit of giggles that has Zayne sighing again as he pushes himself off the door and making his unsteady way to the bedroom.

“W-wait! Where’re you going?” you ask, tugging at his arm.

He twists to stare at you, “I — to bed. Or I can sleep on the couch tonight if it’ll make you more —”

You roll your eyes and yank him down for a kiss. He can’t even pretend to protest as he moans and melts into the heat of your mouth. You thread your fingers through his hair and feel his palms gripping at your waist, tight, and then tighter.

“Y’know… for a smart guy… you’re really kind of clueless sometimes.”

“Y-yeah?” Zayne asks, his breath hot against your lips. You nod, letting him tug you both back towards the bedroom, him nearly stumbling in his haste, you biting back another fit of giggles as he sits down hard on the edge of the bed and slots you between his legs, running his hands up and down the backs of your legs, fingers dancing towards the lace trimming of your panties.

“Did you really think that I wasn’t going to help you?” you ask, your voice low.

He lets out another thick groan as you cup his cheeks and tilt his head back to look at you.

“I — I don’t — I thought that maybe —” he stutters, but you shake your head.

“C’mon doc,” you say, grinning as his eyes narrow. You give his chest a light push and watch, satisfied, as he allows himself topple back onto the mattress. “Tell me where it hurts.”

He sucks in a breath between his teeth, staring at you with a look of such unadulterated love that you find yourself almost getting shy. Almost. You crawl onto the bed, nudging apart his legs, walking your fingers up this thighs as he jerks, head falling back into the pillows.

“Please…” the plea leaves his lips parted, and you feel the heat pulse between your own legs, feel your mouth water as you look down at the pliant, panting form of Zayne’s body, spread out on the bed, his chest rising and falling at quick intervals as he watches you from beneath hooded eyes.

Briefly, you consider teasing him, but disregard the thought after realizing that he’d probably driven home feeling much like this. And you reach up to tug loose the belt, making quick work of his trousers, pulling down his boxers to reveal his cock — thick and leaking so much precum that your hands come away sticky.

“A-ah — fuck.” Again, he swears, as you tentatively wrap your fingers around his girth, and it’s not the first time you’ve done this, nor will it be the last, but it never fails to surprise you (just a little) how thick he is in your hands — how your fingers don’t reach all the way around.

You give him a few solid pumps, feeling the angry veins pulse beneath your palms as you try to work up a tempo, his hips jumping as he lets out a string of deep, throaty moans that have you clenching around nothing.

“Wait — wait —” he reaches for you, his thighs jumping slightly as your rhythm slows, and he hisses out a long breath, his brows furrowed as you tease your thumb around the underside of his cock hood, allowing yourself a tiny, devious grin as he whimpers high in the back of his throat.

“Yes, doc? Did you have any… complaints?” you drag your tongue across your lips before leaning down and letting your hot breath fan over his purpling head, feeling the heat between your own legs spread through you as thick beads of precum ooze from his slit.

“Come — come here —” he motions up the bed and you cock your head, glancing back down at what you’re certain is quite the painful erection.

“You don’t want…” you tighten your hold around his shaft as he catches his lips in his teeth and groans.

“I — I do. But I want —” he swallows, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief second, “I want to taste you.”

Desire curls solid at the base of your spine as you feel yourself throbbing at the thought. Zayne’s never been anything but a devout lover, and you’d often reflected that it really does pay to have a boyfriend who has a truly occupational knowledge of human anatomy.

“Yeah?” you ask, your own voice going breathy as you inch up the mattress, his hands settling so easily on the plush of your thighs, his eyes flitting up and down your body almost as if he doesn’t quite know where to look. You lift up your skirt and tug off your panties, with the full intention of lowering yourself slowly, but with a wretched moan, Zayne pulls you down over his face hard enough for you to gasp, your weight tipping forward so hard that you have to brace your hands on the backboard to stop yourself from toppling right over.

You feel his tongue lick a long strip along the seam of your cunt, the sting of his fingers digging into your thighs as he holds you over his mouth, groaning into the sopping heat of you, his tongue already pushing into you as he gives your clit a hard suck that has your mind fizzing out into tv static.

“Z-Zayne — oh fuck —!”

He strains against you, pressing his face so far into you you’re almost afraid he’s going to suffocate, but he only holds you tighter when you try to pull away, his mouth chasing your puffy lips. You grind yourself against his face, feeling his nose nudge at your clit as he sinks his tongue ever deeper into you, fucking it into you with a perverse need.

And it doesn't take long like this, not when he's so intimately aware of all your softest parts, all your most sensitive places.

“I — ah — ah — I’m s-so —” you stutter, as you feel the familiar tightening in your belly, the coil twisting as thin tendrils of heat start to skitter up through your limbs and you feel your orgasm building inside you.

Zayne lets out a debauched moan, letting it rumble from his mouth straight into your cunt and it’s enough to have your eyes fluttering shut as you break over his mouth, whimpering, hips stuttering as the white-hot fire chases washes through you in a great wave, leaving you feeling boneless and slightly winded.

Zayne pulls away panting, licking his lips, his eyes dark as an oil spill, completely devoid of light as he stares up at you, his gaze more licentious than you’ve ever seen it before. Even in the champagne-bubble weightlessness of your post-orgasmic haze, you recognize the crystalizing need in his movements as he releases your thighs, his handprints inked into your skin, red and fresh — you’re sure they’ll still be there tomorrow.

“H-how do you want me?” you ask, your voice a little slurred as he reaches up to wipe a thumb along his bottom lip, collecting the remnants of your slick there, only to lean in and press his mouth to yours. You groan against him, the messy tang of your own juices sharp on your tongue as he kisses you, pressing you back into the mattress till you’re pinned beneath him.

“Just like this…” he whispers, and you marvel at the restraint still in his actions, even as he quickly sheds the rest of his clothing, tossing them off into the careless dark of the room.

There’s a moment, caught in-between one kiss and the next, where he pulls back and looks at you, his eyes so soft, his expression unguarded, where you wonder if you’ll ever be able to see yourself through his eyes, and a tender warmth spreads through you as you realize that this is what love has always meant to feel like. There have been fireworks, yes, and whirlwinds. There’ve been storms and sunny days. But there will always be moments like this, caught in the almost light of a moonless night, when you are so much more than the sum of your parts, added together.

When your bodies are more breath than air, skin and share, and all the parts of you that you might’ve wanted to hide from the world are here, collected in the negative space between your bodies, held and loved like buried treasure.

“I love you,” he says, quietly, simply.

You gasp as you feel him pushing into you, his cock stretching you till you’re nearly breathless.

“I — I love you too.”

Zayne nods, fucks into you till he’s bottomed out, and though you can feel his arms trembling with the effort, he holds still to let you adjust. And it’s not till you give him a tiny nod that he puffs out a held breath and pulls back to fuck right back into you again. You keen, head tossing back into the mess of sheets, feeling every vein and ridge of his cock as it drags along your clenching walls.

“I don’t — I won’t be able to —” he can’t make out a full sentence, but you don’t care, just the size and weight of him are enough to make your vision blinker out at the edges.

“Mm — h-harder — please Zayne —” and its his name more than anything that proves his undoing. He lets out a clipped grunt before straightening and pulling your legs up, shifting your hips till you’re flush against him.

“Y-yeah — I’ve got you —” he gives you calf a quick kiss before rucking his hips down, his cock ramming into your g-spot hard enough for you to see stars. And then hammering into you with a desperate speed, chasing his own pleasure and it’s all you can do to keep from being tossed over the edge, too far, too fast.

“Yes — yes — yes!” you’re babbling something, nails scrabbling at his arms, his chest, his back, at anything you can reach as he pummels your abused hole, bullying his cock deeper and deeper into you till you clench around him, your orgasm blazing through you even as he shows no signs of slowing down.

“It’s — you feel — so — tight —” his pace stutters, his voice breaking over your name as he hoists one of your legs over his hips, “I’m —”

You nod, reaching up to tug a strand of hair away from his sweat-slicked forehead.

“I-inside — you can — want you to fill me up —”

Zayne keens, thrusting forward one last time before you feel him pulsing inside you, the warm spill of his cum stuffing you full till you can feel the remnants leaking down the curve of your ass. You bite your lips, swallowing hard as Zayne jerks into you a few more times till he finally stills, the pair of you both panting, your bodies sticky now with too many bodily fluids to count.

You let out a breathy laugh as he hisses, casting you a reproachful look.

“Y-you’re still hard…”

He sighs, nodding, “Yes… it’s one of the… more tedious side effects of the drug.”

He makes to pull out but you stop him, tugging him into your chest and running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair.

“You need to tell your R&D department that their antidote is very ineffective.”

Zayne chuckles, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him, the pair of you now curled into each other, his arms around you, his twitching cock still pressed inside you.

“Yes, I’ll be sure to send them a memo.”

You nuzzle further into his chest but your eyes catch on the clock hanging on the opposite wall and you frown.

“It’s only been… 43 minutes?”

Zayne glances at the clock as well before turning his gaze back towards you.

“Seems so.”

You lick your lips, feeling your mouth go dry as you feel him throb once more inside you.

“How long… did you say the effects last for again?”

Zayne heaves a very serious-sounding sigh even as you adjust yourself to be sitting over his hips, his cock sheathed inside you as you plant your hands on his chest.

“The R&D department said anywhere from a few hours to…” he lets his words trail off, a devious glint flashing behind his eyes, “in the worst cases, a few days.”

You shiver as he casually settles his palms on your hips, rocking you forward and back. You let out a hitched moan as your over-sensitive clit drags along the skin of his lower abdomen and his cock jerks inside you.

“D-days?” you echo, swirling your hips around in a soft figure 8 that has him sucking in a harsh breath, his brows furrowing with pleasure.

“Y-yeah… I’m assuming your offer of help still s-stands?” he does his level best to keep his voice dry, but his breath hitches as you pull yourself up the length of his cock before slamming back down. And already, there’s that self-same hunger eclipsing the light in his eyes as he stares down at the place where a thick ring of white has formed around the base of his cock, more liquid seeping out of you with every moment you make.

“Mm — maybe I’ll need a f-few breaks but —” you whimper as he thrust up into you, his thighs clenching beneath you, “like you said w-we just n-need to ride it out, right?”

Zayne purses his lips in concentration as he roots his feet into the bed before fucking up into you once, twice, three times, bouncing you on his cock with the sheer strength of his legs and thighs.

“Right.”

all taglist pt 1: @faeryminnyx @trashkitty @sorapricots @tricia816xoxo @nayo3ns @veetallla @notfr0mh3r3 @sh4nn @animecrazy76 @celestialforce @celestialzdiviner @m00nchildwrites @glitching-wren @ivana013-blog @rafayelsgf @pikachuzhc @angellinnie @stardewy @zombigirlfriendsblog @storyland-ofstars @xxfaithlynxx @crazy-ink-artist

all taglist pt 2: @wowunreal @boobearymuch @livonianmaia @celestialmoni @colorfulgardenerduck @bunnylechef @rikiwaify-blog @deepspacewithrafayel @nogitsune-the @carrotsandkoos @stardustwtx @yaoduriaa @queen-serena88 @stunies @simpingdailyforthem @love-and-deepstrays @small-fry28

the rest of the tags will be in the reblog!

[yellowjestertfs]

Spare Parts

Al untucked his shirt, then tucked it in again, then quickly untucked it before landing on a French tuck—a mix of both that suited him worse than either. He had never been so nervous about going out with his friends. In the past, he was the life of the party, staying out clubbing until the witching hours, getting drunk, and ending up in some stranger's bed the next morning. That was before he made the fatal mistake of jaywalking drunk and got hit by a bus, which flung him into the path of another bus, which sent him off a bridge and into the water, where he was run over by a boat. Honestly, it would have been a pretty comical way to die—only he didn’t die. He should have died; he broke every bone in his body and turned his organs into a smoothie. The wonders of modern medicine intervened. He still didn’t quite understand exactly how, but the doctors had used stem cells, like those regenerating cells babies have, to essentially bring him back from the dead. A miracle, yes, but even miracles had their limits. The recovery process was long and hard, and even now, recently released from medical custody, he was not the same man he’d been before the accident.

Getting hit by two buses and a boat does that to you. His face was mangled—not to the point of being monstrous, but not attractive either. His body had also suffered from the accident, practically wasting away as he recovered. While the old Al partied with abandon, this new Al was self-conscious of his appearance and absolutely terrified to cross the street. Now, he stood at the crosswalk, fidgeting with his short-sleeve button-down shirt, thinking about why he had asked an old lady to help him across. He clutched her tightly as they crossed, ready to throw her in the way if a bus came barreling toward them—luckily for both of them, none did. Despite her age and his current condition, the woman actually made a pass at him, calling him a “handsome lad” and asking if he wanted to go back to her place. It helped his confidence, if only a little, and gave him a strange tingling feeling.

Finally, after detaching himself from the woman, he reached the club. Despite the relatively early hour, the place was bumping; the bass-boosted electronic music and a flashing rainbow could be seen and heard from the outside. A quick check of his phone informed him that his friends were already inside, so he joined the short line and waited to be let in by the bouncer. As he neared the front, he realized he recognized the bouncer. Back when he frequented this place, he was friendly with the muscular man. Now, though, he doubted the man would recognize him, and he honestly hoped to keep it that way. Back then, he was sort of a legend, a position he doubted he could live up to now. As the bouncer—Rod, he thought—waved him forward, Al couldn’t help but admire the man's physique. It seemed that while Al recovered, Rod made some serious gains. His arms were particularly impressive; Al found himself feeling bad for the man’s sleeves as they tried and failed to contain his massive arms. Their sheer size was only enhanced by the web of veins that patterned the muscles. 

“ID, please,” Rod said, indeed not recognizing Al as he had predicted. Al handed over his card, suddenly realizing the picture on the ID was pre-accident.

“Had a bit of a glow-down,” Al said awkwardly, trying to flash a smile but only managing to lift one side of his mouth—the other’s nerve endings were damaged beyond repair. Rod grunted but returned Al’s ID; even despite the discrepancies in the photo, there was little doubt that Al was of age. As Rod handed back his ID, their hands touched just slightly, and for a second, Al felt a slight tingling in his upper arms. Then it was gone as quickly as it came. 

“Have fun, man,” Rod said, “and nice guns.” Al laughed at that, thinking the man was making fun of his twig arms.

He lifted his arm, expecting the usual sight of his scrawny limb. But when his gaze landed on it, his breath caught. His bicep had swollen under the skin, somehow in the span of a heartbeat his twig arms had become tree trunks. Al’s fingers traced the now firm, rounded muscle, a mix of fear and fascination flooding his mind. The sheer size and hardness of his new bicep felt both alien and irresistibly satisfying, a forbidden thrill coursing through his veins at his arms meaty massive things they now were. They looked like almost exact copies of Rod’s, only instead of the man's olive complexion, the biceps had the pale look of someone who had spent the last two years in a hospital bed.

Al felt light-headed. How was this possible? Was he having some sort of mental breakdown, a delusion? He needed to find his friends. No, he needed to find a drink. The bar was right where he remembered—just to the left of the entrance. Unlike Rod, the bouncer, he didn’t recognize the bartender—a short, slightly pudgy man who looked to be in his mid-40s, with a strong square cleft chin that didn’t particularly match the rest of his average features. Al walked up to him, trying to hide his now-massive arms to little avail. He found he couldn’t stop flexing and feeling them, equal parts concerned and turned on by the mysterious new muscles.

“I'll take a vodka soda,” Al tried to say casually, although the words came out more as a question than a request. Luckily, the night was still young enough that he managed to get the man's attention, although the fact that he wasn’t a pretty girl kept him from making small talk. As he worked, Al saw the bartender occasionally glance up at his biceps, which he had crossed in an attempt to hide them. They looked a little ridiculous with the rest of his scrawny body. Wordlessly, the bartender placed a garnish on the drink before handing it to Al. Just as with Rod, their hands innocently touched, and again Al felt a strange tingle, this time centering on his chin. Lifting the glass to his lips, Al quickly lowered it, uneasy at how strange the sensation felt. Years of drinking had made him familiar with the feel of a glass against his lips, but something felt off now. His bottom lip somehow felt more supported, stiffer. A quick exploration with his finger revealed that his chin was causing the offense. But that couldn’t be—his chin had been round and soft even before the accident. Whatever this new chin that had somehow attached itself to his face was, it felt like a block of stone, the bone protruding in a harsh, strong way completely foreign to his face. The deep cleft was also new, creating a valley in the mountain that was his chin. Pulling out his phone, he saw what his fingers had felt: his face now somehow sported a strong, masculine chin almost identical to that of the bartender.

Al wasn’t the brightest, but even he began to put the pieces together. Somehow, he was absorbing the best qualities of every person he touched. His mind raced, trying to figure out what could be causing this. The stem cells he received might be the explanation, but why now? Al needed to get out; he needed to see a doctor. Panicked, he looked for the exit only to find a crowd had congregated between the bar and the nearest door. There was no way he could make it to the other side without touching anyone. Could he risk it? 

His contemplation was cut short as a woman sauntered up to the bar, her stumbling gait indicating she was already a few drinks deep. That was hardly the most noticeable thing about her; put bluntly, she had massive boobs—the type that could never fit in a top without being the center of attention. As she stumbled her way toward the bar, she tripped on one of her own feet. Al’s eyes widened as he realized too late that her fall would take her directly toward him. He tried to move out of the way, but as she fell, her arms reached forward for support, landing on his own. For a brief second, he hoped he might absorb her winning smile, but judging by the tingling in his chest, he wasn’t so lucky. Horrified, he glanced down, expecting to see breasts pushing out of his shirt. Instead, he found different mounds there—equally large, yes, but the lumps on his chest weren’t boobs; they were too firm and square. No, instead Al had somehow gained massive pectoral muscles from his contact with the woman. Their growth had unceremoniously demolished the first three buttons of his shirt, which was having a bad day trying to contain his massive chest and arms. The muscles looked downright strange on his body, the rest of it still emaciated from the accident. In fact, Al struggled to support the weight of his new mass, his shrimpy legs and shoulders straining under the sudden load.

The woman pulled away from his arms, drunkenly apologizing before reaching out to grope one of his now-massive pecs. Luckily, no tingles followed, confirming Al’s suspicion that he could only absorb from a person once. Now, Al felt torn about what to do. On one hand, he still worried about the changes and their possible repercussions, but did he want them to stop? If he went to the doctor now and they fixed him, would he be stuck in his current disproportionate form forever? This could be a blessing—a way to heal from the damage caused by the accident, to become the ultimate version of himself—or rather, of the people around him. So far, none of the changes had been bad. Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Al scanned the room for someone with a feature he wanted to absorb. The choice became easier when a cute guy walked right past him, his clothing tight on his lean, muscular body, and he looked well-groomed. Before the accident—in fact, before tonight—Al had never paid much attention to the appearance of other men. Maybe it was the fact that he now saw their features as ones he could have, or perhaps it was something else, but for whatever reason, he found himself checking out the other men in the club, including the one walking by. On instinct, he stuck his foot out, tripping the man, their bare ankles making contact for a second in the process. The man stumbled and then turned to face Al, his face red with anger, which quickly cooled as he took in Al.

“Hey, I like your hair, dude,” he said. Al had hoped that he might absorb the guy's cute, tight ass or maybe his strong Roman nose, but his hair worked too. It was silky, thick, and coiffed attractively—definitely an improvement over his current thinning hair.

“Thanks, man,” Al said, reaching up to find that he indeed had hair identical to the man he had just tripped. 

“Do you go to Clarice?” the guy asked. The question sparked a brief conversation in which Al lied through his teeth, pretending they went to the same barber rather than admitting that he thought his stem cells had magically copied the guy's hairstyle to a tee. Eventually, Al excused himself, claiming he had seen his friends. This was true; as they chatted, Al had located his friends huddled close to the DJ booth on the dance floor. Steeling himself, he made his way over to them, trying to avoid physical contact. His efforts were only somewhat successful. An accidental brush of a college-age girl’s hand lengthened his eyelashes, while a hip bump into a man with rolled-up sleeves thickened his forearms, so his arms were now somewhat proportional. Once he reached the dance floor, however, he lost total control. Falling arms and thrusting hips assaulted him from all sides. An accidental step on a foot caused his lips to buzz as if they had momentarily fallen asleep, puffing up to appear pillowy and soft. A hand brushed across his back, causing a tingle in his shoulders, widening them and only making his progress more difficult. The elbow wedged awkwardly into the crevice of his pecs by a sheepish-looking man earned him a short, coarse beard across his jaw—a jaw that had become wider and sharper thanks to the impatient shoving of a male model behind him. Al quickly lost track of exactly what features he had gained from whom. A sudden numbness in different parts of his body was the only indication that he continued to change. At one point, a gigantic man who had to be some sort of pro basketball player moved next to Al. Al indulged himself, letting his hand “accidentally” rub against the tall man's leg and feeling his whole body lengthen. The constant shifting of the dance floor meant no one noticed Al or the way his features shifted. As he neared his friends, a twink dressed only in a leather harness and thong approached him and started to grind up against him. Even more shocking was the rock-hard abs that formed from their contact and the boner that Al inexplicably developed from the experience. The twink started to unbutton the last few remaining buttons on his shirt, and he let him, not wanting to deprive the world of his body.

At last, Al reached his friends, finally finding a pocket of relative emptiness near the loudspeakers. 

Al reached out to tap one of his friends on the arm before thinking better of it and just stood there awkwardly, waiting for them to notice him. Eventually, the song ended, and his three friends turned to face him. Only with a pang of shock did Al realize they didn’t recognize him. How could they? He had become a sort of Frankenstein’s monster of different features from the various patrons of the club. Where they expected their scrawny, balding friend fresh out of an extensive hospital stay, instead before them stood a 6’5” bodybuilder with a face, a hodgepodge of features from various people, somehow working together to give him a handsome and exotic look.

“Hey, have you seen our friend? Short, skinny, looks like he might have been hit by a bus or two,” his friend Jordan asked. It was a simple question, but for maybe the first time in two years, Al noticed not a trace of pity in his friend's voice. No, rather it was admiration. Al’s previous intentions of coming clean to his friends and seeking help melted away as he realized the opportunity he had. He could finally escape the shadow of those busses; he could have a new start.

“Nope, haven’t seen anyone like that,” he said in a voice much richer and deeper thanks to the vocal cords of some unknown stranger. 

“I’m Jordan, by the way,” his friend said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. 

“Al.” Shit. So much for a fresh start. Jordan glanced at his other two friends but didn’t say anything. Instead, one of his other friends, Sergio, grabbed Al’s hand and pulled him into their dance circle. The contact made his whole body tingle and, glancing down, he saw that his skin had darkened to the same ruddy tan as his friend's. Luckily, the flashing lights and the general darkness of the club made Al fairly sure no one noticed the transformation.

Throughout the night, he became reacquainted with his own friends and found innocent ways of making contact with each of them. From his friend Marge, he gained her show-stopping ass, the muscular butt complementing the thick thighs he had gained sometime during his mad rush. Contact with Linsey copied her perfect Barbie blonde hair. The stylish haircut and scruff he had grown sometime during the night bleached itself instantly while all his body hair, limited as it was by various tingles, turned the same gold color. His friend Jordan took a special interest in the new Al, and Al found himself reciprocating the attention, for the first time noticing just how hot his friend was. When at long last they touched, Al grabbed the man and brought him into a passionate kiss. He swore he felt tingles but couldn’t notice any change on his body. After long hours of sweaty dancing, a round of shots, and many more kisses between the two former friends, the group headed over to Jordan's apartment. Al nearly blew his cover by heading straight to his friend's door, but the excuse of “lucky guess” seemed to satisfy his non-sober companions. After a few more hours of chatting and more alcohol, everyone left but Al and Jordan.

Jordan used the classic “let me show you something in the bedroom” line, which led to more kissing and Jordan feeling up Al’s new muscular body. Eventually, as both men removed their pants, Al discovered what he had picked up from his friend. Long and thick, Al’s penis was identical to that of his lover, which Jordan seemed delighted by, claiming he had never been with someone with a tool as big as his. It took a moment for Al to get over the surprise of his friend packing so much meat and the fact that he now did as well, but once he accepted it, he used his new member to the fullest. After hours of fucking, the two fell asleep, not waking up until the afternoon the next day. Al politely said his goodbyes and awkwardly avoided giving Jordan his number, not wanting to explain why it was the same number as Jordan's sickly friend. 

Exiting the apartment, he noticed the same elderly woman from last night and to his chagrin, she once again hit on him, asking to hold his bicep while they crossed the street. When he touched her, he felt no tingles, which he thought strange until he remembered she was the first person to induce that sensation upon him last night. Could it be that he had somehow absorbed her sex drive or sexuality? Was that why he had a sudden appreciation for men? The thought amused him as he made his way to his car. But before he could dwell on it too much, his attention was abruptly pulled back to the present.

Lost in thought, he didn’t see the bus careening down the street, heading right for him. The blare of the horn hit him a second too late, and everything went black.

The next thing Al knew, he was waking up in a hospital—a horrifying déjà vu of two years ago. A young doctor stood over him, clipboard clutched in two massive, masculine hands. His eyes fluttered as he tried to make sense of his surroundings, the cold sterility of the hospital room bringing back memories of his long, painful recovery. Blearily, Al glanced down at himself. His perfect, hunky form was now a mess—bones broken, muscles flattened. All except his hands, which looked larger and callused, suspiciously identical to the doctor standing above him. It seemed that Al’s luck with public transportation hadn’t changed, but now he knew how to build himself back up. A minor setback, sure, but nothing a few spare parts wouldn’t fix.

Wrote this a while ago but thought i would post it here with images and some small edits. Not my best but think its still a fun story.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

broken trust. [part 2] l Joel Miller

Summary:  you used to be very close, but he broke your heart, now your paths have crossed again

Warnings:  angst, swearing, mentions of sex, Ellie appears

 A/N: I was very happy with how you received the first part of this story. I hope you'll stay with me a little longer and see where it leads us. a few people mentioned tagging - @vickie5446 @dreamtofus 🖤 This part is rather nothing interesting, but I hope you won't waste too much time.

[PART 1]

It was strange to have you by his side again. Although the entire drive to Jackson was silent, Joel felt as if someone had put a gun barrel to his head. Dusk fell rather quickly, the warm evening air filling the car as you cracked the window open.

The patrol you met didn't cause you any trouble and you got to Jackson when the city was lit up by streetlights.

The car parked in front of a building marked as a medical clinic.

"Go home." Joel muttered as Ellie started walking with you towards the front door.

"I don't want to. I'm going with you." The girl was outraged.

"No need. Go."

Ellie snorted, but adjusted her backpack on her shoulder, muttered a quiet "Bye" in your direction and headed down the main street of Jackson.

He was hoping you would say something, but all he heard was the clinic door opening and he saw you disappear inside. 

Joel never liked doctors. Every visit reminded him of uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room, nervous nurses and doctors who treated everyone with contempt. And that whole strange smell.

The place was neat and clean though, and the doctor, an older man with a slightly nervous disposition, was quite pleasant and didn't take up much of the others' time.

"Y/N!" he smiled happily seeing you in the doorway "I'm very happy to see you. Is everything okay?"

"Hi, Doc. I brought you a patient, but I don't think you'll have much work with him." You replied, smiling at the sight of the friendly face.

"Mr. Miller? What happened to you?" the doctor showed Joel to a chair and helped him take off his jacket. "It doesn't look bad. We'll manage, Mr. Miller."

The doctor carefully disinfected his wound and put in a few stitches. Joel saw out of the corner of his eye how you were walking lazily around the office looking at old anatomy posters and joking with Doc. 

Thousands of questions were spinning in his head and he didn't know who he should ask them to, because he knew that he had no right to ask them to you after all this time.

"What about you, young lady?" Doc washed his hands under the tap in the corner of the room and looked at you "How did everything heal?"

"Good, I guess. The scar is healing nicely." you replied and rolled your eyes seeing as Doc gestured for you to come over "No need, really."

Joel frowned and looked up at you. Maybe he shouldn't have done this, but he felt a strange pang in his heart. You were hurt.

Although Doc was covering you, he saw you lift your shirt, showing the doctor your side.

"Mhm. It looks really good." the doctor mumbled "But you have to be careful, okay? And...What is this?"

Now Joel could see clearly, your back was clearly bruised and you hissed when Doc touched the spot.

"The ribs are intact, that's good. When did this happen?"

"Today. But it's my fault. I got distracted."

"Mhm." the man nodded "You need to rest, Y/N. I know I can't force you to do anything, but please, get a good night's sleep and eat something."

"Yes, sir." you smiled "Can I go now?"

You left the clinic and only outside, when Joel spoke to you, did you realize that he had followed you.

"Y/N." Your name still sounded the same on his lips "Do you wanna talk?"

You zipped up your jacket to protect yourself from the cold and looked at Joel. He hadn't changed that much since you last saw him. He might have been more tired, but he was still the same man you'd woken up and fallen asleep next to so many times.

"I don't think we have anything to talk about." You replied, shoving your hands into your pockets "It's good to see you. I'm glad you're alive."

"Today's thanks to you."

"Yeah, take this as a favor for old times. Listen, I'd like to take a shower and lie down, I think I'll go now."

The man nodded. You turned around and started walking away, but after a few steps you stopped and looked at him again. He didn't move even a single step.

"Joel? I'm really glad you found Tommy. And that you're both alive."

The next gloomy days passed, but your enthusiasm didn’t decrease. Joel saw your notes, you calculated everything you needed to come to an agreement with Howard and his friend. Getting out of QZ was your little obsession. You practically didn’t talk about anything else.

And Joel felt worse and worse. He had the impression that a noose was tightening around his neck, which was getting tighter with each passing day.

The first blow came after more than a week. He was in town exchanging food stamps when your fingers tightened on his arm.

"What happened?" he asked, seeing the mixture of different emotions on your face. "Are you okay?"

"Nothing is okay." you mumbled. "We're in deep shit."

Joel looked around uncertainly. The street wasn’t a good place for such conversations. He grabbed your hand and led you home. But he already knew - it had begun.

You didn't say a word the whole way, and when you entered the apartment you just threw off your bag and jacket, sat on the couch and hid your face in your hands.

"Baby?"

You let out a groan of a person who is resigned and angry at the same time. You were filled with emotions and thoughts to the very limits, you needed a moment to yourself. However, after a few minutes he heard your voice.

"He sold it. He sold it, Joel." Your hands slid off your face and Joel saw your glassy eyes "That fucking car, is gone."

A snort escaped your lips, a mixture of laughter and mockery. Joel felt himself sinking deeper and deeper inside.

"I met Howard, he said it was over. I wanted to know more, but he told me to leave it..." you continued, staring blankly at your hands "Leave it! How... How am I supposed to leave it?!"

He approached and sat on the coffee table right in front of you, taking your hands in his. Seeing you like this was just sad.

"I should kill him." You muttered angrily. "I should do it."

"You know you can't. They'll catch you and it'll be even worse."

"I don't fucking care, Joel." Your hands slipped out of his. "He took away our chance. We were supposed to get out of here…"

"I know, I know, babe."

Finally, tears escaped from under your eyelids. It was one of the saddest sights for Joel. You were always so strong, you were on his side and he trusted you like no one else. But in that moment, your faith and hope for a better tomorrow shattered into a thousand pieces.

He allowed you to despair. And it lasted for several days. Joel often saw your red eyes, rarely heard your voice, and was also sure that you barely slept at night.

He wasn't ready for something like this, but he was sure you could handle it. You were tough, you'd get over it and soon everything would be back to normal.

He breathed a sigh of relief when one night he felt your arms wrap around his waist, you snuggled into his back, saying a quiet "I'm sorry."

But Joel knew it wasn't you who should be apologizing.

Tommy finished his coffee and looked at his brother. When he showed up at his house that morning, he seemed really down. At first, Tommy thought he was talking about his failed fling with Ellie. He had heard about it and was really glad that you were the one who found him and the kid.

"So you know Y/N?" he asked.

Joel nodded.

"From Boston?"

Another nod.

"Hmm, you don't seem happy to see her. Am I wrong?"

Joel's long fingers twirled the coffee cup around, he winced slightly.

"That's not it." he finally spoke up. "We have..."

"A story. I get it." Tommy stretched in his chair. "She's been here for a long time. Maybe two winters, I think. She's really helpful. She found and brought Doc here, that helped us. She brought some equipment to the clinic. That helped Maria give birth."

"Yeah, she's good at finding things. And people."

The sound of footsteps upstairs and the babbling of a baby distracted them for a moment. Life went on as usual in this house, and while Joel was always welcome, he knew he had to take care of his own life.

"Talk to her," Tommy finally said, as if reading his brother's mind. "It couldn't have been that bad, could it?"

It was bad.

All your fears came back in the blink of an eye. When you saw Joel after so long, you felt like you were seeing a ghost. You managed to hide all the memories associated with him and the emotions that accompanied them very well somewhere in the back of your head.

Now, however, they scattered around your mind and didn't give you peace. Neither coffee nor a long shower helped. After a sleepless night, you felt like a living corpse, and your back was giving you painful symptoms.

But you couldn't stay in your apartment, you had to do something. So you went outside with the intention of taking what you managed to get during your last trip, to the clinic. Imagine your surprise when you saw a familiar figure next to your car.

"Ellie? What are you doing here?"

"Hi. I came to see you. I didn't know where you lived so I came here." The girl smiled.

"Shouldn't you be at school or something?"

"Day off."

"Yeah, sure." You shook your head smiling. "I don't want to interfere. Joel probably doesn't know where you are, right?"

Ellie shuffled her shoe before answering.

"He's not my father, I can do whatever I want." She replied rebelliously.

You pulled two boxes out of the trunk and put them on the ground. The girl looked at you as if she was expecting what she might hear.

"He may not be your father, but he's the one who cares about you and can keep you safe."

"Did he give it to you too?"

You bit your lip, wondering how to answer. But you knew that only an honest answer would satisfy Ellie.

"Yeah, he did."

"So what happened?"

"These are matters for adults." You replied, but you winked at her.

That assured her that she wasn't entering dangerous territory and you wouldn't be telling her to go back to school or Joel.

"Do you need help?" she pointed to the boxes.

"Come on. At least you'll be doing something useful."

Everything was slowly getting back to normal, and that brought Joel relief. The car and Howard issue was closed, you didn't talk about it and focused on what was around you.

You might have gone out of the QZ walls a little more often, but Joel treated it more as a compensation for you. He even liked it, even though he was constantly looking over his shoulder and keeping an eye on you.

That was all he could give you, a few stolen moments outside the gray world you lived in. And you tried to take as much of it as you could.

You worked at QZ, and in your free time, together with Joel, you would sneak outside. Then you would go back to your shared apartment, make love at night, or just lie on the couch reading some old books. Sometimes you would get carried away by fantasy, like when Joel tried to convince you that he used to be a really good dancer. So you would dance cuddled in the living room while he hummed some melody that only he knew in your ear. It was soothing. His hand gently moving over your back, his voice quiet and calm. This was the life you created for yourselves.

But the end came as suddenly as an avalanche.

"Babe, are you here?"

He threw his jacket on the armchair and looked around the apartment looking for your trace. The place was quiet, but he finally saw you coming out of the bedroom.

"It took me longer today, but I got something extra. Have you eaten anything? I managed to get some fresh bread, I know how much you love it."

You didn't answer. You stood leaning against the door frame and watched him with your arms folded across your chest. A cold shiver ran down his spine. 

You knew. He could feel it.

"What did I do to you, Joel?"

Your voice was almost dead, calm and so resigned.

"Sweetie..." he began uncertainly, but he didn't know what to say.

"What did I do to you, Joel?" you repeated the question just as calmly as before. "What did I do to deserve all this?"

He walked up to you and took your face in his large, warm hands. He wanted you to snuggle into them, like always, but your body was completely unmoved.

"I met Howard's friend today. We started talking. I asked if there was a chance for a battery or a reasonably functional car." The words flowed from your lips. "He laughed. He asked... He asked me why I bothered him when my boyfriend would show up soon and give him much more to sell it to someone else. Joel..."

You said his name as if you were begging him to tell you that it wasn't true, that this was all some stupid joke. But he couldn't, you could see it in his eyes.

"How dare you, Joel? How dare you?"

Why did you have to be so calm? That was the worst part of it all. You seemed as cold and unapproachable to him as ever.

"I did it for your own good." He finally replied. "For your safety. Listen, there's nothing there. You're safe here. And you're alive."

"Who gave you the right to decide for me?" you pulled away from him in disgust.

"I care about you!"

"You care about me?!" you scoffed "First you told me beautiful stories about how we'd get out of here, and then you took it all away from me! You watched me cry, you watched how devastated I was... Fuck, you must have really enjoyed it!"

"Don't say that! You know perfectly well that I... You know that you're important to me."

You never named what was between you two. It was good, so there was no need. Besides, you knew perfectly well that Joel wasn't the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. 

His feelings were described by words like "Be careful", "Don't go there alone", "I'll go first" or "I've got your back". Or in the way he touched or looked at you. But now you were looking at a man you weren't sure you knew.

"Listen. Baby..."

"Don't call me that. That's bullshit!"

Your eyes filled with tears. A chasm appeared between you that couldn't be bridged.

"I wanted this for us." You whispered with difficulty. "I wanted us to leave this place behind. I know it's dangerous there, I know it would be hard, but we would be there together. I wanted you to find Tommy. I would go with you to the end of the world if you only asked..."

"I'm so sorry. You don't even know how much I regretted it. But I couldn't let anything happen to you, you know that."

You nodded and wiped your tear-soaked cheek with your hand.

"Yeah, I know."

Joel approached you and his hand brushed your cheek. He wanted to take you in his arms so much, to feel your warmth. He knew he would never be able to atone for what he had done. But the most important thing was for you to be safe and sound, with him.

For a brief moment he thought that everything would still work out. Joel didn't know how wrong he was.

You were already one foot out the door.

[PART 3]

☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

[drgnflyteabox]

lament [1]

part one -> honey || part two -> tbd

series masterlist

pairing: john price x fem reader summary: as you recover from prolonged illness, you meet a man on a hike in the woods just as strange things begin happening around you. tags/warnings: creepy / horror vibes, slowburn, phone sex, masturbation, injuries, mention of hospitals, pneumonia, mobility aids, softdom!price (for now), dubcon due to intoxication, tags will update as the story does w.c: 5.9k

The woods are a peaceful, meditative thing. You’ve been spending your mornings there walking with Diva, meandering through the local trails and venturing off for pictures of red mushrooms or Diva in her little yellow raincoat, sniffing something or other.

The trails were scarcely used and took a couple of hours to finish, a longer trek in taller trees that closed off the sunlight and created peace through insulation, like an echo chamber of wet pitter patter from rain the night before and the gentle calls of birds, broken only by the sounds of your hiking shoes crunching gently through pebbles and leaves.

Quiet. It’s just what you need, slowly erasing memories of bright fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptics. The trail isn’t elevated, it’s long, but not elevated. That’s important for your recovery, two months spent in a hospital bed attached to breathing apparatus.

Relief, freedom, as slow as your steps are and as beleaguered is your breathing, it’s pure relief. You’re no longer breathing through a straw, building strength walk by walk, spending time with Diva and watching her little tail wiggle under her coat. This time is good for her, too. You could sink to your knees and praise a higher being for the time off and sick pay policies your job has - so could Diva.

The shaking continues, your limbs still weak, muscles unused to standing and walking. You often find yourself sitting, on a log or a rock, and taking time to breathe and recover. Sometimes a granola bar makes its way into the mix, sometimes a handful of trail mix.

The last few times, there’s been a man. Tall, imposing, walking much quicker than you even with a brace around his knee. His posture tells you he takes himself pretty seriously, or he’s military, if there’s any difference.

Mutton chops, mustache, cargo pants. He’s been coming up behind you with sure steps, barely a limp even with his knee, and going by you so fast there's a breeze, makes you a little nervous to get mowed down.

Diva is weary of him. Her hackles raise, though she doesn’t bark, and she tucks close to you when he goes by. You don't feel unsafe, just a little surprised at the break in monotony no matter how tiny it is.

Doesn’t help that it’s pretty nice watching him go, that broad back and tight shirt, those well sculpted legs. Hey, you’re still sick and weak, still recovering. Sue me, you think, leaning on a tree when your lungs start burning again a little too much.

He stops, a few feet in front of you.

“You broken?” His voice is just as you imagined, rough maybe from smoking, maybe from overuse.

“What?” Broken?

“You alright?” He repeats, turning then. The quiet is a little oppressive now, with your struggle. You’re wheezing.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine-” you cough, dryly. “Just asthmatic.” It’s an easy explanation, you’re trying to get him to move on. You’ve never felt in danger, but it’s still the middle of the woods and he’s still a strange man.

“Need a hand?” He has to look down at you, even from a distance. His head is tilted down, arms folding across his chest, biceps calling to you like sirens.

You shake your head, squatting down as best you can, taking the breaths learned from your doctor and pulling out your steroid inhaler. One puff, two puff.

The man looks at you skeptically, eyes small and narrowed, flitting once to Diva who would fail as a service dog, but tries her best at guarding you despite being so small. Her gaze is pinpointed to him, as stiff as he is.

”Right, then,” is all he says before he’s back to his soldiers march.

You imagine him with horse blinders on and pulling a sled behind him, wheezing a laugh into the empty air.

Recovery is not linear. That’s what your doctor tells you, what you were told before you left the ICU, before you were discharged all together. There’ll be ups and downs, moments where you feel you’ve backslid to the point of having to start all over.

You get it, really. It’s a mantra. Recovery is not linear.

What they don't warn you is that it’s different when you’re actually feeling it, waking up weaker than ever and coughing, burning in your chest. It’s jarring, every cell in your body crying for oxygen and yet you aren’t low enough that you need to go back to the ER, just sit up in bed and stare out the window to the fortress of green that surrounds your house.

Recovery is not linear. You watch comfort shows - animated Halloween specials, a couple months too early. They fit the cooling temperatures, the slow yellowing of the trees.

Food is hard when you can’t stand for long periods of time, so you order in. Soup, and an extra chicken crunch treat for Diva on her dinner.

It’s only when you turn Charlie Brown off that you hear it.

Tap tap tap. Deliberate, timed taps, like a mini hammer on a mini nail. Quiet enough that your ears strain, and yet you can just barely catch the sound. It’s coming from the side of your house, opposite to your bedroom and closest to the living room you were just in.

Tap tap tap. Maybe it’s the vibe you put yourself in, but you shiver with apprehension. Could be an animal, you do live fairly far out, and by the woods. Your driveway is long, separated from the highway just outside of town.

Diva is usually a false alarm - she raises her hackles at the stove, she’s not trustworthy when it comes to alerting you. And yet you look, and find her standing straight up and staring at the wall the sound is coming from, lips peeling back.

Only there's nothing you can do. You aren’t gonna go check, not with your weak limbs and thin breath. Theres a landline in the kitchen with a long cord, and your cellphone. The best you can do is lock the windows and doors, which you do, shuffling so as to make the least amount of noise possible.

Next the lights and curtains, drawn and shut. You tuck a knife under your mattress, more for reassurance than anything, and close your bedroom door behind Diva.

The only reason you’re able to sleep is the bedroom door locks. The handle has one, and there’s a chain above that. You tuck into bed under the covers like a child hiding from their closet, straining to hear the tap tap tap. Sometime between you locking all the entries and exits, it stopped, but you’re still unmoored.

Your lungs fare better the next morning, eased by rest. You’re back in the woods by late morning, driving up to the trailhead through the canopy of trees. It really is beautiful, part of the reason you moved here, other than peace and quiet.

There's another car as you pull up, a reliable model in a dark colour, a surprise since you’re usually the first one there. 

You park away from it in an effort to not be creepy, but still sneak a peak while Diva does her post-car ride shakeout and pee.

It’s the man from before, sitting in the front seat, talking on a phone. He looks serious, frowning, talking in a measured way but you can still hear the volume as you pass by.

He waves, and you wave back, giving him a little smile.

Diva leads the way, prancing into the woods without fear even as the leaves start blocking out the sun. She inspires you - a little dog, brave, braver than you were last night.

God, it was probably a rabbit or a possum stuck somewhere. Maybe a mouse, and though you hope it isn’t it is the season for them. Cooler temperatures means creatures trying to enter your house. Means you have yet to drive down to town and pick up insulation supplies for your windows before fall really hits and you’re freezing.

Making a mental note of that, you lean heavily on your walking stick and pause. It’s one of those days, needing more aid than usual after yesterday and more breaks.

Crunch.

“Sorry, honey,” the army man holds his arms up, seeming sheepish as you flip around to face him. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” your cheeks burn in embarrassment. “Just jumpy today.”

“That’s alright,” his eyes crinkle at the corners, softening at the edges. He’s approachable today, not speed walking through the woods like there's a pot of gold at the end. “Mind if I join you?”

Unexpected, but with your eyes at pec-height it’s an easy yes. You deserve a handsome escort for the second half of the trail, and your emergency alarm is tucked in your front sweater pocket if you need it.

“Sure,” you nod. “I’m pretty slow, though, just to warn you. Recovering.”

“That’s fine, I should be taking it easier anyway. Make my physio happy for once,” he gestures to his knee with a chuckle. “John.”

You tell him your name. John. It suits him, the masculinity of it, the simpleness too. He gives the impression that he’s careful about how he presents himself, that outside of this sudden friendliness he’s very closed off - the way he was when you’d come across him before. Now he calls you honey, and touches his fingertips to your back as you navigate a patch of rough terrain warped by roots.

“I’m off until my knee is battle-ready, again,” he says it like it’s a joke, but there’s a steel edge beneath his words. You ask about his job: contract work, he says, not self-employed but with pockets of free time.

“Did you move here recently?” The wind shivers the trees, chillier than last week, as you meander.

“Ah, didn’t move here,” he scratches his thumb with his nose. “Staying with a friend. Needed the fresh air.”

“I get it,” your shoulder brushes his arm. “That’s why I moved here too.”

“Helps your asthma?”

You pause for a moment, confused. And then.

“Oh!” You’re a little embarrassed. “I don’t have asthma, actually. I mean I could have it, or develop it. But really I had pneumonia for a while, really wiped me out.”

“Ah, I see,” his voice says surprised, but his face stays the same. You wonder if he notices. “Terrible, that. My mum had a bad bout of it a couple years back, gave us a scare.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” you aren’t sure how old John is, but you can assume it was dangerous for his mother to have caught such a bad infection. “How’s she doing now?”

“Much better. Healthy as a goat.”

“A goat?” You’re laughing, then. A giggle that has him smiling back at you. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

John hums when he doesn’t reply verbally, and nods like you’re giving a university lecture. The attentiveness is nice, but it makes you self conscious, unused to having so much attention so focused on you. And he is so focused, like you’re discussing nuclear launch codes or what a quark is or something important. Honestly, it makes you hide your face in an embarrassingly shy way, avoiding eye contact.

He walks with you slowly, patiently down the path, arms crossed behind his back. Every once in a while either or the two of you laugh, which seems to bother Diva, whose been looking back at John suspiciously or trying to get between you the whole time.

“So sorry about that,” you really don’t know what’s gotten into her. Sure, she’s a pro at finding innocuous things suspicious, but you’ve been walking for a while now and she usually warms up when she realizes you’re okay with the offensive person or item.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” honey again. He sure knows how to make a lady flustered. “She’s just looking out for her mama, right?”

If your pussy reacts to that, it’s no one’s business but your own.

The air chills, day by day. John has begun joining you on your walks every other day, and sometimes you catch him jogging to the trailhead from the road instead of driving it. It makes you wonder where he’s, whether it’s close or he’s really pushing his knee, and whether or not he’s flirting with you when he shows up all sweaty in a tight shirt.

Another anomaly is that the tapping has returned, nearly every night. You’re scared every time, won’t even let Diva out for a final pee and have stuck to walking up at the buttcrack of dawn to make sure she’s taken care of.

Tedious, is what it is. Ridiculous. And yet when those little taps come, in different places around the house now, different walls, you hide under the covers with Diva growling her little growl at the bedroom door and try to sleep.

When cabin fever starts to set in, anxiety and insane thoughts like, what if someone is trying to break into my house? You decide it’s past time for a visit to town.

The trip serves many purposes, anyways. Diva needs treats, kibble, and a new ball. You need groceries, tampons, new socks. Overall worth it outside of the fresh air and human interaction with more than just one person.

“Hey! Hey you!”

You’re in the bakery, weighing with your hands two loaves of artisanal bread. Just the one will do, since your freezer is small, but you want both. Pumpernickel or dark rye? Which will go better with the honey ham sandwich slices?

“Hello? Earth to-”

Your deliberation is interrupted by a waving in your face. You realize Jo, your only real friend in town, has run across the street to catch your attention.

“Oh gosh, my bad,” you look down at your shoes, then reach for a hug. She squeezes you.

“That’s okay, babe, off in your own world?” She’s dazzling, too cute for such a small town. Her ringlets bounce on her shoulders and her mouth, which is always smiling, is stretched wide with mirth. Makes you feel warm inside that she cares for you.

“Trying to make a hard decision. You know, end world hunger or stop all wars.” Stupid, but she laughs. You love making her laugh, and if you were lesbian you’d have made a move on her. Maybe you were, just a little.

“Why not both?” Her hands find your shoulders and squeeze. It’s then that you notice someone behind her, a much taller someone. At first the muscled chest and thick neck make you think it’s John, and a small squeeze of jealousy grips your stomach.

Then you see the mohawk, the difference in height. This man is looking at you with a similar intensity, though, all piercing blue eyes, thick furrowed brows, pin-straight posture.

“You’re right,” your laugh is more awkward, then, motioning with your eyes to the man.

“Oh, I’m so rude,” she turns to him. “This is Johnny, we met a few weeks ago.”

A wink. Ah, they met a few weeks ago. You picture them in the only bar in town, low lighting and Jo looking like Botticelli’s Venus, plump cheeks and red lips. And yeah, Johnny’s pretty good looking. You’d laugh about the mixup and the names if it wasn’t rude.

“Nice tae meet ya,” his accent is thick, palm warm and rough against yours. “Shall we, lass?”

He’s talking to Jo. They exchange glances, him looking at you once so fast you almost miss it. There’s something uncomfortably familiar about the look he gives you, but you shake it off. Nerves, you think. From the taps.

“Right,” Jo looks a little sheepish, then. “We’re off to the movies, but nice to see you!”

You raise a brow. You can’t help it, it’s 10am. Jo laughs and they leave.

You bake, sometimes. It’s a good hobby for someone on a leave of absence with nothing much else to do but read, walk and play with her dog.

The oven sometimes scares Diva, and she curls up in your room indignantly until you’re done using it. You’ve always wondered why, since she came to you as a puppy and hasn’t got a single reason to be upset with the appliance. 

Oh well.

You decide to bring brown butter chocolate chip cookies on your hike, hoping to see John and give him one. Your interactions haven’t progressed past leisurely chatting and walking together, but he’s a handsome man and you're still a little stir-crazy. At least with work, it wasn’t just hours on hours of uninterrupted alone time.

Funny how that works, isn’t it? You spend every day at work wishing not to be at work, and once you have the opportunity you have no idea what to do with yourself.

John loves the cookies. He takes two right out of the Tupperware, flattering you by groaning as he eats. The recipe is that good, but you think he might be putting it on a bit anyway.

It’s sweet.

“Fantastic,” he says, licking his fingers. You try not to look. “You bake often?”

“Just something to do, keeps me busy.” Diva has growled at John again, her second offense. She’s being a real heel today, rude and fussy. You elect to schedule a vet visit for a checkup soon.

“No one to keep you company in that house?” He stops when you need to stop, takes the opportunity to stretch his bad leg.

“What?” You take a puff of the inhaler, frowning a little.

“Are you lonely?” A weird question, but you chalk it up to small town weirdness.

“A little, but that one over there keeps me company,” as if she knows, she turns and yips. “What do you mean, that house?”

“You mentioned you live in your grandfather's house, no? Inherited it.” He chuckles at Diva.

“Did I? I don’t think…” you fully frown, thinking back to your conversations. Did you mention that? You haven’t even thought of it yourself for a while, not wanting to revisit painful memories. Your grandpa did pass you his house, but you’re usually more private than offering more than surface-level information to strangers.

“I believe so,” he looks deep in thought himself, squinting up at the umbrella of trees above you. That comforts you, the fact that he’s trying to recall. You’ve been so anxious lately.

“I must have forgotten, sorry. I’ve just been so scrambled lately.” John perks up at that, turning towards you as you finally continue walking.

“Scrambled?” His palm finds the back of your arm, the meat of it. He squeezes you, and it fills you with warmth. “How so?”

“Ah, well, just some animals around my house. I think,” you meet eyes, and he gets the best of you, so you elect to stare between his brows.

“Want me to take a look?” His tone is very serious. You shiver.

“I don’t think it’s necessary… I think there’s just some mice making a home for winter. I gotta call an expert,” He slides his hand down to your elbow, holding it gently. You’re nearing the end of the trail, the woods getting brighter around you. Diva marks her territory here more than anywhere else and yips at John again. 

“I could do it for free though, honey,” the air drops where you are, a gust of wind creating a symphony of sound all around you. A little romantic, you think. Ridiculous.

“Well,” far be it from you to pass up free help. “Only if you let me pay you back somehow.” 

“You have already,” he holds up the cookie Tupperware, shaking it gently. 

“Then let me make you dinner. Whatever you want!” The enthusiasm in which you say it has you cringing at yourself, but mentally you justify it; it’s completely normal to invite a friend over, especially to pay back a favour. You’re not being obvious that you’re attracted to him at all, no sir. Definitely not scared and in need of comfort, Mr John sir. 

“Sounds like a plan. I’m free after 7 o’clock.”

You elect to be cliche and make British food. Good British food, a proper roast. Something you’d had a few times with friends in pubs or that time you’d visited London as an exchange student. Hot, smothered in gravy, salty and perfect with a mug of beer British food. You really hope he likes it, that he doesn't think you’re weird or making fun of him for his accent.

John is a proper gentleman, so punctual that he knocks on your door the very second it turns to 7:30 on your oven timer.

Diva has to battle her hatred of the stove with her need to announce a guest, staying in hallway purgatory barking at both.

The smell of garlicky roast beef, rosemary and thyme, salt and boiling potatoes is rife in the air, no doubt spilling into the woods through your badly insulated windows.

The moment it hits John, you can see it. Your door opens, creaking, and his eyes fix to you so quickly it’s almost physical.

“Hey! Thanks for coming,” you open it, motioning for him to come in. “Don’t mind Diva, she’s not a fan of the oven being on.”

He toes his boots off, still staring, like you’re a prize heifer and he’s set on buying you at the farm auction. A little sexy, mostly nerve wracking. Diva peeks around the corner at him and the sound of her little nails on the hardwood breaks the tension.

“Smells like home,” he leans closer to you to put his coat up on the rack. “You really went through all this trouble?”

“It’s the least I can do for your help.” At that moment, he seems to remember.

“Right, the mice. Want to show me where you heard them, or can I not steal you away from the stove?” His voice deepens as he talks, intensifying, grating hot coals and growling like a bear. Blue, focused eyes find the half-apron you’re wearing. You swear his pupils dilate, but he shakes his head before you’re sure.

“I can show you, there’s still a few minutes left for everything.”

The air is biting outside, cold with the evening breeze and dark already. So dark you equip your biggest, brightest flashlight and walk around the house with him, explaining the taps all around.

“I figure it’s them trying to dig holes so they can get in,” you hand the flashlight to him, feeling your fingers brush, and shivering in response. “I’ve been too chicken to check, to be honest. I keep thinking it’s a person walking around, not some animal.”

John nods as you speak, squatting by your little tool shed, looking diligently and moving items as he needs to. Then, he looks up, smiling a little.

“Why don’t you head inside, darling? Let me take care of this.”

“Sure,” you squeak. Squeak. Your stomach makes a knot and you scurry like one of the mice he’s looking for back into the house to mash the potatoes and make the gravy.

You are quite proud of this meal, not a proper cook by a long shot but it looks and smells pretty good. The Yorkshire puddings are alright, too, and that was the hardest part. Plus, you think, it’s free food. He’s gotta be happy with the effort, even if he winds up not liking it, right? That’s something your mother always told you. Someone’s put in a lot of effort for this meal, she’d say, pointing at you with a long nail. Better eat it.

“Think I found the little buggers,” John startles you just a little as he comes in, toeing his boots off again. You’re plating his plate, huge portions of mash potato and roast carrot and brussel sprouts nestled to the beef. His eyes look at the plate, then to you, then down to your apron, and you pretend you can’t see him adjusting his pants.

This isn’t what you think it is, you remind yourself. Two friends, one lending a hand and the other paying them back. You don’t even know his last name.

“Oh god, how bad was it?” You ladle gravy over his portion, then yours, pretending to be unaffected when he walks into your kitchen and takes a huge sniff.

“Not too bad. I’ll have to come back with some traps, if that’s alright.” You want to say John, you can come back anytime, but you don’t.

“Glad to know it was mice at least,” that’s the truth. A feeling you didn’t totally realize you had turns from paranoia into relief. “I was really scared it was some creep walking around my house, trying to get in.”

“Here,” John takes his plate when you hand it to him, but puts his phone into your hands before you can get yours. “Put your number in there, honey. Call me if anything like that happens.”

Honey. You fucking love that, so much it renders you temporarily mute as you punch in your number. He doesn't let you bring your own plate to the table, picks it up while you’re busy and comes back to shepherd you there with a palm on your lower back.

“Thank you,” you say, struck timid by his casual and yet firm guidance of you.

Diva makes an appearance for supper, summoned by the smell of beef and the oven being turned off. Her little claws tip tap against the hardwood as she circles your chair, tucks herself under the table looking for scraps, and whines at John while he’s trying to eat.

You nudge her away from him with a socked foot, stuttering that she isn’t usually like this, honest, only for him to brush it off kindly.

After supper, when you’re full and you can’t handle him looking at you with those half-lidded, well-fed bear eyes anymore, you move to pick up the dishes and bring them to the kitchen.

“Ah ah,” John cuts in front of you, stealing the plates and cutlery. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”

Useless to argue - he’s built like a brick shithouse. You’re forced to pack up the leftovers, one container for you and one for him to take home. For no reason other than you’re feeling especially soft and gooey, you wrap up a few homemade fig and date granola bars for him to take too.

“Thank you,” he gruffs, rolling his sleeves to his elbows, flexing his forearm muscles, making you hot again.

“It’s really the least I can-”

Snap. Fuck, the day that creepy noises don’t happen near your house is the day you convert to whatever religion that’ll make it happen. Both your heads turn to the living room window, where the sound came from, a crack in the otherwise quiet night air.

Anxiety curls in your stomach, sharp and dreadful. You try to remind yourself that you live in the woods for gods sake, there’s gonna be sounds, but that awful sense of danger is back and if you were Diva your hackles would be raised.

John frowns, wiping his hands on a towel. He doesn't seem as phased as you are, probably because he’s not worried over boogeymen haunting the forest like you are, but when he looks back at you and sees your fright he leans in and murmurs that he’ll go take a look.

“It’s okay, it’s probably one of my furry friends,” you try, but he shakes his head, putting a palm on your hip for a brief moment as reassurance and then he’s out the door.

God, you’re so nervous you whip out a bottle of wine, desperate for a little courage. The feeling is so strange, you’re used to feeling safe and cushioned by your home, by the forest. Even your little dog whimpers, tapping her way into the kitchen, rubbing her face on your leg like a cat. She’s a comfort still, something about there being a more nervous person (or animal) that inspires bravery. Still, you won't peek out the window.

The wine is good. A little too dry, but still good. A housewarming gift from your mother, even though she knew you didn’t drink unless it was social.

Or unless you were nervously waiting for some man to come back, having dealt with your problems for you. She’d weep to see you, aproned and wringing your hands and sipping red wine too quickly. Whatever, you think. There’s nothing wrong with letting him help.

John comes back in, maybe a few minutes later or maybe a half hour, you can’t tell. Your wine is half empty, and you feel awkward about it so you pour him one without asking.

“Think you’ve got more than one furry friend,” John says, laughter in his voice. In his fingers he’s got tufts of light brown hair, which he holds up. “Dinner, if you hunt.”

“Ah, I don’t,” and you wouldn’t. You’re fine eating meat or even purchasing it from a local hunter to eat, but there’s something in you that’s deeply uncomfortable with the idea. Maybe it’s cowardice, unable to do the dirty work and yet enjoying the fruits of someone else’s labour. Maybe you’re putting stock in something that really isn’t worth stressing over. Either way, you’re overthinking, and only stop when John steps into your space.

“Hey- you alright, darling?” You like darling too, just as much as honey.

“Yeah, sorry,” your hands find the wine glass you poured for him, and you hand it over. One thing about abstaining is that it hits you quickly, even with the big meal. “Want to sit? I’ve got a fireplace.”

You cringe at yourself, not meaning to sound so suggestive. Oh well, he doesn’t seem to mind, just nods and takes you by the elbow again to your living room.

“This all the heading you’ve got?” John asks.

“Er, no. I have to get my windows insulated for winter, then I can turn the heating on without it all going to waste. For now, I make do with the fireplace,” when you sit, Diva runs to you both and demands to be swaddled in her blanket. It’s an old knitted one, a college project finished between essay assignments and readings. There’s sentimental value there, especially with your pup who doesn’t even let the presence of a strange man come between her and her cozying up.

“I can help with that,” John says. Briefly, Westley pops into your head shouting As you wish! and it makes you smile.

“That’s okay,” you sip, tasting spice. Would’ve been good with dinner. “I owe you double now for helping me again.”

“Not at all, sweetheart.” Oh, he’s full of names - and getting bolder. 

The conversation ebbs and flows naturally. Sometimes you both sit in silence, sipping, refilling glasses, staring at the fire. He’s easy to talk to, soothing, his confidence and sureness leaving you relaxed.

“I better get going,” he grunts as he stands, extending a palm to you.

“Are you okay to drive?” You’re half worried, half disappointed. There’s been a steadily building sense of heat between your legs the entire evening, brought on by his touches and his pet names and his taking care of you

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I live close-by.” That’s one mystery solved.

“Well, okay. But will you call when you get home?” If you weren’t three glasses in, you might be embarrassed. John crinkles his eyes at you while he puts his boots on.

“John?” You’re in your pajamas, face hastily cleaned with a makeup wipe. Your door is double locked again, anxiety beaten down by the wine.

“I’m home,” he sounds distant. You can’t really hear anything, just his breathing, the sounds of him taking off his coat and his boots. “You tucked in bed, sweetheart?”

“I am,” you breathe, eyes slipping, drunker than you thought you were. “Did you drive okay?”

“I did,” he laughs. His keys jingle and make a clamor as he tosses them. You imagine him in a house that fits him, a log cabin or a house built by hand, before remembering he’s talking with someone. Disappointment dampens you a little.

“I guess I should let you get to bed then,” you try to keep it out of your voice, but you’re curled on your side with a hand pressed against your clothed pussy and it’s hard not to be sad at the fact that you have no idea if he’s actually been flirting with you, or just being friendly.

“You sound disappointed,” either he’s perceptive, or you’re more obvious than you’re trying to be. “Don’t worry, I won’t leave you without saying goodnight.”

A pulse, between your legs. You rub with all four fingers, moving the phone away from your mouth.

“That’s okay, I don’t want to keep you,” you scrunch your eyes shut, trying to stop, not being able to. You’re starved, really, haven’t been touched or talked to like you’re desirable in quite some time and he makes you feel safe. Taken care of.

“You touching that wet little cunt, sweetheart?” A shockwave, from your nipples tightening to your toes tingling, curling. You stop hiding, breathing whines into the phone.

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble, biting your lips. It feels like permission, and maybe it is or maybe it isn’t, but you stuff your hand into your pants and start focusing on your needy clit. “I’m so-”

“Shh, sh, sh,” you hear a mattress creak, a grunt, and imagine him laying back. Maybe palming his cock. “That’s okay, baby, I could tell how needy you were.”

Panting, you stuff two fingers in your soft hole, grinding your palm into your clit. You hear him making sounds, quieter than you, but you’re straining to hear them.

He starts talking you through it, murmuring into your ear, calling you sweetheart and honey and baby, telling you to put three fingers in and to play with your tits.

“Go ahead and touch your nipples, sweetheart, go on,” his breath is growing laboured. “Needed to come so she could sleep, did she?”

For a moment, you think he’s talking about you.

“Poor little pussy needed some attention,” his voice gets rougher again, like when he walked in and saw that you had made him a roast. “Give it to her then, baby, go on, let her come.”

That’s all you need. You squeeze your nipples one last time, letting your tits out of your shirt and turning over to hump your hand unashamedly. Your clit drags against your palm still, hips desperately moving, listening to him grunting and groaning on the other side of the call, waiting to hear him come before you let go.

You shake, shiver, curl into yourself as your core tightens and explodes like an elastic band snapping. It’s great, just what you needed, and you’re half asleep by the end of it

“John..” you mumble into your pillow, just enough consciousness left to pull your hand out of your pajama pants.

“It’s alright, it’s time to sleep now, alright? Close your eyes.”

“Alright, John.”

“Good girl,” his voice is distant, sleep taking you, muscles more relaxed than they’ve been in so long.

You’ll deal with the rest in the morning.

[fatguarddog]

Disclaimer: This audio is intended for audiences of 18+ only 🔞 If you like my content, please consider giving me a tip

You've been gaining a lot of weight recently and don't know why, so you're back at the doctor's office to figure something out with him. The doctor is happy to inspect you and comment on your growing body, soon he reveals his true intentions for you as his work-in-progress piggy and gives you more instructions to follow 🐽

If you're interested in a commission, find more info here

Transcript under cut

Ahh, good to see you again. What seems to be the problem today? You’ve been putting on weight recently despite the diet I put you on? Hmm, yes I can see that… are you sure you haven’t been missing any days with the vitamins and shake supplements? Ok, how strange then. I think it’s best we examine you, maybe try a couple tests.

Stand here for me. Hmm, your belly really is looking quite porky, isn’t it? Your shirt doesn’t seem to cover it anymore. Just roll it up for me and I’ll take some measurements like I did last time so we can make a new plan. Yes, I see you have a few more inches round your middle now… you’re feeling awfully doughy too. Now let’s see your thiiighs… upper arms… your chest… that’s right… Well it seems the most of the weight has stuck to your belly, but you’ve definitely gained all over.

Let’s have you on the inspection table so I can try a few things. Strip down to your underwear and hop on up. Ah, no. Not lying down, on all fours please. There we go, that’s great, just let me get my gloves on. Mmm you really are looking like quite the plump piglet with your potbelly hanging down like that. Ah ah ah, don’t squirm at my touch, I’m merely inspecting you. Your jiggling belly, your rounded out ass, the growth in your chest… it’s all quite delightful. Better than I could have expected, really.

Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t enjoy this piggy. You’re practically frozen to the spot! And I can see the wet patch spreading in your pants. Just relax and let the doctor take care of you. Mmmm, yes that’s right, grind against my fingers as I admire your progress.

You’re much better as a pathetic little porker, aren’t you my piglet? Though we’ll have you growing into a proper piggy in no time, I’m sure. I could just tell when you came in here seeking weight loss advice that you’d be much happier giving in to your urges and gaining instead. I have a knack for seeing through people like that. And I know you’ve been enjoying my ‘diet plan,’ it seems you’ve been having more shakes per day than what the doctor ordered with just how pudgy you’re looking.

Mmm, keep grinding tubby. Let me rub some muscle relaxant cream into your plush rear. No, don’t worry about the needle, you won’t feel a thing. It’s just a fun little concoction to boost your appetite for me. See! Didn’t hurt a bit, did it? Good pig.

Alright, put your clothes back on. Hmm? Look, if you’re that desperate my eager little piglet, then you can get yourself off thinking about how fat I’m going to make you from here. But you need to listen to the doctor’s orders now.

It seems you’ve already been having two shakes on some days, so from now on I want you to do that every day, plus regular meals. Whatever your piggy heart desires. You must also be sure to keep taking your pills, they keep you nice and lazy after all. You’ll come in for a monthly check up so I can track your progress until I deem you ready for me to make a house call to you where I’m sure we’ll have plenty of fun together. Do you understand me? Good piggy.

[pinguwrites]

The Doll's Burial ⸻ Jonathan Crane

READ DISCLAIMER

pairing | jonathan crane x reader

summary | You knew Jonathan Crane was meant for you from the moment you laid your eyes on him — a brilliant man, filled with wit and curiosity and youth. So perfect, in fact, that you have to take him away from the rest of the world and make him yours, your darling doll. He’ll like it, won’t he?

word count | 9k

Warnings: NON-CON/DUB-CON, dark!reader, kidnapping, Stockholm syndrome, reader’s delusional and sick and sadistic but sweet ig, religious (specifically Christian) disdain from Jon , murder/torture towards jon/in general, jon isn’t scarecrow au, slightly ooc jon, p in v sex, househusband!jonathan, PROCEED WITH CAUTION - DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE

Disclaimer: This is part of my unfinished works. I don't write anymore, but I still wanted to publish what I have. I'll use bullet points to explain what I planned to happen at the end. Also note that this is heavily unedited, there will be a lot of mistakes.

i.

You didn’t know what beauty was until you met Jonathan Crane that fateful winter’s night, a night where the season’s gentle touch had left windows glazed with frost, and the late evening coated in a thick, gloomy darkness. Crystal flakes were falling from the sky onto your body like specks of dust, but it was nothing compared to the way it looked on him, his dark hair contrasting with the white, the snow melting upon the touch of his skin. His breath was coming out in puffs of smoke before dissipating into the bitter air, his square glasses glinting in the light of the street lamps.  

Time had frozen still at that moment, as though your brain had gone numb, much like the cold was numbing your ears and toes and the tips of your fingers. Licking your lips, you observed as the man — whose name you did not know then — glanced at the slim watch on his wrist, shivering ever so slightly as a breeze brushed him by. He was wearing an elegant suit, colored charcoal, the dress shirt underneath thinly striped, and his shoes polished and new, no doubt recently bought. He seemed to be an educated man with wealth, maybe a doctor or lawyer, but you guessed doctor, because he struck you as a scientific mind, curious but practical. 

He wasn’t married, as he had no ring, which led you to believe that his profession took up a lot of his time and effort. After all, how could a man as gorgeous as him not be desired? Even the thought of him in bed with you set your loins alight, not to mention the slightest notion of him being yours until death do us part.  

“Silly,” you had murmured to yourself, though there was a soft smile playing on your lips. “You’re thinking too far ahead, like always.”

But it really wasn’t your fault. He was so delightful to look at. Almost like a doll, with his plump pink lips and blush-dusted cheeks. You could imagine it already: a domestic life. He needn’t not lift a finger, not think a single thought, as long as he allowed you to hold him in his arms. How was it that someone who had not done anything at all to warrant such attraction, found himself at the center of your obsessiveness?

There’s something about him. Something different I cannot deny. He was unlike anyone you had ever seen before, anyone you would ever see in the future. It was strange how humans worked, heart so easily manipulated. What was it that caught your attention in the first place? you wondered. The aesthetic of the scene? His simple presence in the emptiness of the street? Did it even matter anymore, now that you were so hopelessly captured by him?

“Hey, excuse me, ma’am!”

Heart thumping against your chest at the sudden noise, you answered hesitantly, “Yes?”

The man, who was raising his voice so he could be heard across the street, gave you a wary look. “Do you know when the bus will arrive? I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes — the sign said it would arrive at seven.”

“I’m not sure,” you lied. You hadn’t expected him to talk to you. The event felt out of control, like you weren’t sure what was going to happen next. It bothered you, but if anything, this was a sign. A sign that perhaps he was the one. “I’m waiting for it as well,” you continued. “Do you mind if I cross?”

“I don’t.”

After you made sure there were no cars nearby, you walked across the road and finally got your first view of the man, finding his features, his mannerisms, his everything to be just as breathtaking as it was from a distance. He had a relatively low voice, around a medium pitch, and it was grated, almost like a vocal fry. He had these little freckles scattered across his face like distant stars in the sky. If it was possible, you would have plucked out every single one of them to store in a jar.

“I usually don’t take the bus,” you said smoothly, trying to start a conversation, though all you could focus on the way he was looking at you, his gaze piercing and icy, “but my car’s in a workshop. I thought I’d try my luck here before heading to the subway.”

Your car wasn’t in a workshop. It was in the garage parking lot just diagonal of his view. You had only gotten out because you wanted a quick coffee at the local café. Eternally grateful that you spotted him along the way, you weren’t sure what you would have done if you hadn’t. It had only been a few minutes, and you were already in love.

The man hummed in response, not seeming to take much of an interest. “I’m in a similar situation myself . . . I’ll be on my way, then,” he said, clearing his throat. 

He started walking down the sidewalk to the nearest subway station, a walk you knew was going to take about a while. And in those clothes? He was most certainly going to catch a cold. If it was proper to do so, you would have offered him your own coat, but in a city like this, where no one trusted, you didn’t need to make him suspicious of your kindness. People were like animals, small critters. Approaching them too fast would scare them off. You had to be subtle, ease into it before you did anything too rash. 

“Are you coming?” he asked, turning around, waiting for you to follow him. His tone was expectant, and almost humorous, like the thought of you continuing to wait for the bus was amusing to him. It made you amused. There would be work to do with his arrogance when you finally take him away, you made a mental note of that. 

“No,” you responded. “I’ve changed my mind, I’ll have a friend come pick me up.”

“. . . Are you sure?” he pressed, concerned. He was concerned for you. It was so sweet. 

“I’m sure,” you repeated. If you were with him for a second longer you would have gotten down on your knees and proposed. 

He considered your words, then nodded. “Well, have a nice day, ma’am.”

“You as well . . . I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Jonathan. Dr. Jonathan Crane.”

“Jonathan,” you repeated, the word rolling off your tongue with ease. Jon-ah-thun, meaning God has given, gift of God. A gift to you, surely, or why else would he be here, standing in your presence if he wasn’t meant to be taken away? To be polite, you gave him your own name, hoping he liked it as much as you liked his, and simply said, “Have a nice day,” hiding the butterflies inside your stomach that flew around like hail in a blizzard. 

Jonathan Crane, my very own doll.

+++

The chains clinked against the others in the link, the cuffs tugging against the skin, pulled so hard it restricted the blood flow. It was only then the noises stopped, and a defeated sigh left your doll’s lips. His head leaned against the wall and his posture slumped, as though he had given up. It was a shame, too. The sight of him struggling was exhilarating. It filled you with such excitement and arousal that you wished he kept going.

Currently, you were working, with your laptop placed out in front of you on your desk, some oatmeal to your right. The camera system was hooked up to the large monitor, so from here you could watch Jonathan’s movements. He had been awake since the break of dawn, the time he usually got up for work, except he wasn’t at his house today, he was in your basement, body against the cold floor, trembling like a scared bunny.

The planning was the most difficult part of this endevour. You had never actually kidnapped someone before. When you were a child, the local police suspected you in the mutilation of a few small critters in your apartment complex, and in college you were involved in the accidental death of one of your fellow students (he fell down the stairs and hit his head, nothing that anyone could prove was your fault), but to actually kidnap someone was entirely different. 

It would be an ongoing investigation until the case was classified as cold, and even then some cold cases were picked up again after years; you had to make sure no could connect a link, because some people were too narrow-minded to understand how true and unconditional your adoration for him was; and not only that, but the amount of research — or stalking, as some might call it — that you had to do was exhaustive; but really, it was worth it, and Jonathan would fall for you just as you did for him within a few months, maybe a year at most. He would come to realize just how much you cared about him, and just how wonderful your life could be together. Once you arrived at that point, things would flow seamlessly. You had all the precautions in place. Even if he did try and escape, you always had a sedative in your pocket, and all the doors to your house was just as secure on the inside as it was on the outside. 

The only thing you worried about was witnesses. See, Jonathan was usually very careful not to go into secluded alleyways or dingy locations on his own, which made it difficult to take him. So, you had to bump into him in a coffee shop — a coincidence, you had told him — and from there lure him out.  

You sighed lovingly and gazed at Jonathan through the screen, deciding that it was time to bring him breakfast and lay out the ground rules.

After a few more minutes, you crept down the stairs with some food and water, careful not to step on any of the parts that would cause a creaking sound, and unlocked the basement with the passcode. When you opened the door, Jonathan raised his head, scooting his body away from your figure until he backed into a corner.

It was a dingy little place. It used to have carpet, but you removed that in favor of plastic tarp on the floor, nothing that could indefinitely stain the cement underneath. The walls were covered in that as well, and there was no window or clock to let him know the time. There were blankets to the side, and a small toilet to the other corner of the room. It was a good enough place for now. You hated seeing him in these conditions, but only once he proved responsible would you update him to a secured bedroom. At this point in time, he wasn’t capable of understanding things, and would only try to run away if you gave him more freedom. 

Jonathan stayed quiet for a long while, and so did you, but then he scoffed. “I’m not eating that.”

Frowning, you bent down to his level. You placed the bowl in front of him, the sweet aroma of cinnamon and honey filling the stale air. “It's not poisoned, you know that.”

Jonathan did know that. He was smart enough to realize that a person wouldn’t go through all the effort of bringing him here, only to poison him. There needn’t be a conversation over this. He didn’t reach for the bowl yet, but you knew he would when you left. Eventually, hunger would get to him. 

“Are you in love with me?” he asked next.

Yes, yes I am. I love you as true as the air you breathe, as blue as your eyes gleam, and as certain as the beat of your heart. 

“Why do you ask?” you said instead.

“Your eyes are always dilated, you can’t keep them off of me. Not at the bus station, the coffee shop.” He paused. “You’re sick. I’m not in love with you. Whatever fantasy you have is not real.”

“You may not be in love with me now, but you will be soon.”

There was no point in hiding your intentions. 

He scoffed again, head down. “Realize this, I have nothing. Whatever you want from me, I can’t give you.”

Reaching out to him, you rubbed your thumb against his skin. He was cold. Again. 

“You need to learn how to keep warm,” you said, concerned. “There’s some blankets. Use them.”

Jonathan pulled away, though you could tell he wanted you to keep doing that, because for a brief moment he almost leaned into your touch and warmth. So, you did just that. You gripped his chin and forced him to look at you. He put up a bit of a struggle, but in the end, he relented, and let you caress his skin. Letting your fingers trail up his cheek to his nose, you quickly made your way to his eyelashes, his long, thick eyelashes that fluttered like a black bird’s feathers. 

“I did a bit of research on you,” you said. “Just enough to make sure no one would come looking for you right away, to learn your patterns and your habits, or any other important bits of information . . . like the fact that you have a therapist.”

Jonathan looked straight into your eyes. It was almost as if, at the moment, he was more concerned about what you might have read about him than his current predicament. He didn’t want anyone to know his past, his secrets, his weaknesses. It was embarrassing, and you knew that because you read in his file — which took atrociously long to obtain — how ashamed he was of himself, how conscious. 

He shoved you away, and you backed off.

“Don’t be mean,” you frowned, hurt. “It was necessary. Watching you through your window wasn’t enough to truly know you. And even now, I’m sure there’s so much I’ve missed. It’ll be nice. As long as you listen and don’t cause trouble, everything will be okay.”

“You’re delusional,” he scowled. “I’ve known enough people like you in my life to understand how you work. Once you’re tired of me, you’ll dump me and get someone new to torment.”

“That’s not true, and you’ll see that,” you protested. It broke you to know that he thought of himself as expendable. “. . . I know you need some time to think. I’ll come down in a few hours with lunch, alright?”

You took his silence as a ‘yes’.

“Good boy.”

+++

A few weeks had passed by. The snow was beginning to melt, turning into a mushy, brown sludge that you had to trudge through every morning to get to work. Admittedly, you were quite busy with your job, but you made as much time as you could for Jonathan. Your doll was in a sour mood the entire time, and after calling you a bitch and a unintelligent, perverted whore — such colorful language — he started begging you to let him go.

I won’t tell anyone. I’ll give you money. Please, I’m begging you. All clearly signs of emotional distress.

It hurt you a lot when Jonathan rejected your affection. More than you thought it would. He should be grateful that you took such an interest in him, but instead he was disgusted. Of course, he would fall for you soon, but it made you wish that he had already done so, and that too on the night you two met. 

Wouldn’t it have been romantic? Love at first sight. Did you not deserve something like that? For someone to look into your eyes the way you did his and think, This is the one I want to marry. Again, you knew it would take time, but the wound still cut deep. 

He was eating, which was good. One less thing to worry about. But when you checked his wrists to see if the cuffs were still locked you found them red with marks. It worried you a bit, so you applied some cream to them — or at least, tried to, with the way he was struggling and all. You did other things like bathe him, but despite how desperate you were to see his pretty cock, you never went beyond the waistline, and encouraged him to clean himself down there instead. You hoped it established some sense of trust between you two, because at least Jonathan would realize that you would never do anything to make him uncomfortable. 

When you were researching Jonathan Crane — before you took him — you learned that he was a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. A professor at Gotham University first, but either way, it seemed that his heart lied with the sciences. You did a little internet digging and tracked his book orders, then picked something you thought he would like and was sure he hadn’t read yet.

One book on chemistry and its applications on brain science, and another on psychology, a look into real-world examples written by a doctor from the late twentieth century. 

Carefully wrapping it up in light blue paper, you tied it with a navy-colored ribbon and made a bow. Your fingers lingered on the box, a little nervous about handing it over to Jonathan, but you walked downstairs with it anyways, opening the basement door and watching with satisfaction as he scurried away once again.

“It’s just a gift,” you laughed, setting it down in front of him. He watched it warily. “I want you to open it. I hope you’ll like it.”

Jonathan’s lower lip quivered, and you had a sudden desire to kiss him. Lips upon lips, heavy and sweet. Sometimes, you felt as though the only way to get close to him — truly close — was to peel off his skin and wrap it around you. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? He would die, which you didn’t want, but to think about it was enough. It was so intimate it made you hot all over. 

“Please,” Jonathan muttered. “Please let me go. I’ll do anything.”

You sighed. “I don’t want to hear this again. I’ve been really patient with you. Can’t you just . . . be normal?”

“Normal?” 

Oh, dear. He’s about to go into another one of his fits.

“How can you expect me to be normal when you’ve got me locked in chains?” he frowned. Surprisingly enough, he wasn’t getting upset, but rather more submissive. He wasn’t scowling or spitting in your face, but rather his head was downturned and his body language more open. Was this it? Was this the point of breaking? 

“I have nothing,” he continued. “No bed to sleep in, no touch . . .”

Touch. Well, he had you, didn’t he? 

“You don’t like it when I touch you,” you said.

He looked away, almost embarrassed. This doll of a man had you completely enamored, fooled, like a hopeless soul waiting for the heavens. Anything he did, anything he said, would make you fold in a heartbeat. If he asked you to go get the moon, you would die, frozen in the vastness of space just trying. He could make you do anything, except perhaps let you go, but only because you knew that deep down, he didn’t really want it.

Jonathan didn’t make an effort to come closer to you, and you didn’t either. Despite your devotion, you wanted to see him make the first move. You had waited long enough. All you wanted was to be loved by him, and you knew that he had it in him to show his affection. He just feared you, feared that you would hurt him.

. . . Maybe a few more days. A few more days of waiting until you would take drastic action.

+++

Laying on the couch, you turned on the TV, opening up the Gotham news channel as background noise while you dozed off. There were a few errands to be done, but you decided to put them off until tomorrow as the weather had gotten worse. It wasn’t raining anymore, and the snow was still brown and mushy, but it was freezing, and you made the stupid mistake of leaving your car outside. 

After ten minutes of just lazing around, you were abruptly woken up by the ring of your doorbell. With a groan, you got up off the couch and unlocked the door, only for your nerves to jump and a nervous chuckle escape your lips.

“I — well, hi. Can I help you, officer?” you asked, looking the man in front of you up and down. He had wispy brown hair that was covered by a fur hoodie and a kind smile painted on his face. He didn’t look like he meant any harm, but perhaps this was just a facade to get your guard down. For all you knew there could be police officers stationed all around your house. Or were you being too paranoid? Yes. You probably were. 

“You can,” he said, voice a little gruff. “My name is Peter Wright, I just wanna ask you a few questions. May I come inside?”

You hesitated. “What's this about?”

Wright chuckled, but didn’t answer. “Do you know a man named Jonathan Crane? You may have just passed him on the street — he had dark hair, glasses, clean-cut . . .”

Your mind ran through all the possibilities. There was absolutely no way this man could know you two even met. You were so careful — so unbelievably careful. Was there something you had overlooked? Something you had missed? Maybe someone saw you with Jonathan and reported it to the police once they realized he was missing.

“. . . No.”

Wright smiled. “No need to be so tense. We just wanna know where he is.”

You smiled, trying to be friendly. “I’m sorry, sir, I have no clue who that is. You probably have the wrong person — ”

“ — yeah, figured,” Wright interrupted, flashing another smile. “He’s been missing for a while. You’re not in trouble, we just have to check every lead.”

“Oh, I understand completely,” you said. “May I ask, why have I become a . . . lead?”

“Just some security footage on a date of interest. You had crossed the street at a bus station.” Wright paused for a moment, seeing if you remembered anything. You did, but you kept your face blank. It was better to pretend. It made you relieved, however. This was nothing serious, and nothing that was your fault. “He wrote it down in one of his journal entries, that’s why we checked.”

“Journal entries?” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

“Yes. That’s how all these smart people are like, or so I’ve been told. Methodical, pattern-orientated.”

Was he even supposed to be telling you this? It seemed like this man was more loose-lipped than he first appeared. Perhaps you could pull some information out of him, turn on your charm. 

“You know what? Come inside. It’s cold, and I can make you some hot coffee.”

“Really?” Wright raised an eyebrow. “Now you’re getting let me in?”

You gave a playful glare. “I’m not gonna ask again, sir.”

Wright obliged, and for the rest of the evening, he divulged information about the case, a little too flirtatious for your taste, but it got the work done, and by the end of the day, you learned that they had nothing on you, and nothing on this case. 

+++

“Jonathan,” you cooed as you entered the basement with a plate of mashed potatoes and steak. You immediately noticed that his knuckles were bloody, and realized what he was trying to do — he must have heard another person upstairs and banged against the concrete walls in the hopes that he would’ve been heard.

What a stupid boy!

“Hold on,” you muttered, annoyed, placing the food down. “I’ll get you some bandages — ”

“ — Can’t you just be here?” Jonathan said shakily, his voice hoarse. “You said you loved me but you never spend time with me, you’re always upstairs . . . I’m going insane.”

Your heart leaped. Finally. Finally! It was happening. He was beginning to see, to truly see the connection you both had. You could envision it already — a wedding, with only an eficator there to make things legitimate, with flowers and a beautiful background, perhaps a sunset or beach, or maybe some mountains — topped with snow. That would be perfect, absolutely wonderful. Oh, you would have to start making the plans now! 

“Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” You snapped out of your thoughts. “Oh, no. No, darling. I’m just so excited, I’ve been waiting so long . . . Here, can I hold you?”

Jonathan nodded with a sniffle. 

Not wasting a single moment, you wrapped him up in your arms, watching as he delicately snuggled his head in the crook of your neck. The feeling of his hair brushing up against your skin was exhilarating, making you shudder and shake like you were about to lose it. About to lose it and take him right then and there, all romantic like, with nice words and the scent of rose petals . . . Maybe your first time could be in a bath, with lit candles, cleaning each other off. It was —

Hold on. Where was his chain?

Jonathan’s arms were around your waist, but you couldn’t feel the metal. You looked to the hook on the wall and saw that it had broken off, next to it the psychology book you gave to him, heavily dented. 

Chasting yourself, you felt Jonathan tighten his grip around your body. You should have checked — you should have checked for the chain like you did every time you came down. What was wrong with you? This one simple mistake could ruin everything . . . 

Trying to think as quickly as you could, you looked around the room for the other book, but couldn’t find it anywhere. You had a sedative syringe in your pocket, but you couldn’t get to it without alerting him. Alas, you finally felt something poking you in the side, something sharp like an edge, and within seconds you had been tossed to the floor and hit over the head.

+++

When you finally woke up, your head was reeling. You had a massive headache, and everytime you tried to sit up your vision would go a little dark and you would give up. Before you could try again, you had a hand against your throat. You felt a horrible surge of anger, and in the midst of your emotions, a slight sense of arousal.

“After everything I’ve done for you?” you cried out, voice choked. You could feel a shift in movement, because after Jonathan realized he was hurting you, he loosened his grip, but it still wasn’t enough to get out of his grasp. He probably tried to open the basement door but couldn’t, so waited until you came to give him the passcode. You couldn’t rely on the hope that he wouldn’t hurt you. He was desperate. But so were you.

“Everything you’ve done,” he repeated with a low murmur. “You know how humiliating it is to be trapped in a basement for a month, forced to bathe in front of you because I can’t even be trusted with a flow of water? Have to piss with chains on? I’m a doctor, I shouldn’t have to submit to your delusion.”

“You should and you will!” you screeched, squirming. “You finally have someone to love you, to adore you, someone who would do anything for you, and it’s still not enough. Or you know what? Maybe you like that. Being sad all the time, not having anyone to care for you. Probably used to it, huh? Distant parents, bitch grandmother, no friends, no lovers . . .”

Jonathan tossed you to the floor and pinned you down, his nose close to yours, breathing heavy, eyes a little glossy. Then, without warning, he slapped you. The sting was both painful and pleasurable. The little whimper you let out was more of a light sigh, but you didn’t let that distract you. All you needed to do was reach into your pocket for the syringe, which he clearly hadn’t noticed was there. If you could drug him just a little, you would be able to get your power back, your control.

“I want the code. That’s it.”

“I want a kiss.”

“Fuck you.”

“Just one kiss. A nice, long one.”

Jonathan thought for a moment. His breath tickled your skin. Then, he leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut, and brushed his perfect, pink lips against yours. He was so easily manipulated, so eager. Even when he had all the power, he still fell for your little antic. Or maybe he just wanted an excuse to kiss you.

While he was distracted, you swiftly took the syringe out and stabbed him with it, pushing half the liquid in. He pulled away and gasped, but then his eyes started drooping, and his movements became more wobbly, and he fell into your arms, disorientated and dizzy.

“Mm . . . what did you do?” he asked. 

You grabbed his hair, making him wince in pain. “You know, I’ve been trying so hard to be patient, not rushing you, making you feel as safe as possible” You paused. “But sometimes people aren’t grateful for what they have. That’s okay, it happens. You just have to learn. I’ll be patient again, just for you.”

You laid him on his back and started unbuckling his pants belt. He tried to stop you, but his movements were too weak and groggy.

“Don’t — don’t,” he pleaded.

You stopped, but only for the time being. You lifted him up onto his feet and let him lean against you. His feet were dragging a little against the floor, but he managed to walk. He pulled himself away from you when you made it to the top of the stairs but stumbled. He just wasn’t strong enough. You unlocked the passcode.

You led him over to the bathroom on your first floor, where you opened the tub’s tap and let the water flow. Jonathan’s eyelids drooped slightly, but you could see — smell — the fear in them. He knew what you were going to do, and he was helpless to stop it. 

Taking off the rest of his belt, you pulled his cock out. White, soft, a little big, but other than that it was perfect, just like every other part of him. You brushed your finger across it, watching the way it twitched in your hands. Unable to stop yourself, you leaned down and gave the head a small kiss, but that was the last bit of kindness Jonathan was going to receive today. In fact, receive for a long while.

You dipped your hand in the tub, which was steadily flowing with water, and gave his cock a hard squeeze, making him whimper in pain. “That’s the closest to lube you’ll get,” you said. “Now come on, don’t fight me. Dip your face in.”

Pushing his head down into the tub wasn’t much of a struggle, but Jonathan wasn’t making it easy. Your doll, your poor doll. He didn’t want to be hurt, but that was what had to happen. And it would keep happening until he finally admitted that he loved you. 

When Jonathan’s nose touched the water, he groaned, his head dizzy. It was cold, but by the time he could even register the temperature, his entire head was in, held by your hand as your other stroked his cock. A few air bubbles came up, but you didn’t give in. You wanted him to struggle, you wanted him to be in pain. He was like a fragile mouse caught in a trap. Only you could let him go. Only you had the power to.

After a few more seconds, you lifted his head up, watching with glee as he gasped for air, coughing and sputtering when he could spare it. 

“Aw, baby boy. You don’t like that very much, do you?”

He shook his head, opening his mouth to speak, but you didn’t let him. You just shoved him down into the tub again, feeling your body tingle. You swiped your finger over that little hole where you would soon force cum to shoot out of, and pressed down on it hard. Then, you found your way to his balls, slightly pulling at the small hairs there. Pinching and squeezing. His thighs shook, so you slapped them. They were another beautiful part of his body.

You continued pumping, up and down, steadily, then pulled him out. You could feel some pre-cum on your hands . . . even when you were torturing him he couldn’t control his biological reactions.

When he came up for the second time, he begged, “Please — I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . . Mercy, I can’t!”

His hair was wet, sticking to his forehead, and water was running down from his chin to his chest underneath the plain white shirt you had given him. His nipples were perked, probably from all the adrenaline, but you liked to think that it was because he was aroused. 

“You can and you will,” you growled. “Take it. Take it!”

+++

When you were finished with him, you took him back down to the basement, his cock hanging limp through the zipper area of his pants, and tossed him to the floor. Noticing one of the books you gifted him on the ground, you picked it up and threw it at him. It hit his leg, and within seconds, he passed out. 

You locked the door and left him like that for the next few days. No food, no water, no nothing. Through the camera you could see that he was barely moving. He only got up to use the toilet, but other than that, he was like a slug. It was on the third day that you decided to go down again and nourish him, otherwise he might die, and you didn't want that, not after all this hard work. 

ii.

Jonathan Crane was respected throughout the city of Gotham, a known and reputable psychiatrist amongst others in his field, as well as connected with higher elites who often funded his projects, his small passions. Never did he think he would ever end up in someone’s basement, that too the basement of a beauty. 

He had gotten into a car accident while pulling out of Akrham’s parking lot. It was a stupid mistake, not even his fault, really. The curb was so narrow and it was difficult to see past the line of trees whether another car was coming or not, and in his rush to get home, he went ahead without thinking and collided with a red Sedan.

No one was injured, but his car was beat up, and after getting it towed, he had to walk all the way to the nearest bus station (which was very far away, as the aslyum was rather secluded). It was cold, and he wasn’t dressed for this weather at all. He tried to take his mind off the temperature by looking at his watch, the tick-tick ticking, but when he finally got there, he found that the bus was not coming at all. It had been fifteen minutes, and nothing was there. The entire street was surprisingly empty for a city as busy as Gotham, with only the occasional patrol car driving past.

He was about ready to head to the subway — another long trek — when he saw someone else standing across the street. It was a woman, he could tell from the figure, but she was shrouded in darkness . . . Maybe she was waiting for the bus as well.

“Hey, excuse me, ma’am!” he shouted out, hoping not to startle her. He knew how women could get, all scared and skittish when they were alone. He understood. Crime rates were high, rape and theft were common. Even he was on his guard right now. 

“Yes?” the woman answered hesitantly. 

“Do you know when the bus will arrive?” Jonathan asked. “I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes — the sign said it would arrive at seven.”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I’m waiting for it as well. Do you mind if I cross?”

Jonathan hadn’t expected that, but agreed nonetheless. He found it a bit odd that she was waiting on the other side of the road, but figured that she might have only just arrived. When she crossed, the light of the street lamps hit her face and he was taken aback. She was awfully pretty — beautiful, in fact. She was looking at him with almost dazed eyes, a nervous expression upon her face. He couldn’t tell if she found him attractive, or if she was intimidated by him. Most people were. 

They had a short conversation that eventually ended. Jonathan would head down to the subway station, and the woman had opted to call her friend to pick her up. He was a little disappointed. She seemed interesting, and there was no harm in continuing their conversation, but he was also tired and in no mood to convince her to come along with him. 

He was about to leave when she asked him for his name. “Jonathan. Dr. Jonathan Crane,” he clarified.

“Jonathan,” she repeated. For a moment, he felt ill at ease. Maybe it was the reminder that he was in the middle of an empty street at night, or the way she looked at him as she repeated his name. He shook it off, he was just being silly. 

The woman gave him her name — your name, a nice name. He didn’t know what it was about you, but for the rest of the day you were on his mind. It was enough to make him mention you in his journal, mention with a flow of compliments that ranged from beautiful to almost sinister.

+++

Jonathan had always had a bit of a problem when it came to people. As a child he was ostracized and bullied for his gangly body, and in his adulthood, he had always come off as too unnerving for others. It probably didn’t help that he was arrogant and assuming, too. When it came to lovers, he could get quite obsessive, a problem that broke most of his relationships. Apparently no one liked it when their boyfriends were possessive.

He’d had a few affairs before, but nothing ever serious. He could never find someone he liked enough to marry. On the surface, he semed like the kind of guy that was more interested in his work than anything romantic, but in the end he had been raised with typical values, and as much as he tried to shake it off, he really felt like his path in life was to work, marry, have children, and then die.

When he was a kid his grandmother, Keeny, stressed upon him the importance of finding a good Christian wife. She must be a virgin, submissive, good-natured, and so on. He was sure she had already picked someone from their small town for him, because she was oddly pushy towards this one Church girl who liked to have ribbons in her braids (that was all he really remembered of her). Jonathan wondered what his grandmother thought of him now. Despite all the bad memories associated with her, he still sent letters with money every once in a while. She responded sometimes, mostly with pleas for him to come back, but he never paid them any mind. He was done with her and Georgia. 

In his mind, his ideal wife would be an intellectual just like him. Preferably smart, but not as smart as him, who was just as clingy as he was, who understood and could care for him, and who was perhaps a little more on the dominant side. He was always embarrassed with the fact that he liked dominant women, but wasn’t going to let that stop him from finding one, or at least, hoping one would find him.

“So, you’re opening yourself up to new relationships,” his therapist, Dr. Taylor Smith said, an encouraging smile on her face. Jonathan had been with her for years, and while they were strictly professional, Jonathan couldn’t help but be slightly attached to her. It was what happened when someone gave him even the slightest ounce of affection.

“I suppose so,” Jonathan responded, not knowing what else to say.

“If you’re ready for it, I think you should go out and start talking to people,” Smith suggested. “You have a lot of colleagues, you could start there.”

Jonathan frowned. “They’ve stopped asking me to lunches.”

“Because you decline all the time?”

“Probably.”

“Then why don’t you ask them first?”

Jonathan frowned again. “I’d rather not.”

Smith gave a knowing look. “And how do you suppose to meet people, then?”

Jonathan didn’t want to answer. He knew he was being silly, but he just didn’t want to be the one to make the first move. Eventually someone would come along and ask him out, right? He just had to wait a little . . . Perhaps he could loiter around some bookstores or near the lectures he attended so he could meet a woman who was like-minded.

“Look,” Smith said, intertwining her hands. “Before we meet again next week, I want you to have made an effort towards a relationship. Friendship would be a good start.”

“I have friends. Harleen is — fine,” Jonathan relented, after seeing the glare his therapist was giving. “I’ll do that. It’ll be my homework,” he joked, but on the inside he was thoroughly annoyed.

+++

Jonathan’s first idea was to go to a coffee shop. He had been starved for some caffeine and decided that instead of making one at home he could go out and get one. He parked his car in a nearby garage and walked over to a local shop. It had a long line of impatient-looking people, moody, too, at that.

He took his place in line, inhaling the sweet aroma of the atmosphere. A few people were working, typing away at their laptops, while others were with their friends or family or partners. He tried to look as casual as possible, sweeping his hair over his forehead every once in a while, but then he stopped, feeling stupid.

He felt like a kid back in highschool trying to get a girl’s attention. Everyone here was either already with someone or rushing to get out. It was a dumb idea. He’d just get his coffee and leave.

Maybe he could just ask his coworkers at the asylum. They were nice enough, and it would probably do good on his work relationships if he made an effort on them.

When he got to the counter he ordered a small latte and went on his way, but after turning the corner he bumped into someone. They were holding a cup of coffee — from the same cafe he just went to. The cap, which must not have been applied properly, fell to the ground, and all the hot, brown liquid splashed onto both him and . . . and . . . the lady from the bus station?

Jonathan hissed at the burning sensation, but restrained himself from letting out a small scream. A few people stopped and turned to look at them. A few of them in pity, others stifling their giggles, while one man offered to go get some napkins.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” the woman — you — said, grabbing some napkins from the man and wiping your blouse off.

Jonathan glared.

“What is wrong with you?” he sneered, his face contorted in controlled disgust. “Are you stalking me?”

“What? I don’t — look, I’m really sorry, sir,” you fervently apologized, which made Jonathan feel a bit bad. “Here — some napkins — ”

“ — Don’t bother,” Jonathan said, looking down at his suit, though his tone was a bit softer. 

There was a moment of silence. Jonathan admired your features for those few moments, and thought back to how he wrote about you in his journal. His cheeks flushed a light pink at the memory. Imagine what would happen if you found out . . .

“Aren’t you going to say sorry, too?”

Jonathan sighed, getting annoyed again. “I’m sorry,” but it was sarcastic. 

“I want to hear a genuine apology,” you said, but before Jonathan could say anything, you continued, “That or . . . you buy me another cup of coffee and we go our separate ways.”

Jonathan was caught off guard, but he realized that it was the perfect opportunity to do what he came here for: make a friend. And she was so obviously flirting. 

“Alright. But we’ll be quick. I have to change.”

You chuckled. “Okay, okay.”

You both walked back to the coffee shop, standing in line as you looked over the menu. Jonathan wondered what to say.

“It’s quite the coincidence, don’t you think?” he said, feeling sticky as his dress shirt stuck to his skin. “We meet at the bus station, then here . . .”

“What do you mean?” you asked, confused.

Jonathan couldn’t believe that you didn’t remember. “I introduced myself to you. Dr. Jonathan Crane. And you told me your name.”

You thought for a moment, eyes dazed for a few seconds, but when you looked back at him you shook your head. “I-I suppose you look familiar, but I don’t really remember . . . I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s alright.”

Eventually, you both got up to the front. You ordered another coffee and Jonathan paid with his card. This time, he made sure your lid was secured on properly. When he got out of the cafe for the second time that day, he felt disappointed that he had to leave you again.

At the bus station he had let you go, and was he about to do the same thing here? No. He would try, shoot his chance. If it didn't work, so what? He would get over it.

“I can walk you back to your car,” Jonathan offered, taking a sip of his coffee, which thankfully he didn’t drop when he bumped into you. 

“I don’t want to bother you,” you said, shaking your head. “It’s all the way down the road.”

“I insist,” he said. 

You smiled. It was such a sweet smile, Jonathan wished he could igraine the memory into his mind forever. 

“What do you do for work?” he asked, trying to make light conversation.

“Real estate,” you responded. “You?”

“I’m a psychiatrist . . .”

He didn’t mention the fact that he worked at Arkham. It was infamous in Gotham, and not that great of a conversation starter. Jonathan didn’t want this to turn into an interview about what it’s like to work there, how the patients were, and so on.

When you and Jonathan reached your car, he felt that odd sense of dread again. He was near a closed-off area behind a shop. It was one of those places that had parking lots for behind a store, and was shaped almost like a square. The shop was closed, and there was only one car in the area — presumably yours.

“Sorry,” you apologized with a laugh after seeing the look on his face. “There was no parking nearby. I’m actually kind of glad you walked me . . . it’s a little scary all by myself.”

“It’s fine. I understand,” Jonathan said with a shrug, ignoring his instincts. He walked you to the car, and before he knew what was happening, he was knocked out. 

+++

The chains clinked against the others in the link, the cuffs tugging against Jonathan Crane’s skin, pulled so hard it restricted the blood flow. It was only then he stopped, and let a defeated sigh escape his lips. His head leaned against the wall and his posture slumped. Since he woke up he had been trying to get out of this place — out of this basement, it looked to be. His thoughts flooded his head a million times, and it was impossible for him to produce a semblance of coherent thinking. He begged his brain to stop working, to just be quiet for a moment so he could control his emotions and focus, but it wouldn’t. It left him tired and confused and scared.

What happened to me?

Why am I here?

Was that woman responsible for this? Did she kidnap me? Oh god, she kidnapped me.

What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

People are going to notice I’m missing. The police will come for me, I’ll be fine.

No they won’t. It’s Gotham, no one will do anything about it.

Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut. Stop it. Stop thinking.

After a while, he got his thoughts to quiet, but before he could be rational, the padlock clicked and the door opened. He backed into a corner — well, as far as his binding would let him, and his suspicions were confirmed.

It was you. You were his captor. His doom.

You placed a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. Cinnamon and honey filled the air. It had little pieces of apple cut up, and even some chocolate chips on the side. It was absolutely heavenly, and Jonathan could feel his mouth water at just the sight of it. He restrained himself, however. He was not that hungry, at least not yet, and he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t poisioned. 

“I’m not eating that.”

Frowning, you bent down to his level. “It's not poisoned, you know that.”

Jonathan did know that. He was smart enough to realize that a person wouldn’t go through all the effort of bringing him here, only to poison him. 

“Are you in love with me?” he asked next.

“Why do you ask?” you said instead. Avoiding the question.

“Your eyes are always dilated, you can’t keep them off of me. Not at the bus station, the coffee shop.” He paused. “You’re sick. I’m not in love with you. Whatever fantasy you have is not real.”

“You may not be in love with me now, but you will be soon.”

Was it wrong that for a moment Jonathan felt nice? In all his life, he never had someone care for him, but here, someone had gone through the effort of kidnapping him just to be with him. He felt stupid for thinking like that. This wasn’t some story, it was reality, and in reality, you didn’t actually love him. You were obsessed. Obsessed . . . Was he that incapable of being loved that people had to either hate him or obsess over him like an object? Was there no in-between? 

There were a few more words exchanged. You brushed your fingers against his skin, and though he pulled away, he couldn’t deny the affection rising within him. No one had ever touched him this gently before, this kindly.

You left, leaving Jonathan alone in the cold, dark room. After a few moments of hesitation, he reached for the bowl, and began eating.

+++

A few weeks had passed by. Jonathan couldn’t tell if the weather outside had begun to turn warm, or if it was still as cold as the last time he saw it. He never knew what time it was unless you came down with food, and even then, he was probably a couple of hours off. As he spent time in that basement, searching for a way out, he felt a sense of desperate hopelessness creep onto him. Would he ever make it out alive?

He couldn’t believe that he was even in this situation. After insulting you and calling you names, he resorted to fervent begging, but even that wasn’t enough to make you let him go. In your delusion you had made his life a misery. He couldn’t keep living in your basement like some sort of pet, forced to bathe in front of you and constantly monitored by cameras.

Maybe Jonathan would have liked you better if you actually gave him a nice room to sleep in. Or if you made something other than acai bowls and fruit smoothies all the time.

He could see it in your eyes that you truly believed you loved him, and it made him feel scared. While he overviewed cases like this and met people with the same mentality to kidnap and stalk, he still didn’t know what to do. In a part of his brain, he thought that maybe you weren’t so bad and that you could have been torturing him right now, but instead was being kind and thoughtful. 

You tried to apply cream to his bruised wrists, and you didn’t even scold him for trying to get out of the handcuffs. He made it a difficult process, but it was because he was afraid. He had never been touched like that before. You were making him feel all sorts of things — anger, confusion, fear. 

It didn’t help when you brought down a present for him. A book on chemistry, and another on psychology. It was wrapped in a box, which was wrapped in a light-blue color. Why were you so sweet? In all his years, he had never gotten a present as meaningful as this. His heart had wrenched uncomfortably, and he had to remind himself who you were, what type of person you were.

Maybe if he used this book to hit you over the head with, it would knock you out and he could escape. He could use it to break the chains, too. They were hardcover, and th

———

(I stopped writing here.)

The rest of this section was just going to be through Jonathan’s perspective.

iii.

You opened the door hesitantly, a wave of guilt flooding your body. Jonathan lay there on the floor, beaten and bruised, shivering in a corner even though he had a blanket around him. He didn’t smell good, but you expected it to be worse, so you took it as a sign that things could still be salvaged.

———

(I stopped writing here).

Jonathan is passed out, barely able to move. For the next few days, you nurse him back to health. You clean him, feed him, and give him better clothing. He doesn’t fight back. Slowly, he starts to accept his new environment and you upgrade him to a guest bedroom, but you still lock the doors and windows so he can’t escape.

The police officer comes back to flirt. You’re annoyed, but you know you need him for info. The police officer starts to get suspicious, and out of fear he’ll do something, you murder him. The murder is sort of the climax of the story.

After that whole ordeal, Jonathan has been completely conditioned by you, but the ending is open-ended. “The Doll’s Burial” is meant to represent a burial of his true self, replaced by a version you created, or, his actual death. It depends on you — do you get bored of him, is it truly an obsession? Or do you truly love him, and are willing to spend your whole life as his wife?

Tagging in case ya'll are still interested: @shroombloom-rry @madnessandobsession @henrywintersdearestgirl @hllywdwhre @your-nanas-house @ellebelleshelby @Meetmeatyourworst @hanawrites404 @Emimurphy2008

@nela-cutie

@slut4thebroken

@wild-rose-35

@madeinuk

@flwrs4aust

@httpxgray

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[2:41 pm]

(cw: pregnant reader, pregnancy complication scare, a little angst with a fluffy ending)

Simply saying you were stressed wouldn't even begin to cover all the chaos that happened to you throughout the day. First, you car wouldn't start as you were trying to go to work, so you went in late. It was even more of a pain to call your boss and explain that on a day that you asked to get off early you were also going to come in late, even though it was out of your control he was far from happy. Then you had a meeting that you had to rush into, not to mention you were a little under prepared thanks to pregnancy brain and overall exhaustion.

After the meeting finished you just couldn't wait to take a break and then go home. Your mind had been in a million places all at once, focusing on only getting yourself through the day. Unfortunately your mind wasn't even on the other life growing inside of you until you were seated on an sterile, paper wrapped exam table.

You were 5 months into your pregnancy and just a few weeks ago your little one started to kick whenever they could. When you laughed you'd feel the little feet flutter at the bottom of your rib cage. Sometimes when you were falling asleep you'd feel that same flutter on the left side of your belly. It felt strange, like actual butterflies in your stomach, but it was a strange feeling you'd come to love- it was your baby.

Your mind began to race. All day you'd been so focused on yourself that you didn't even pay attention to your baby. You were still early enough in your pregnancy that something could go wrong, had something gone wrong? Had you been so stressed that something happened? Had you been too selfish to focus only on yourself and not the well-being on the baby inside of you?

You wrung your hands together as dad!Jaemin stepped into the room, pressing a kiss to your forehead in greeting while he took in the far away look on your face. He tried asking you how your day was and received only a hum in response. He reached out and ran a hand over your shoulder, "What's wrong my love?"

"I didn't feel the baby move today," you whispered, afraid your voice would crack.

"You had a stressful day my love, I'm sure everything is fine. The doctor will come in and we're going to hear a strong heartbeat, and everything will be fine," Jaemin reassured, pressing his lips to your temple as you tried your best to keep yourself calm. He wouldn't tell you in the moment or probably even for a while, but he felt his stomach drop and tie itself into knots at the idea that something could be wrong. He kept his face calm to reassure you but his mind was running through every worst case scenario there was.

The doctor came in and ran through her usual questions and asked if you had any concerns, of course you told her about not feeling the baby move. Her face didn't change as she reassured you that some days babies just weren't as active, but the scan would be the most informative.

You laid back with your shirt pulled up to reveal your bump, you brought up a hand to rest on your chest, noticing the shakiness from your nerves. Jaemin took note and took your hand into his grasp and pressed a kiss there to put you at ease.

Your doctor did her routine of showing you the baby's head, feet, arms, and hands. Then asked you both to get ready to hear the heartbeat. You shut your eyes tightly in anticipation, all you could hear at the moment was the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. Jaemin steeled himself. If they didn't hear anything he would have to be strong for you. He wouldn't be able to break down when you were already so worried that it could all be your fault. He hoped and prayed that he wouldn't have to do that and would only have to be the reassuring voice that, yes, of course everything would be fine.

"And there it is, steady and strong." You heard before you finally focused on the beat playing around the room.

It almost felt like you were deflating, all your worries seemed to melt away as it turned out that everything was fine. "Looks like the baby knew you needed all the energy you could get today so they stayed a little calmer. It's normal to have some days be more active than others, but of course if you have any concerns please don't hesitate to reach out if needed," the doctor smiled as she passed you a few paper towels to wipe off the gel still coating your stomach.

Jaemin let out a long breath too, feeling his heat return to it's usual resting heartbeat while the doctor told him that the receptionists at the front would have their pictures and help schedule their next appointment.

Jaemin pressed another kiss to your forehead, "I told you everything would be fine."

"Don't think I didn't hear you let out that long breath or squeeze my hand," You replied as you eased yourself off the table.

"That wasn't me." Jaemin stated firmly.

You laughed, "It's fine we can both cry about it when we get home."

He pulled you into his side by your waist, "I'd rather cry looking at the new pictures of our beautiful baby."

[octuscle]

Hey support. I gave my phone to my dad for safekeeping while I went to a doctors appointment. During the appointment, I started feeling strange, like I was getting dumber? Also my shirt feels tight, don’t know if that’s something.

It's just a screening appointment. I'm here because I need to get my blood levels checked. Of course, I know for a fact that the doctor will say something about my cholesterol levels again. He will say something about the fact that I should do more sport. What should I do? I'm a junior in college. It is extremely challenging to keep up with the curriculum.

The shirt is not only tight, it is also itchy. It would be nice if the doctor came soon. Then I can finally take it off for the examination. I don't have forever. I have to be back on campus by 4 p.m. at the latest. Otherwise I won't have enough time to warm up before training.

I hope da doc isn't uh wimp. Yes, I cud have taken uh shower before going to da doctor. But before da doctor wuz gym, afta da doctor is football training. Ha much sense does uh shower make? let me check my armpit. Yes, gud jock sweat. Da doctor will like that.

Bruh, I'm lowkey praying this ain't nah shredded muscle or somethin wild like that. Haha, damn, I probably went ham on dem weights, but you know ha it goes on chest day - total amnesia, all about them pecs! I live for chest day!

Yo fam, like, why do I gotta chill on this chair every time for them to drain my blood? n why does da doc gotta inspect my balls first, like, what even? but hey, he's da med guru, he must know his shit, right? lit to know that my coach is posted up in da waiting room holding down my celly. Praying I can bounce back to ballin' with da squad pronto. Da ultimate showdown is goin' down this weekend. N coach dropped uh hint about needing uh fresh QB on da team. Please, oh please, let it be yours truly!

[inamagicalhallucination]

so it happens on a mission that aku gets hit with an ability

he didn't meant to be hit

he honestly wasn't in the range to be hit, it was just... well he saw it go towards the jinko and his body just reacted. it was just practical that someone without anxiety got hit, yeah. that's what he was sticking with.

-

he wakes up in a room not his own, wearing kitty pajamas he does not own

he reaches for rashomon, she does not reach back

he grabs something as a makeshift weapon and walks out, ready to claw his way away and-

"ryuunosuke you... you wear the pajamas i got you?" atsushi

he whirls, atsushi is standing there with coffee cups in his hand, one he's sipping from and one he's holding out to aku

he makes no comment on akutagawa's makeshift weapon

akutagawa, from pure confusion ends up spilling, in his "what the fuck is going on jinko"

he's a college student here, roommates with atsushi -- they've been friends for two years now... atsushi, though confused at first and offering to call his doctor friend who's "only scary when she wants to dissect you!!" but eventually he decides that it must be true becuz this aku is very different from his own aku though his personality is still pretty cute -- like when they got in a fight and aku slapped his hand away and atsushi said "ow" cuz it hurt and he just stopped and apologized for the whole day -- seemingly surprised that it would hurt him at all

a few days in this dimension though,

-

akutagawa wakes up in another bed

he's not traveling to another dimension -- he's travelling through multiple dimensions

this one he wakes up in a small apartment, he looks around for atsushi but he isn't there -- he's confused and disoriented and he gets dressed, is extremely lucky that this aku's phone has the same password as his own, and tries to follow this aku's steps int he hopes of gaining some balance

this aku always visits a coffee shop -- it's written into his calendar and schedule

aku considers ignoring it -- but a flash of white catches his eyes and he walks in, and there behind the counter with a pleasant smile

he doesn't know why atsushi turns red when his face unwillingly melts into something at someone familiar or why he stumbles and trips when aku calls out to him (careful not to use jinko when last atsushi didn't have powers and just Stared at him)

he stays at the cafe wondering if its a coincidence that both universes had atsushi this close

probably

he watches atsushi anyway

a day into this universe and then

-

he wakes up in a warm bed, comfortable, the sun on his skin from the window, a warm body behind him, an arm over his body-

he jolts up

atsushi jinko

blinks awake, sitting up and with him asking whats wrong and aku's eyes land on a ring

a ring on atsushi's finger "YOU'RE MARRIED???"

"uhh yes dear, we're married um are you sick?"

akutagawa does not faint

a week of domestic bliss

-

and he wakes up to a pleasantly aching body and atsushi sitting on the bed reaching for his shirt

he hides himself under his blanket, face red as the dots connect

and muffled under his blanket he asks if theyre dating

theres a heavy pause

then

"ask me when u havent just had an orgasm... when ur serious"

and a few minutes later the door clicks shut

akutagawa pulls himself out of his blanket

lays there

and in a moment of something strange, writes down a note for this dimension's him to ask again

and then over and over again from one reality to another

for weeks or for a few hours

one atsushi to another atsushi to another-

every universe that he goes in, in some he's happy, in some he's about to reach happiness, and in some he has nothing -- and its all because of atsushi

and at some point he gives that universe's akutagawa's number to atsushi becuz he knows it'll bring light into this miserable reflection for him

or he leaves a note to try try try

but over and over

until he wakes up with a teary eyed atsushi

how has he never realized...

all the atsushi's were lovely and pretty and perfect but his... this atsushi

he sits up to reach over the bed and melt into a confused atsushi's arms

just for a moment

/

now did various aku's pop up in canon verse aku's body leaving a confused atsushi wondering if this is another aku and aku has to like convince him that he's actually his aku lmao

/

also it was

college/roommates au

cafe au

married au

fwb au

and a bunch more but i got tired of thinking

[spectres-n-soap]

Yet the Rain Comes Anyway - Soap x Reader x Ghost

Content warnings - Death, dead body, grief, pregnancy, afab body, afab reader, angst, medical stuff, panic attack, MW3 is canon, I remind you again that SOAP IS DEAD

Series Masterlist

Blog Masterlist

A/N - My childhood cat is being put down this week so brace yourselves for the angst that will be unleashed from my heart when he passes.

You're tapping your foot against the tile floor rapidly. The unnatural smell of a sterilized hospital made the hairs on your arm stand up. Safe to say, you hate the hospital.

You stood in the morgue. It's strange, you had never been in one before. The lights were all turned on but there was no natural lighting to clear up the uneasy feeling you felt. You had asked for this, to see him before they turned him into ash. You could back out, the workers wouldn't judge you. Death wasn't an easy thing to stare down even if you work in a field where death is always right around the corner.

You steeled your resolve. You wanted to see him, you wanted to see your John just one more time. You nodded to the morgue worker and they opened the little cabinet. Was John ever afraid of tight spaces? They slide out the tray he was laid on and your entire body goes cold. He was pale, his wound patched up to the best of the morgue's ability and his eyes closed.

You remembered the way on TV the eyes would go glassy and gray. You're glad his eyes aren't open, you wanted his electric blue eyes filled to the brim with life and mischief to be the only version you know. "Oh John." You muttered as you traced the features of his face with your eyes. "I'm so sorry."

A nurse walks into the waiting room and calls out your last time. You try to stand, it's getting more and more difficult, you think bitterly to yourself. Still you swat away Simon's hand out of habit and stand up by yourself and toddle towards the nurse, hand on your stomach. The nurse glances at Simon, the look she has on her face obscured by the mask.

"He's with me, don't worry." You assure her and she begins to walk, leading the two of you to the hospital room where you'll likely spend the next hour or so. Bless her heart, your nurse, as she goes through the checklist of symptoms to make sure the pregnancy isn't going sideways. She keeps glancing at Simon in what you now understand is apprehension. You smack him and whisper, "Did you have to wear your balaclava?" You hiss.

"I was out of face masks." He replies swiftly. You lift up your shirt on instinct when the nurse moves to the ultrasound machine. This song and dance has been done more times then you would like but, you glance at your stomach and place a hand on it again, feeling the baby kick against you in response. It was for them.

The nurse spreads the gel across your stomach and uses her tool to show you them. The baby, Johnny's baby. "Their looking healthy Mum." The nurse says with what you assume is a smile. "Would you like to know their gender?"

"No." You swiftly respond and Simon glances at you. You didn't want to know if it would be a boy or a girl, it just felt like another weight on your shoulders.

"Alrighty." The nurse says, "Would you like a print out of the ultrasounds?"

"Yes." Simon replies for you and the nurse nods. She tells the both of you that the doctor will be in soon to discuss your labor plan. That comment gets another look from Simon, this time you return the look. The moment the nurse leaves the room, Simon is asking questions. "Why don't you have a birth plan yet?" At least he isn't asking why I don't want to know the gender, you think thankfully.

"I just, I lost track of time." You mutter. Between everything going on within the months of your pregnancy, trying to get out of bed each day. Trying to live with the fact that he isn't here and you're doing this alone.

Simon sighs your name and shakes his head, "Well, then we'll just start planning now."

You're sitting in his truck and looking at the contact for John's mum. She had given it to you, telling you to contact her if you need her. You've been staring at it for minutes, thumb hovering over the message option.

"Would you really come with me?"

Simon looks over at you for a second, "Of course, I promised I would." He says with no hesitation.

You look at the message option and press down on it and begin to type out of the message.

"I'm sorry I didn't get into contact with you sooner and I'm sorry this is the reason why I am. Your son and I slept together a few weeks before he was MIA. I'm pregnant by your son, I didn't sleep with anyone else so I promise this child is your grandchild. I'm 30 weeks pregnant and on leave if you want to meet up."

You turn your phone off, place it face down after sending the message and try to ignore the fast beating of your heart.

Your phone dings while you are sitting at the dining table picking at your dinner. Simon looks at you, raising his eyebrows when you don't pick it up to see the message. You ignore his looks and try to focus even harder on stabbing your mashed potatoes.

"You gonna see what she said?" He asks and you close your eyes.You place down your fork and hide your hands under the table before you lose control of your tremors. Silence hangs in the air until he speaks again, "Would you like me to see what she said?"

You think about his offer for a moment before you slowly let out a breath, "No. I'll do it." You look at your phone, almost wishing it would disappear, then you pick it up.

"Do you still have my address? Let me know if you don't, I'd like you to come here."

You say nothing and show Simon the text. "Do you still have her address?" You nod. "When do you want to go?" You shrug and keep your head down. You wish she hadn't been so vague? Is she going to yell at you? Tell you she doesn't believe you?

Simon rushes over to you when he sees your breathing start to pick up. He kneels next to you, "Can I hold you?" He whispers and you nodded frantically. He takes your hand in his and rubs his thumb over your knuckles as tears begin to drip down your cheeks.

"What if she hates me?" You asked and Simon shakes her head.

"She gave you her phone number, I'm sure she knew something about the relationship between you and Johnny."

You pick up your phone with shaky hands and send a single text.

"Tomorrow?"

She responds with a thumbs up emoji and you set the phone down, looking down at Simon who nods his head at you.

"Don't worry. I'll be with you the whole way." He reassures you and slowly lets go of your hand.

You laid in bed, limbs too heavy to move as you stared at the ceiling. It was odd to no longer have Soap visiting you at night just to share a bed for a few hours. You know he's in the morgue, cold and lifeless, yet you still wait to hear that knock on your door.

You blinked. "He's not going to knock." You said to yourself in the dark, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Yet you waited and waited until your closed your eyes too long. The grief counselor was unimpressed by your late showing and seemingly even less impressed by your clear lies that you were fine and handling the passing well.

Didn't help that you couldn't even look him in the eyes.

That night you stood in front of his barracks doors just staring at the door. I could go in. No one is here, it hasn't been reassigned yet. I could go in. For a moment, you thought you wouldn't. You took a step back but quickly moved forward and opened the door.

His shirts still hung in the closet, his bed still made to military standard. His desk was covered in a mixture of paperwork and doodles on stray pieces of paper. His second pair of boots sat next to the door. You slowly walked over to his closet and pressed a shirt to your nose.

It still smelt like him. Gunpowder and fresh rain with just a hint of his musk that told you he hadn't washed this shirt quiet yet. He is so weird. You thought to yourself. Why is his dirty shirt hung up?

You walked over to his bed and slowly laid down on it before you turned your head to inhale whatever smell was still on his pillow. It smelt like a generic mans brand you would buy at a dollar store but it was his smell nonetheless.

Your chest began to ache the longer you stayed in his room. The relief you sought here was nowhere to be found, it just felt like each second you stayed hollowed out your chest further. Still, you laid in his bed for hours.

[airas-story]

Show Me the World

(An interlude that belongs to the same universe as Give Me the Sky, one of my IronStrange Week 2023 stories.)

The sky was blue the day it happened.

“I’m just saying,” Tony told Pepper. “You should consider blue as one of your colors.”

Pepper and Rhodey were finally getting married, despite the fact that they’d known they were soulmates for over two decades. The two had taken their time, prioritizing first their friendship, then their careers, before they’d decided to see whether they had romantic compatibility.

Which, sure, was valid. But Tony had been waiting for this wedding for decades at this point.

Pepper gave a long-suffering sigh that was more amused than anything. “At least you’re not trying to get us to go with red and gold.”

Tony grinned, because Pepper had been calling his suit an eyesore for years, now. Tony was pretty sure it wasn’t, but since his soulmate was still very much a mystery and he’d still never actually seen his suit in all its glory, he really couldn’t say.

“Blue is classy,” Tony told her. “And there’s so much of it, so you’ve really got all the options in the world.”

Pepper sighed. “You’ve already got James convinced,” she admitted. “Mostly I think he just wants you to be able to see at least one of our colors.”

Rhodey was clearly the best of friends.

“Or maybe it’s because blue is the prettiest color,” Tony countered. And sure, blue and green were the only colors he could see—though never at the same time—but he was still pretty sure it was true.

There was a humming noise behind him. “Tony Stark?” Tony turned. There was a man there, dressed in a blue tunic, wearing a monochrome cape and standing in front of a gray circle of… what were those, flames? “My name is Doctor Stephen Strange and I—“

Tony met the man’s gaze.

The world seemed to come alive all at once, and he jerked back as a cry of pain escaped him. His hands moved automatically to cover his face as the grey-scale world turned suddenly bright with colors.

Across from him the man seemed to be having a similar reaction, jerking back with a startled noise.

“Tony?” Pepper’s voice was loud in her concern as her hand grasped at his arm. “Are you—? Is he—?” He wasn’t surprised she’d realized just what his reaction indicated. Then again, his reaction wasn’t uncommon. The whole ‘color’ thing? Yeah, it was a lot.

Tony slowly brought his hands down to try to take in the world around him. His brain was screaming signals at him, trying to take everything in. The grass he recognized, the sky was familiar, but everything else… Pepper was wearing something… bright? Is that what bright clothing looked like?

“Tony?” Another voice asked, familiar and yet shocking. “What’s wrong? What just happened?”

Tony turned towards the voice. “Bruce?” Bruce was wearing a gray jacket—thank god, his brain decided—and a dark blue shirt beneath it. Nice and neutral and not entirely overwhelming.

“Tony.” Bruce repeated his name as though it was some sort of salvation as he almost stumbled forward and wrapped his arms around Tony in a hug.

“Whoa.” Tony blinked, but hugged Bruce back. It was hard to concentrate though, his head swiveling as he tried to take in everything around him.

The portal thing that the man—Stephen Strange, he’d said, before the world had gone bright with colors—had walked through was bright; Tony thought it might actually hurt his eyes. “Pepper, what color is that?” He pointed at the flames as Bruce pulled back.

Bruce frowned at him, glancing between Tony and the portal before understanding crossed his face.

“Orange.” Pepper’s voice was soft with amusement.

He pointed at her shirt. 

“Pink.”

He pointed at the man’s cape thing. 

“Red.”

“Red?” Tony grinned. “Like my suit?”

Pepper was smiling. “Not quite the same shade, but yes, it’s close.”

Tony eyed the cape again, taking it in. “I’ve got good taste,” he decided.

“You might want to actually talk to your soulmate,” she suggested. “Instead of focusing on the colors.”

Tony wanted to tell her no, actually, because the world felt alive in ways that he’d never thought it could be. No one’s description of this moment did it justice. Overwhelming, but beautiful, almost painful, but glorious.

Plus, he’d noticed his soulmate following each point of Tony’s finger, taking in all the colors the same as Tony was.

“This isn’t the time,” came Strange’s voice, even as his gaze was swiveling to follow the path of a woman jogging by wearing a shirt even brighter than the flames.

“Yellow,” Pepper offered, noticing where both of their attentions had gone.

Strange’s attention jerked back towards them, flushing a little. And oh, that was red on his cheeks, subtle but there. Tony had always wondered what a real blush looked like.

He liked it.

“I need you to come with me,” Strange said, his gaze coming back to Tony. Tony knew already he wasn’t going to like hearing what Strange had to say. “I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that the fate of the universe depends on it.”

All of the joy disappeared, the distractions around him suddenly nothing in comparison to the fear that crowded out any sense of wonder. 

“It’s true,” Bruce said. “It’s… You need to come with us.”

Pepper’s hand found his forearm, squeezing in worry. Tony sent her a smile, knowing his own worry showed through, but that didn’t matter. Whatever this was… well, he had a feeling this was big.

He followed Strange and Bruce through the portal—orange, it was beautiful, even if his eyes were still feeling the strain of looking at it, and he could feel a headache coming on—and into an older looking home of some sort. Or maybe it was some sort of museum? It had that austere feel to it.

He listened as Bruce, Strange, and and a new man—Wong—told him about the threat that was coming, feeling a low sense of unease. Thanos. This is what he’d always known was coming.

Now it was here.

It was perhaps not a surprise when one of the first things he and his soulmate did was fall into an argument, though Tony found himself getting constantly distracted by Strange’s eyes. They were beautiful, just the way he’d always known they’d be. He had the strangest feeling that he wasn’t the only one getting distracted, if the way that Strange watched him so intensely was any sign.

It was really not the right time for it.

And then they were out of time altogether.

[mockerycrow]

UNDERCOVER VII (Soap x GN!Reader)

undercover series masterlist — previous | next

summary: taking a break from telling your experiences, Soap and you spend the day together. He takes you from your room as to allow you to see more. Unfortunately for the both of you, Soap didn't bother to inform anyone of this decision. 3.8k words.

a/n: HELLO!!! YES!!! you are not imagining things! chapter seven is FINALLY out. i went on two separate impromptu hiatuses and i am going on another one at the end of this month until around november, so i wanted to get this out for y’all. i appreciate all of y’all’s patience. i love you guys. during this flashback/ptsd attack, bolted italics are present when characters are speaking russian. [THIS DOES NOT FOLLOW REBOOT MW CANON.]

[WARNINGS; light fluff(!!!), ptsd, death/suicide ideation, angst, hospital setting, death and gore, reader is not a good person morally, military inaccuracies, overall TRIGGER WARNING.]

“Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?” ― Clarice Lispector.

Lucky for me, my internal request about being left alone was granted. I skipped a meal, despite the worried glare of the main nurse taking care of me. I’m sure they wanted to put the feeding tube back into my throat—they surely looked like it. Or was that the look of genuine worry? Did I forget what it looked like? When I woke up this morning, they certainly made sure I got some food in me. I appreciate the nurses and the doctors and their efforts in taking care of me. I recognize I cannot be an easy patient by any means; whether that means the paperwork, the security… My behavior? I applaud them.

I wish I could get them a gift or something. Maybe once I’m out of their care. Is that weird?

I’ve always woken up pretty early—courtesy of Makarov’s strange routines—so when I woke up and didn’t see Soap by my side, I wasn’t too surprised. He probably has drills and routines of his own. Woke up, ate breakfast which looked absolutely immaculate, however I’m in a very weird.. flux right now. I’m not sure how to exactly describe it, but the food looked great but felt like flavorless blobs. Perhaps my tastebuds are deceiving me, or what they gave me was just pure shit. Hm.

Before he left last night, Soap assured me today was a rest day. I couldn’t help myself, but I winced at his statement. It probably wasn’t for my benefit, but for theirs. Any information I have can be a lot of paperwork, a lot of.. Meetings, I guess. I don’t know. I’m bitter, but I’m grateful for the break. 

By the time 0900 rolled around, Soap strolled into my room. Fucker had the brightest smile on his face, his lip curling just enough to expose his gum around his right upper canine. “Back on babysitting duty?” I ask, my tone flatter than usual. Soap chuckles, his boots clicking against the waxed tile as he approaches my bedside. My eyes scan his attire; dark grey t-shirt, tucked into a dark grey pair of cargo pants and regular boots. Belt, holster with the gun. Huh, surprising. My eyes glance back up at his face as Soap spoke.

“Don’ be like that, aye? Ye don’t hafta think of it like that.” Soap insists, his hand grabbing my shoulder, gently might I add. I huff—his touch burns until he removes his hand. “Look, I’m sure ye don’t want t’be held in here all day. I have an idea.” He proposes with a twinkle in his eyes. I raise an eyebrow, unable to disguise how intrigued I actually am. “Oh?” I ask, my voice low like earlier. There’s a funny feeling in my stomach. Soap throws his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the stationary wheelchair that’s remained in the corner since last night. “Why don’t we take a walk?” 

My lip curls for a moment, my eyes darting between him and the wheelchair. “You mean ‘wheel around’?” I raise an eyebrow, poking fun at him. Soap lets out a tsk and shakes his head. “Haud yer wheesht.” Soap utters before turning around, crouching down to unlock the wheels of the wheelchair. “Jokes on you, I dunno what that means.” I reply snarkily, unable to keep the smile out of my voice. “It means ‘shut up’.” He replies as if he’s gracing me with great information.

I roll my eyes, cautiously pushing the blankets down off of my legs. I wince for a moment and Soap’s legs as well as the wheelchair come into view as I get myself settled. “I’ll wheel ya, you just need t’hold the.. The fuckin’ IV thing.” Soap mutters, gesturing to the IV pole. “Soap.” I say, my tone flat.

He looks back at me with his big blue eyes—all innocent like. Fucker. “It’s a pole to hold IV bags on. So, what is it called?” I ask him like he’s a child, my tone high pitched and overly nice. Soap’s face tints pink and taps the wheelchair with his foot, pulling at the collar of his shirt. “You have an attitude, might I say.” Soap lets out a nervous laugh; he’s embarrassed and nothing is making me happier than this moment right now. I grunt as I allow Soap to help me into the wheelchair. My legs happen to be fine, but my stomach and ribs are still quite tender and sore.

“It’s called an IV pole, Soap.”

“Jesus Christ, I know.”

I hate to admit it, but Soap is a pretty good babysitter. I don’t think many people would willingly take me out of my room and help me get some fresh air, at least not like this. We’ve gone a couple of laps around the ward I’m allowed to roam and in a way, I’m appreciative of him allowing me to grasp more of the area I’m in. I wonder if he’s ever been in my position, or has known someone to be in a similar position? Bedbound, anxious? …Paranoid?

I wonder.

I’m snapped out of my thoughts as I hear a light beep from my right. I turn my head to where my IV pole, the little electronic box attached to it is lit up. “Hm?” Soap hums, his eyes trailing to where I’m looking. He grabs the pole and spins it towards himself, eyes scanning over the screen. Soap’s lips part for a second in understanding, but my eyes stay on the scar hidden underneath his mess of stubble. “Jus’ administerin’ more painkillers. It’s on a timer.”

I force myself to look away with a nod. I nearly slip back into my thoughts when I feel Soap begin to pull the wheelchair backwards. My eyes widen and I quickly grab the IV pole to drag along. I twist my head to face him the best I can despite the screw in my jaw. “Where are we going? My room’s just down the hall.” I question, turning my head, watching the door get smaller in size. Soap hums, turning the wheelchair around to push to where he was pulling it. He doesn’t answer me.

My fingers twitch around the IV pole and I quickly stop myself. Stop. Soap would’ve hurt me already if he wanted to. He has a pistol in the holster against his hip right on his belt. If he were to wish to hurt me, he would’ve already spilled my brains. Shut the fuck up.

Like you spilled hers?

What?

I blink, a beat passes, and we’re in a different hallway. One I haven’t seen before. “Soap..?” I ask louder, my heart fluttering in my chest. I’m getting nervous. Soap bends down to my ear; I can feel the wheelchair adjust under the added weight on the handles. “S’alright, just goin’ to take a longer walk. New areas, fresher air.” Soap murmurs, his breath brushing against my ear. I let out a harsh breath as he stood up straight, and.. And that fucker is humming. “Is this even allowed?” I ask, my voice quiet as my eyes dart around.

Soap lets out a laugh, slowing down a bit with his walking. “Does it matter? I’ve done much worse, this is nothin’.” 

“I don’t want to get in trouble,” I protest, but my protests are clearly weak because the bastard continues to push me down the hall. Soap lets out an amused chuckle, one of his hands coming down on my shoulder, squeezing it through my hospital gown. I flinch a bit as I didn’t expect him to touch me. “Ye’ll be fine. I’ll take the fall if it comes down to it.” His touch was gentle.

I go to argue with him again because it’s likely that it wouldn't work and wouldn’t matter, but I decide against it. Only then does his hand return to the other handle of the wheelchair. 

That’s one thing I’ve noticed about men like Soap. They’re much more touchy than you would think they would be. Most folks think that military men would have an aversion to touch, they think that these men are the epitome of their versions of masculinity. Men like Soap, though? They have no problems giving each other a hug, have no quarrels giving each other a forehead bump with each other. Hell, when you’re stuck in the middle of a blizzard, you don’t get choices; you huddle and cuddle, or you fucking die.

Soap’s touch, though.. His hand was heavy, big. Radiating heat like a portable heater through my hospital gown. It makes me wonder if his teammates are the same? They’re all in one task force, they must have seen some shit together, been through shit together. Hm. 

Soap could’ve survived the harsh winters I had been through due to him. 

Maybe. Maybe not.

I shouldn’t keep thinking of him right now, not when I don’t have to, but he won’t fucking leave my brain. I can almost hear his voice sometimes and it’s absolutely nauseating. I can’t say that I was the closest to him, but I was pretty damn up there in his ranks. I was always a go-to for a multitude of things. Things I no longer wish to fucking remember. Maybe he should’ve ended me right now. Maybe I should’ve finished the job when I got the chance.

His men were kind of touchy which was never surprising to me. Being under harsh conditions together, relying on each other to keep the other safe? It creates a bond like no other. They tended to be touchy with me in due time, too. I’m not sure how I was able to handle it for so long. Every brush of their hands on my shoulders, every shoulder and elbow bump, it felt like hot irons painfully maiming my skin, branding me for everything I’ve done.

He was touchy at times, too. It made me wanna vomit. 

..Well, now it does. At the moment, though, not really. Which just.. Makes everything worse. One part of me wishes I refused the assignment. I truly fucking feel like I should’ve. Now he’s everywhere in my life, invading the parts he was never supposed to be in. It’s not like I exactly expected this assignment to go incredibly smoothly, no. That’s quite frankly really fucking stupid to do, but I at least expected this to be smoother than it has been. Perhaps that’s been my flaw this entire time, I’m not sure. 

With him, you can never know. That’s one thing that I had to learn pretty damn quick. If you thought you knew what his plans were, you better backtrack five steps and rethink it all because you are definitely not on the right track. I guess that’s one thing I can give him; he’s always been intelligent, so much so to an annoying degree. With every report I gave, it felt like everything I was finding out was contradictory to my previous report. Even now, is the information I’m giving the 141 accurate? 

I’m not even sure anymore, not after the fact that he left me alive in that warehouse. I seriously doubt he left me alive for a reason. He’s the one who’s always put two in the head to make sure the person was dead. That’s perhaps the singular good thing he ever taught me.

I feel those leathers hands on my shoulders in my dreams.

There’s a touch on my shoulder and I jolt out of my thoughts, jerking my shoulder away, causing a lightning bolt of pain to pulse through my arm. I hiss, my hand grabbing my shoulder. “Shit,” Soap’s voice filters through my ears, and it does little to calm my pounding heart. When did it start pumping this hard..? “Are ye alrigh’? Didnae mean to startle you.” 

Fucking hell.

My hand is on my chest, feeling the desperate pound underneath. I realize I haven’t answered him and I give him a little nod. “Just startled me, is all.” I croak out. It takes me a second to look around, to get my bearings. “Was worried for a sec, was talkin’ an’ ya didn’t respond. Couldn’t tell if you were spaced out or ignorin’ me.” Soap jests. We’re still in a hallway, but possibly a different wing?--- The hallway of my ward had a long red strip in the middle of the wall, following the hallway. The stripe on this wall is yellow. I need to focus and pay attention, Jesus Christ. 

“Was thinking,” I utter. “Sorry.”

“About?” Soap begins to push the wheelchair again; my fingers twitch around the IV pole. How am I supposed to explain that? Do I lie? Do I tell the truth? 

How am I supposed to tell him I was thinking about him?

“Just..” I begin, my lip twitching as I rack my brain for an excuse. “I had a—”

“OI!”

I flinch at the booming voice from down the hall, jolting so hard in my wheelchair it scoots forward a bit. My free hand instinctively forms into a fist as suddenly, it was an empty hall and now I’m back in a fucking warehouse with a pistol in my hands. The, the fucking smell of the warehouse burns my nose, the concrete floor caked in blood and somebody’s organs—looks like a kidney, honestly. I don’t fucking know, what the fuck is happening? My hand is shaking; my finger is still on the trigger. My hand is vibrating. I pulled it, didn’t I? I glance forwards where the puddle is and there’s two bodies. I don’t.. I don’t remember their names, but fucking hell. 

“Don’t fret over them. They lived and died like the dogs they were.”

‘They were fucking human beings! They had lives, fucking friends and family, aspirations! Don’t tell me who and what to not fret over, you fucking freak!’ I try to scream at him—he’s behind me. My mouth opens and it’s moving, but nothing is leaving. I cough and choke, dropping the pistol, which rattles against the ground with a clank. My throat is tight and I reach for it, my eyebrows furrowed. I pull my fingers back and they’re slick and hot with my blood.

Fuck. FUCK. 

I blink; he stands in front of me, holding the pistol. His fucking.. Leather gloves, holding the grip, his finger hovering over the trigger. Am I dreaming? 

Please fucking tell me I’m dreaming.

The gun is aimed at my head and my hands naturally raise upwards—fuck, I can’t stop shaking! Cold sweat drips down my temple—he aims at my stomach and the pistol fires, so loud that my ears ring. I flinch, and I feel horrible bile bubble up in my throat as fierce, hot pain lights up my stomach. I try to talk but that vomit decides to bubble and hurl out of my mouth. I bend over, my eyes filling with hot tears.

It hurts—it hurts so fucking bad and none of this makes sense. 

It fucking burns.

I blink—and I gasp, and suddenly I’m back in the hospital. My vision is blurring, I’m laying down on something—it hurts, it hurts it hurts it hurts—

“I know it does, I know.” A deep voice says. Soap? 

..M–

No, it’s Soap. Soap.

It isn’t him.

There’s hands on my wrists, holding them down at my sides as someone wraps something around my head, something bumping against my nostrils. I feel vomit bubble out of my mouth and—then it’s dark.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been out, but my head fucking hurts. And so does my stomach.. And my back… and my jaw. Along with everything else.

I feel myself laying on a plush surface; there’s some soft beeping present, too. My throat aches and I find it hard to open my eyes. It takes a few minutes, definitely. Once I’m able to open my eyes, I squint to adjust my eyes to the room. The familiar room comes into focus with the red stripe in the room; it’s dark, it’s night-time. My hand comes up to my face, feeling an oxygen tube on my nose. I groan softly and I try to move my other hand, but something is restricting it..?

Don’t tell me.

I lift my head and I look down. My heart drops, seeing one of my wrists shackled back to the railing of the hospital bed via handcuffs. I swallow some spit that accumulated in my mouth before letting my head drop back down onto the pillow. It did nothing to soothe the ache in my throat. “Fuck.” I croak out. Of course—I lose privileges. For something that wasn’t my fault.

I’m alone.

Moments like these make me wish I could retreat into my mind and hide like I did when I was in that warehouse, or when I had committed violent crimes for him. I could blink one moment and I would be in a different room. There’s probably a lot that I don’t remember—I’m not sure how my recounts will be useful. Maybe it’s because when it comes to Makarov, it’s not like he’ll be subjected to an international court.

If they get their hands on the monster, they’ll kill him. Torture him, maybe. I don’t know. Nobody follows rules all of the time, that’s for sure.

I hear the hospital door swing open and my eyes immediately flicker over to it—I see Soap walk in with two plates of food. His eyes glance over to me and he lights up for a moment before he looks a bit somber. “Hey, you’re awake.” Soap utters; his voice is a special type of soft. Guilt, probably. “Yeah.” I respond quietly, my handcuffed hand twitching a bit. He walks over and grabs the rolling over-bed tray, carefully rolling it over my lower body. My eyes track his movements as he does. Soap sets the plate down before clicking a button on my bed, slowly sitting up the head of it.

I glance down at the food. I’m definitely hungry, but I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to hold down. I wince, the pain jaw aching from the angle change. “Sorry.” Soap murmurs, his own plate of food in one hand, the other reaching back to drag a chair closer to my bed. I just hum, closing my eyes for a moment in an attempt to calm the throbbing in my jaw. My eyes open after a moment and I look at the food once more. Definitely more appetizing now, and I notice Soap only got light foods, stuff you can hold down with an upset stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Soap utters, leaning closer, picking at his food. I look at him, seeing how his brow is furrowed and he’s kind of pouting. My lip twitches from the display. He looks up from his plate to me, lifting his plastic fork to dig it into the fat of his lower frowning lip. “You were right, y’know? Handcuffed ‘cause of me.” He mumbles, letting out a sigh. He seems genuinely apologetic, and a bit guilty for what happened earlier. 

“Partially my fault,” I respond, trying to minimize the movement of my jaw. “Had a little freak out. I don’t do so well with yelling, it seems.”

“So you say.” Soap immediately quips before he sinks down a little. “Too much?”

“Just a bit.”

He nods in response, eating a little piece of overly cooked steak. “Got it.” Soap chews it and swallows it, eyeing me. “Not eatin’, hm? Pain?”

I let out a tense sigh and I mutter a quick, “yeah”. Without missing a beat, Soap leans over and clicks the nurse button in order for a nurse to come to my room. “Bit weird, I thought it was on a dispensary timer.” He responds, but gives a shrug. His eyes scan my face, which causes me to look away for a moment because his eye contact is, I don’t know. It’s bothering me right now. “Do ye want t’talk about what happened?” Soap questions. I can hear food in his mouth.

Do I want to talk about what happened? Would it be for the record?

“I don’t know.” I respond honestly. “I barely remember it.” That isn’t exactly a lie. “It makes me feel like I’m losing it if I do.”

I glance at Soap and he takes a moment to process my words, chewing whatever's stuffed into his mouth from his plate. “Everybody has their demons, [name],” Soap murmurs, his voice deep and gritty. His words hold a heavy weight to them, and I feel a metaphorical weight on my chest for a second. “There’s no shame.”

I let out a huff. “I’m not the first, and I won’t be the last, huh?” I mumble. “Aye.” Soap responds. He goes to speak once more, but a nurse, the one from the beginning, walks in with a concerned face. “What’s wrong?” He asks, his voice tight. I swallow hard. “My, uh, jaw.. Everything else, it all hurts.” I try to explain, trying to keep my voice steady but there’s an uncomfortable croak to it.

I watch the nurse walk over to the IV pole and fiddle with the lines. I then close my eyes and lay my head back against the pillow properly, the nausea kind of getting to me. I have this uncomfortable, empty feeling in my belly and it’s almost anxiety inducing. Maybe it’s from anxiety in general. I don't know. 

How do you recover from something like this? Do I deserve to recover from something like this? After everything that I’ve done in the name for the “greater good”, something both my handler and Makarov told me.. Two sides to the same coin. Was all of the bloodshed and death worth it? 

Was any of it worth it?

Maybe this is something I’ll be thinking about until I die. Hell, I really did think I would die before coming back here. I thought maybe one day I would slip up on a random loyalty test Makarov would administer and he would be done with me right then and there. I wonder if dying then would’ve been better? Oh, I slipped up and failed my mission, I wouldn’t have to be here to suffer the consequences.

Maybe that’s why I am still here. To suffer any consequence of what I’ve contributed to, and done. I wonder if they will still see use, or value in me once they get the information they need from me. Will they discard me like a toy so easily just as Makarov had? Breaking someone is easy, but it depends on how good someone is able to put the pieces back together. I’m certainly broken, even though I don’t want to think about it.

But will they be able to put the pieces back together?

..Will I?

The pain in my jaw eases as well as my ribs and stomach. I think I can eat now.

🏷️; @hardnutpost @glitterypirateduck @elowynnlane @boycigs @wolfyland07 @escapefromrealitysm @tapioca-marzipan @cj-theyoungling @fullmoon-94 @gothgirl6-6-6 @thriving-n-jiving @paniniii @calloumii @the-spartan-himself @bi-witch-bxtch @dammn-dean @jinxxangel13 @meimhem @hannathetrololol-blog @kool-aidd @aliendous @roarndoodles @supernaturalstilinski @blob-11 @cumbermovels @jisungfanpage @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @p3achfairy @darling006 @nyushkawritesstuff @pepsicolacoochie

this is my undercover series taglist. if you wish to be tagged, let me know. if you are wrongfully tagged or no longer want to be, let me know! absolutely no hard feelings.

[quietlyimplode]

ignite your bones

After the fall of General Dreykov, and the remnants of the Red Room still at large, Natasha first year at SHIELD is anything but healing. Labeled a traitor and a turncoat, Natasha tries to find her footing in a strange new world.

Whumptober 2024: Day 16 - ‘no, I can’t feel anything’

Warnings: panic, self harm, medical procedure

Word Count: 2k (gif not mine)

Summary: they won’t let her see Clint. Desperate times.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

(A/N- halfwayyyy! <3)

.

Natasha opens her hand, the wounds large on her knuckles as she picks at them absentmindedly.

She hasn’t wiped the blood off the glass, just like they haven’t washed his blood off the floor.

She thinks they’ll get around to it, but it’s clearly not a priority.

Sweat still clings to her.

She closes her eyes and they’re beating him. She can’t get the images out of her head.

She’ll kill them, she’s sure of it.

Once they let her out, she’s going to kill them. Even if Thompson then kills her.

She doesn’t care anymore.

She wipes the blood off on her t-shirt, the black SHIELD issued clothing becoming darker with the stain of red.

Natasha bites the inside of her cheek, centering herself.

Deciding not to dwell on the fact that she may have traded one organisation for an equally corrupt organisation, she stares doggedly at the hallway entrance, wishing for someone to come.

She needs to know he’s alive.

He was when they took his broken body.

He didn’t look dead, just on his way there.

She bites down harder.

Taking a breath, she waits.

.

Maria locks down Natasha’s cells more thoroughly. She adds only herself, Clint, Coulson, Fury, two recruits she knows and trained personally, and Sharon.

She worries for the spy.

Clint’s attack was clearly targeted.

To have it done in front of Natasha was a show.

Her phone rings, Coulson’s ID flashing.

“Any news?” She asks in greeting.

“He’ll be okay. Broken ribs, broken nose, broken arm and bruising. Nothing internal they can see, so bed rest for at least two weeks.”

Maria opens his SHIELD file.

“Not in medical-” she starts.

“No, but there’s only a few truly safe places for him.”

“Maybe he can take her,” she jokes, but even as the words come out, she knows it’s a good plan. “Coulson, maybe they can go, we can finish up here, and they can go.”

He stays silent for a moment.

“Let’s get him stable first, and then make some plans.”

Maria nods.

“Someone needs to check on her.”

“Someone needs to stay with him.”

Maria sighs heavily.

“Fine. But if she does anything, you’ve got her for the next week.”

“I don’t think I’m getting the better part of the deal,” Coulson replies, “he’s in medical.”

Maria suppresses a laugh.

“The two that did it? Were they on the list?”

Coulson takes a moment.

“Yes, but we only got one. The other is at large.”

“I think I know, but why Clint? Was it because of her?”

“I think… a warning. For both of them. For us? I don’t know. The quicker we get this done the better. Has the news started to filter in the gossip chains?”

Maria glances at her other phone.

“That there’s been some disappearances?”

Coulson doesn’t reply.

“Yes,” Maria continues, “people have noticed. But SHIELD’s a big operation, no one is too suspicious, yet.”

“That’s good,” he replies. “I have to go, the doctors are coming.”

“Yeah okay, ask them when he’ll be ready to move.”

“Will do. Thanks Maria.”

And with that the call ends.

Maria sighs heavily, hoping that Clint doesn’t have any lasting trauma from the attack. She scoffs to herself. It’s a stupid notion.

She thinks of Natasha, trauma central, and opens the cameras.

The woman stands staring at the door.

The blood on the windows is stark red against the whiteness of the room.

Maria frowns.

Stares.

Waits for her to move but she doesn’t.

She knows she needs to go and see her, probably tell her that he’s going to be okay, but her feet don’t move, stuck in limbo as she watches the woman.

The blood on the floor is Clint’s.

Grief for her friend hits her, and she sucks in a breath.

She needs to move.

One foot in front of the other, she tells herself.

.

Clint groans.

He hurts. He feels the familiar drag of painkillers and reaches up to touch his face, finding a drip in his left hand, the sensation of pain familiar.

“We got one of them,” he hears Coulson say. “You’re okay, just beaten up.”

Clint holds a thumb up, hoping it conveys everything.

His arm is heavy.

He remembers.

His body.

Hurts.

He feels so tired.

“Natasha,” he says, his throat sore and dry. “Check?”

Coulson takes his hand and places it back down on the bed, the movement comforting and reassuring.

“Sleep,” he prompts, as Clint feels the pull into darkness.

.

Maria walks down the hall grudgingly.

She had been planning to go.

She tells herself that anyway.

But when Coulson had called and said it was a request from Clint, she knew she had to go now, before she left for the night.

The last corner finds Natasha staring at her, still in the same position she had watched her in hours ago.

She walks forward to the window and greets her.

Natasha adjusts her position.

Maria sees the welts on her hands, the blood red scabs from punching the glass.

“That must hurt,” she states, looking at her hands.

“No.”

Natasha’s voice is clearer than Maria remembers.

Perhaps with purpose.

“Is he alive?”

“Yes,” Maria responds, not wanting to elaborate.

“Can I see him?”

She thinks for a moment. Looks at Natasha’s hands, the way she tried to help.

“No,” she decides. “But when he is better, we can take you.”

Natasha’s eyes flash with anger, it’s gone in an instant, but it puts Maria on edge.

“Take me to see him?” she asks again.

Maria frowns, wanting to leave. She’s tired, she wants to go home, not deal with the Russian assassin and her demands.

“No,” she repeats.

Natasha takes a step closer to the bloody wall.

Leaning back, she smacks her head hard against the window.

Once.

Twice, before Maria reacts.

“What are you!? Stop!”

Natasha hits it a third time, cracking her skin and opening a fissure on her forehead that starts to bleed profusely.

She leans back again, showing no signs of stopping.

Maria swipes the door to open, and Natasha misses her mark of hitting her head for a fourth time.

In hindsight, Maria recognises that this was the only way that she could see Clint, the only power that she has in a very powerless situation.

“Stop!” Maria’s voice echoes in the room.

The command holds power as Maria holds Natasha’s arms.

“Stop, I’ll take you to him.”

She feels cornered.

Blood drips down Natasha’s face, the bruise already forming, and the cut wide.

“Stop,” she says again, just so it’s clear.

Fear, in the lengths that Natasha would go to see that Clint is okay, curls in her gut.

She’s not sure it’s the right decision to send them away together, but maybe, it will give her another purpose.

She doesn’t trust her with national secrets, but maybe she does trust her with her friend.

And maybe that’s more important than National Security.

“Handcuffs,” she sighs, producing a tissue and handing it over.

Natasha points to the bed.

“Get them.”

Maria doesn’t want to step inside Natasha’s cell, like entering someone’s room, or home without permission.

Natasha does as she’s told, stepping backwards and watching that Maria doesn’t move towards the button that closes the door. The handcuffs are placed on and Maria gestures for her to come forward.

Bloody tissue in hand, Natasha blots blood out of her eye-line.

“You’re insane,” Maria mumbles looking at her.

“I need to make sure he’s okay. I can’t… I owe him.”

The brief sentence makes Maria pause mid-step.

“You owe him?”

She’s sure Clint would never put a quid pro quo on a life, not one that he’s put this much energy into saving, and proving she’s an asset and not a liability.

Natasha stops alongside her.

“I owe him,” she repeats. “He can’t die until I know what the debt is.”

Maria starts forward again.

“You did something for us,” she starts, her voice purposefully low. “There’s a mole in SHIELD,” she admits.

Natasha’s harsh laugh makes her glance back.

“Double agents are everywhere. You think Russians are the only ones that house American spies in their midst? Any fool would know that they house agents that work both sides. Only bigger fools let them get promoted to director.”

Maria stops again.

Natasha clenches the blood soaked tissues.

“You knew?”

“I suspected.”

Natasha wipes at her face again.

“Your face tells me I’m right.”

Maria snarls.

“I don’t like you,” she tells her.

Natasha blinks languidly at her.

“I know.”

The last key swipe leads them out, and Maria starts the walk to medical.

Natasha is lucky that it’s late. Only the janitorial staff and a few agents milling around. No one gives them a second glance.

Looking back, Maria finds Natasha’s head bowed, eyes cast to the floor.

Blood dripping and making a trail.

“Are you doing that on purpose?” she asks.

“Because if you are, the floors get wiped down frequently. So there’s no chance of you following it out.”

Natasha touches the tissue to her nose.

Maria ignores the action.

The first elevator is quick, but the second that leads to medical is slow.

Natasha looks at the signs, she sees the hyper vigilance in her eyes as she spies the arrows.

The signs of fear are subtle.

The slight beads of sweat along her brow.

Small inhalations of breath that are more measured, like she’s practicing meditation.

The way her muscles seem to tense on every step, like she wants to run away but it’s sheer force of will that keeps her moving forward.

“Don’t kill anyone,” she mutters.

Natasha nods.

She’d been joking but apparently it was a consideration.

Maria decides against the medical team.

She didn’t like Natasha but she knew a risk when she saw it.

“Turn.”

She pushes Natasha into a medical bay.

The bed inside seems to make Natasha balk.

“Sit.”

The order seems to help.

The panic flits across her face momentarily before it’s dampened down into an impassive mask; Maria doesn’t miss it. She looks curiously at the woman in front of her, the blood doesn’t seem to phase her, but the room does.

“I’ll get the doctor.”

She watches the fear reaction play out in real time.

“No,” Natasha says, her voice almost inaudible.

Maria rolls her eyes.

“You need stitches, you don’t do things half assed, and that will continue to bleed.”

Natasha wipes at her head, the clink of the handcuffs shift Maria’s focus.

“You.”

The request is whispered but forceful.

“No doctors. Please?”

Maria doesn’t know why Natasha has a fear of doctors, but she does feel sorry for her. She knows the vulnerability costs her. Knows by the way Natasha won’t make eye contact or the way she squeezes her hands to stop them shaking. It breaks open the wounds on her knuckles and Maria is reminded of how hard she must have hit the glass when Clint was being beaten.

“Fine,” Maria says, “but it might not be neat.”

Natasha shrugs, fingers rubbing the raw skin on her hands.

Maria hands Natasha a towel.

She finds the antiseptic wash, the pain killers, gloves and the numbing cream.

“Do you want these?” she asks, holding up the pain killers.

Natasha shakes her head, staring at the blue gloves, now on Maria’s hands.

As gentle as she can, she rubs the numbing cream on Natasha’s head.

The only reaction is a flinch.

Maria cleans Natasha’s hands first. Slowly, she opens them up, washing the blood, putting the antiseptic on and watching for a reaction.

Natasha seems out of it.

Maria isn’t sure if it’s the blood loss, or the place, or a combination, She wraps each with a bandage. First the left, and then the right.

She wipes the blood again.

“Do you feel this?” Maria asks, gently touching her forehead.

It takes a minute for Natasha to answer.

“No. I don’t feel anything.”

Maria thinks there’s more to her statement than she understands. Touching her head, she realises the wound seems more superficial than deep.

She opts for glue over stitches.

Gently, she washes the wound.

“He’s okay, you know.”

Cleaning it carefully, wiping the blood away, she continues.

“Broken ribs, broken nose, broken arm, some bruising,” she lists. “Nothing he hasn’t had before.”

Natasha’s eyes focus behind Maria, but subtly her breathing changes.

.

[illegalpaladin]

Thanks to @spirkme915 for the prompt Touch-Starved Bones!

.

.

.

“Spock, have you noticed anything strange about the doctor?”

Spock kept his gaze firmly on the chess board. He didn't speak for a long moment as he considered his next move. Finally, he picked up his knight. “I have noticed many strange things about the doctor, Captain. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Jim frowned, his thoughts drifting to McCoy and away from their game. He moved a piece absently. “I've noticed he has this… habit. If he's distracted, and I touch him, he–” Spock moved another piece and claimed another of Jim's. “Well, he leans into it.”

“Physical contact is important for humans,” Spock said coolly. He watched Jim move a rook, then immediately claimed it with his own. “Perhaps he is deprived of it.”

“Mm. Yes.” Jim picked up his bishop and then turned his gaze upwards. “Perhaps.”

“Checkmate.”

Jim looked back at the board to find his king cornered. His frown deepened.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Your game is off today, Captain.”

“Yes,” Jim mumbled, “It would seem I am… distracted.”

–

Usually, Jim left the experiments up to his Science Officer. But this one was personal to him, and so he decided to pursue it himself.

It started out simple enough. A hand on McCoy's shoulder as they talked. Brushing a little too close when he walked by. Innocent but intentional touches.

If McCoy was expecting it, he'd have no reaction.

But if he wasn't, if he were too engrossed in what he was doing or their conversation– without fail, McCoy would lean into the point of contact.

–

“Jim, what the hell are you doing?”

McCoy had been showing Jim something on his PADD, and Jim had placed a hand on the small of his back as he leaned over to look. But almost as soon as he had brushed the fabric of McCoy's shirt, McCoy had straightened up.

Jim looked back innocently. “You were trying to show me something. I was trying to see it.”

“Cut the crap, Jim.” McCoy crossed his arms, the PADD held loosely in one hand. “You know what I'm talking about.”

Jim offered a slight frown as he shook his head.

McCoy narrowed his eyes. “The touching, Jim. What's with all the touching?”

“Ah,” Jim said, as if he'd been caught. “So you've noticed.”

“Of course I noticed.” McCoy sighed and leaned against the nearest biobed. “You've been doing it an awful lot.”

Jim nodded. He shifted his weight. “I got to thinking, Bones. You're a doctor. You touch people all the time. You take care of them.”

McCoy uncrossed an arm to wave Jim onward, telling him to get on with it.

“And I realized– who’s taking care of the doctor?”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “I take care of myself.”

“Yes, but that's exactly my point–” Jim put his hand on McCoy's shoulder. “Spock pointed out to me that humans need physical contact.”

McCoy scoffed. “You said it yourself, Jim. I touch people all the time.”

“Yes, but who's touching you?”

McCoy hesitated.

Jim examined him closely. “Would you like me to stop? Say the word and I will.”

McCoy sighed. Jim could see the internal calculation as he decided how much he was willing to admit. “No. It's fine.”

Jim smiled. That told him enough. His hand drifted along McCoy's arm and back to the small of his back. “Now, what were you trying to show me?”

[haroldthehuckleberry]

desperate for money

CW-mpreg

i was absolutely desperate for money, id do anything. ANYTHING. i was doing tones and tones of jobs anything i could find but rent was expensive especially near my college, id gotten to the point of desperation where anything was on the table.

i saw an instagram post advertising for young guys ready to undergo a highly-risky surgery for a huge pay-out, £5,500! that was enough for rent for the rest of the time i was in college plus some!! i jumped at the opportunity and immediately replied to the ad not really thinking about the emphasis on the riskiness of the surgery.

after a few days of anxious waiting i got a reply informing me of where to go for the surgery and what time, it was later that day. before my appointment, i decided to shower and put on a nice t-shirt and pants. when i arrived to the surgery room a cute male-nurse with a nice plump ass showed me the way to the waiting room where a much older doctor described the procedure:

they would place a fully functioning vagina into me, uterus and all, and place the vulva between my balls and asshole, theyd leave it there for 5 months and track the changes to my body.

i have to admit it was more than i expected but i was on the verge of eviction and expulsion so i signed and agreed, before i knew it i was on the operating table breathing in anaesthetic and falling asleep…

i woke up in a different room in a different gown, there was a strange warmth coming from between my legs, i let my hands glide towards my new vagina it was already wet in anticipation, i let out a soft moan as i explored it, id never been into woman so id never felt one before but it was magical as i started tantalising the clit my cock stood on end, i grasped my cock with my right hand and began to finger-fuck my boy-cunt with my left, it was pure bliss. id been fingered in the ass before but this was unbridled ecstasy.

after id came and squirted i stood up and cleaned myself with a sink in the corner of the room before getting into my robe and leaving, i was met by the cute nurse again who handed me my clothes and an envelope of the cash, i was so overcome with my new pussy id forgotten about the cash! i was in ecstasy again as i ran back to my apartment to pay my rent and celebrate with some more finger fucking!

~5 months later~

honestly having a vagina as a college boy didnt change my experience too much all that had really happened to my body was my pecs had swollen somewhat, my thighs had grown with my now fat-ass (i wasnt complaining about!) besides turns out college kids are freaky! soon id been fucked, sucked and used by every boy, girl and inbetween on campus! sadly the day for my removal came so i drove to the same place the appointments (the original surgery and the weekly check ups) happened before, i saw the same cute nurse who seemed to be flirting with me, i blushed at his subtle advances as he showed me to the doctor’s room.

i sat opposite the doctor and he made sure i was ready for the removal- to be honest it saddened me, sex with both organs in use had been beyond belief - but i said yes, when i was taken into the surgery room the doctor explained that due to my high sex-drive hed need to check for a baby i explained that all the sex had been protected but he insisted. a good job he did.

i was 2 weeks pregnant.

he offered me the original sum again if i saw it full term.

i had to agree, not out of want for money but out of want for more ecstasy and unfathomable sex.

~3 months later~

the first few months of my pregnancy went as about as expected, explaining it to my school was…confusing but eventually they understood. morning sickness was a bitch but overall relatively easy, and yes i still was a massive man-slag. recently i noticed the first sign of a bump with a slight bloat under my abs- how exciting!

~2 months later~

im growing beyond control, the doctor says due to my male hormones my vagina is pumping more feminine hormones causing the baby to grow rapidly, my roomate has become a sort-of-boyfriend to me, hed fuck me or get fucked by me depending on my sexual needs, hed help me through morning sickness, to be completely honest i doubt id be able to do this with out him, at 5 months i looked at about 7 my belly was like a bowling ball attached to me, my pecs had become 2.5 sizes of proper bitch-tits my ass had plumped out my thighs had become that of thunder as my hips widened in preparation for birth.

~2 months later~

as my belly continued to expand at its rate getting to class was near impossible, my belly now looked like four or five pillows stuffed under my skin, none of my shirts fit properly and all clothes that would where too feminine so i had to waddle to class pathetically in hoodies that left my belly exposed from the belly button down, but simply i didnt care, technically anyone i walked past had equal chances of being the father, so no one gave me a hard time, including my teachers…

~1 month later~

at eight months pregnant i couldn’t possibly go from class to class and so i joined them all through a teams call from my dorm, the laptop resting on my beach-ball sized mid-section i was completely exhausted and uncomfortable constantly, my tits had now started to ooze milk whenever they please all my shirts either didnt fit, rubbed against my sensitive nipples or both thus i spent my time shirtless eventually giving up on underwear and becoming a nudist, not that my roomie complained we fucked like rabbits, it only being mildly inconvenient with my mountain of a stomach but we managed.

~1/2 a month later~

me and my now official boyfriend where right in the middle of him fucking my cunt raw while tugging off my cock when my water broke and soaked him completely he screamed in panic as he pulled out my hole. he fumbled for my phone to call the doctor who arrived in a matter of moments, eventually it was time to push…

after hours of painful, sexual, intense pushing i had birthed 2 beautiful baby boys the birth was not only painful but also very sexual as my most sensitive areas where forced beyond recognition, i had cum and moaned through most of the births, before the doctor left he gave me an envelope of the money and a date for the removal of my uterus and vagina, i told him i wanted to keep it, i think he understood.

hours after birthing my first children i was ready for my boyfriend to fill me with his, i wanted all of the pregnancy again…