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netherfeildren · 8 months

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Honey, Stomach, Mine ; 1. Genus: Tragedy

Series Masterlist ; Part 2.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Existence is a needful thing. Choice is fickle, nature inescapable. Run to the end of the world, Joel, all those things will still find you.

She'll still come for you.

-OR-

the A/B/O outbreak AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Light Angst; Slow Burn; Shocking Considering the Implications of Me and This Trope but Alas; Biologically Assigned Soulmates; Power Dynamics; Topping From the Bottom; Government Controlled Reproduction; Segregation of the Designations; Institutionalized Sexism; Vaguely Handmaidien Undertones; Incredibly Soft Despite the Tags; Be Not Afraid, Dear Reader!; Yearning; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Competence Kink; Alpha Joel; Omega MC; Very Soft Joel; Older and Jaded Alpha; Young and Needy Omega; Age Gap; Size Difference; Size Kink

A/N: I've found there is an absolutely shocking lack of A/B/O in this fandom, and this is my contribution to begin rectifying that. I swear that despite the way the tags read, this is entirely and sickeningly sweet soft, comfort, caretaking fic.

Share thoughts, please. It's sort of a different one.

Word Count: 6.3K

Read on AO3

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Genus : Tragedy

To a one Mr. Joel Miller,

500 Sheahan Road

Clallam Bay, WA 98326

United States

We are writing to inform you that as of January 8th, 2015 there remain two weeks until your designated omega’s twenty second birthday, and a year since she has come of age. We have made several attempts to contact you with no response. As mandated by the federal government, you must collect her by January 22nd, 2015 or she will be distributed to another individual of the designation alpha who would be willing to accommodate her.

The omega’s evaluations are all up to date, and she has displayed pristine results in both health and behavioral tests. It is estimated that her first heat will occur soon, and we strongly encourage you to collect before the fever starts and our facility is forced to place her with another willing alpha that may see the process through. As she is part of the Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program, and is biologically paired to an alpha already, that being you, if not collected she would be placed in the bidding pool and distributed to the highest offer.

Again, we strongly encourage you to contact our facility with a response on your decision as soon as possible so that we may prepare the omega. We would like to remind you that these creatures are delicate, and unexpected changes to their habitats and surroundings cause high levels of distress. It is of the utmost importance that we proceed in accordance with the omega’s nature.

Enclosed is a brief note from your omega that she has requested to attach:

Dear sir,

I hope that you are well. I have been told that you have not decided if you will come for me, but I ask that you please do. I have been waiting, but they have told me I cannot wait anymore, and I do not know what will happen to me if you don’t come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do.

And at the bottom, in a pristine and swirly pen, and kindly, her signature, there for him to see. The name of the woman, or girl, who seems to have taken all of Joel’s choices from him. He follows the letters with the nail of his thumb, scratching at the ink as if he could make it disappear, make the reality of this poor thing out there in the world waiting for him, disappear.

At the outbreak of the designations, twelve years ago, there had been mass hysteria, mass chaos, a terrible uncertainty of how the world could continue on, segregated into biological designations as it had suddenly become. Thought to be a product of the dwindling population rates, some whispered a government experiment gone awry, a freak genetic mutation had begun to appear within the biological markers of certain people.

Designations: Alpha, Beta, Omega.

It was not that society had unfolded, lost sight of itself, it was more so that from one day to the next, a new and unknown sort of hierarchy had been established, those that were, those that were not. Those that could live their lives as they’d always done, unruled by their biological urges, and those now marked as something new and different and set by a different sort of mandates.

Joel had been one of these people.

The designations had become controlled, weaponized, systemized, almost immediately. Almost. Before the government had mobilized and taken stock and hold of the situation, there had been a momentary lapse of order. Chaos wearing the names and faces of the people he’d once known, people that should have been safe or protected, protective. The true nature of the dynamics were quickly revealed. Obvious: an unmated alpha in need of an omega was a volatile thing, quick to aggression, hungry for violence. Less so: an omega, once thought self sufficient, independent, autonomous, was found to be at times fragile, vulnerable, full of necessity. Both connected by that string of desperation that could only be soothed in a pairing of the two. The desperate drama of being no longer only yourself.

It should have been an obvious thing, the mutation, a byproduct of the dwindling population levels, reproduction rates, was in service of something that would correct this misdirection of nature. Alphas and omegas were, are, idealized pairings for one another in terms of reproduction, in terms of biological pairings. It should have been obvious that this would be wielded as a means of control. It should have been obvious that this was an untenable situation that would cast people into roles that left no choice for autonomy, for freedom.

It should have been obvious to Joel, who almost immediately, and even though he had been well into adulthood, a father to a young daughter, presented as an alpha, growing pains once again this late into his life. It should have been obvious that this was a situation that should have necessitated greater care, vigilance, protection. After all, this was the role of an alpha. He should have listened to this new nature of his that was suddenly, demandingly, presenting itself, acted quicker, stronger, with more wisdom. But he’d failed, he’d continued to fail for years to come after that terrible night when the world had turned back to its base nature in a hedonistic attempt for the preservation of humanity.

Alphas were immediately feared, ostracized, and above all else, obvious. A designation was not a thing a person could hide, especially not an alpha, the truth of their nature. Many were gunned down in the streets at the start, imprisoned, experimented on and sold, debased and tortured. They’d been caught, him and Sarah, separated from Tommy trying to escape the madness. She had, in her innocence and without designation, still only herself, still only his little girl, been caught in the crossfire of a world's desire to tame or trap something it could not understand.

Joel had, in many and the worst of ways, been caught in the crossfire too.

With time, years and the sort of suffering that can only be forced upon anything that is different or out of the norm, a system had been created. Government mandated programs, laws, registries that kept track of the designations. A hierarchy in which those that were essentially and biologically considered stronger than what a normal human should be, were ostracized, exiled, denigrated, muzzled, and those that would be considered weakest, left without any voice at all, without freedom either.

The Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program had been established for the continued preservation and furthering of reproductive rates. A registry was created in which all those with the designation either alpha or omega had to present themselves on, biological markers determined, all choices stripped. The program served as a match making machine, when two biological markers presented themselves as compatible, as mates of one another, an omega was assigned to an alpha for keeping. To do with as they’d see fit.

He had gotten word of her only last year. Twelve years of solitude, of nothing, of running from a girl with green eyes he’d not been able to protect and the reality of himself he detested, the what and why of who he was. He’d left Austin, wandered and hidden and groveled in the dirt like a worm until he’d finally found a quiet place to settle. A place alone, undisturbed. And for so long, he’d not been happy, surely, but he had been. Joel had been.

He looks down at the letter in his hand, dragging his thumbnail over the swoop and slope of her signature once again. This was a person who, as mandated by law or biology or fucking whatever, had been deemed as his. His other half, mate, ball and chain. The terrible reminder of what he really was and could not escape, in the form and shape of his perfect opposite.

Last year, when he’d gotten word of her existence, that she’d reached the age of twenty one and was now ready and available for his retrieving, he’d balled up the letter and thrown it with such weightless force into the fireplace in his living room that the air filled wad of paper had fallen limp and nothingful just shy of the flames, rolling in the ashes and dust, coating the reality of this imposed, undesired fate in dark soot. He’d been so angry he’d gone out and howled at the moon like the beast the world would have themselves believe he truly was.

He did not want to be an alpha. He did not want an omega. He did not want to live off the coast of Clallam Bay alone in this house he’d built with his bare hands because he had no other use of them now, no other function or purpose or meaning. He did not want it to be now, he wanted it to be twelve years ago. He wanted to still be a father.

He did not want to be an alpha.

He did not want an omega.

He crumples the letter in his fist, looking out at the bay over the edge of the cliffs from where the cabin is perched. From his spot on the deck he can see as far out as the sea allows, sight stopping suddenly as if the edge of the world had dropped off a ledge. Sometimes he longed, so, so badly, to go find that edge, to drop off it as well. He had only tried once. Never again. The grizzle of scar tissue at his temple, a testament to yet another one of his failures.

The first summons had come two weeks before her twenty-first birthday, and he’d laughed, after the anger, he’d laughed. A girl-woman of only twenty one years, deemed of age, for the role the government or God had deemed her ready for, served up on a platter to him for his own ravaging. For the correction of what nature told was an anomaly that only their coming together could solve. It was sick, disgusting. He wanted no part of it. And so, despite the knowledge that this poor thing was out there, in some government facility, places they took omegas, many orphans, but also, oftentimes separating them from their families for so called safe keeping, just another word for kidnapping. Rearing and breeding and no choices, no choices for any of them ever.

He’d ignored it, turned a blind eye and a revolted heart away from it all, and shirked the supposed responsibilities he owed this omega who he knew nothing about, who knew nothing about him. But nature is, after all, a terrible and inescapable thing. And not even so much the nature of his designation, although that did, unfailingly, play a part in his demise, surely, but the nature of his character, of Joel’s heart, that was the true heavy player. He was not the sort of man who could turn away from someone who’d rely on him, who’d need him. A responsibility. That was, he convinced himself, all he should or could see her as. And for a year there’d been a sort of tugging of a string from behind his navel, an umbilical cord connecting him to his ignored fate. He hated it all. He wanted nothing to do with any of it. He wanted to rot in his aloneness and misery and bitterness, fester in the fear that lived around him from the world. It’s why he’d come here, it’s why he’d exiled himself. Balanced on the tightrope border between the Salish Sea and the Makah Reservation on this high and pristine cliffside cut from the crust of the earth; he was left entirely alone, at peace with only his own chaotic demons to torment him. He wanted it this way, he wanted this; please, please, he’d already given away so much, lost so much of himself. Should he also be forced into this too? To sacrifice the terrible peace of his solitude to save this poor creature that was being forced on him. He wanted to say no, that he didn’t give a fuck, that what would happen to her could, it was no business of his. But those words… another willing alpha, bidding pool, highest offer… they made him see, not even red, black, black and devastating anger or rage or something horrible and base, and what could only be a product of mother nature railing against him for ignoring what he truly was. Something that whispered terrible words of mine, mine, fucking mine. A hiss he did not recognize, did not want to admit he recognized.

He was old, weathered and beaten and past his prime. Unmated. At the end of his line and unmated and purposeless, and his bones were tired, but itching and clamoring within the confines of his skin that this was wrong, that he was wrong, and that he needed to right this immediately.

That she’s waiting, and dear sir, I do not know what will become of me if you do not come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do.

And so Joel goes to her because he knows she is waiting, because fate or purpose or nature is not a thing to be ignored forever.

“It’s her birthday today,” the caretaker says, voice ascetic and cold and direct. Not a voice, Joel thinks, for soft things; cadence that has his teeth on edge, hackles raised. “You’ve arrived just in time. She’s been asking for you, and we’d just set her name in the pool, ready to release for auction tomorrow.” That black rage muddies the corners of his vision, and he focuses on the cold shock of the blank white hallway they’re making their way down. Hospital-like, barren and hard, this place, facility, prison, they keep them in, the omegas in the program. He feels slightly sick, uninhibitedly angry as if his teeth would fall out of his skull, as if he could throw himself to the ground as a child throws a fit, spew his anger for the world to see how much he does not want this, how vehemently he’s opposed to it all.

“She may seem young and small, but she’s twenty two now. She’s ready, and she’ll take it as you wish. It’s what she was made for.”

Joel seriously considers, just for a moment, killing the cretinous little man beside him. Take it, he says as if he has any right to speak of you taking anything that Joel would give you, as if it’s any of his business, anything he could ever understand if the beta stench oozing off of him is any indication. He hums nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement. If he parts his teeth he’ll take out a chunk of flesh. He should behave, there are easily frightened things nearby.

White doors with a small circular window at the center line the hall on either side, endlessly down the length of the seemingly endless corridor. The caretaker, white scrubs, pristine like the rest of everything here, and Joel feels suddenly huge and bestial and brutish, marring and dirtying this place that is supposed to be of peace and quiet for the fragile things locked inside.

A terrible place that makes him desolately depressed. You’ve been here so long, and he had not come, and it’s all just one more tally of failure on his rap sheet.

When they finally stop before a singular door, the number fourteen emblazoned in large black, bold print just beneath the small viewing window, Joel suddenly feels– he can’t say for certain, he doesn’t know, or doesn't want to acknowledge the truth of the voices and sounds ringing in his ears, but he knows, recognizes it for the sound of the moment Sarah died all those years ago. His past and present suddenly clashing to meet here in this antiseptic white void, before the door to this fate that’s clamored in quiet waiting for exactly a year today. The sound of her voice, calling his name, saying it hurts, Tommy, his shouts ringing loud and then ebbing soft and as lifeless as she was while the reality of what they were living came to pass before Joel too, could realize. He’d left too, his brother, ran from the truth of Joel at the first easy opportunity. And she’s just there, her voice and her eyes and the feel of her is just there in his mind, on the tip of the tongue of his memory, and then the man opens the door and then there you are.

He feels worse now, hulking, deformed, malformed like he was born wrong. “I’ll give you a moment,” the man says low, that cold voice monotone and almost too quiet to bear now. Joel feels he needs something loud and shocking. He fears he won’t fit through the door. “It’s better if you meet for the first time without distractions. She knows you’re coming.”

He thinks he asks if you’re sleeping, he can’t be sure, but he feels the vibrations of his throat work, his jaw move as if it’d come unhinged, his tongue swollen in his mouth, gums fat and painful, full of bile and terrible memories, and he is a badly made thing in need of some goodness in this moment. And then a shift of the small lump beneath the blankets, the reality of the moment snaps into focus, he steps inside the white box cage you’re kept in. The door shuts behind him, and then it is only him, the thing he would not be, and you, the thing he would not want.

He doesn’t decide it until he finally peers into your eyes, that he can’t, will not, keep you.

Wide, luminous and wet, but not afraid, wholly curious, peering up at him from above the edge of a thick wool blanket. Something drab and gray and stiff looking that immediately sets him on edge, brings that anger back, just the simple sight of the blanket. The two of you stare at each other in silence, the weight of that thing that tells of what you are, sitting heavy between the two of you as he looks down at you from his great height, presence that should be intimidating and cowing, looming over your prone and small form on the bed. But despite his stance, something swelling within him causing him to puff up like an angry dog and want to bear his teeth at you, despite the curtain of tears in your eyes, there’s nothing of the stench of fear.

He shuts his eyes to the sight of you, huffing long and bullish through his nose, mistake, the scent of you, God, help me, and he listens to the rustle and shift of the blankets, opens his eyes to see a little nose peeking out from beneath the gray, drab thing to sniff primly at the air he’s now filling with his presence.

Soft and warm and woman, the smell of a cunt that belongs to him. That’s what it is at its basest. More complexly: vanilla, bergamot, juniper berries, sweat and fever and salt. Taking a plunge off the cliffside, bypassing the sharp teeth of rocks that would kill you, waiting for the dark ice shock of sea and finding nothing but molten life. This is what you smell like.

Worst of all, there is something in you that smells of him. His, yes, but not what he means, not his, him. Something that smells of recognition, like the two of you are the same.

Something chained inside of him rattles at the bars of its cage, desperate to be let out and quenched.

He steps back, frightened at your movement, at the reality of what the two of you are, so obvious here in this cage, at your perking up, your recognition of who and what he is, what he’s come for. You don’t speak, but you tell him. You wriggle beneath the covers, shimmying to turn and face him more fully, still clutching the blanket up high over your mouth, still covering half of your face, and he wants to bark at you to let him see, that he needs to see, but he grinds his teeth together. Molars going to dust down his throat, muscle wrapped around his mandible strung so tight he fears the fibers of it might burst and pop.

You settle on your side facing him now, and then something to beguile him, to bring him to his knees muzzled and obedient and calm, the sweetest, sultry little crooning cry. Something provoking, alluring, something to beckon him to you in surrender and acceptance and welcome, come from your chest up your throat to his ears. He jerks back at the sound, your big eyes still expectant and wet but demanding now. I am here waiting for you. I have been here waiting for you. Come now. He steps back to your bedside, a too small, too stiff metal railed cot he’s going to wrap around that fucking guard, caretaker, idiot, whatever he is when he comes back, falls to his knees, and your little fingers peek out and up and over the edge of the blanket now. And you surprise him doubly, tenfold, more than he can comprehend – but he already decided he will not keep you, he already made up his mind – when you say: “You came. You remembered me.”

He could never have forgotten.

A low hum, a sound to make your eyelids flutter and your legs shift beneath the heavily draped blankets. “Today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? Would you like to come home with me as your gift?”

He could never have forgotten.

The house that the large man who you’d waited your whole life and then a year for, brings you to – and you can’t be entirely sure, for you’ve so little experience or knowledge – but from what you can think you’re feeling now, from what you can decide, is lovely.

He had taken you in a car, a truck, you like the sound of the word, —ck, —ck, —ck, and driven a long while, through the big city which you’d seen little of, between forest and beside sea, and then finally up a long and winding road and more forest, more trees and green than you’d ever seen in your entire life, until you’d come to a cliffside, the backyard a drop off of air and rock and endless dark water, and a small house perched just there at the edge. Wooden slats, weather beaten and salt lashed, a copper sloped roof, and two pert chimneys, despite the not large area of the house, cabin. It looks, very much, as if it had grown straight from the cliff rock, sprouted by the forest, strong bones that spoke resolutely of remaining where they were no matter how hard the wind howled.

“How did it get here?” You ask the man, alpha, who’s name is Joel who has finally come for you after a life and a year of waiting.

“I made it,” and his voice is rough and demanding of attention, demanding of you, even if you don’t know, although, you do understand, what it is he’s demanding.

And you think, yes, of course. It looks a little, a lot, like him. Obvious, that it came from him.

It would be easy to think that you’re nothing but young and stupid and untried. Just a little omega kept in a cage. But you feel, after this life, not life, of being you and the thing you are, that you’re none of those things despite it all. You had lived, you had been out in the world at one time, even if briefly, even if only as a child, green and inexperienced and innocent, and although you still remain all those things, you had been out there at one point. You had never had a mother or a father, dead when you were an infant, killed in the outbreak, but you had lived with your aunt, your mother’s, many years older, sister, until you’d been ten years old. So you see, and he should see too, this man now before you, this alpha, that you were untried and inexperienced and young compared to him, but you’d had a decade of real life, even if it was the life of a child, even if afterwards it was a not life, but the before, that counted very, very much to you and so deserved respect and acknowledgement. And he should see that, although you do not know, you do understand.

After your aunt had died, and they’d taken you, first to the orphanage, and then to the place for omegas, after you’d started to mature and develop, perhaps that real life had ended. Or been put on hold, waiting for him, this alpha who seems, for all intents and purposes and from what you can gather from his sullen silence and dark looks, nothing like pleased at your presence here now. But then there was the: today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? And yes, yes it is your birthday.

It’s your birthday, and you’re free. And yes, you’d lived the not life in the white box for so long, and yes, you are, in fractions, so afraid and knowing so little of the world, but you do know that you want to live and to see the sky.

You want to see the sky every single day.

His big clunking truck rolls to a slow stop before the house, a wide deck wrapping around the entire boxed thing of it, and he starts to move, unclipping his belt, grabbing the bag he’d brought with him stuffed with his clothes he’d promptly tucked and folded you into when he’d shuffled you into the cabin of his truck, and you’d been all thank you, sir, to which he’d given a shake of his head, only Joel. Only Joel. No other words, no other directions, only his hands pulling your strings like a puppet. You had accepted it for the chance to feel his touch, to familiarize yourself with the closeness of him.

You want to know things. You want to know him.

He’d barely said a word the entire drive here, but you could be patient, and they’d prepared you for this, after all. They’d prepared you long and well and told you all they thought you’d need to know. So you find yourself, and not at all shockingly, as you’d waited so long for this, for him, for freedom and the sky, and look, now there’s even sea too, not even a little bit afraid, only anticipatory in bated breath, stuttering heart, excitement.

You had never seen the sea before, and you want to know things. You want to know him.

He jumps heavy and thudding form the truck, and you start to shift, something suddenly frantic and clawing rolling in your chest when you realize he’s leaving the confines of the small space the two of you had found yourselves encased in together, the warm heat from the vents blowing his smell, his smell, all around you. You’d never encountered anything like it before. Salted vetiver and warm cardamom, something sweet and musked and heavy like what your fingers taste like after you’ve pet long and needy at that soft wet place between your legs when the hurt was so tight you felt nothing would sate it. It’s a scent that you think would devastate to have taken away now that you’ve tasted it. And it’s everywhere as the two of you’d sat in his staunchly imposed silence on the truck ride to this place he was bringing you to, his home at what seems like the end of the world. It’s in your nose and down your throat, heavy and cloying and sweet on your tongue, wrapping around your waist and covering your skin and your hands so that you’d even pressed your palms entirely over your face and rubbed yourself like a cat, coating yourself in him.

The door slams, bringing you out of his scent induced reverie and back to the present, and you scramble to undo your buckle too, even though when he’d clipped it for you he’d very sternly said to not take it off, desperate to follow him wherever he’d go. But you realize quickly he’s coming around the front of the truck to your door, and then he’s there pulling it open and letting in a biting gust of wind come off the sea and up the cliffside to slash you across the face with its icy rancor. You shiver, teeth clattering and chattering in your mouth, trying to gather the blankets he’d cocooned you in, his too big, so soft clothes, more tightly around yourself, and find your feet.

He gives a rough but soothing noise, and easy as anything, plucks you up and out of the seat and into his arms, kicking the door closed behind him as he goes. Into his arms. You hold yourself stiff and wide eyed, chewing on the tips of your frozen cold fingers, and staring at him this closely, it’s shocking. Large, had been the first thing. Tall and broad and thick the way they’d said alphas are. This you had expected. The rest, you had not. The eyes, you think, more than anything. His eyes, a strange mix of hazel and brown, but dark. Eyes, that even in your greenness, you can recognize as sad and angry. And the creases at the corners, between his brows, the gray threaded through the lush, dark curls and at the corners of the hair along his jaw. He looks like he would be someone’s father. The patch of bare skin, heart shaped, amongst the whiskers. He’s beautiful, and unthinkingly, or perhaps entirely intentional, you stick out one of your saliva soaked fingers and poke him gently there, only a small prod, to feel what the heart feels like. His gait stops instantly, that permanent frown he’d worn since you’d first laid eyes on him, deepening. “Don’t do that,” he gruffs, continuing his steps up the porch now, the dark, heavy boots you’d noted as he’d taken you from the facility falling thunk, thunk on the wooden boards beneath. He’d not given you shoes of your own. And at his tone, the grumpy look, you have the inexplicable urge to laugh. To laugh at him. Surly, you want to tease, but swallow it, itchy fingertips back into the warmth of your mouth to stop yourself from touching again.

Another gust blows against the two of you as he somehow transfers you, cradled into only one arm, to pull the jingle of keys from his pocket, and you’re jarred with painful shivers, huddling closer into the unbelievably broad expanse of his chest, the unbelievably steaming warm slab. At the touch of your cheek against his collarbone you realize all he’s wearing is a simple, green flannel, no coat, nothing warm. “Aren’t you cold?” It seems suddenly, supremely important you ask, head shooting back up. He peers down his nose at you, finally getting the door open, and his eyes are a very peculiar sort of dark, you cock your head at him, a very strange sort of creature this man is, who’s come to collect you, who you’d waited all your life and a year for.

“I’m fine,” he says.

You don’t believe him.

He sets you down on a large, dark leather sofa, chocolate, the hide smooth and worn and lived in. The rest of the house, not only a house, also a home, for it’s obvious in the way of his things, the way they’re arranged and fixed and the way they too live here, not only exist here. I’ll be like that too, you think. It’s all comfortable, it’s all warm, like a den and a place to relax and be protected, juxtaposed by the sight beyond the large windows, nothing but dark, violent sea as you’ve never before seen.

He really had found a perch at the edge of the world, brought you here to perch as well.

There’s a large fireplace, inlaid with large slabs of dark stone and thick beams of wood, and yes, this too is also obvious in a peculiar and particular way. The house very much looks like it was made by the hands of a single man in some way that you cannot specifically say, but can obviously see the truth of. He made this house, and then he came for you and now he’s brought you here, and you feel, suddenly, so pleased and warm and right. Everything feels so, so right. You sigh dreamily, suffused at once with a tight, deep heat at the pit of your belly, the scent of him everywhere, bubbles floating up from the bottom of you and seeming to pop out your ears. You lean back into the deep couch, wiggling this way and that, rubbing your bottom into the soft cushions to snuggle up, bringing the neck of his sweater he’d put you in up to your nose to breathe deep and long.

He’s moving around, arranging things this way and that, a thick log in the slumbering coals, a pillow here, another blanket atop you, not looking at you, setting a wide berth once he’s settled the throw, not talking to you. It’s fine, let him do as he pleases and needs, you’ll sit here and watch. You can tell he doesn’t like to talk, that words cost him something, and you know so little, but you understand this. Words do cost something, truths, the truth of your before life and your not life. The truth of those realities cost. So, yes, you understand, and he doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to yet. And looking at him, you realize that everything inside of you feels soft and bruised and little. And yet, despite all that, ready, in want and need of him. Ready to be big.

Joel.

You must say the word out loud, his name, for he stops and finally turns to face you. There is something vibrational within him. Different. You’ve never seen a creature as such. You’d never seen an alpha before, not since you’d presented, you’ve never been around one. The caretakers were all always betas, people who would not be affected by the omega’s presence and fluctuations.

He swallows once, twice, twitches and jerks and heaves a big sigh. He’s so full of energy as you, suddenly, in opposition, feel so sleepy and drowsy and ready to close your eyes and only feel warm and relaxed. You like his house, you might love it, even.

Your eyelids droop low, slow blinks, and you watch his face fold into a frown. You want to laugh, he does that so much. They’d said that alphas could have big tempers, that they could be brash and aggressive and loud, but that the omega would naturally temper that. You think it may be true because as you watch him through the weave of your lashes, his frown deepening the longer he stares at you slowly drowsing on his couch which you hope he’ll never make you move from, the jitters and the shakes and the trembling that he’d seemed, just a moment ago, to be so full of, begin to quietly abate.

He takes a step toward you, another and another until his shins meet the edge of the sofa, and you snuggle deeper into the cushions, making yourself into as little a ball as possible, so full of sleepiness.

“How do you feel?”

“I like your house so much,” you slur, head drooping, lashes drooping.

He clicks his tongue, makes that rumbly noise you think is an alpha thing because it has your eyes suddenly clicking open, sleep haze clearing momentarily so that you can look up at him again, and he’s looking at you so peculiarly. You scrunch your nose up at him, there’s no need to look at you so, you’re only an omega, only a little tired, nothing to stare at so strangely.

“I’m–” he clears his throat, makes that rumble, growl, huff sound again, “I’m glad you like it. I wanted you to be comfortable while you’re here.”

And oh, he’s so nice, you tell him, and, “I am. I’m so comfortable.” You melt further into the couch, and he crouches down to peer at you more directly, pulling a soft pillow from the opposite end and tucking it under your head, the large, rough cup of his paw cradling your skull, big fingers weaving through your hair. He arranges you so gently, like he’d take care of you. Like you’re here, finally, finally, you’re here to be taken care of.

It’s what they’d said would happen, and you’d waited so long. You’d waited too long to be let out of the white box, for him to come, to see the sky. And now there was so much; of him, of the house, of the sky, of your whole life and the sea.

You nuzzle your head into his big hand, the heat of it searing your scalp, your ear tucked into his palm. “Brave girl,” he hums. He has such a deep voice, a good voice for an alpha, you think, a very good voice. You feel it vibrating in your toes and in your eyelashes and in your belly. “You’ve been through a great deal, haven’t you?” You want to say yes, you want to remind him that you’d waited for him for so very long, and that when you woke up, if you remembered, you’d be very cross with him for taking so long to come for you.

“You rest now,” he says. “It’s all alright now.” Yes, a very good voice.

2. More Intelligent Than a Face

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

#HSM fic #vic fic #joel miller smut #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x you #the last of us AU #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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darkwood-sleddog · 2 years

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Asking for breeders to health test is not too much work. (Ensures dog is free of genetic health issues as much as possible)

Asking for breeders to breed temperamentally stable dogs is not too much work. (Ensures puppies will also be temperamentally stable as much as possible).

Asking for breeders to breed structurally healthy dogs is not too much work. (Ensures dog can function as a dog).

Asking for proof of correct temperament from an outside source like an evaluator, working/sporting test, or real world application such as actual work is not too much work (ensures dog can do what breeder claims they can do as much as possible).

These are like bottom of the barrel expectations for a “responsible” dog breeder. Asking for less is ridiculous. We are responsible for ensuring future dogs are healthy and stable and lowering such expectations below this point is like asking a bar on the floor if it can possibly go lower.

#dogblr #dog breeding #while I think asking for some types of titles is silly I don’t think it is unreasonable at ALL to ask for unbiased (as possible) proof #the dog can: hunt or pull or work or be a companion or show in a show ring

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randomfoggytiger · 25 days

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Revival Mulder Was Diagnosed with the Wrong Depression

In My Struggle I, Sveta reveals Scully diagnosed Mulder with "endogneous depression", which is a type of major depressive disorder (MDD, also known as clinical depression.) However, the clues provided in canon don't quite add up.

According to healthline: "Endogenous depression occurs without the presence of stress or trauma. In other words, it has no apparent outside cause. Instead, it may be primarily caused by genetic and biological factors. This is why endogenous depression might also be referred to as “biologically based” depression." And verywellmind explains: "People with endogenous depression often feel that their symptoms occur “for no reason”—at least in the sense that there is no apparent external cause.... For example, a person with a family history of mental illness may be more likely to develop depression."

From the get-go, those descriptions don't fit Mulder; but they make less sense when compared to exogenous depression.

Again, according to healthline: "Exogenous depression happens after a stressful or traumatic event takes place. This type of depression is more commonly called “reactive” depression." And verywellmind further clarifies: "Exogenous (or reactive) depression is triggered by an outside stressor such as the loss of a loved one, getting divorced, or losing your job. People who experience or witness a traumatic event may develop depression as a direct result of that exposure."

(Although current thought lumps both "types" of depression together by their similarities rather than their differences, the show went out of its way to highlight which depression it picked. It chose... poorly.)

The cherry on top? Scully didn't have the expertise to diagnose her partner with endogenous depression, regardless. healthline: "To be diagnosed with MDD, you must meet certain criteria listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). This manual is often used by mental health professionals to diagnose mental health conditions." And verywellmind: "Your primary care doctor may evaluate you for depression in the office, but they might also want you to see someone who specializes in diagnosing and treating mental illness, such as a psychiatrist." (Even though Scully also "diagnosed" a side character's mental state in Founder's Mutation, the fact that she was unqualified to do so in either circumstance remains.)

Lastly, verywellmind gives us a clinching little tidbit: "Another difference is that people with exogenous depression don't always have the physical symptoms of depression, like having trouble sleeping or change in appetite, which is common in other forms of the condition." (Which would fit Mulder's seeming "normality" during the early Revival episodes. Mulder already had odd habits to begin with, anyway-- it would be easy to tuck away his symptoms from casual observers.)

So, we're told that Fox Mulder-- a man who only canonically displayed depressive symptoms after a traumatic event; and who had, apparently, no recollection whatsoever of a predisposition towards depression before Samantha's abduction-- collapsed inwardly due to... biological or genetic factors? Rather than collapsing because of, I don't know, the countless losses and failures he suffered through the years (which would be in-line with his pre-established trauma response?)

Sigh.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

#txf #xf meta #Revival #endogenous depression #depression #thoughts #mine #siiiiiiiiigh #he's not consistently written as depressed either #but that's another discussion for another day #My Struggle I

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compassionatereminders · 5 months

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baby ... I'm not telling you that you're faking anything. I'm saying what you do have is mental illness which is not a disability. no matter how much you people want to expand the term "neurodiversity", it will forever only encompass disorders people are born with and have inherited genetically. I do not mean a genetic predisposition, I mean someone like myself who has had autism obviously since birth. or the countless people with learning disabilities that I support on a daily basis. we cannot be fixed with medication and therapy. it is your choice and yours alone to act like your mental health makes you completely unable to live a normal life. meanwhile, actual disabled people would give anything to be able to live the life that you have intentionally locked yourself away from.

I'm still autistic... still professionally diagnosed as severely cognitively impaired after professional evaluation, to a degree that got me fast tracked to disability benefits... still had general learning disabilities since birth... like even if I was to entertain the idea that mental illnesses can't be disabling (and I'm not gonna) you clearly have no idea who I am and what I'm actually struggling with "baby"

#chat with kat #anon hate tw #ableism tw

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omg-snakes · 5 months

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Do you know if there are ways to know if a snake from a pet shop has been properly taken care of or not? Asking since i've been visiting some and i saw one with a boa that had some kind of sinking or deformity on his tail, so i'm kinda wary now.

Hello, friend! I'm sorry to tell you that there is not.

I've worked in multiple areas of the pet industry and I've met the full gamut of types of shop owners, and while I don't consider all of them wicked people, some certainly are. Even the best of them have a bottom line to consider. This means that they won't divulge where their animals are coming from so that you can look into a breeder before making a choice, and they're likely buying animals from backyard breeders or bulk importers. This also means that it's unlikely that the animals they're selling will have established health histories.

Having worked at one of if not The biggest reptile chain in Northern California, I saw some horrors that scarred me for life. Among the lesser sins that took place there:

Folks who bred reptiles but didn't have incubators set up could bring their eggs in for incubation services, the price of which was half of the clutch, and the store owner would then sell the resulting babies as "born on-site," which was technically true! But we didn't know the parentage or health potential of any of these animals. We didn't sell incubators in the store for this specific reason.

Surrenders came in regularly from owners who didn't have the time or resources to care for their pets any longer. They went on the sales floor with a price tag the second the previous owner walked out the door. No veterinary care, no health evaluation, no observation period, nothing. If they looked okay they were priced at regular retail price and we were explicitly told to never admit that they had been surrendered. 100% profit.

Any animal that was injured or sickly, no matter where it came from or how it got injured, was tagged as a "surrender" that we would claim was dropped off by a bad former owner and we'd had them cleared by a vet so that we could rehome them. This was a lie. None of them ever got veterinary care, ever.

Enclosures were cleaned regularly but were never properly sterilized between animals. We sold veterinary-grade cleaner in the store but we were not allowed to use it because it was too expensive. We used diluted Lysol!

Again, this is a large reptile chain with multiple stores and mostly positive online reviews* and I wouldn't trust them with a pet rock, let alone anything breathing.

You're much better off getting a snake from a reputable breeder, or at least someone who can answer reasonable questions about feeding, parentage, genetics, any possible health issues, etc.

*the owner actually reported negative reviews and would have employees write good ones while I was there.

#They consider themselves the Elon Musk of reptiles...#yeah pretty much #snake #snakes #reptile #reptiles #reptiblr #answers to questions #text post #i still have some ptsd from that job #I'm not kidding it almost destroyed me #pet store #tales of terror at the reptile shop #shockingly that's still not the WORST reptile job I've had #there was the one who tried to burn down the shop for insurance money #or the one that I'm 99% certain was a front for drugs #don't work at a pet store!#don't buy animals at a pet store!

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thebibutterflyao3 · 9 months

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Day 3 - Prompt: Full @wolfstarmicrofic

January Daily Series - 729 words

<<<Previous Part OR Start Here

“Were you wearing a hideous puce jumper at the ice rink?” he checked. Sirius tugged on Padfoot’s collar half-heartedly. “I think I was trying to avoid looking at it.”

“Puke? It’s not puke!” Remus protested, pushing up onto his elbows. “I love that jumper, my mum made it.”

“I said, ‘puce,’” Sirius corrected. “You might call it…erm, rose?”

Remus eyed him narrowly. “It was brown.”

“You must be colour-blind.”

“You must be French.”

Sirius smirked over Padfoot’s shoulder as he leaned down and hugged the dog’s chest. Then, he inhaled deeply and pulled back with all of his strength. Padfoot didn’t budge.

“Genetically, not by choice,” he said, grunting as he attempted to haul the dog off of Remus.

Remus pushed from the opposite side and between the two of them he was redirected onto the grass, albeit with a lot of high-pitched whining and annoyed sneezing. Sirius offered Remus a hand, which was engulfed in his colder, much larger one. As he folded his legs underneath him and lifted up, Remus’s solid weight nearly pulled Sirius to the ground.

Remus straightened to his full height. The bloke was taller than James, but not by much. He just looked absurdly tall because his arms were so long. They hung around his body at awkward angles.

His ugly olive utility jacket didn’t help. It was too long, had large, bulky pockets, and a grey tint that gave his skin a sickly tinge. Sirius was fascinated by Remus’s ability to glow with sun-kissed health and appear on the edge of death.

“Alright. You’ve studied every centimetre of me, what’s your assessment?” Remus teased, poking his tongue into his cheek.

Sirius arched an eyebrow as his gaze dragged leisurely over Remus’s lanky figure. “It’s a cursory evaluation at best. A ‘study’ would require a thorough examination, extensive experimentation, and detailed research.”

Remus’s lips twitched with amusement before pursing into an exaggerated “thoughtful” expression. The furrowed brows were a bit much, Sirius mused. He did have nice, full eyebrows though. Perhaps they were the reason that his eyes were captivating.

No, it’s the laugh lines.

Only someone who smiled often had deep creases around their eyes. James had laugh lines too. He’d sketched them while his best friend was telling an amusing story. They were a reflection of the pure joy trapped inside him.

Was Remus filled with pure joy too?

“Do you want to study me?” Remus asked. He tilted his head and a loose curl swayed against his temple.

“Perhaps.”

Remus fidgeted, toying with the hem of his beanie. “What’s your initial assessment then?”

Sirius folded his arms over his chest and considered the bloke in front of him. Remus wasn’t quite as confident now that he was on his feet. He seemed more at ease when he was flat on his back.

Interesting.

“You’re Welsh-”

“Obviously.”

“-spend quite a bit of time outside-”

“Correct.”

“-are not a dog person-”

“Sorry, Padfoot.”

“-and have terrible taste in clothes.”

Remus snorted a laugh, but he tugged at the jacket self-consciously. “Agree to disagree.”

“Your turn,” Sirius prompted.

“Well, your accent isn’t as pronounced as your brother’s,” Remus began. He idly stroked Padfoot’s head and avoided Sirius’s gaze. “So, I suppose you’ve lived in the UK a bit longer.”

Sirius nodded curtly, but didn’t interrupt.

“You’re decent on the ice, so you must have had lessons.” Remus glanced up for confirmation, then faltered at Sirius’s neutral expression. “Or skated as a child?”

When Sirius didn’t respond, Remus scratched his arm and looked away. “You dress like a skiver, but clearly put a lot of effort into it. I reckon you don’t like being perceived as posh.”

“Do you always create fanciful life stories for people you’ve just met?” Sirius asked.

Remus shook his head, intently focused on petting Padfoot’s head. “Only the ones I find interesting.”

“I’m not interesting, I’m attractive.”

“And humble too?”

Sirius shrugged nonchalantly. “I prefer honesty to humility.”

“That’s fair,” Remus agreed. He chewed his bottom lip with his teeth before meeting Sirius’s eyes again. “For the sake of honesty, I know quite a bit about you. Lily’s talked you up and so has James. Regulus less so, but still.”

“Hmm, it sounds like you’re studying me.” Sirius smirked and relaxed his stance. “Go on, I don’t mind.”

A startled huff preceded Remus’s incredulous grin. “I guess I am.”

#wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #marauders #wolfstar microfic

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bodyswappertransforming · 1 month

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David Harrison sat in his cramped studio apartment, the weight of his failures pressing down on him. Bills littered the small, chipped coffee table, and the faint hum of the refrigerator was the only sound filling the silence. Desperation had become a constant companion, gnawing at him day and night. His dreams of making something of himself had long since faded, replaced by a monotonous routine of odd jobs and perpetual disappointment.

David, in his mid-thirties, was an average-looking man with unremarkable features. He had a mop of disheveled brown hair, tired hazel eyes, and a scruffy beard that hinted at neglect rather than style. His frame was slight and slightly hunched from years of manual labor and poor posture. Clothes hung loosely on him, often mismatched and worn, reflecting his dwindling financial state and lack of care about his appearance.

On this particularly bleak afternoon, he stumbled upon a peculiar job posting in the classified section of an old newspaper he had found in the laundromat. "Want to change your life? Find a new identity. Call this number: 555-8769." The words echoed in David's mind, igniting a flicker of hope amidst the darkness. He hesitated, the phone feeling heavy in his hand, but then, with a resigned sigh, he dialed the number.

A smooth, authoritative voice answered, "Thank you for calling. May I know your name?"

"David Harrison," he replied, nervously.

"David, do you wish to change your life completely?" the voice asked.

"Yes," David said, his voice cracking. "I need a fresh start."

"Meet me at 456 East Street, tomorrow at 10 AM. Come alone," the voice instructed before hanging up.

The next morning, David arrived at the address, a sleek, nondescript office building. He was ushered into a luxurious office where a well-dressed man greeted him. "Mr. Harrison, I'm Thomas Whitaker. We're looking for someone to undergo a complete transformation to become a body double for a high-profile individual. This will involve extensive surgery, training, psychological conditioning, and DNA manipulation. Are you interested?"

David nodded, his curiosity piqued. "Yes, I am."

"You'll be compensated handsomely, but you must agree to a stringent vetting process," Thomas explained. "This includes physical and psychological evaluations."

Weeks of evaluations followed. David's health was scrutinized, his mental stability assessed. He underwent rigorous tests, from stress tests on treadmills to psychological profiling sessions with therapists. Every aspect of his being was examined, from his DNA to his deepest fears and desires. Finally, he received a call.

"David, you've been selected. Are you ready to begin?" Thomas asked.

"Yes," David replied, determination in his voice.

The next months were grueling. David was introduced to Dr. Elena Martinez, a renowned geneticist. "We will start with DNA manipulation," Dr. Martinez explained. "You will undergo a series of treatments to alter your genetic makeup to match Mr. Anderson, the billionaire you will be doubling."

David lay on the examination table, his heart pounding. The first treatment involved the introduction of a customized viral vector designed to rewrite his DNA. "This will be the most significant part of your transformation," Dr. Martinez said as she injected the solution into David's bloodstream. "It will change your hair color, eye color, skin tone, and even your bone structure over time."

David could feel the changes happening almost immediately. Over the next few weeks, his hair began to lighten to match Mr. Anderson's perfectly coiffed blond look. His eyes changed from brown to a piercing blue, and his skin took on a healthier, more even tone. The viral treatments were followed by sessions in a specialized chamber that accelerated cell growth and regeneration, molding his body to match the genetic blueprint provided.

David's physical transformation was intense. Personal trainers and nutritionists helped him shed pounds and build muscle to match Mr. Anderson's athletic physique. "You need to mirror his movements, his gait," his trainer, Mark, instructed. "Even his posture must be identical." David's once-slouched shoulders were now squared, his stride confident. Hours were spent in the gym, sculpting his body to perfection. His diet was strict, designed to build lean muscle and reduce fat. Every meal, every workout was calculated.

The most challenging part was the psychological conditioning. A team of specialists worked on altering David's habits, diction, and memory. "You need to think like him, speak like him," Dr. Harris, a cognitive specialist, emphasized. "We'll be using a combination of hypnosis, memory implantation, advanced mind manipulation techniques, and voice modulation through DNA manipulation." David's evenings were spent listening to recordings of Mr. Anderson's voice, mimicking his speech patterns. Gradually, David's diction shifted, his vocabulary expanded. He underwent sessions of deep hypnosis, where false memories of Mr. Anderson's life were implanted. These sessions were disorienting, blurring the lines between reality and fabrication.

"Your voice will also be altered through DNA manipulation," Dr. Harris explained during one of the sessions. "Your vocal cords will be adjusted to match Mr. Anderson's pitch and tone exactly."

As the weeks passed, David's mental transformation took root. The combination of mind manipulation and memory augmentation began to erase his former self. He started to forget his old life, the hardships, and the failures. Instead, his mind was filled with Mr. Anderson's memories, experiences, and preferences. He began to adopt Mr. Anderson's mannerisms naturally, his mind melding with the implanted memories and habits. He started to develop an affinity for Mr. Anderson's interests and preferences, including his taste in fine wines, classical music, and even his favorite sports.

David's thoughts often wandered to his old life, but each time, the memories seemed fuzzier, less real. He could barely recall the details of his previous existence. The pain of his past, the cramped apartment, the bills—it all seemed like a distant, almost foreign nightmare. He began to crave the finer things in life, something that was entirely new to him. The aroma of a fine cigar became a comforting presence, and he found himself savoring the taste of luxurious foods and expensive liquors.

David's facial hair grew to match Mr. Anderson's frequently changing style. Whether it was a neatly trimmed beard, a stylish goatee, or a clean shave, David's face adapted seamlessly to each new look. He was taught to groom it precisely, spending hours perfecting the art. His clothes were tailored to fit him exactly as they would Mr. Anderson, down to the smallest detail. "You must also adapt to Mr. Anderson's lifestyle," Thomas reminded him. "His tastes, his sexual orientation." David was introduced to aspects of Mr. Anderson's life, forming relationships, and experiencing his world. This included adopting new sexual preferences, which was initially jarring but became a part of his new identity.

One evening, after a particularly intensive session of mind manipulation, David sat in his room, staring at his reflection. The man staring back was no longer David Harrison but an identical replica of Alexander Anderson, the billionaire. His mind was a labyrinth of new memories, each one meticulously crafted to replace the old.

Thomas walked in, smiling. "Welcome to your new life, Mr. Anderson."

David's transformation was complete. He had shed his old identity entirely, becoming a perfect double. The weight of his past was gone, replaced by the power and privilege of a new existence. As he stepped into the world as Alexander Anderson, David couldn't help but marvel at the extraordinary journey he had undertaken, forever changed by a simple job posting that promised a new life. The echo of his old self was faint, a mere whisper in the back of his mind, as he embraced his new identity with a sense of wonder and anticipation.

---

Several weeks later, David—now fully integrated into his role as Alexander Anderson—stood in the opulent study of a grand mansion. He was waiting to meet the real Alexander Anderson for the first time since his transformation. The room was filled with the scent of polished wood and expensive leather, the ambiance luxurious and imposing.

The door opened, and the real Alexander Anderson entered. The resemblance was uncanny. Anderson's piercing blue eyes examined David from head to toe, a smile of satisfaction spreading across his face.

"Remarkable," Anderson said, his voice identical to David's new one. "I knew the process would be thorough, but this...this is perfection."

David felt a strange mix of pride and nervousness. "Thank you, Mr. Anderson. It's an honor to meet you."

Anderson chuckled, "No need for formalities. From now on, you'll be me in public more often than not. It's crucial we understand each other perfectly."

David nodded, understanding the gravity of his new role. As they conversed, David found himself effortlessly matching Anderson's demeanor and speech, the final piece of his transformation slotting into place.

"Welcome to your new life, David," Anderson said, offering a toast with a glass of aged whiskey. "To a future where we both thrive."

David raised his glass, the taste of the fine whiskey a stark reminder of how far he'd come from his old life. "To our future," he echoed, embracing his new identity and the extraordinary path that lay ahead.

David stood in front of the grand mansion's mirror, adjusting his perfectly tailored suit. It was surreal to see Alexander Anderson's reflection staring back at him, but after months of intense physical and psychological transformation, he had become accustomed to it. He was no longer David Harrison, the man who struggled to pay bills in a dingy apartment. Now, he was Alexander Anderson, a powerful billionaire whose presence commanded respect.

His first task as Alexander was to attend a high-profile charity event. As he stepped out of the mansion, flanked by security and personal assistants, he felt a mix of anxiety and excitement. He had practiced every possible scenario, rehearsed every mannerism, but this was the real test.

The limousine ride to the event was a blur of briefings and last-minute instructions. His assistant, Clara, a sharp and meticulous woman, reviewed the evening's agenda with him. "Remember, Mr. Anderson, you have a speech at 8 PM. It's crucial that you stick to the script. We don't want any deviations."

David nodded, his mind racing. "Understood."

As the limousine pulled up to the red carpet, flashes from cameras momentarily blinded him. He stepped out, greeted by reporters and admirers. He smiled, waved, and moved with the confidence instilled in him through rigorous training. He exchanged pleasantries, shaking hands and making small talk with ease.

Inside the ballroom, David felt a sense of accomplishment. He navigated the social scene flawlessly, his new memories and instincts guiding him. When the time came for his speech, he stood at the podium, looking out over the sea of faces. The words flowed naturally, and the crowd responded with applause. As he left the stage, he couldn't help but feel a rush of pride. He was succeeding.

Back at the mansion, the real Alexander Anderson watched the event unfold on a series of monitors. His team, including Thomas and Dr. Harris, analyzed every aspect of David's performance. "He's doing remarkably well," Thomas commented. "The physical and psychological transformations are holding up under pressure."

Dr. Harris nodded. "Yes, but we need to continue monitoring his stress levels. Prolonged exposure to high-stakes situations could trigger residual memories or behaviors from his former life."

In the days that followed, David seamlessly filled in for Alexander in various business meetings and public appearances. Each evening, he underwent debriefing sessions with Alexander's team, who provided feedback and enhancements.

"You need to work on your eye contact," Clara noted during one session. "Mr. Anderson is known for his intense gaze. It makes people feel valued and heard."

David practiced in front of a mirror, adjusting his posture and refining his expressions. He received voice coaching to perfect the nuances of Alexander's speech patterns, ensuring that every word he spoke was indistinguishable from the original.

Despite the intensive training and constant surveillance, David began to find a strange sense of fulfillment in his new role. The power, the luxury, the respect—these were things he had never known as David Harrison. He savored the fine cigars, the exquisite wines, and the thrill of commanding a room. Yet, there were moments of introspection when he wondered what had become of his former self. The memories of his old life were faint, but they lingered like a distant echo.

One evening, after a particularly demanding day, David sat in the mansion's study, enjoying a rare moment of solitude. He lit a cigar, the rich aroma filling the room. As he took a deep drag, he reflected on the journey that had brought him here. The transition from a struggling, forgotten man to a powerful billionaire was extraordinary. He realized that while he had gained much, he had also lost something—his true identity.

Clara entered the room, breaking his reverie. "Mr. Anderson, we have a situation. There's an emergency board meeting in an hour."

David stubbed out his cigar and straightened his suit. "I'll be there."

As he walked towards the meeting room, his mind cleared. He was Alexander Anderson now, and there was no turning back. The door opened, and he stepped into the room, ready to embrace whatever challenges lay ahead.

The real Alexander watched from a hidden room, a sense of satisfaction on his face. "He's perfect," he murmured to Thomas. "Better than I ever imagined."

Thomas nodded. "Yes, but we must ensure he remains stable. The mind manipulation techniques are still experimental. Any cracks could be disastrous."

Alexander smiled. "Don't worry. As long as he believes he is me, there will be no cracks. David Harrison is gone. Alexander Anderson is all that remains."

David, now fully integrated into his role as Alexander Anderson, faced a new challenge. His past life as David Harrison had been straightforward—he was attracted to women and had never been one to indulge in the playboy lifestyle. However, Alexander Anderson was known for his extravagant and sometimes scandalous love life, which included relationships with both men and women. To maintain his cover, David had to adapt to this aspect of Alexander's persona.

One evening, David attended a high-profile party in the heart of the city. The event was a glamorous affair, filled with influential people from the business and entertainment worlds. As he entered the lavish penthouse, he felt the familiar mix of anxiety and excitement. He knew that his performance tonight would be scrutinized by Alexander's inner circle and the public alike.

Clara, his ever-vigilant assistant, whispered in his ear as they navigated the crowd. "Remember, Mr. Anderson, your behavior tonight must be impeccable. Everyone is watching."

David nodded, his mind focused. "I understand."

As he moved through the room, he encountered a variety of admirers and business associates. He exchanged pleasantries and flirtatious banter, careful to emulate Alexander's charismatic and confident demeanor. His new preferences, implanted through mind manipulation, helped him navigate these interactions, but there were moments when he felt a pang of discomfort—a reminder of his old self.

At the bar, David ordered a glass of fine whiskey, savoring the rich taste. A striking man approached him, someone he recognized from Alexander's social circles. The man, Jake, was a well-known model and one of Alexander's rumored past lovers.

"Alexander," Jake greeted with a playful smile. "It's been a while."

David returned the smile, his mind racing to recall the details of their supposed history. "Jake, it's good to see you."

They chatted casually, their conversation flowing with practiced ease. Jake's flirtatious glances and suggestive comments tested David's ability to stay in character. He responded in kind, reminding himself that this was just another aspect of his role.

As the evening progressed, David found himself alone with Jake on the penthouse's balcony, the city lights shimmering below. The air was cool, and the distant sounds of the party created a background hum.

"Alexander, you seem different tonight," Jake remarked, his gaze penetrating. "More...intense."

David leaned against the railing, taking a deep breath. "Life has been full of surprises lately."

Jake stepped closer, his eyes searching David's face. "I've missed you."

David's heart raced, his mind grappling with the need to stay true to his cover while battling his lingering discomfort. He forced a smile, his voice steady. "I've missed you too, Jake."

As Jake's hand brushed against his, David felt a strange mix of emotions. The memories from the mind manipulation sessions flooded back, blurring the lines between David Harrison and Alexander Anderson. He remembered intimate moments with Jake, whispered confessions, and shared nights that felt eerily real. The sensations were undeniable, pulling him deeper into his new identity.

Jake moved even closer, his breath warm against David's neck. "Do you remember the last time we were here? You promised me we'd always have this."

David's subconscious responded, driven by the implanted memories and growing attraction he could no longer deny. He nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "I remember."

The kiss that followed was electric, a connection that seemed to bridge his two selves. David's initial hesitation melted away as he embraced the new feelings coursing through him. The attraction was real, and the subconscious pull towards men became a powerful force he couldn't ignore.

Their embrace was interrupted by Clara, who appeared at the door. "Mr. Anderson, there's an urgent call for you."

David excused himself, feeling a sense of relief as he left the balcony. Inside, Clara handed him a phone, her expression serious. "It's Thomas."

David took the phone, his mind shifting gears. "Thomas, what is it?"

"David, there's been a development," Thomas said, his tone grave. "We need you back at the mansion immediately."

David's thoughts raced as he made his way back to the mansion, the night blending into a blur of lights and shadows. He entered the study, where Thomas and Dr. Harris awaited him.

"What's happened?" David asked, his voice tense.

Thomas gestured to the monitors displaying various news channels. "There's been an incident involving Alexander's business dealings. We need you to address the media and manage the situation."

David nodded, focusing on the task at hand. "I'll handle it."

As he prepared for the press conference, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease. Playing the part of Alexander Anderson required constant vigilance, and the lines between his old and new selves were becoming increasingly blurred. He was living a life of power and privilege, but it came at a cost—the constant pressure to maintain an identity that wasn't truly his own.

Stepping up to the podium, David faced the sea of reporters. Cameras flashed, and the room buzzed with anticipation. He took a deep breath, channeling the confidence and authority of Alexander Anderson.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice steady and commanding. "I am here to address the recent events and assure you that we are taking every necessary step to resolve the situation."

As he spoke, David felt a strange sense of detachment. He had become so proficient in his role that even in moments of crisis, he could perform flawlessly. Yet, deep down, he couldn't ignore the lingering question: how much of David Harrison remained within Alexander Anderson?

The press conference concluded successfully, with the media appeased and the company's reputation intact. Back at the mansion, David retreated to his study, the weight of the evening settling over him.

Clara entered, her expression a mix of concern and admiration. "You handled that brilliantly, Mr. Anderson."

David nodded, sinking into the leather chair. "Thank you, Clara."

As she left the room, he lit a cigar, the rich aroma filling the air. He took a deep drag, reflecting on the complexity of his new life. The luxury, the power, the adoration—it was all he had ever dreamed of. But as he gazed at his reflection in the polished wood of the desk, he couldn't help but wonder if he had truly found himself or merely lost a part of who he once was.

#male transformation #bodyswap #mental change #personality change #fantasy #male body swap #male tf #disguise transformation #gay #straight to gay tf #straight to gay #body swap #male body transformation

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scientia-rex · 1 year

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Medicine is a numbers game. I use probability all the time. If you don't understand probability, you'll look at someone with chest pain and have no fucking clue how likely it is that you're looking at a heart attack. You may not even know what the other top contenders are. GERD is common. Anxiety. An angry rib muscle. Lots of options. Most of the time, most chest pain won't be a heart attack, but sometime it'll be something worse--an aortic dissection that's rupturing will kill you even faster than most heart attacks.

I see so many patients who come in with a symptom that the Internet, whether Google or influencers, has told them is associated with this one thing. It's often the thyroid. And yeah! A fucked-up thyroid can cause all kinds of symptoms. But here's the deal: if I check your thyroid and it looks normal, it's probably not your thyroid that's causing the symptoms. It could be something else we understand. It is very often something we don't understand. But the fact that I can tell you modern medicine doesn't understand some process doesn't mean your naturopath or chiropractor or Certified Hormone Expert Influencer does understand it because they have this different way of looking at the body. Look, long, long before I wanted to be a doctor, I wanted to be an herbalist. I'm queer, I'm a woman(ish), I am neurodivergent, I am not The Man. I'm not beholden to the system; the system doesn't care for me and wishes I would sit down and shut up, most days. And I have a background in research science and statistics. I used to have a rubber stamp that said "Denied" and one that said "Approved" and I'd hit piles of paper for research applications at an R-1 university, in triplicate, with my stamps, because I understood research well enough to get a Human Subjects Division job evaluating it. If a naturopathic approach to thyroid worked well, I would be doing it. I'm a utilitarian. I don't give a rat's ass about the theoretical underpinnings of modern medical practice, I want things to work. Ideally I would like to know why they work, too, but hey, we can't always have it all.

So the dozens of patients I get every month who are looking elsewhere for answers, looking to people who don't actually know any better but are good at pretending they do, who pay money for elaborate supplement regimens or unvalidated genetic tests or (my personal least favorite) "memory-improving games," I have to be calm and professional and diplomatic about what I say. I can't say, "That's quack shit." I can't say, "Your favorite influencer is a liar and an idiot." Not just because I'd get lower patient satisfaction scores, but because patients wouldn't believe me, and they would reactively like me less and the other guy more. (You're calling me stupid? You're saying I wasted money? If I believe you're just a shill for Big Pharma, that hurts less.)

It takes years, even decades, to understand how to put together the probability maps. Chest pain in a patient under 40? Highly unlikely to be a myocardial infarction, but not totally impossible, especially if they've been doing cocaine. In a patient over 60? Much more likely. Is the pain crushing? Is it sub-sternal? How long has it been going on? Is it constant, or intermittent? Does the patient smoke? What other health conditions does the patient have? These are all deeply important questions, and I remember feeling overwhelmed by things like this all the time in medical school. It's taken so long to build my knowledge, and my background in research is only tangentially valuable most of the time.

Please don't believe authority just because it looks good. Don't trust people because you want to trust them. Learn about the scientific process, learn how the sausage gets made, and then you'll be in an infinitely better position to know whether this is a "wow! science!!!" or a "wow! science bullshit!" moment.

#the attending dr. kristophine

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fanfoolishness · 6 months

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Evaluations (The Bad Batch)

A selection of evaluations of the health of CT-9904, as performed by Nala Se. Nala Se POV, Crosshair whump/medical whump, angst at a remove. ~3200 words.

---

Nala Se walks through the long white corridors to the clones’ medical bay. Troopers march past in tight formation, each one perfectly uniform, created precisely to match their original specifications. Behind them small cadets trail their older mirrors in imitation, small brown faces all alike, dark hair in the same short military style. She has only to glance at them all to see her own flawless work marching beside her.

She allows herself a small, secret smile. There have been some clones with flaws, of course. Adjustments to obedience, size, intelligence. ability. She is most curious to see how the clones of the 99 designation fare as they age.

Her work, she suspects, is not unlike that of the artist or musician. Like them there is an idea she carries in her mind, the delicate dance of DNA and genetic modification, a vision she has planned and put into motion through the work of her own hands and her own vision. Now there is only the waiting to see the finished product that remains. She knows what she expects of her enhanced clones one day. Yet she also anticipates there may be surprises to occur in their development, unexpected interplays of inspiration or epigenetic accidents leading to something greater than the sum of their parts. It is a pleasant source of anticipation in her day to day, to see the finished music that her work might make.

She reaches the medical bay and the doors slide open for her. She is mildly taken aback at the scene of disarray that appears. A clone cadet, bio-equivalent to a seven-year-old human, sits hunched over himself on the floor, surrounded by scattered medical equipment that appears to have been thrown or kicked around the room. AZI-3 hovers a safe distance away from the clone, and seems relieved to see her.

“Doctor Se,” he says, pitching his voice modulators to a quiet scale. “You have asked me to inform you of any medical visits regarding clones of the ninety-nine designation. This is CT-9904, and he is here with a minor injury, but he is proving… difficult.”

Nala Se nods. CT-9904 would be identifiable from across any room nearly instantly; with his modifications, it is obvious. The clone’s proportions are unusual, thinner and taller than would be expected at this stage of development, and streaks of gray pepper his dark hair despite his young biological age. She had expected that variation. On many species her work has shown an inextricable link between hair color and visual development, and humans are no different.

“CT-9904,” she murmurs. “Please explain yourself.”

The clone unfolds himself and gets awkwardly to his feet, bowing his head briefly to her before looking down at his boots. The injuries are apparent, a blue-black bruise swelling his right eye shut, scrapes up and down his rather thin, angular face. He sniffs, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose. It comes back bloody.

“There was a fight,” the boy says slowly. His voice is odd, slightly raspy, with an accent to his Basic that deviates from the norm. That variation had not been anticipated. One of her intriguing surprises.

She waits, giving him an expectant look. He takes a deep breath.

“The other clones didn’t like that I’m different.” His fists clench at his sides. “I beat all of their scores in marksmanship. It’s so easy. They got mad… they started it. I tried to finish it, but there were more of them than me.” He crosses his arms over his chest, scowling, then wincing.

“Fights are not uncommon at this stage of training,” Nala Se murmurs. “The tendency is typically outgrown.” Though there is the matter that with his enhanced visual acuity, CT-9904 has been training in marksmanship with clones four cycles older. Perhaps seeing a clone so much earlier in his development excel has triggered the aggressive response from the standard units. She turns to AZI-3. “What is the prognosis?”

“There is a hairline fracture of the right zygomatic arch, but with the rapid growth rate and the improved healing capabilities, this is not expected to have any negative long-term effects. Which I have tried explaining to him!”

“I don’t believe you!” the boy bursts out. Nala Se tilts her head to one side, studying him.

“Why?”

The boy looks furtive, anxious, fidgeting where he stands. His hands twist together. At last he stammers, “I can’t see!” He tries to open the swollen right eye and fails, hissing with the effort.

“I have informed him that this is temporary,” says AZI-3. He addresses the clone directly. “The swelling needs time to come down, and then you will see normally again. All of the scans indicate that your eye itself was not damaged, only the tissue surrounding it. You should be back to normal within ten rotations.”

“Are you sure? But that’s -- it’s all I -- I have to --” His face is flushed. “It’s what I’m for!”

“Your vision will return in time, CT-9904. Your enhancements remain intact. The droid tells the truth,” says Nala Se. “There are other skills you may continue training in during this time. I will see to it that you are assigned extra training in stealth and hand-to-hand combat as you heal.”

The clone gives her a worried look, then nods, letting out a long breath.

“Please help AZI-3 clean up this mess. After that, you should return to your quarters. Your fellow cadets should be returning from their own training soon.”

The clone laughs slightly, a small smile shifting on his face. “Wrecker’s going to be mad he missed the fight. He could have taken them all out. I know it.”

“Hmm.” She sighs. This is not the first time these particular clones have been at the center of discord among the standard cadets, and she has a strong suspicion it will not be the last. Yet another unique trait in a batch full of them. She wonders which one of them will be in here next.

---

CT-9904 is led into the medical bay by red-painted clone troopers, stripped of his armor and walking with his head down. Nala Se is waiting. She has been curious to assess the effects of the inhibitor chip on her modified clones; the chips themselves had not been modified or calibrated for the minds of this particular batch, and she had long wondered if she would ever see the effects on them were the chips to be activated. Here then is her opportunity to learn, though her curiosity feels subdued from what she had anticipated. Perhaps it is merely that she feels disquieted by the presence of Admiral Tarkin in the chamber beyond.

My work does not need your supervision, Admiral, she thinks, then turns to the clone at hand.

CT-9904 has only rarely needed medical assistance after completing his training; as his squad’s long-range sniper, he has typically avoided the types of injuries accrued by the others. It has been multiple cycles since she has last seen him up close, and he sits obediently on the examination table under armed guard, his eyes shadowed, his face grim.

“How do you feel, CT-9904?” she asks.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he bites out, looking away. “There’s nothing wrong with me. Perhaps you should look at Hunter. He’s been acting irrationally.”

“He will be examined in time,” she assures him. “There are some questions I am going to ask you.”

He shrugs, sighing. “All right.”

“Have you had any episodes of seizures?”

He sits up straight, looking at her suspiciously, a wary surprise in his eyes. “No.”

“Have you experienced any episodes of fainting?”

“No.”

“Have you experienced any disorientation?”

“No.”

“Have you experienced any headaches?”

A short, sharp intake of breath. His eyes focus beyond her, fixating in the direction of the Admiral, and a guilty look crosses his face. “...yes.”

“Thank you, CT-9904. The examination will begin.”

One of her new medical droids hovers forward, extending a long hypodermic. The clone’s eyes widen. “Is that necessary?”

“Yes, it is.” The droid injects him in the shoulder. He grimaces, but then his expression slides into something dreamy, a placid, half-lidded stare. He slumps where he sits and the droid eases him onto his back, preparing him for imaging. Nala Se recuses herself to the outer chamber.

She has read CT-9904’s report of Kaller, contradicting the reports from his squadmates. They have informed her of his attempts to convince his squad to follow orders. It is a fascinating finding. CT-9904’s chip may be working -- she will run the necessary tests to confirm, but the headaches are the earliest stage of an incomplete chip activation -- yet loyalty to his squad appears to be superseding its commands.

Admiral Tarkin waits for her as the test commences. As she has suspected, the chip is partially working, but CT-9904’s mutations have muted its effectiveness. She transmits the order to amplify the chip’s effects as the Admiral looks on.

The amplification process is one that she has never used before in practice, though it was developed for theoretical use in an event such as this one. As she watches it becomes plain that the dose of sedative has been insufficient for such a procedure. CT-9904 trembles, hands curling beside him, his chest rising and falling jerkily. She assesses his vitals. They are stable enough, but the elevated heart rate and erratic breathing are consistent with pain.

She considers adding further sedation, but the process is nearly complete, and she refrains.

The arms of the machine retract. She checks her datapad. The clone’s vitals have returned to normal, and he is starting to stir.

“Did it work?” Admiral Tarkin asks, voice clipped with impatience. “If not, you may begin the decommissioning process. But if it has worked, I would like the same procedure performed on the remaining squad.”

“Understood, Admiral. I will assess him myself.”

By the time she enters, CT-9904 is clumsily sitting up, breathing hard. He raises one hand to his right temple, shaking his head. “What happened?” he asks.

“You have been found clear to return to duty. With your squad.”

CT-9904 frowns, his face going cold. “My squad disobeyed orders.” He gets off the table, swaying slightly, and straightens up. “Good soldiers follow orders.”

“And if your squad does not?”

“Then they need to be eliminated,” CT-9904 says evenly. His eyes are blank, devoid of the suspicion and wariness that had been plain earlier. She nods, feeling a slight pang. She would have preferred to have had the time to study the interplay between the clone’s mind and the partially activated chip in case there were new insights to be gleaned. Observing him for several weeks would have been most intriguing. But she is certain now that in this regard, at least, CT-9904 is no longer unique.

---

“Status report,” Nala Se asks, gazing down at the unconscious clone in recovery.

The medical droid catalogs the clone’s injuries while removing the field bandages marred by strikethrough. The list is long and troubling. Ion burns to the chest, hands and face. Concussion to the right temple. Corneal abrasions. Right shoulder dislocation, replaced in the field. Inhalation injury. It is disheartening to see such a unique specimen in such shape. The corneal abrasions are the most concerning, given the nature of his enhancements, but the droid’s readings confirm that they are thankfully superficial and should heal without issue.

“How did this occur?”

“Exposure to an ion engine, Doctor,” says a human woman with a clipped, stern voice, her helmet carried under her arm. “We were shocked he survived. None of the other clones with him made it.” Nala Se gives her a cool look. One of Admiral Tarkin’s conscripts, her training nonstandardized, her breeding unknown. She does not understand the Admiral’s obsession with ‘updating’ the army of the Republic, no, Empire, and it is an affront to have one of those inferior soldiers here in her own medical bay.

The soldier is still standing at attention. “Will the Commander be all right?” she asks, and there is something calculating in her eyes. Nala Se frowns. Clones would never show such hints of naked ambition.

“Yes. There is extensive treatment to be done, but he will likely be fully rehabilitated within a matter of weeks.” They have repaired far more grievous injuries to their clones over the years. Kaminoan work was strong, and it was reparable when desired. “CT-9904 is valuable to the Empire, and he will recover.”

The soldier frowns. “Even with the seizures?”

Nala Se gives her her full attention. “He has had seizures?”

“Two, on the journey back from Bracca,” she says. “I thought the medic told you. Is that from the head injury?”

“There will be no further questions,” Nala Se says. “You may leave.”

The woman shoves her helmet back on, nodding, and finally leaves. Nala Se immediately locks the laboratory door behind her.

There is a faint groan from the bed. CT-9904 raises his left hand weakly before it drops back against his chest. He coughs, the sound amplified in the oxygen mask looped over his face.

She casts her eyes over the blistered flesh above his right ear, then directs the medical droids to set up the imaging device to assess the chip. CT-9904’s breathing rattles in the confines of the imaging chamber. It is disconcerting.

The machine whirs, its testing cycle complete, and it retracts to leave CT-9904 back in the open. She frowns at the results on her datapad.

“The inhibitor chip is damaged,” she tells the medical droid at the clone’s side. “Swelling in the brain has interfered with its functioning. The seizures are the result of an improper connection.”

CT-9904 fumbles at the oxygen mask on his face, making a garbled noise. He manages to pull off the mask, and rasps, “Take it out, then.”

Nala Se stiffens.

She has made a mistake.

She has never spoken of the chips in the presence of a clone beyond Omega. Now in her curiosity, with CT-9904 so wounded as to appear unconscious, she has erred. She turns to him, wondering how she should proceed. Despite what she had said about CT-9904’s value to the Empire, she is certain there would be no repercussions if he were to not survive his injuries.

“What do you mean?”

“I know…” He swallows, coughing, flecks of blood-tinged fluid dotting his lips. “I know about the chip. They told me.”

“Who?”

“Clone Force 99,” he manages. “Said it’s… controlling me. But I don’t --” He presses the oxygen mask against his face again, taking in several deep breaths before removing it again. He squints up at her through blepharospasm, eyelids struggling to open despite the pain of the abrasions. “I don’t need a chip to be loyal. To --” His chest heaves. “To be a good soldier.”

CT-9904 suddenly stares off into space, his good eye transfixing on the ceiling. His jaw slackens, and she recognizes the prodromal signs of an impending seizure. Nala Se gives a swift look to the medical droid. “He will need an anticonvulsive. Immediately.” The droid complies, heading off the seizure before it can truly begin.

Nala Se hesitates. There are three paths remaining to her now. Euthanasia of the enhanced clone to prevent possible awareness of the chip from being spread to other clones; treating the injuries but leaving the clone in his current state, potentially compromised by seizures and prone to worsening degradation of the chip; or --

She makes her choice, recalling the clone’s words. CT-9904 and his cohort have always represented a new era in experimentation for her. Perhaps by removing his chip now, she may continue to be surprised.

---

The walls of Tantiss press in around her, a windowless narrow world of her cell and the hallway beyond. Tipoca City lies beneath the waves of her homeworld, her lab, her work, her calling buried in the sea; and now there is only the Empire and its brutal destruction.

She has been a fool. She had so buried herself in her work that she had blinded herself to the dangers of being indispensable. She knows that she will never leave this planet alive.

The days are endless, the monotony almost worse than the clumsy efforts of the Empire to extract the information they needed by force. Their interrogation droids had been programmed for human physiology, and while unpleasant, their methods had failed to force her to share her scientific knowledge. They have since given up on that, and now Hemlock attempts to use the clone Omega as a bargaining chip, despite having no idea of her whereabouts.

Nala Se cares little for his efforts. She cares little for anything at all, now.

The one slight bit of interest in her day is her daily walk. They bring her to the lab once daily under heavy guard and supervision, perhaps hoping she will be enticed by the technology to resume her old work. She has no interest in the lab, refusing to examine its machines and capabilities, but she watches closely the clones walking by under their own guard, amusing herself with guessing which batches they had arisen from. She has no way to confirm her guesses, but to her trained eye, subtle changes in the degree of aging -- the appearance of fine wrinkles starting at the edges of the eyes and corners of the mouth, a slight shift in glossiness of the hair, faint alterations to the gait -- provide significant clues. It puts her in mind of happier times, when she could truly focus on science and take pride in the results of her labors.

One day -- or perhaps night, there is no way to tell -- she awaits the lift with her captors and a group of clones stops beside them, waiting for the same lift. She turns to study them and is taken aback. One clone stands above the others, several inches taller despite the slump in his shoulders.

Her mind swirls with questions. Had the removal of CT-9904’s chip -- omitted from his final medical report after his injuries on Bracca -- come to light? Was he sent here for betrayal of the Empire? Or had he merely been injured and deemed unfit to return to duty, so was sent here for study to remain useful?

He does not meet her gaze. She is not sure he has even noticed she stands beside him. His face is skull-like, his skin sallow from lack of sunlight, deep shadows etched beneath his eyes. A flicker of movement catches her eye and she notes a fine tremor, nearly imperceptible, along the edge of his hand. He shakes his hand almost subconsciously, a small, subtle jerk she is not sure that even he has detected. There are no obvious injuries, but there is an emptiness that is apparent, a lack of something vital.

She does not know what has brought him here, but she knows that he is a soldier no longer.

The lift arrives and the guards herd them within. Force is not required; the prisoners know their place. They stare down at the floor, heads bowed.

Nala Se gazes away from the ruined clone beside her. The music she had once carried in her head, the clever dance of DNA and ingenuity, the spark of creativity, of creation, falls silent. She does not speak to him, nor he to her.

There is simply nothing to say.

#the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction #the bad batch crosshair #tbb crosshair #crosshair tbb #ct 9904 #nala se #whump #but like... dispassionate whump #this is such an odd little one but i had fun writing it #also nala se is kind of awful #my batcher fic #oh and if you were wondering #being a veterinarian I do like throwing in medical nonsense when I can

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shubhragoyal · 11 months

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Pre-Pregnancy Counseling: A Stepping Stone to Parenthood

Do you have a baby bump? Yes! Then, before you jump in the air with joy, you should take a look at pregnancy counseling, because expecting a baby requires a lot of acceptance and awareness, and that makes it a stepping stone to parenthood, a path of responsibility and mindfulness.

Pre-pregnancy counseling is a motto that pre-empts the certain risk factors pertaining a women’s, the fetus and neonatal health from entering an unfavorable phase. The one-to-one interaction with the professional can be a great aide in optimizing the health care of mother and child, which also extends to the family ties, as their care is invested from the first days.

Education about the pregnancy journey in pre-pregnancy course is open to all genders, sexualities and parents, as they offer a holistic approach to better parenting. Regardless of whether you are planning a pregnancy or using contraception, the pre-pregnancy counseling is applicable to both parties.

As the saying goes, health status can't be the same forever, over growing time potential risks can occur anytime. Thus, pre-pregnancy counseling does not last for a day, but it occurs several times for ensuring a healthy and happy baby journey!

Day in and out whenever an expectant mother gets counselled, fresh knowledge is added to her advantage for handling the situation. There is a certainty of several chronic conditions viz; diabetes, hypertension, thyroid and mental health require monitoring during pre-pregnancy for a desirable outcome.

In the pre-pregnancy counseling sessions, a crucial assessment for examining STDs is a must with a vivid screening for any probable genetic conditions that might pass down to the life growing inside.

The other important matter of concern here is to debrief on possible strong addictions namely, liquor, nicotine consumption, drugs or any other medicines taken for some underlining or nonmedical reasons.

There is also a significant survey conducted on partner violence during intimacy during prepregnancy counseling as it has entirely a direct impact on the mother and child both.

The expert guidance - Suggestions from the desk of the American College of Obstetrician and Gynecologists

The ACOG institute emphasizes the opportunity to stroke the iron hard and discuss overall wellness, and healthy habits as a routine irrespective of the patient for a successful outcome.

“Would you like to become pregnant next year?” Serves the purpose, of the right to speak out one's heart for suitable guidance without coyness.

The goal of prepregnancy counseling is to ensure a pregnancy that is away from the instructions and if any challenges occur one has the tact to handle it with expert guidance.

An annual influenza inoculation is mandatory for every patient unbiased as it is for additional benefit.

Prepregnancy is not limited to basic health checkups and discussions a patient's lifestyle and underlining conditions are crucial to tap on! If discovered to be a specific virus prone or any infection or allergies due to climate/ certain food types must be cautioned beforehand as travelling is a massive no.

Appropriate nourishment and vitamins are so significant for a healthy pregnancy tenure. Always fall back on your medical adviser for the proportion of food intake that suits your body the best during the prepregnancy period.

Read More: https://www.drshubhragoyal.com/welcome/blogs/pre-pregnancy-counseling:-a-stepping-stone-to-parenthood

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lesbianfeminists · 2 years

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From heart disease to IUDs: How doctors dismiss women’s pain

Several studies support the claim that gender bias in medicine routinely leads to a denial of pain relief for female patients for a range of health conditions

One woman was told she was being “dramatic” when she pleaded for a brain scan after suffering months of headaches and pounding in her ears. It turned out she had a brain tumor. Another was ignored as she cried out in pain during a 33-hour labor. She was supposed to be getting pain medication through her epidural, but it had fallen out. Dozens of women complained of torturous pain as their vaginal walls were punctured during an egg retrieval process. They were told their pain was normal, but, in actuality, they were getting saline instead of anesthesia. These are just some of the stories of women who say their pain and suffering has been dismissed or misdiagnosed by doctors. Although these are anecdotal reports, a number of studies support the claim that women in pain often are not taken as seriously as men.

This year, the Journal of the American Heart Association reported that women who visited emergency departments with chest pain waited 29 percent longer than men to be evaluated for possible heart attacks. An analysis of 981 emergency room visits showed that women with acute abdominal pain were up to 25 percent less likely than their male counterparts to be treated with powerful opioid painkillers. Another study showed that middle-aged women with chest pain and other symptoms of heart disease were twice as likely to be diagnosed with a mental illness compared with men who had the same symptoms. “I was told I knew too much, that I was working too hard, that I was stressed out, that I was anxious,” said Ilene Ruhoy, a 53-year-old neurologist from Seattle, who had head pain and pounding in her ears. Despite having a medical degree, Ruhoy said she struggled to get doctors to order a brain scan. By the time she got it in 2015, a tennis ball-sized tumor was pushing her brain to one side. She needed surgery, but first, she rushed home, hugged her 11-year-old daughter and wrote her a letter to tell her goodbye.

Ruhoy did not die on the operating table, but her tumor had grown so large it could not be entirely removed. Now, she has several smaller tumors that require radiation treatment. She said many of her female patients have had experiences similar to hers. “They’re not validated with regards to their concerns; they’re gaslit; they’re not understood,” she said. “They feel like no one is listening to them.”

Doubts about women’s pain can affect treatment for a wide range of health issues, including heart problems, stroke, reproductive health, chronic illnesses, adolescent pain and physical pain, among other things, studies show. Research also suggests that women are more sensitive to pain than men and are more likely to express it, so their pain is often seen as an overreaction rather than a reality, said Roger Fillingim, director of the Pain Research and Intervention Center of Excellence at the University of Florida. Fillingim, who co-wrote a review article on sex differences in pain, said there are many possible explanations, including hormones, genetics and even social factors such as gender roles. Regardless, he said, “you treat the pain that the patient has, not the pain that you think the patient should have.”

Women say reproductive health complaints are commonly ignored

Women often cite pain bias around areas of reproductive health, including endometriosis, labor pain and insertion of an intrauterine device, or IUD. When Molly Hill made an appointment at a Connecticut clinic in 2017 to get an IUD, she said she was warned it would be uncomfortable, but she was not prepared for “horrific” pain. Hill, now 27 and living in San Francisco, recalled that during the procedure, she began crying in pain and shouted at the doctor to stop. “We’re almost done,” she said the doctor told her and continued the procedure. “It was full-body, electrifying, knife-stabbing pain,” she said. After it was done, she said she lay sobbing on the table in physical and emotional pain. “It felt violating, too, to have that pain that deep in your core where you feel the most vulnerable.”

Studies consistently show that women who have not experienced vaginal birth have much higher pain during IUD insertion compared with women who have given birth. A Swedish study found that among 224 women who had not given birth, 89 percent reported moderate or severe pain. One in six of the women said the pain was severe. Although numbing agents and local anesthetics are available, they are rarely used.

In some cases, women have sued physicians for ignoring their pain. Dozens of women sued Yale University claiming that during an egg harvesting procedure at its infertility clinic, they were supposed to be receiving the powerful painkiller fentanyl. But some women were getting only diluted pain medication or none at all, according to lawsuits filed in the state Superior Court in Connecticut. Later, the clinic discovered a nurse had been stealing vials of fentanyl and replacing the painkiller with saline solution. The nurse pleaded guilty last year and was sentenced for tampering with the drugs. One of the plaintiffs, Laura Czar, wrote about her experience for Elle magazine, describing it as “a horrible, gut-wrenching pain,” and told a doctor at the time, “I can feel everything you’re doing.” Despite her protests, the doctor continued. Yale said in a statement that it “deeply regrets” the women’s distress and has “reviewed its procedures and made changes to further oversight of pain control and controlled substances.”

Racial disparities in pain management

For Sharee Turpin, the pain of sickle-cell disease sometimes feels like tiny knives slicing her open. Sickle cell disease is an inherited blood disorder that can cause suffering so severe, its attacks are called “pain crises.” But when Turpin, who is Black, experiences a pain crisis, the 34-year-old does not rush to the ER in Rochester, N.Y. Instead, she combs her hair, mists some perfume and slips on her “Sunday best” in hopes that the doctors and nurses won’t peg her as a drug seeker, she said. Sometimes, Turpin gets a care team that understands her pain. Other times, she is treated as a bother. “I’ve even been told ‘shut up’ by a nurse because I was screaming too loud while I was in pain,” she said.

Abundant research shows racial bias in pain treatment. A 2016 study found half of white medical students and residents held at least one false belief about biological differences between Blacks and Whites, and were more likely to underestimate Black patients’ pain. “The management of pain is one of the largest disparities that we see between Black people and White people in the American health-care system,” said Tina Sacks, an associate professor at the University of California at Berkeley and author of “Invisible Visits: Black Middle-Class Women in the American Healthcare System.”

Labeling women “hysterical” or blaming psychological causes

Research shows men in chronic pain tend to be regarded as “stoic” while women are more likely to be considered “emotional” and “hysterical” and accused of “fabricating the pain.” Carol Klay, a 68-year-old from Tampa, had endured years of chronic pain from arthritis, degenerative disk disease and spinal stenosis. During a hospital stay last year, her doctor noted in her medical record that she was crying “hysterically.” Klay said she was crying because she was unable to sit, stand or walk without agony, and the doctor had removed morphine from her cocktail of pain medications. She wonders whether the doctor “would have called me hysterical if I was a man,” she said. Tampa General Hospital said it could not discuss specific patients, but stated: “Patient treatment plans, including medication orders to reduce pain, are prescribed by multi-disciplinary clinical teams.” Research shows women’s physical pain is also often attributed to psychological causes.

Jan Maderios, a 72-year-old Air Force veteran from Chipley, Fla., said the trauma of having pain dismissed by doctors has stayed with her for years. She saw about a dozen doctors in the early 1970s for pelvic pain. When clinicians could not identify the cause of her pain, she was referred to a psychiatrist.

“You start to doubt yourself after so many medical experts tell you there’s nothing wrong with you,” she said. After a hysterectomy in 1976, Maderios learned that fibroid tumors in her uterus had been the source of her pain. She said learning her pain was real — and physical — “made all the difference in the world.”

Why women’s pain complaints often aren’t taken seriously

During a 33-hour labor with her first child in 2011, Anushay Hossain, 42, of D.C., opted for epidural pain relief but said she still felt it all — every contraction, every cramp and every dismissal of her pain by her medical team. The doctor reassured her that she was getting the maximum dosage of pain medication.

In fact, she wasn’t getting any at all. She said her epidural had slipped out. By the time the error was caught, she was shaking uncontrollably and in need of an emergency Caesarean section, she said. “There’s a pain gap, but there’s also a credibility gap,” said Hossain, author of “The Pain Gap: How Sexism and Racism in Healthcare Kill Women.” “Women are not believed about their bodies —period.”

This pain gap may stem, in part, from the fact that women have historically been excluded from medical research. It wasn’t until 2016 that the National Institutes of Health (NIH) required sex to be considered as a biological variable in most studies it funded. “We’re making progress,” said David Thomas, special adviser to the director of NIH’s Office of Research on Women’s Health. “But we do have a long way to go because there’s this whole institutional approach to doing research — pain and beyond — where it tends to be male-focused.”

Nearly 95 percent of U.S. medical school students said instruction on sex and gender differences in medicine should be included in curriculums, according to a 2015 survey. But only 43 percent said their curriculum had helped them understand those differences and only 34.5 percent said they felt prepared to manage them in a health-care setting.

“It is changing, but it’s changing very slowly,” said Janice Werbinski, immediate past president of the American Medical Women’s Association and chair of the mentorship committee of the association’s Sex and Gender Health Collaborative.

How women can advocate for better pain care

It took decades to solve the mystery of Maureen Woods’s chronic pain. Woods, 64, of Myersville, Md., started having joint pain in her teens and, over the years, told dozens of doctors her pain was “debilitating,” she said. Some told her it was all in her head. In 2017, she was diagnosed with hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, a connective tissue disorder often causing loose joints, dislocations and chronic pain. She said women who are not being heard should keep advocating for themselves. “You have to go with your gut — something is wrong and I need to find a doctor who can figure it out,” she said. Marjorie Jenkins, dean of the University of South Carolina School of Medicine Greenville, urged women against feeling pressured to accept an “everything is normal” non-diagnosis. “If your provider does not appear to be listening to you or believing what you’re saying, then you need a new provider,” Jenkins said. “You are the client, you are the customer and you are the owner of your health.”

Women can also take a family member, friend or other support person who can corroborate their stories, said Alyson McGregor, an emergency medicine professor at the University of South Carolina School of Medicine Greenville and author of the book “Sex Matters: How Male-Centric Medicine Endangers Women’s Health and What We Can Do About It.” Particularly in emergency departments, she said, there can be an inherent bias. “There’s this assumption that women are emotional and they’re anxious and that that’s the main issue,” she said.

#women’s health

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afreakingdork · 30 days

Text

Soft Spot - Chapter 4

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

Donnie's always working on something like in this week’s chapter art by @garbagemilkshake

Rated: Explicit

Warnings/Tags: Romance, Established Relationship, Married Couple, Married Life, Aged-Up Mutant Ninja Turtles, Villain Donatello (TMNT), Love, POV Second Person, Babies, Pregnancy, AFAB reader, Vaginal Sex, Rough Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Fertility Issues, Pregnant Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Reader-Insert, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Cum Eating, Turtle Noises (TMNT), I have a Biology Degree and I’m Using it

Synopsis: First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes the next step about as smooth as the others arrived. The baby-oriented sequel to Weak Spot.

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

LAST WARNING FOR THE 🍋 UNDER THE CUT. MINORS DNI!

“Okay.”

You looked over from where you were adjusting the collar of your shirt.

“Technically your cycle started six days ago, but marking today as the first cleared from your period.” Donnie spoke with a litany of screens about him.

“It was a long one…” You ruminated. “I hate when it’s just bloody discharge those last few days, like just empty out already.”

Donnie nodded and paced with his circle of screens moving fluidly along.

You noticed a few purple Tetris blocks mixed in amongst the technology and walked closer to get a look at them.

“With your permission I’ve taken an average of your cycles to work off of.” Donnie paced away from you without noticing.

You gave chase.

“As you have cleared, I’ve been examining you daily through the entirety of approximately your last three cycles. That paired with menstrual data that was passively collected, I can accurately map out our schedule.”

You got close to one floating purple block, but Donnie neared a wall and, like a Roomba, rotated away to go in another direction.

“We then take into account your clinical OBGYN visits. Your gametes are considered in a good health range. Mine are in a similar state per my personal evaluation. It is only combining our genetics that interferes now. Consider we are tethered to probability, following your ovulation gives us the best chances of conceiving.”

You watched his path and waited for what direction he would bounce towards next so you could intercept.

“My sperm appears to have a similar lifespan to that of a humans’. That’s a three to five day window in which they can survive in your reproductive system. To best maximize our chances, we should keep you filled just prior to and during your ovulation. Hence the necessity of your menstrual schedule.”

He trended towards the bed and you frowned because that would send him right back out into the bedroom proper.

“Now, we could use the plug, but that was meant as a sexual device. There is no need to keep you full of seminal fluid which only acts as transport.”

You saw mental images of Pong play out and realized he would soon be heading straight back towards you.

“A more useful and adjacent device would be a conception cap, but I wonder about its necessity as my sperm are tenacious…”

You adjusted your stance and waited.

“We can reconsider going forward if our current methods don't prove fruitful.” He made the final pivot in your direction. “For now, we will begin with this schedule.”

Before he reached you a calendar appeared in your face.

It marred your vision and kept you from seeing those strange fragments.

You gave a small sigh.

“Something wrong?” He swiped your screen to the side so he could better see you. “I debated a separate calendar from our usual, but it made more sense to combine them. Why waste time going out to dinner when we could put our hours to better use filling you with my seed?”

Your stomach flipped and you almost forgot about your other quest. “T-that’s not…”

He waited.

You shook your head and further moved the screen to step into his space.

Holograms broke up around you and you reached out toward the floating oddities.

“What are these?”

Donnie’s arm lowered and, with it, his screens collapsed. “I have been pushing the limits of my ninpo.”

“This is your ninpo?” You tapped the small block and it was indeed solid.

“Yes. My mysticism forms via construction. It is what I understand. However, it is also a manifestation. I have reason to believe that I can integrate it into my technology.”

“You want that?” You cupped your palms under it as if to hold the pieces. “Your tech is amazing. Would the ninpo make it better?”

“My screens now are hologram projections. They come from a knowable source. Though they are expertly encrypted, there is still a chance they could be hacked. Mystic technology, in theory, has no system to stem from. It is being projected from my very being. A completely uncrackable network!”

You sought Donnie’s eyes with growing amazement. “Oh… When you put it like that…”

He nodded enthusiastically. “I can replace everything with complete safety.”

Within your palm, you watched the pixels shift ever so slightly.

“However, data is intangible. While you say you build a system, you are instead writing the basis for it. I can visualize the code, but not its weight. There is a current disconnect between such so I have a simple form of a router up for the time being. I am feeding the connection from my tech gauntlet through my ninpo before it reaches the usual old screens. I am hoping it will help inspire said information to display as if it were a computer and I can then cut out the middle man.”

“Your gauntlet…” You let the ninpo go and moved to touch the device on his wrist.

“I have no plans to stop wearing or using it. My ninpo requires focus and tapping energy of which I have little stamina for. It is another facet of the router manifestation. Raphael described mystic arts as any other muscle to be trained. Thus I try to keep some form of ninpo up when I can and for as long as I am able.”

“Right… The tech’ll be a backup if you’re ever out of commission.”

“I suppose…” Donnie had an interested edge to him.

You fluttered your lashes as you waited for him to elaborate.

He churred into your space, but didn’t make contact. “It’s mysticism. Its rules are infuriating. Who’s to say I am limited in that way? I aim to create lasting constructions.”

“Donatello, my love, always pushing boundaries.” You spoke wistfully.

He lavished in the praise with closed lids before he straightened his posture.

“Speaking of lasting constructions…”

He eyed you and brought the screens back up.

“Let’s say I didn’t hear anything after you mentioned my period being over… How would you feel about repeating everything…?” You grinned.

His patience for you didn’t seem to have a limit though he did have minor scorn as he started his explanation over.

You were giddy as you stood outside of your own front door. Adjusting your clothes for about the third time, you debated your entry. You were spoiled for choice, but wanted to make this occasion special. Per Donnie’s planning, today marked the window just before your ovulation. It was the crossroads section in which his sperm would stay alive within you and be ready to inseminate the moment it became possible.

You had both also agreed to stave off sex until today. It was a paltry three day window and you had joked about Donnie saving up. As he was these days, he had bitter corrections for any perpetuated mythos. He was a regular sex ed teacher and explained that while it was possible that certain abstinence could lead to increased sperm counts, the ejaculate would contain older, less agile emissions. It was under his scrutiny that you agreed to only wait to enhance this moment.

A giddy countdown now had you shaking with the thrill and your entry.

Should you come in sultry and swing your belongings out of the way while announcing yourself?

Would Donnie be waiting to sweep you off your feet?

Would you not make it to the bedroom?

Would there be a line of candles and flower petals guiding your way?

Running through every scenario, you abandoned them all in favor of the door knob. It turned for you and you pushed against the wood. It revealed your apartment and you didn’t immediately notice anything had changed. It looked like your usual home and your lips parted to announce your presence.

Before you could speak, your husband stepped out so he was across from your entry.

He was the picture of dichotomy.

From his posture and squared shoulders, he was ready.

From his stance, he could not be knocked down.

From where his hands lazily flopped back to his sides, it said he’d been wringing them.

From the pinched lines of his face and the faded look to his pupil, he was tightly wound with nerves.

All of him read an equal amount of excited and nervous.

You forgot all about some fancy entrance and moved to your mate.

He accepted you as your bag fell to the ground. His willingness to give himself over read as an emotional scar and you swept over his shirt. It was something plain he’d probably been in all day and, upon finding nothing of note, you coasted up to his cheek. His head tipped into your palm and you felt your affection swallow you whole. “Hello, sweet. You hanging in there?”

“I should have asked you to take today off…” He spoke with sorrow.

“We’re saving that for ovulation day.” You reminded him.

“I know…” His hands trended beneath yours. “That’s why I didn’t.”

You nodded and curled your fingers to pull him down.

He resisted at first, his eyes darting to commit you to memory before he lowered.

He came with a winding and you met him for a kiss.

It struck as mellow in comparison to everything you had seen. He seemed to smile at your confusion and pressed into you to make his intention known. What came then was tenderness, but those nerves still slipped beneath it. You wanted to ask why, but the glowing embers against his lips spoke of how deep his desire was. You imagined maybe he had a fear of how deep his carnal desires could go. He was finally exercising his top kink in its truest form. It seemed obvious that he'd be afraid he might consume you.

It reminded you of an old line from your first date about a bear. It struck you how you had long become equally as voracious as him and you channeled that ferocity. The surge of both your body and emotion knocked him back a step. Drunk off the power to ruffle the master, you pursued him as much as he would allow. He soon got his feet stabilized which meant you were a tiny powerhouse against the pylon of his body. His form held steady, allowing you whatever wanton destruction you craved that wasn’t his person.

It came in the form of his clothes which you twisted up and pulled at. He bent for you, coming down enough so you could yank his top off and knocked his glasses in the process. He chuckled at your need, but gave no recompense. It left you as the one-sided onslaught and you pantsed him in retaliation.

When you came up from shoving his waistband down, he only had an arched brow that sarcastically challenged your childish move.

You tittered at the sight, playing it off. “Here? Couch? Bed…?”

He looked over each spot as if he had all the time in the world.

His bond barely concealed how much his emotion begged to differ.

You put out a sort of sigh and trended to his right.

“I’ve been bombarded with info lately…” You mourned and slid a forlorn hand across his wraps. “Intro to baby making.”

He watched you circle him.

You made sure to keep a teasing digit on him at all times. “A long winded separation ig facts and old wives tales…”

You appeared on his other side and he continued to track you.

“No sex position increases odds, but deep penetration is good. Whatever gets the sperm closest to the cervix…” You stopped at his front and sighed again.

You saw his fingers twitch as he withheld himself.

“Hard to push you into missionary if you aren’t going to help…” You kept your eyes to his plastron and followed scute lines with your fingertips.

You felt his head move as he tried to view your path.

You caught him with his neck bent forward as you snapped your attention up. “You really want to finally knock me up with me on top?”

You watched his pupils adjust to the prospect.

There was the language.

You told him that he was going to participate regardless.

There was the insinuation.

As it had all day, today was the day it was finally teetering on dangerous to fuck.

There was the challenge.

Was he going to be passive?

In one fluid motion, he dropped his center of gravity.

Excitement exploded in your belly and his elbows snapped akimbo. They led as his hands slid up into your shirt in a perfect slide. Smooth prints teased your spine and had you arching as he got to your bra. It took a single trace to the clasp and he barely had to flick to undo it. It was then, with a lift, that your entire upper ensemble was headed upward. You scrambled to lift your arms and just barely saved your chin from catching the fabric.

He hovered over you like a dance and your spine wilted dangerously from how much real estate he commanded. He beamed you a million watt smile before you heard the fabric plop onto the floor. The textures struck you and his arms came down to press into the curve of your back. He kept you safely dipped like a dancer there with one hand while the other danced around your front. It felt over your belly before a single digit found interest in your fly.

It worked expertly with a twist and flick until he was able to undo your trousers. They slacked open in the fold and he skimmed with that single hand around your waistband as if testing its tensile strength. The backs of your thighs burned from the weight distribution and your neck ached from having to hold up against gravity. Donnie only surveyed the curve of your body with faint flicks of his gaze as he instead focused on circling your hips.

With a sudden hook of his thumb, he levied half your bottoms and shoved down. The other side clung and it took a clean swipe from the opposite direction to catch them. He moved in a seesaw that had his thumb nail skimming more sensitive skin as he rocked your pants and underwear down. By the time they fell, your legs were threatening to do the same and only then did he scoop you up.

It was into his arms and you kicked out socked feet in glee as he carried you to bed. He perched you on the edge and the titillation pumped through your veins as he squatted in front of you. It sent you right back to imagery of your first night together and your inner muscles clenched onto that excitement.

“You are well aware of what we are about to get into.”

You nodded.

“Are you ready?”

“Very much so.”

“Show me, love.”

You gathered your knees and adjusted your positions. Already perched, you moved your pelvis forward as your shoulders came back. Your arms compensated for yet another lean, though this one was cushioned by a mattress. It read comfortable as your hands fisted the sheets and you split your legs to present for him.

He took you in with all his senses. It first came with the visual sight even though you could tell you were far from glistening. Excitement had only taken you so far, but he was completely enamored by your sex. He surveyed you with his exploding pupils before he reached, compelled. His warm finger skirted your outer lips and he pressed to see how engorged they were with blood. Arousal meant there was a heated layer and the cooler air of the room lapped at you in time with the way he licked his lips.

You rolled your hips eager and he lowered his head for his next sense. It was smell, and you’d grown accustomed to his scenting. He’d been sniffing you shamelessly in his daily examinations and it always looked to you like a master sommelier. His lips would part, letting the scent inhale deeply through his nostrils and cascade down his tongue. You imagined he picked up all sorts of notes that you couldn’t as he trended closer.

He breathed out then in and it was with one last striking whiff that nosed lightly at your clit. The tip of his beak invaded you for touch and your voice pitched behind warbled lips. He flicked a scolding glance up at you for trying to muffle your noises and when your mouth opened it was to breathily pant. He found that suitable and returned to his nosing. He was scenting, you could tell, but there was no snuffle. It was a slow and even thing meant to relish and, even though you couldn’t see him, you felt the moisture differently when his jaw parted.

You arched in time and met his tongue. A dainty tip, he mapped your folds first as if he didn’t already know your anatomy down to the cellular level. He gave a base level tasting lap and you whined at the lack of targeting. You watched his eyes surface in a rolling fashion and you frowned when you caught sight of him. He smiled against your cunt before pressing into your heat with his eyes still questioning you.

You mewled for him and it seemed like a satisfactory answer because he dove in. You puffed open relief as he licked into you with the accuracy you craved. He long knew exactly how to manipulate you on his tongue and you tossed your head back to give yourself over to him.

You jolted when he suddenly grabbed your feet.

In a tug, he used your surprise to throw you off balance and you fell onto your back. The bed was completely forgiving and you stared up at the canopy for exactly one second before his tongue shifted. He latched onto your clit in your toe tingling way and you barely cared he was still doing something to your feet. You imagined he was operating comical heavy machinery where the levers were your limbs because of the jarring push and pull of his movements.

His things swiped down and he hit some sort of pressure point in both your arches that ripped a moan from you. He slicked downward, dragging your growing wet on his tongue to taste and stimulate you. You squirmed, trying to get more, but he pushed your knees to fold. Your legs came, bent at the knee, and he shifted his weight to pour more over you. It pressed your thighs closer to your torso and you recognized the move even though it had been a long time since he last exercised it.

The mating press.

You chirped wanton for him at the thought and he churred straight into your sex at your revelation. You gave your mating call in aching need, but he demanded a bit more of you. It came with a swirling of his mouth and just enough suction that you could feel your insides weeping. The drip caused an audible pop when he unlatched that you could only hear as the final sense, sound, and he panted from what you imagined was a full assault of his senses. He then appeared, moving to stand in a growing form with your combined soaks painting his chin.

The moment he hit his full height was the same time you saw the bob of his cock. It bounced with him and hung a flag over your sex. You heaved a single time at the sight of it and were struck with one single thought:

This was going to get you pregnant.

A mating call warped off your lips before another slammed it out of the way. You couldn’t stop yourself as it sounded again and again on what hit your ears as a nagging repeat. The pitch was off and feral like a cat in heat. You ached for him, head lifting in the process and he only stared at your wanting form.

“D-Donnie…!” You finally managed amongst his seeming neglect. “P-please!”

He nodded and swept over you in what felt like a final moment.

Like you’d never be like this again.

Like something monumental was about to shift.

He then lowered enough to scoop up under your ass and scoot you forward. It made room for his knees and you continued to call out to him. He shushed you with a sharp mating response of his own and you bit down on your lip to try to stave off more. He was taking too long in his adjustments, but you knew there was purpose. You knew first hand how precarious the position could be. Your body was fully trapped beneath his while also being folded. It contracted and compressed your very being, but also made it so his pelvis could be aimed above yours. It also meant you had a full view of how his cock dangled down, scorched and ready to sear you.

Your vision honed in on the glisten of his member and trailed down where his tip pearled a perfect bead of pre.

Another mating call wormed up your throat which was decimated into a squeak as he pressed his glans to you. The heat felt like a boiling threat and you waited for him to plunge. Instead he continued to cater to his alignment before he rolled his hips so his cock ran against you. On your back and neck twisted in a position to view him, you saw his glans face you before they rolled backwards in their stroke. The oar of them flared there, returned once again, and then disappeared to catch your hole.

You wanted to sob at the torturous pace, but he so close.

“Please!” You shouted in spite of yourself.

He didn’t respond at all and only focused on a testing press.

It wasn’t enough to breach you and you groaned as loud as you could.

He chirped lightly, something faint and weary that you couldn't think much on before he wound upwards once and then descended.

Your eyes flew open and you watched as each delicious centimeter of him sank into your cunt. There was a pulse to your lips that marked the spread and soak as they peeled apart to grant him entry. He disappeared further, feeding into you and beading up your discharge. It cropped a creamy spill that pressed out at his size and clung around your entrance waiting for further use. His member widened, spreading toward the base of the knot and you saw the stretch of your lips grow taut.

He was then fully sheathed after what felt like hours and your head fell back. You panted lightly, all a mental exertion and felt sweat dot your brow. You were rushing, you knew. It was the incessant need and the many years built up to this moment. As he held in place, you saw all the rushing times you’d tried to devour each other. This wasn’t that and spoke to something far deeper. It roused you to be more present and you found him trying to look at your connection. His proportions meant he couldn’t and he lifted his head with the intent of a question pouring off him.

He wanted to know what it was like and you told him that it was quite the view. He churred a vibration that you felt dip inside you. You willed him to know that more would be better and he agreed to pull back the slightest amount. Your cunt clung to him, eager lips dragging against his length and each and every vein in an attempt to keep him. He barely made it a few inches before he plunged back in as if he couldn’t stand the cold room temperature. You chuckled at the thought of that sort of cockwarming and he probed your depths in interest at your laugh.

You almost responded until his ministrations found what he was looking for.

You then only gasped in pleasure and the cage of his body finally fell. He met you in a scoop of limbs and you pulled him closer. Your hips cried at the weight, but he rocked in a gentle massaging gesture. It eased the tension and his lips found yours with a roll of his tongue. He tasted and smelled like you. Intoxication clouded your mind and you now, finally this moment, would be the time he'd give way to fuck you.

You broke your lip lock to pepper excitement across his face. He scrubbed into it, his beak moving side to side to catch all your little pecks. He tittered in a melodic chirp and joy caused your cunt to pulse. It warped a sound of almost paint off his lips and he melded your pelvises into a single shape as if to squash it.

“Not gonna last…” He whined suddenly.

“That’s…” You spoke before you fully understood his words.

How was that possible?

He hadn't thrusted even once.

He held deathly still and you moved your neck to view him.

Humiliation painted his feature and he would have tucked himself away if he could.

Sense exploded past your horny thoughts for the first time.

He had showed all the signs.

That's why he'd been anxious at the door.

That's why he hadn't rushed to fuck you.

That’s why he had been going so slow.

It wasn’t just to mark the occasion.

It wasn't because he feared his ferality.

It was a startling amount of awareness that threatened him.

As much as you did, he knew what today was and what it meant.

It made him so consciously excited that it went straight to his head.

He had been trying to stave off losing himself in a totally new way.

An excited noise hummed in your throat.

He saw your glee and wilted against it.

“N-no!” You nudged him with your nose. “That’s good!”

“No.” He bit back.

“Yes.” You disagreed and extracted an arm from the tangle.

You found his cheek and he soured as there was an inherent movement that bobbed his cock.

“I can count the amount of times you’ve gotten close to cumming before me on one hand.”

He glared at you as if you’d pointed out his greatest failures.

You lightly pinched his cheek. “You’re so excited...”

He frowned deeply.

You kissed his relenting face. “I love you.”

“Please.”

“I do.” You pressed.

“Y/N.”

“How do my orgasmd work with conception again? I can't remember…” You absolutely did, but your partner was being too cute not to tease.

He ducked his head as much as he could.

You were too close for him to hide. “Donnie…?”

He grumbled something.

“What was that…?” You poked his cheek.

“It doesn’t…” He ground out.

“Then what’s the problem? I know you'll make me cum right after you do. Doesn’t it sound hot to pump your finger into me, push the cum deeper, until I’m writhing on it?”

He relented the smallest bit.

“I'm married to Donatello. Cumming is always a guarantee. It's like your customer satisfaction brand.”

“I wanted us together.”

“We can try… Has waiting helped?”

His grimace said not at all.

You moved your hips the slightest amount and the way his dropped to keep you still meant you felt exactly how he clenched to keep from cumming then and there.

“Oh yeah, you’re definitely cumming first.” You smiled.

His eyes closed, hopeless.

“You’re being a grump.” You kissed his cheek.

He let more of his body weight fall onto you in some sort of retribution, but you could only giggle.

“Come on…” You channeled as much energy as you could muster in your ass before you managed to flex.

Your innermost walls shifted around him and he gave a long sultry groan.

“That’s it…” You managed the same spasm with less effort.

He moaned your name.

“My sweet, sweet husband…” You encouraged, pulsing around him over and over.

“I’m going to…!” He panted.

“Go on. Fertilize me. I'm waiting.” You whispered against his head.

He exhaled sharply and you felt all of him twitch in one sharp movement. Where you hadn’t followed the trend of his spread or knot, they both seemed to inflate to their widest mass in a snap instant as he came. You felt each twitch of him as you weren’t in your throes. You pet his head before stroking lower on his carapace to encourage him. You hit a spot that made him buck as he filled you deep.

He eventually breathed again, panting from having witheld, and rolled his head to the side to bump yours.

You rubbed his shell with a heavy hand.

He eventually churred at the feeling and lifted up to appraise you.

You smiled, ever ready for him.

His lids fell in a form of annoyance.

“I’m gonna make you cum until you beg me to stop.”

You pitched an excited noise as he yanked out of you. You felt his essence chase his cock and your limbs were released. You clenched immediately, trying to hold his seed in and he glimpsed the tightening of your sex as he climbed off the bed.

His lips rounded and you saw focus slip from his gaze. You chose then to relax and the rebound flex of your walls squished out his spent. A tiny amount trickled against your labia and you heard Donnie gasp at the sight.

“Finally, right…?” You mused and assumed you were thinking the same thing.

You were finally stuffed with a potent load.

That chance of getting pregnant now existed.

You were both aiming to make it assured.

Donnie lurched forward and you readied yourself for his decree. He would make you cum. You imagined he would play out that scenario you had offered earlier and felt his cum drip to the swell of your ass.

That's where he would start, you thought. He would swipe it up expertly with those thick fingers of his and stuff the seminal fluid or whatever he had called it, back inside. He would then tease you until you were writhing.

A tongue hit hot and wet against your ass cheek causing you to cry out your surprise. Your thighs were grabbed first before giving hands tucked under your body. He hoisted you up to meet his mouth as if there wasn't enough time for him to dip any lower.

Donnie swiped the trail of cum up and licked it straight back into you. His arms locked heavy around your body just in time for him to bury his snout hard into your sex, he breathed heavy desperation as his canines grazed your labia. Your voice hit a near painful pinch and you fought against the onslaught with grabbing hands.

You caught his mask in the fumble and pulled it so the back half lifted and the front blocked his vision. “What are you doing?!”

He sucked hard and you spasmed.

“Ah! Donnie-!” You meant to say more, but he let one of your legs drop to his shoulder so his thumb could strike your clit.

It was flint to steel, the sparks ignited and you cried his name in a new tone. It was no longer a question, but a burning desire. He slurped down noisily and the noise hit your ears to stoke. You were inflamed, rising up further than he was holding you as pressure dipped in and outward in tandem. His thumb swirled loose and comfortable against the slick and he routinely bumped his own nose.

His tongue traveled deep, seeking further in you than ever before and it marked a widening of his jaw. You felt the whole of his mouth encompass you until it pushed even his hand away. His teeth scraped over your punished clit and you screamed out as it sent you over.

It burned you to a white host crisp and the flames engulfed your vision. He pressed forth, seeking to destroy what was already ash on the ground. With one leg still over his shoulder, you snapped a heel down hard in hopes of stopping the siege. Your foot snagged one of his carapace injuries and scrape was enough for him to grunt free.

Knowing he'd lock back on, you bucked hard in your freedom and pelvic thrusted into his beak. It loosened his grip and you slid back to the bed. He held your single leg to his chest as a lifeline while you scrambled to slip your hands into your abused cunt. You did a quick check for blood as his teeth had been piercing. As far as you could tell it was clear from injury, but you glowered up at your mate.

“What was that!? You ate it?!”

He was the portrait of a captured criminal.

His mask was also still comically out of place and you tore it off him to wipe your hands. “What happened?”

He gave a pitiful chirp.

You swatted him with the wetted cloth.

He squirmed in a way that said its feeling repulsed him.

“Donatello!”

“As you’d expect!” He finally animated. “That I finally had a chance! That what was leaking from you had potential!”

“So you suck the potential out of me?!”

“The sperm is unaffected! You referenced the science prior!”

Your eyes flashed. “And I know it! Are you still mad because I didn’t listen one time?!”

“You act as though I insinuated such!”

“Didn’t you?!” You stared him down ready to catch the slightest warp in his expression.

He matched you.

You stood off against each other for several seconds before you deferred.

You then both sat in an awkward heap where you were still spread and he was only half on the bed.

Donnie was the first to move.

“May I?” He asked with lowered lids.

You nodded, granting his request, whatever it was.

He was slow in skimming over you and making his journey known. He moved toward the apex between your legs and you presented for him. He took your willingness in with an emotionally wounded gaze that said he didn’t believe he deserved the kindness. You kneed his chin gently as soon as he was within range.

“It's okay…”

He wasn't as sure yet and only kissed the cap before shimmying downward until he was on his knees off the bed. He leaned forward, his face to your sex, and you felt him looking you over.

You knew he was checking for injury just as you had and he affirmed your health with a kiss to your clit. The sensitive bud felt tender, but his warmth came away like a balm. You exhaled slow and steady until he reappeared at your side. You squirmed further up the bed and he laid down beside you. You immediately glued yourself to him, cuddling close and leaning up for a kiss. He appraised you once before meeting you and it took several until he relaxed.

“Does that consumption offend you as well?”

You chuckled against him. “No, it just felt a little like a slight. Like you just filled me and you took it right away.”

He eyed you and you could feel his scientific correction was looming.

You pushed his plastron. “You know what I’m saying.”

His eyes closed and he shrugged as he did.

“It wasn't what I was expecting, but it wasn't bad. You surprised me.” You held your hand firm to his pectoral scute and flexed your fingers out. “As usual…”

His body went a certain slack.

“We done for tonight…?”

He didn’t move as far as you could tell.

“It’s alright if so… I know that whole ‘make me cum until I beg’ line was you trying to make up for cumming too fast.”

His lip twitched.

“It’s really okay. You lost two kinds of control. That's gotta be overstimulating. I just want to set my expectations.”

“Y/N.”

“Yeah?” You pressed him.

“Look down.”

Your gaze plummeted southward on contact.

All that was there was the mattress and your forearm resting atop sheets where it acted as a bridge between your bodies.

You heard a puff of laughter.

Your gaze shot right back up to see him trying to control giggles.

“I did what you said! Why are you-?!”

He couldn’t manage words and joy crinkled his gaze.

He bobbed and bubbled until he got enough control to flick his pupils down the length of his body. You made a little irritated sound and embarrassment tried to form a complaint on your lips.

He had to cover his mouth. “My mistake. Please look easterly.”

You glowered at him once before glaring in that direction which led down his plastron.

It was the landing strip leading to his pointed purple member. His cock stood at full mass and its pink base had a redder tint than usual. That was typically a shade you only saw during his heat when his member wasn't able to return to the safety of his body. It was nowhere near Donnie’s season which meant instead his erection had persisted.

The reason for which shot straight to your core. “O-Oh…!”

“It hasn’t gone down since we began…” He managed with a weary tone.

“But you came…?” You reached for his cock and it twitched away once before you made contact.

“As you stated, I am entirely too excited…”

You soothed his glans with a stroke.

They undulated under your grip, starving.

“So…?” That latent heat glowed in your cheeks, still smoldering.

“I can't predict when it'll go down.”

“Will you cum just as fast?” You felt excitement manifest as stars in your eyes.

His expression flattened out a bit.

“I want you to.” You tinged your words with those ever present embers. “Cum again and again. I want to wring you dry. We’ll go until it calms down.”

He flushed at how eager you were.

“Just promise I can keep it this time.” You pleaded.

“So you do find cum eating offensive.” His attempt at distracting you from his unease was too obvious.

You shoved him over onto his carapace and mounted him before he could protest.

“Wait-!” He tried to grab your hips.

“Nope. My terms now. You will-” You commanded, got yourself lined up, and sank down his length. “-cum.”

You felt his cock explode on contact with your heat.

“Oh fuck…!” You ground down on his ejaculate.

Donnie whined something high pitched before his throat eked out, “Sworn! No stopping! You call out tomorrow!”

You squealed happily as he rolled your conjoined bodies over to finally fuck you in earnest.

You were slow in opening the bathroom door.

It had been hard enough to muster up the energy for you to grab the handle.

Now that you had swiveled it and the mechanism had pulled the bolt back, it felt like painful irony.

One door led to another.

You saw the creak of space that led to your bedroom and with it came the heavy heart.

This was the transition point.

You stepped forward and felt the cotton between your legs.

It was another tangible omen.

It would disappear in time, but for now you were hyperaware.

The aptly named period product marked an end and was sopping up your failure.

One dark red drip at a time.

You walked out to where Donnie was already standing.

You’d left him sitting on the couch.

What had found him first?

The scent or your abysmal feelings through your wedding band?

You didn’t care because either way he knew and as your foot lifted for the next step, he was meeting it with his.

You reached one another, but didn’t connect.

You had to address it.

You stared down at your three feet and one prosthetic.

“Could it… be the implantation bleed?” You whispered as quietly as you could.

It would rob the words of their strength.

Without power, maybe you could convince them otherwise.

You could manifest them into the outcome you wanted and not the one that wasted seven days of trying.

Eighteen days since Donnie had made the calendar.

Twenty-seven days since your new menstrual cycle started.

Except today it reset to one.

“There… is… a chance…?” Donnie tried, his voice as soft as yours.

You both met each other’s eyes in time.

You knew the truth then.

You hadn't gotten pregnant this cycle.

These were only words.

It was the same as before.

Nothing had changed.

Not yet.

1.73%.

💜 NEXT 💜

My body aches today, but my heart always aches with thanks for my betas @tmntxthings and @thepinkpanther83

#softspotfic #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt x reader #rottmnt donnie x reader #donatello hamato #donnie x reader #rise donnie #rise donnie x reader #rottmnt donatello #rottmnt Donnie #me #fanfiction #my fanfiction

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