#Lung Monitoring Device

[nareenalifesciences]

[luna-azzurra]

How to write hospital scenes 

From someone who’s definitely been in too many and would very much like a refund...ツ

⊹ Waiting rooms are emotional purgatory. They’re too bright, too quiet, and weirdly timeless. Fluorescent lights buzzing, TVs playing muted news no one watches, coffee that tastes like burnt stress. People aren’t relaxing in there, they’re just existing, awkwardly pretending their phones are interesting while dissociating at 40% battery.

⊹ Everyone talks in a whisper, but not because it’s respectful, no, it just feels wrong to speak normally. Like the walls might be listening, like if you talk too loud, something worse might happen, even the loud people get quiet in hospitals.

⊹ Overnight stays are hell. hospital chairs? medieval torture devices with upholstery. even if someone’s trying to nap next to a patient, they’re not sleeping. They’re half-listening to the symphony of beeping machines, nurse shoes squeaking, the occasional cough, and distant Code Something crackling over the intercom. it’s anxiety with a blanket.

⊹ The smell is unforgettable, like it’s not just antiseptic. it’s plastic and cafeteria meatloaf and sweat and fear and the smell of a place where people are very much not okay. the first time your character walks in, it’ll hit them like a wall. later, they might not even notice, or maybe it’s the only thing they can smell for days after.

⊹ Talking to doctors is a weird performance. You're trying to be calm, they’re trying to be calm. But no one is calm, your character wants to ask 47 questions and not sound desperate. The doctor explains things like they’re narrating a science video, and when they leave, someone will immediately go “wait... we forgot to ask” every. single. time.

⊹ Monitors beep constantly. half the time, it’s nothing. A wire got loose, someone rolled over. But the second it is something, the vibe shifts fast. Nurses appear like ghosts, machines start going off, and everyone starts moving. And your character? they might freeze, or panic, or forget they have lungs. Go with whatever makes sense for them, but make it visceral.

⊹ Time goes full funhouse mirror. Ten minutes waiting for test results feels like a year. A full hour stretches into eternity, meanwhile, three hours can pass without anyone realizing it. You can use this in your pacing, make it drag when the waiting is unbearable.

⊹ Hospital cafeteria food: Garbage. It’s either offensively bland or stupidly overpriced. The grilled cheese is six dollars and tastes like regret, and someone will 100% cry into a cold sandwich at 3am, because grief doesn’t care where you are.

⊹ People start fixating on tiny, random things. They can’t control the big stuff, so their brain zeroes in on a sock slipping off, a crooked IV pole, the repetitive drip-drip-drip of medication. Let them obsess over something small, it’s how the brain copes with being completely powerless...

[tnsophiaayaonly]

LUTALICA

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ YOU'RE A YANDERE, WELL, AN EX-YANDERE TO BE SPECIFIC. AFTER COUNTLESS OF TIMES OF KILLING YOUR BELOVED, YOU FIND YOURSELF SUDDENLY GAINING AWARENESS DUE TO SOME VIRUS DISTORTING YOUR CHARACTER FILES. NOW YOU FIND YOURSELF WEIRDED OUT WHENEVER YOU'D FEEL SO INFATUATED OVER THIS GUY, AND YOU SWORE TO STOP BEING WEIRD. UNAWARE THAT YOUR DARLING'S GAINED AWARENESS TOO.

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ MODERN AU. HIGHSCHOOL AU. YANDERE. AETHER, SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER, XIAO, VENTI, KINICH, ORORON

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ CONTENT WARNINGS: OBSESSIVE/CONTROLLING BEHAVIOR: EXPLICIT YANDERE THEMES AND EXTREME POSSESSIVENESS. OBSESSION AND STALKING, INCLUDING BEING FOLLOWED OR MONITORED. PHYSICAL RESTRAINT & KIDNAPPING: DEPICTIONS OF PHYSICAL RESTRAINT, CONFINEMENT, OR KIDNAPPING. UNLAWFUL DETAINMENT (E.G., LOCKING DOORS, FORCIBLY PREVENTING ESCAPE). CYBERCRIME & DIGITAL MANIPULATION: HACKING, INTERFERENCE WITH PERSONAL DEVICES, AND DIGITAL BLACKMAIL. EMOTIONAL & PSYCHOLOGICAL ABUSE: MANIPULATION, GASLIGHTING, AND COERCION DESIGNED TO CONTROL OR ISOLATE. THREATS—IMPLICIT OR EXPLICIT—THAT UNDERMINE PERSONAL AUTONOMY. NON-CONSENSUAL ACTS: ANY NON-CONSENSUAL OR FORCED BEHAVIOR, EVEN IF MASKED AS “PROTECTION”. ILLEGAL BEHAVIOR & UNLAWFUL ACTS: DESCRIPTIONS OR DEPICTIONS OF ACTIONS THAT ARE ILLEGAL (KIDNAPPING, DOCUMENT FORGERY, THEFT, ETC.) MATURE THEMES IN GENERAL. MENTIONS OF MURDER. MENTIONS OF BEING AWARE IN A GAME.

: ̗̀➛ note that I DO NOT condone such actions irl, and this is a work of fiction. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. part 2 (xiao, venti).

-`♡´- PART 1

╰⪼ AETHER - Class Rep.

A man of virtue—helpful, funny, kind, caring, and breathtakingly attractive. He has it all. Who wouldn’t love someone like him? Who wouldn’t yearn for him, worship him, drown in the delirium of his existence?

No wonder you’ve always felt that electrifying rush, the intoxicating ecstasy that floods your veins with every slow drag of the knife across his flesh. No wonder you’ve felt that dizzying euphoria each time you spilled the blood of another—man or woman—who dared to steal even a fraction of his attention away from you.

He was yours.

But then—

Distortion. A glitched-out, shredded mess of memories, like a dying screen flickering between past and present. When you finally come to, you're curled up in your bed, hair tangled, your skin fevered and slick with cold sweat. Your lungs fight for air as images flash behind your eyelids—a grotesque, jagged onslaught of death, of red-streaked corridors, of bodies slumped in pools of their own warmth, all because of you.

What the hell was that?

Your hands tremble as you grab your phone, fingers slipping against the smooth glass. The calendar stares back at you, unwavering in its cruel simplicity. Not the beginning. Not a fresh start.

The middle.

Your stomach twists violently.

That means you’ve already committed crimes. That means, despite this terrible, newfound awareness clawing at your mind, the stains on your hands have already set. The walls are already splattered. The game—the world—will not reset this time.

At school, every breath feels like an alarm sounding in your chest. The walls seem to close in, and the weight of invisible eyes presses against your back. You are a criminal walking in broad daylight, masquerading as something human.

You consider confessing. Throwing yourself at the mercy of the police, the authorities—anyone who could lock you away before you slip again.

But you don’t.

Fear has its hands around your throat, whispering of consequences, of punishments, of the irreversible.

And then—

“Oh, [Name]! I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can come to your house to help you with math today. Maybe another time?”

His voice is golden honey, smooth and easy, like the way the sun filters through autumn leaves.

Aether.

Your body reacts before your mind does, stiffening, and recoiling. He stands before you with that same effortless charm, his golden hair meticulously braided, strands catching the light like spun silk. He is still beautiful, still perfect—too perfect.

And yet.

Guilt lurches in your gut, a sickness festering beneath your ribs. You manage a stiff nod, then turn sharply on your heel and bolt before your expression betrays you.

Strange.

Very strange.

Aether watches you go, his head tilting slightly, brows furrowing. He expected you to whine, to insist, to grasp at his sleeve and beg for his time, like you always did. But instead, you—ran?

At first, he brushes it off. A bad day, perhaps. A sudden bout of shyness.

And yet—

He thinks about it. And thinks about it. And thinks about it.

You were always there. Always orbiting him, always finding ways to entangle yourself in his life. You chased him, your obsession like a suffocating force, relentless, inescapable. It had been overwhelming—yes—but predictable. A constant.

But now?

Now, he barely sees you. Now, your eyes flicker away the moment they meet his. Now, there is distance where there was once unbearable closeness.

It feels wrong.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d grown used to your presence until it was gone. How the absence of your obsession left him… cold.

Had he done something? Had he driven you away?

Had you found someone else?

Aether’s fingers twitch.

The message arrives when you least expect it.

Meet me up later at the dorms. Yours or mine?

You freeze, staring at the words on your screen.

No. No, no, no.

You’ve been so careful. So diligent. So determined not to fall back into old patterns.

Ignore it. Ignore him.

Your dorm is a sanctuary—a place to suffocate beneath your own guilt, to drown in your shame without prying eyes. You push the door open, stepping inside, closing it behind you—

Click.

The sound is quiet.

Too quiet.

Your breath stills, your fingers going rigid against the doorframe. Slowly, you turn.

And there he is.

Aether.

Your blood runs ice-cold.

“I always felt safe when you were around,” he murmurs, his voice softer than usual, dangerously intimate. His amber eyes are heavy-lidded, laced with something unfamiliar—something raw, something hungry. He takes a step forward. You take one back.

“But lately… I don’t know anymore.” Another step. Another retreat. “You used to be so close. Now, you’re so far away.”

Your back meets the wall.

Aether tilts his head, golden strands slipping over his shoulder. His hand rises, ghosting over your cheek with a gentleness that contradicts the steel beneath his words.

"Do you hate me now?"

The panic clogs your throat. "No—"

"Shh," he soothes, pressing a finger to your lips before dragging it down, pressing it flat over your chest. Your heart hammers beneath his palm. His lashes lower.

“Your heart’s racing…” His fingers trail lower, his grip settling firm against your waist. “…Just like it used to. Whenever I looked at you. Whenever I said your name.”

Your breath hitches, your body locking up as he pulls you closer—too close.

“Like always.”

His arms wrap around you, caging you in. You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

“Don’t worry.”

His lips brush against your hair.

“I missed you too.”

╰⪼ SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER - Outsider of the Drama Club. Rebel.

Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe you were always drawn to the unattainable, the cruel, the ones who stood above the world as if it were theirs to scorn. And he—he was the epitome of it all. A nightmare draped in elegance, venom wrapped in silk. Scaramouche was all sharp edges and hollow laughter, a phantom that commanded space with his mere presence.

He was unbearable. Unreachable. And utterly perfect.

You wanted to break past his walls, to carve yourself into his life, to make him see you. And if the rest of the world had to bleed away for that to happen—then so be it.

The others didn't deserve him. The parasites who giggled at his words, who brushed against him so casually, so carelessly, as if they had any right. They did not deserve to exist. Their very presence was an insult, a smear on the pristine canvas that was him.

And so, piece by piece, you erased them.

The first one was easy. A soft thing with wide, innocent eyes that adored him too much, who lingered just a little too close. You watched as life drained from their gaze, as their breath rattled out in broken whimpers. It was almost beautiful—the way the blade slipped into flesh, the way blood bloomed like an offering, warm and thick and real against your trembling fingers.

Every cut, every scream, every shuddering gasp—it was for him.

Yet he never noticed.

No matter how many of them you silenced, no matter how much devotion you etched into the world in his name, Scaramouche never noticed. He walked through life untouched, uncaring, his gaze never once landing on you with the reverence you craved.

You returned home to your shrine—his shrine. A sanctuary of madness. Photographs lined the walls like sacred scripture, capturing every fragment of his existence. The way the sun kissed his pale skin. The rare, unguarded softness when he thought no one was watching. The harsh, unrelenting glare that you had come to love more than life itself.

Strands of his dark indigo hair, stolen in the quiet of passing moments, lay bound together with fraying ribbons. Fabric from his discarded clothes, the scent of him still clinging to the fibers, folded with trembling care. A single, crumpled note—his handwriting scrawled across the page, meaningless to anyone but you.

You had built a temple in his name. A cathedral of longing, devotion, and sickness.

And yet—when you stood before it, staring at the madness of your own making, something inside you snapped.

You saw it. Truly saw it.

Not love. Not devotion.

Obsession.

Your stomach twisted, nausea rising like bile. You thought you had been pure, that your love had been something sacred. But the truth was carved into the blood on your hands, into the grotesque altar before you.

You were filth. No better than the ones you had slaughtered.

You couldn’t face him. Not like this.

So you ran.

For the first time, you abandoned him.

At school, you became nothing—a wraith in the halls, slipping through shadows, avoiding his gaze like it burned. You erased yourself from his world, just as you had erased the others from his presence.

And Scaramouche noticed.

The absence of your eyes on him was suffocating in its own right. He had grown used to your presence, to the quiet weight of your obsession curling around him like an unwanted curse. You were supposed to be there—watching, waiting, hanging onto his every breath.

But now?

Nothing.

No glances from the corners of your eyes. No lingering in doorways just to catch a glimpse of him. No quiet, frantic movements in your notebook whenever he spoke.

It was almost... eerie.

A slow smirk curled at his lips, but beneath it was something dark, something unreadable. His fingers twitched, restless. A storm brewed behind his gaze, a creeping, unspoken rage.

Did you think you could leave? Just like that?

Oh, how naive.

You had crawled through madness for him, had burned your soul away in his name. You were his, a pitiful, broken little thing that had spiraled into insanity just to get closer.

And now, you wanted to turn away? To pretend it had never happened?

Scaramouche does not lose what belongs to him.

You would come back.

Scaramouche never cared to notice things beyond himself. People came and went, their voices drowned in the white noise of his existence. He never wasted energy on trivial matters—least of all you.

One way or another.

You, with your cloying devotion. You, always at his heels like an obedient pet. You, whispering sweet, obsessive promises as if they meant anything.

You had been everywhere. The moment he turned his head, you were there. In class, in the cafeteria, lingering outside the bathroom, loitering in the hallways, even perched at the rooftop, always waiting for a glimpse of him.

And then, suddenly—you weren’t.

It was silent.

At first, he didn’t question it. Why should he? It wasn’t his concern. It wasn’t his problem. He should’ve felt relieved.

But the longer it stretched on, the more something gnawed at him.

You were nowhere.

And that—that was wrong.

For two weeks, one day, three hours, fifty-six minutes, and thirty-two seconds—he counted. His mind involuntarily tracked every second that passed without the weight of your suffocating adoration pressing into his skin. He didn’t care, yet somehow, he noticed.

Then, finally—he saw you.

You.

But you weren’t alone.

Something in him snapped.

You were talking to someone else, laughing, smiling. Living your own life.

His smirk faltered.

You—his shadow, his puppet, his wretched little thing—were no longer circling him like a moth desperate to burn. You were free.

You had a life.

And for the first time, Scaramouche felt something eerily close to betrayal.

What happened to your promises?

Where were the feverish whispers of "I'd die for you, Scaramouche!" Where were the eyes that followed him in manic devotion, the trembling hands that clung to every word he uttered like it was scripture?

Had it all been a lie?

Had you really abandoned him?

The rage was instant. Consuming.

Without hesitation, he strode forward, cutting through the people surrounding you like they were nothing but fog in his path. Conversations halted, eyes turned, but he didn’t care.

Because there you were.

And you weren’t his anymore.

"You used to be all in—every moment, every breath, I knew you were mine." His voice was sharp, biting, loud. He didn’t bother to hide the venom in his words, his arms crossed in a defensive, possessive stance. His voice carried through the stunned silence. "Now it’s like you’ve just… vanished. Were you ever really sincere?"

You froze, your body going rigid.

A lump formed in your throat, suffocating, as you stared at him. He was livid, but there was something else buried beneath the rage—something worse.

"What—?" You barely managed to get the word out before he cut you off, voice rising, boiling over.

"You played me. You abandoned me! After everything you’ve done for me?!" His voice cracked slightly at the end, but it wasn’t weakness—it was fury. Frustration. A terrible, uncontrollable storm of emotions that even he didn’t know how to process.

His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palm as if trying to ground himself—to stop himself from grabbing you, shaking you, making you look at him the way you used to.

And yet—you didn’t.

Your eyes didn’t hold that obsessive gleam anymore. They held pity.

And then, you said it.

"Can you just please leave me alone?"

It was firm, cold and unshaken.

And that—that hurt.

The words slammed into his chest like a blade. His breath hitched, his whole body stiffening. His lips parted, eyes blown wide, an expression of utter disbelief.

You had never, never spoken to him like that before.

And worse—you turned away.

You walked away from him.

You walked away from him.

The world blurred for a moment. He could barely hear the whispers around him, barely feel the weight of the stares pressing into him.

The air felt wrong.

His hands twitched, his heart hammered against his ribs, but his face remained eerily blank.

A slow, suffocating rage curled inside him.

No.

No, this wasn’t right.

You thought you could leave?

You thought you could leave him?

A smirk twitched at his lips, but his eyes were dark—hungry.

You’ll pay for that.

He’ll make you regret ever thinking you could live without him.

It wasn’t difficult.

You had made it easy for him.

Every whispered confession, every vulnerable fragment of yourself—you had offered them up willingly, blind with devotion. When you worshipped him, when you ached for him, you had bled your soul dry, spilling every truth at his feet like a devout follower praying to an unholy god. You had believed your love was unbreakable, that nothing could twist it into something ugly.

But love was a lie.

And now?

Now, those same truths would be the noose around your neck.

Scaramouche barely had to lift a finger. The dirt he had on you wasn’t something he had to dig for—no, you had given it to him, laid it bare in your desperation to be seen, to be acknowledged, to matter to him. And so, with meticulous precision and an insufferable smirk, he wove it all together, weaving your past into a beautiful, intricate cage.

A perfect blackmail.

The tapes spun between his fingers, glinting under the dim light, the cruel little wheel of fate turning in slow, damning circles.

Your sins, preserved forever.

Blood. So much blood. The camera didn’t shy away from the violence—how your blade had sunk into flesh, how wet, gurgling gasps had choked out their last breaths. How their fingers had twitched, grasping at the nothingness as they collapsed, lifeless. And you—standing above them, gloved hands stained red, chest heaving, lips parted with something too close to reverence.

Then, the photographs.

Dozens of them.

Some of him—captured in secret, stolen moments where he was unaware of your obsession clinging to him like a shadow. Pictures taken from alleyways, behind windows, through crowds. And more of him—uninvited, invasive, taken when you thought you were being sneaky but weren’t.

He liked these.

He liked the way you took them—obsessively, devotedly. He liked knowing the tables had turned, that he was watching you now, that your obsession had left you vulnerable enough for him to tear apart.

But the best part?

The confrontation.

Scaramouche didn’t need to hunt you down. He didn’t need to lure you in. You walked straight into his web, oblivious, thinking you were safe.

The door creaked open.

A sharp inhale.

Then—stillness.

You stood frozen in the doorway, the color draining from your face as your breath caught in your throat.

Scaramouche.

Lounging on your sofa as if he had always belonged there. One leg draped over the other, fingers lazily tapping against the stack of evidence in his hands, violet eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Something triumphant.

You felt the air shift—suffocating, cloying, thick with the unspoken understanding that this was no longer your space.

This was his.

Your voice broke, barely above a whisper.

"What are you doing here?" The words wavered, shaking under the weight of panic. "How—how did you get in?"

Scaramouche didn’t answer. He only tilted his head, watching you, letting the silence drag on long enough to coil around your ribs, squeezing. Then, ever so slowly, he lifted the tape, letting it spin between his fingers, his smirk widening.

"More importantly," he murmured, voice smooth, slow, deliberate, "what do you think I’m going to do with this?"

The world tilted beneath you.

Your pulse roared in your ears, the blood draining from your limbs as your stomach twisted into knots.

It was all there.

The evidence. The obsession you had. The murders you had committed.

Your sins, reflected back at you in sickening clarity.

You barely managed to breathe, barely managed to whisper out a choked, "I—I should just go to the police." The words left your lips before you could think them through, raw with desperation. "Tell them—tell them there's a criminal on campus—"

His laugh cut you off.

It was a sharp, cold, and mocking sound.

"Oh?" He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, eyes glittering with amusement. "And what do you think happens next? Do they rush in, sirens blaring, guns drawn? Do they drag you away in chains?" His smirk widened, teeth flashing like a predator playing with its food.

His voice dropped, honeyed with false sympathy.

"And what do you think they’ll do when they see all of this?"

Your stomach lurched.

He didn’t need to say it.

You knew.

His expression softened into something almost pitying—almost.

"Face it," he murmured, letting the words settle into your skin like poison. "You're finished, no matter what you do."

A pause. A moment stretched too thin.

And then—casually, effortlessly—he leaned back, arms stretching along the sofa, as if this was all just an idle conversation.

"Or," he drawled, "you could be a good girl and go back to being my pet."

Your breath caught.

The words slithered over you like a collar snapping into place.

His voice was soft—so soft, so sweet—but beneath it was steel. An unspoken command. A leash tightening around your throat.

"It’s your choice, really," he continued, tilting his head. "But let’s be honest—there’s no different outcome. Either way, you’re never leaving me."

The finality of it crushed the breath from your lungs.

The realization clawed its way through your mind like a slow, sinking weight.

You had never been free.

You had never been in control.

And as Scaramouche's smirk widened, as he watched the last ember of defiance flicker and die in your eyes, you realized—

You never would be.

ONG I COULDN'T CONTAIN MY EXCITEMENT OF WRITING :(( AAAH

[optimusxwbu]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ mtmte megatron x human fem reader 18+

-> warnings/tags: 18+, rough-ish sex, size difference, tummy bulge.

-> minors dni, you will be blocked!

i’ve been out of writing for 4+ years so may be a little rusty!! (pls be gentle with me) i intend to write a big fic with mtmte megatron but i needed to get the nsfw brainworms out of my head asap <3 also, i posted this before, but didn't realise tumblr would block ppl from seeing it if nsfw was in the tags - so i'm reuploading it!

────୨ৎ────

It would be a long, challenging, and tiring fight when the mutineered members of the Lost Light rallied against the DJD. Without Megatron, you all would have undoubtedly perished at the end of Tarn’s fusion cannon. You, especially, were truly unable to do anything but hide away in the deceased Necrobot’s home like some sheltered and helpless pet and plead with a higher power that Megatron and the others would be brought back to you.

You were sitting perched on the edge of a desk in a tucked-away surveillance room on the far end of this maze-like place, somewhere Megatron had deposited you before leaving to ensure that you were as safe as could be without him there to supervise.

The skin around your nails was starting to splinter off from how much you had been picking at it, suspension and dread cascading through your system as every minute felt like an eternity, the silent command in the air to be patient and to stay here as Megatron had implored, leaving you here with nothing but the ghost of his lips pressed against yours before making his hurried leave. You couldn’t bear the thought of that being the last time his lips ever graced yours. The last time you would ever see him.

It took everything within your power not to leap off the edge of the desk when the door you were staring at hissed open, the broad silhouette of Megatron filling the open space, his form engulfing any light that would have spilled into the room. A gasp was trapped in your lungs, and your eyes widened as Megatron allowed himself into the small surveillance room.

“You’re here,” you uttered, almost in disbelief, fingers curling around the edge of the desk as though you would float away into a dream if you were to let go.

“I’m here,” Megatron echoed, stability and calmness in his voice that did not at all convey the actions he had just committed against his former student.

The heavy metal door slid shut behind him, eclipsing the room once more with nothing more than the blue light of the monitors behind you to dimly illuminate the room. The blue light bounced off the dull grey of his metal armour as he closed the distance between the two of you, standing in front of you at his staggering height.

His neck craned down to look at you, your eyes glued to his optics as they had a glassy film to them.

“Mass displace, please,” you whispered, almost uncertainly.

Without a word, he followed your request and his form began to fold in on itself, taking him from 38 feet down to roughly 12 feet, still quite a lot bigger than you, but more manageable.

His right servo skimmed over your left hand, both hands still clenching to the edge of the desk, a mute request that you understood, unclasping your hand and allowing him to thread his digits in between your fingers. His other servo came up to gently push a strand of hair behind your ear, moving to cup the back of your head as his helm lowered.

“Did I not promise that I would make it back to you?” He softly whispered against your lips. Your unoccupied hand cupped his cheek, half-lidded eyes falling shut before you made the final movement that allowed your lips to come together.

Even mass displaced, it felt a little awkward to kiss a being that was nearly triple your height, but you had become so accustomed to loving this titan that you couldn’t imagine it any other way. Albeit, your recreational activities were made much easier thanks to the handiwork of Brainstorm, who so kindly created a mass displacement device for you after your perpetual nagging.

“And I never would have forgiven you if you broke that promise,” you hushed into his intake between intermittent breaks of your lips.

The servo that was tangled with your fingers pulled away and instead gripped on the outside of your knee, snaking underneath so that he could hoist your leg up over his hip plating, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk and causing your skirt to slip further up your legs.

“Now we can’t be having that,” the digits tangled in your hair tightening slightly, “can we?”

You huffed a laugh, both arms winding their way around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to you as he arched over, accounting for the difference in his height.

“I want you,” you stated simply, hips betraying your self-control by slightly grinding against the front of his panels without your explicit intention to do so, your lips capturing his again.

“Now?” he smirked against the kiss, the air of the long battle already leaving him, only now engrossed in this very moment with you.

“Right now,” you sounded almost breathless, but your hand was on its determined path to find his servo that was holding your leg, tugging at it so that you could lead him where you wanted him. Without hesitation, you guided his servo to disappear under the material of your skirt, your small and skillful fingers singling out only his middle digit as you pressed it up against your clit through your underwear, “and right here.”

A hum rumbled in his vocaliser as he used the flat pad of his middle digit to rub against your covered clit, the kiss deepening as you felt his glossa peek out to run across your bottom lip.

He started with slow circles, making your back arch slightly as you let out a shaky breath through your nose. His finger was larger than you were used to when he’s using the mass displacement device, meaning he couldn’t be as precise as normal, but that didn’t take away from the heat coursing through you at his touch.

Changing his tune, he started to rub long lines up and down, past your clit and against your slit before making his way back up. You whimpered slightly and your fingers clutched onto his chassis.

“Just like that,” you cooed, encouraging him to continue.

The metal under your hands started to heat up as you noticed that you were getting wetter from his delicate petting.

The servo that wasn’t moving between your legs moved to grasp at the material of your top, near where it was tucked into the waistband of your skirt. Strong digits pulled the material up, freeing it from your skirt, and hoisted it up over your chest.

Your hands parted from his frame, doing the rest of the legwork to pull your top up over your head, hesitantly pulling away from his intake to allow yourself to do so. You swung the top to the left of you, letting it fall down to the ground.

With hunger, you greedily took his mouth again, hands more frantic as they now snaked up around the back of his neck, letting your nails mildy graze the cabling that you found there.

The sound that left his vocaliser was divine, your lips pulling into a smirk as you continued to twist your nimble fingers into the intricate layout of his wiring.

His middle finger worked around the edge of your underwear, pushing it to the side so that he had unrestricted access to you. Without a moment of warning, he pushed his digit inside of you, the blunt tip of it making a harsher entrance than when you take the tapered tip of his spike.

You moaned into his mouth at the intrusion, bringing your other leg up to dangle over his hip, offering yourself more freely to him.

His servo wrapped around the small of your back, resting there to keep you as close to him as he could whilst still allowing his digit to work magic inside of you. He curled the tip up, finding the spongy part of your walls that made you see stars when he tended to it real good.

“Please don’t stop,” you pleaded against his mouth, pulling away from his lips for the first time properly to throw your head back, his movements quickening, beckoning you to the finish line.

“How could I refuse when you beg so sweetly?” He mused, lowering his helm further to tuck in between your shoulder and neck, letting his intake latch onto you there and kiss you fervently.

The way he was bent over your form was almost comical; he was still just so large, and a part of you cursed yourself for not bringing the mass displacement device. Who would’ve thought you’d need it?

Your arousal was coating his digit, each second getting easier and easier to slip in and out of you as he worked you further up the scale.

The room was filled with the subtle sound of the monitors buzzing, your weak mewls, and the wet sound of him driving in and out of you, your wetness seeping in between the joints of his digit, something he’ll thoroughly enjoy cleaning with his glossa later.

Your right hand moved away from his neck, skimming down the front of his chassis as you reached his hip plating. You ghosted your fingers over the front panel that was concealing his spike, a gentle thrumming coming from the area, a tell-tale sign that he was aching behind it.

“Open up for me,” you ordered sweetly.

“A-Are you sure?” Megatron retorted, lips halting against your neck and pulling back slightly to meet your eyes, skeptical, as he was well aware of his size right now.

“Please show me your spike,” you looked down to his lips, “I can feel how bad you want it.”

Without a word, you heard the subtle hiss of his panel retracting, allowing his spike to protrude out. You made an effort to lean back and look at it, not seeing it at this size since the first time you tried (and failed) to fuck him, before Brainstorm gave you the mass displacement device.

“Look at how worked up you are,” you teased, running your soft fingers up his length, collecting the leaking transfluid that spilled out of the tip, “would you like help with that?”

You wrapped your hand around his girth, noting how your fingers couldn’t touch. His cooling fans clicked on as his helm nodded, but only shallowly.

“Say it,” you pressed.

“I want- I want you to help,” he confirmed, digit never ceasing to falter inside of you.

You gave a victorious smile and rolled your head, and you pumped his length languidly, making his frame shudder. With a newfound determination, his ministrations inside of your cunt became more desperate, eager to have you squeezing around his digit.

Leaning back slightly, bringing your other hand to place behind you on the desk to keep you stabilised, you looked up into his burning red optics. The eye contact had him hot and bothered, if his rapid cooling system was anything to go by. He loved the way your muscles flexed around the width of his digit.

His digit drove in and out of you like it was the last thing he would do. Your toes curled as you could feel yourself getting dangerously close to cumming, your wrist faltering slightly, focus derailed by how much pleasure he was giving you at this moment.

“Megatron,” you moaned, body tensing and back arching. His lips parted slightly, utterly enamored with the sight of you.

And just like that, you felt the waves take you as your brain fizzled with stars, cunt tightening around him and the moan that left your lips left no room for doubt that you had definitely just cum for him.

You panted slightly, holding onto his spike tighter as you tried to lead him closer to you with it.

He got the hint, pulling his digit from you, allowing your underwear to move back into place slowly and he gently rested the weight of his cock on top of your cunt. You gyrated your hips against the underside of him, giving him a clear indication of what you wanted.

Okay, this could work, he thought.

Both of his servos gripped your hips as you lowered yourself down onto both elbows. Your legs wrapped around his hips now as best you could, but with the size difference, your legs couldn’t reach each other.

Experimentally, he gave a thrust, pulling and pushing his spike against the friction of your underwear, catching your clit on the way. Your skirt was completely bunched up by your hips now, it probably would’ve been better to take it off completely, but you had no desire to halt this moment.

You angled your hips up so that he was at an angle where his spike would glide so wonderfully against your slit. The wet patch grew in your underwear as the pressure of his heavy spike teased you, your body still a little overstimulated from your previous orgasm.

He ex-vented, all of his pent-up energy expelling from him gradually as his hips picked up the pace, optics locking onto your chest, which was still covered by your bra. Even with the coverings, you still bounced beautifully as he manhandled your body.

Adjusting your legs, you brought them further to your chest so that you could lock your thighs around his spike, the balls of your feet resting on his chassis.

“Primus have mercy,” you heard Megatron mumble under his breath, barely concealed by the fans regulating his heat.

You squeezed the muscles of your thighs, peering down to where his spike appeared and disappeared between your legs, feeling the material of your underwear sticking to you from the wetness building.

Megatron’s strong servos gripped your hips harder, causing a whine to bend in your throat. You couldn’t help when your hips bucked, desperate for the feel of him.

His hot pink transfluid that wept from his tip leaked onto your thighs, smearing like a beautiful piece of art as he continued to thrust, your body his canvas.

As if you would vanish if he didn’t keep himself grounded, he pulled your hips onto him to meet his thrusting, your weight meaning essentially nothing to him. He used your thighs and reveled in the soft feel of them, so plush and giving.

You couldn’t help another moan escaping you as he thrust particularly hard against your clit, the sight of his beautiful silver spike with red accents causing your brain to momentarily freeze. You couldn’t control your need for him.

“Put it in and fuck me,” you said, determination littered throughout your tone.

“My love-” he started, hips staggering with the thought of being stuffed inside of you, but his tone showed a level of wariness.

“I can take it,” you insisted, “I promise I can take it.”

And you were sure that you could. Yeah, maybe you couldn’t take it the very first time. But how many times, since having the device,  has he fucked you now? You were sure that your body would be far better prepared to take him now.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he hesitated, peering down at the size of his spike against the size of your legs, he wasn’t certain it would fit.

“And if it hurts, I’ll tell you,” you reasoned with him, “then you can stop. But please, Megatron, I need you inside of me.”

You pulled your legs away from him, maneuvering your body to sit up so that you could unclasp your bra hurriedly, discarding it into the same area you threw your top to.

Megatron watched your body, spike bobbing with a burning ache. Who was he to deny you of something that he also so desperately wanted?

Gingerly, he tucked his hands into the elastic of your underwear by your hips, looking into your eyes for more approval, which he found in abundance. With that, he pulled the flimsy material down your legs.

Rather than chucking them with the rest of your clothing, he opened up a subspace and put the underwear in there for ‘safekeeping’.

A giggle left you as you grabbed his spike again, “saving those for later?”

“When I’m through with you,” he allowed you to line his spike with your entrance, “you won’t have enough energy for later.”

That promise was enough for you, feeling a pulse beat through your clit, your eyes gleaming with excitement.

Carefully, he started to push his tip into you, bringing his servos down to wrap around your waist. Like this, the tips of his fingers nearly touched.

Your body instinctively made your back arched as he began to spread you open on him. Your hands came to grab onto his forearms for something to keep you centered as you lowered your back onto the cold surface of the metal desk.

More and more, he slowly eased his ridiculous length into you, taking the very air from your lungs as you felt there was no end to him. He would continue to move into you forever.

His thumbs caressed your ribcage soothingly, “you’re doing so well, my sweet girl.”

“Fuck,” you huffed, eyebrows threading together as your mouth dropped open.

“Nearly there.”

“Mmhm, yeah, keep talking me through it,” you said with a wry smile, only half joking.

You felt the warm metal of his hips against the underside of your thighs.

Fuckfuckfuck, you felt so full. You swore you could feel him in your lungs.

“Look at you, look at how well you take me now,” Megatron praised, and despite his confident demeanour, the threads of his mind were also fraying at the edges from how amazing you felt. Tightness on a different kind of level.

You whined at that, body tingling with excitement as you flittered your eyes to look at his optics, which you noticed were glued down to where the two of you connected.

Moaning, he pulled out before sheathing himself back in. The self-restraint he was showing right now was impressive, but it wasn’t want you wanted.

“I want you to fuck me like you mean it,” you uttered up to him.

Like a dam breaking at the words, he fulfilled your wish. He held onto you and then started to rut into you with reckless abandon, making you give out those sweet pleases and mores and ah-ah-ahs.

He was so big, so much bigger than anything you’d ever taken, but your body accommodated him so nicely.

A moan was caught in your throat, your head thrown back with your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he bulldozed a path through you, demanding that your body bends to his very will.

“Primus, you are… you are so tight,” his deep voice rumbled, “so tight and so needy.”

One servo left your waist, instead grabbing onto your ankle to pull your leg up, allowing more room for him. His servos kept you steady, but this angle had him bullying his spike right against your g-spot. Your hand flew up to cover your mouth because the sounds you were making were downright sinful, you could hardly believe they were coming from you.

You were spread to your very limit on him, he took every inch inside of you and there was no room for anything else.

“No,” Megatron let out, “I want to hear you moan for me.”

Your whole body was radiating heat as you trembled, your hands left your mouth at his request, and one went to find the servo still wrapped around your waist, gripping it as if it could keep you within this realm of reality. Your other hand lowered to the desk, nails scratching against the surface.

Tears pooled in the corner of your eyes as the pleasure was sending you trigger-happy. Your pussy so hot, slick, and throbbing for him, milking against the solid metal of his spike, begging for his release.

The servo that was on your leg moved to the back of your head, lifting it slightly and angling it down so that you could look at the mess that was growing between your legs.

Oh, my good god.

He was so big, and it looked like a monster against you.

“Look at how much of a mess you’re making on me,” he chided.

You could see the milky whiteness of your pleasure pooling at the base of his spike like a ring, making the whole scene a diluted pink with his transfluid. You let out an involuntary moan at the sight.

“Scream, scream for me and scream my name,” he commanded, but his tone was far from demanding, more like begging. He needed to hear it. Needed to hear his name fall from your pretty lips.

“Megatron!” You obeyed, eyes growing foggy with tears until you could blink, pushing the tears over the edge and down your cheeks, “Megatron, please, fuck!” Your voice strained, tone raising an octave or two.

All rational thought dissipated from your mind, leaving you as if you never had any to begin with. All you could think about was him, his spike, and how you could see him in your stomach.

The baby hairs on your head stuck to your forehead as you began to overheat, ears filling with the sound of metal slapping against your skin and Megatron’s low moans and grunts.

Every time he pulled out and pushed back in, it was as if he was activating a chemical reaction in your body that drove you further into ecstasy. Your screams and moans were loud and unabashed, praying to a higher power that none of the crew were anywhere near this room, as they most certainly would have heard what the two of you were up to.

Both of his servos now grasped onto an ankle each, forcing your legs to spread wider. His helm was thrown back as his mind focused on the only task of carving your walls to the shape of him.

Your hand moved down your body, settling over where you could see him inside of you and pressing down on it.

It felt otherworldly to take him at this size. You weren’t sure if you could fuck regularly like this, as you could only imagine how sore you’ll be after this, but every now and then couldn’t hurt, right?

His voicebox glitched as he moaned, optics offlining for half a second. God, it was so sexy to hear him like that. Having him as putty in your hands as he drove his spike in and out of you like it’s the only thing he was built for.

“I’m-” he began, processor working overtime, “I’m gonna overload.”

You mewled in a high pitch tone, “please, inside, insideinsideinside,” you pleaded, “fill me up. Fuck, think about how full I’ll be with your transfluid.”

Your voice shook as your legs trembled in his grasp, your own orgasm not far off.

His intake moved towards your right ankle, pressing his lips against it as he moaned, the vibrations running down your leg as his hips began to falter, he was so close the finish line could almost taste it, like the sweetest engex he’s ever had the pleasure of consuming.

With a cry of your name, you felt the hot sensation of his thick transfluid fill the cavity of your cunt, painting your insides a beautiful hot pink, his biolights pulsing with colour whilst he was buried all the way inside of you.

The mental image of how much fluid was just dumped inside of you took your right over the tophat with him, eyes clenching shut as your body quivered, white heat pulsing through your veins as you let out a weak cry for him, announcing your climax.

Gradually, his cooling fans started to decrease as you lay beneath him, catching your breath as best you could whilst you had that monster still lodged inside of you.

His left servo came under your back to support you as he slowly pulled himself out, leaving the bottom half of your body limp. With hazy eyes, you looked for him and gave a weak smile, too fucked out of your mind for anything else.

Megatron leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips, spike retracting back into his interface panel. You’d have to make sure he cleaned it properly later.

“Did so good for me,” he complimented you, “all mine.”

A hum of approval sounded from you, “all yours.”

Transfluid leaked out of you now, some catching on the desk whilst the majority of it gushed over the edge and dripped to the floor. You would definitely have to clean up before you left this room, but you weren’t sure if there was anything in here you could actually use to clean it.

As if reading your mind, Megatron raised himself from you and clambered on top of the desk next to you, “we’ll clean up later.”

He lifted you from the surface and into his arms, lowering himself so that he was lying flat on the desk, bringing you down to lay on his chassis. Your cheek rested against his Autobot insignia, delicate fingers coming up to trace the elegant markings on his plating.

Your body would definitely ache in the morning, but you couldn’t think about that as he was running a servo over your back gently, lulling you into sleep. 

[natalievoncatte]

The transfer would have to be quick. They had to move Lena -the other Lena- from the Kryptonian stasis pod to the operating table in the Amazonian lab and they had to hurry.

As she watched six Amazons lift her own limp form onto the platform, Lena could hear the cyborg talking to her Kara.

“These are the worst moments. When there is nothing we can do with all our strength. When we’re just as helpless as any other mortal woman.”

“I know,” her Kara said, very softly. “It’s going to work.”

“I’m afraid,” said the Cyborg. “I’ve been searching so long. Fate has a way of snatching things from us at the last moment. What if she hates me for failing her? What if she can’t stand the sight of me?”

“Lena, focus,” said Alex.

Lena snapped her attention back to the task at hand. Her other self, her doppelgänger, her variant, whatever you want to call it, now lay on the table and Alex was attaching sensors all over her body. Lena joined her.

It was a peculiar sight, one’s own self. The way this Lena looked older, maybe wiser, sent some distant part of Lena’s own mind reeling. If they were simply variations on the same universe, merely quantum discrepancies, why would one version of her be older than she was? How could she be born sooner and still be the same person?

It didn’t matter.

One of the Amazons said, “we must move quickly; we’re already losing her.”

Both Karas sucked in a sharp breath, one of them a harsh mechanical wheeze. Lena and ignored it, and hung the bag of while blood while Alex put the catheter in their patient’s arm.

Her blood. Lena’s. This had to work.

“Back, quickly.”

Lena and Alex stepped back, and the device lowered from the ceiling- like everything here it was a strange blend of classical forms and shapes mixed with high technology. Lena stepped back behind the marked line on the marble floor and waited.

The machine built up with a low thrum, the sound increasing and volume and pitch as it rose until finally a vibrant light burst forth, enveloping the other Lena in a cascade of purple hues, constantly shifting and changing.

The body on the bier was absolutely still; the monitors showed no pulse, no respiration, no brain activity.

Behind her Lena felt as much as heard a strangled, mechanical cry like knives being scraped across a sheet of steel as the cyborg cried out in agony and sank to her knees.

Her Kara said, “Wait! Wait! Look!

Lena watched as her own chest slowly began to rise and fall. The monitors began to pulse with the beat of her heart- slow, at first, weak, but growing stronger with each beat, as her brain activity lit up the screen. It was working. It was working.

“I can hear her,” the cyborg rasped, her voice strangely tinny with elation, “I can hear her heartbeat. I can hear her heartbeat again!”

She lunged forward, but both Kara and two of the Amazons stopped her.

“The process will take hours. Perhaps days. She must not be disturbed.”

A crimson tear welled up in her eye, scratching its way down her cold, pale cheek.

“I can’t leave her.”

Diana stepped forward. “You will not have to. You must simply remain outside the boundary. My warriors will stand vigil with you.”

“I’ll stay too,” said Alex. Nia nodded.

“Lena,” said Diana. “A word.”

Lena swallowed hard and walked beside the enormous warrior woman, the top of her head barely reaching her shoulder. She’d even made Clark look small. They walked outside in the crisp Mediterranean evening air. Even the atmosphere here smelled lovely and clean. There was a full moon rising and in the distance it sparked across the sea.

“There is a problem.”

Lena turned sharply. “What problem?”

“I had my physicians examine the cyborg. We had intended to heal her as well- her Kryptonian physiology should enhance the healing properties of the Purple Ray even further.”

“I sense a ‘but,” said Lena.

Diana nodded, her expression darkening as she looked out over the sprawling city of gold and marble around them.

“The damage is too extensive. Much of her dermal layers are synthetic as well- forgive my bluntness, but there is actually very little left of our friend. Other than her brain and spinal column, very little remains. I’m not sure that she herself is aware of how much has been replaced.”

Lena’s legs weakened and she leaned on the railing in front of her, the stone cold against her palms.

“There has to be a way. Can our Kara help somehow?”

“Not unless she can grow a second heart and liver. Forgive my bluntness, but but I don’t believe that we can help her any further, only try to make her condition more-“

“Highness!” an Amazon shouted as she ran towards them, “Princess! There is a quantum surge nearby. The signature resembles a boom tube!”

Diana turned from Lena as if she wasn’t there. “Sound the alarms, surround the incursion site, and have Supergirl join us- we may need both of them.”

“The cyborg is too damaged to fight,” Lena insisted.

“If this is what I fear, we cannot let any warrior sit idle. Come!”

She turned and ran, and Lena struggled to keep up, her lungs burning even in the pure air of the earthly paradise.

Dozens of Amazons surrounded an empty space in the courtyard, aiming spears and swords at seemingly nothing, an empty space. Kara and her cyborg counterpart rushed to flank Lena.

“What is this?” said Lena. “What is a boom tube?”

In answer, there was a crack of thunder that almost launched her off her feet. Kara instinctively caught her in a smooth motion and lifted Lena into her arms. The sound came with a blinding flash and when Lena opened her eyes, purple spots stained her vision.

A corridor of light unfolded in the air, spending from a central flash, sending waves of air cascading around their feet.

“Ready,” Diana called, cracking her knuckles.

Thwip!

A thin stream of some silvery substance shot out of the aperture or tunnel or portal or whatever it was and hit one of the nearby columns with a loud splat, hanging in the air in thin silvery cord that went taut as something swung out of the portal at impossible speed.

Lena could make out that the arrival was woman, but not much else- she was blinding fast, launching another one of those… webs… from her wrist.

Diana tried to grab her and she twisted out of the way with impossible reflexes, turning in the air, using her swing to build momentum and somersault, finally landing on one of the columns, clinging somehow to the smooth stone.

“Easy, easy, easy!” the intruder shouted, showing her hands as she crouched against the marble. “I come in peace.”

The voice sounded too familiar, almost like-“

“Get down from there!” Diana bellowed. “Stand and show yourself.”

The stranger leapt down from the height with unnatural grace, and Lena heard gasps marching her own as she recognized… herself.

Herself wearing a leather bomber jacket over a black bodysuit emblazoned with the white silhouette of a spider.

“Who are you?” Kara snapped, moving between Lena and the… new Lena.

“I’m Lena 938,” she said, offering a hand to shake, “and I’m her to help.”

“Seize her!” Diana barked.

“Oh come on,” said Lena-938. “Can please not do the ‘heroes have to fight before they become friends’ thing? I’ve had a long day and I want to skip to the part where I give you the exposition.”

“Wait!” said Lena. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”

Her counterpart looked at her. “Oh thank God you’re not one of the crazy variants.”

“Variants?” said Lena. “How many have you met?”

“A lot, and some of us would like to join the party. I’m here to talk about the League of Lenas, and how we’re going to help you.”

She pointed at the cyborg.

“Everyone inside,” Diana snapped. “We will hear your explanation, but no more portals!”

[icu-fetish]

What happened to me?

This surgical cap is quite comfortable. Cold sensors are attached to my forehead – sticky electrodes pulling thin wires, like a spider web catching my every breath. The hair, damp with sweat, no longer bothers – it has been neatly removed so that the medical devices can work without hindrance. On my chest – other sensors, their smooth edges chilling the skin, and the wires descend to where the heart beats unevenly, as if succumbing to the rhythm of alarming signals. I hear the squeak of the monitors – a quiet, monotonous sound that whispers that my condition is stable… for now.

Sometimes the air becomes thick, as if I am swallowing it with force. My chest tightens, and each breath is a struggle, causing sweat to appear on my temples. I've been pricked with needles – countless times, the sensation of sharp metal under my skin still throbs in my memory. Lidocaine, morphine, something else – I've lost count. But there is no relief, only heat in my veins and trembling in my fingers. The oxygen cannula sits firmly under my nose, its plastic tubes chilling my skin, and the oxygen flows into my lungs – dry, but vital. I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe it's my heart giving out? Or my lungs, which betrayed me at the worst moment?

Nurses constantly check my condition, their fingers – quick and cold – glide over my skin, adjusting the sensors, measuring my pulse. Their eyes, hidden behind masks, seem indifferent, but I feel fear gripping my throat. What if I become a medical vegetable – immobile, dependent on these humming machines around me? Will I fall into a coma where everything disappears? Will I be fully connected to the machines – tubes, wires, needles becoming a part of me? I try to push these thoughts away.

Breathing is still difficult – the air seems to get stuck in my chest. I've been fitted with an oxygen mask – its plastic fits tightly against my face, chilling my lips, making me feel vulnerable. At first, it's annoying, but then… the oxygen penetrates my lungs, cool and clean, like a foreign whisper bringing me back to life. Breathing became easier, and I feel warmth slowly spreading through my body, although the fear remains with me.

I dozed off – briefly, intermittently, as if falling into darkness that receded only for a moment. I woke up to a presence – nurses and a doctor are near me again. Their voices hum quietly, but the words blur, not reaching my consciousness. They removed the regular oxygen mask, and I felt a chill on my lips where the plastic still retained the warmth of my breath. Instead, they put something else on me – a different oxygen mask, attached to a thick hose. Oxygen bursts into my lungs – strong, sharp, as if foreign lips are forcibly breathing life into me. And that sound… the low, rhythmic hum of the machine nearby. Is that it? Artificial ventilation? Is it really that bad?

Their hands are on me again – quick, relentless. A new injection – the needle pierces my vein, cold liquid spreads under my skin, leaving heat and a slight tingling. What is it – a sedative? Painkiller? Will I be able to fall asleep, escape this nightmare into soft darkness? Or maybe it's the last thing I'll feel before…

Did I wake up again… This tube… A breathing tube in my throat – cold, foreign, like a harsh kiss from an artificial device. I've been intubated. I feel this tube – hard, plastic, it presses against my tongue, makes my larynx tremble with each mechanical breath that the machine drives into my lungs. The artificial device makes a noticeable sound – a low, rhythmic hum that fills the room, as if its breath has become mine. I can't move – my body is still connected to wires and sensors, as if I've become a part of this medical room, its living detail. My condition… is it finally terrible? What happened to me? My memory blurs like fog, and my heart pounds under the cold plates of the electrodes. Will I remain like this forever – trapped in the embrace of this machine, dependent on its rhythm…?

[oneofstarkskids]

you knew it

bucky barnes x reader

part 3: !!fluffy pregnancy fic!!

summary: a visit to the doctor's office has you and bucky fully grasping the weight of your newfound responsibilities.

part 1, part 2

you cradled your slightly bloated stomach. you were quite a bit further along and it was time for the very first ultrasound. your mind was muddled with a series of unlikely 'what if's'.

what if nothing shows up? what if you forgot to take off a piece of jewelry? what if the baby turns out to be a foreign alien creature growing inside of you that you have to hide from the government to prevent it from being experimented on?

see. unlikely, but never impossible.

bucky squeezed your hand comfortingly as you laid back against the hospital chair.

a heavy breath escaped your lungs as you settled. waiting for the doctor felt like a lifetime. you kept shifting and tapping and counting the ceiling tiles.

finally, she walked in. "it's nice to meet you," the woman said as she shook bucky's hand and then yours. you did your best to seem unbothered, but even as she was applying the cool gel to your belly you debated getting up and sprinting out of there.

bucky could tell you were still on edge. he always could. without making it too obvious, he managed to shuffle a bit closer to you, your hands still intertwined.

the doctor began swiping the device across your exposed skin and looking to the monitor for details.

you couldn't make anything out and your nerves spiked once again...that was until you heard it. the faintest little heartbeat coming from the monitor.

you were frozen in the moment and suddenly realized that,

this was real.

you were going to have a baby. be a mom.

you should've been scared shitless.

but something about that tiny little drum beat washed away all your worries.

once you could take your eyes off of the screen, you looked over at bucky who was shamelessly wiping his tears away with the back of his hand.

"oh," you partially laughed, and partially cried before pulling his hand to your face and placing a kiss across his knuckles.

the sonographer smiled at the wholesome moment before leaving the two of you to fully process it.

your hand once again ghosted over your stomach and you barely even whispered, "we're going to be parents."

tag list;

@hisredheadedgoddess28 @moviegurl2002 @quinquinquincy @umadirectioner @daisyvrhan

[loreleiloon]

(Variation of my other post)

What if, due to fighting villains so much, Hero contracts a serious illness that threatens to completely debilitate them.

Hero is nothing without their crime fighting work, so they seek out one of the best doctors in the city.

The doctor gives Hero a drug that keeps the illness in remission. But Hero needs to come in for injections twice a week.

Hero complies with this schedule religiously. After a few months, not only is the illness almost gone, but Hero feels better than they have in years.

And the doctor is so kind, so understanding. They never ask Hero where they get their bruises or broken bones, just patch them up good as new. As if they know exactly where Hero was injured.

For once in Hero's life, they are the ones being taken care of. They forgot how incredible that feeling was.

One day, the doctor steps out with a flustered nurse while Hero is getting injected.

"I'll be back soon," they promise on the way out. "Just sit tight and wait for me." Then with a swish of their doctor's coat, they disappear behind the door.

Hero obliges, letting the drug soothe the aches in their bones. But then the machine cuts off abruptly. Hero looks but the IV bag is still half full.

Confused, they ease off the operating chair. The plug is attached to the outlet. All the wiring seems fine.

Then Hero notices that the doctor left their clipboard behind. Hero's never read the clipboard. They can't even remember the last time the doctor let the clipboard out of their sight.

Hero knows they shouldn't but the notes are about them, after all. Besides, they want to know what the doctor thinks of all their strange injuries so poorly explained.

The first page is normal medical jargon. Hero flips through the second, third, fourth.

It's not until they reach the last page that they find handwritten notes.

"Strongest at .5 meters"

"Test 3mg more of Haepoxulin."

"Monitor activities during witching hour more closely."

"Do NOT taser right leg. Femur still healing."

Hero tested their step on their right leg. The leg felt healthy, better than healthy. What did the doctor--

A sharp pain shot up Hero's leg. Their knee buckles. Hero clutches the arms of the operating chair, agony locking them in place.

"You've been wanting to read that, haven't you?"

Hero's eyes whip towards the door. Supervillain stands in the doorway, holding the doctor's coat over their arm.

Hero tries to lunge, but the pain keeps them in place.

"What did you do to the doctor?" Hero yells, hatred burning from their gaze. "If you touched a hair on their heads, I'll--"

Supervillain shakes their head. "Ever the savior. To busy asking what I did to them," shaking out the coat, Supervillain pulls it over their shoulders, "to wonder what I did to you."

Hero's blood freezes. There's that roguish grin the doctor always wears, that stubborn cowlick the doctor can never comb down.

"You--you're--how?" Hero's heart twists with rage, confusion, hurt. "Was it all a lie?"

"Of course not. I couldn't have my favorite Hero dying. Who would thwart my plans? Life's so boring when everything goes your way," They press a small button on the device in their hand, "Don't you think, Hero?"

A thousand shock waves jolt through Hero's body. They crumple to the floor, writhing from the neurons coursing through their blood.

Supervillain clicks the button again. The agony stops at once. In its place, healing strength flows into Hero's muscles.

Hero's eyes roll back in their head. Consciousness weakens and the world swims into darkness.

Before Hero can fully pass out, they turn their head to ask Supervillain one more question: "Why...?"

Supervillain's, no, the doctor's roguish grin is the last thing Hero sees before the world goes dark.

"Why not, Hero?"

[talaok]

omg that dad!pedro post gave me an idea

dad!pedro and reader trying a second baby, and when they finally get pregnant they go to a check up and find out they’re having twins, and he’d be so excited 🥹

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x reader

a/n: ahhhh stop making me fantasize about having children im too young for that shit!!

You had made a pact after Emma,

One year. You were gonna wait at least one year before you'd grant her a sibling.

Now that promise... that promise hadn't exactly been kept. As it turns out, having a baby only made the both of you even more desperate for another one.

that's why when your daughter was only a few months old, with a simple "8 months is basically 12" murmured to your ear by your desperate husband, all promises went out the window.

And that's how only a month later, the pregnancy test came back positive.

You would have expected the second time to be less emotional, but god if you were wrong.

Pedro kissed you as long as he could, as long as his lungs allowed, while neverending tears of joy fell down your cheeks.

From then on Pedro had been just perfect, he had to take on a few more tasks with Emma, and he did so gladly, always with a smile on his face, always reminding you just how happy you were making him, just how you were making all his dreams come true, reminding you that he loved you more and more every day.

He was your biggest supporter, and not a day went by that he didn't make you fall in love with him all over again.

Today included. It was time for the first check-up, and you were terribly nervous.

Which meant he took his time calming you down, kissing you softly as he promised how "everything's gonna be alright" over and over again, until finally, you were in the gynecologist's office, lying on the table as the nurse performed the ultrasound.

All the while gripping Pedro's hand for dear life.

And it was then, when the nurse's movements on your belly stopped, when you watched her examine the screen more carefully, it was when she pulled away the device from your body completely, that your heart started beating out of your chest.

"what is it?" you asked, your voice trembling, already expecting the worst.

"I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to say, I'm gonna go call the doctor" the nurse, smiled, trying to be reassuring and failing miserably

"w-what do you mean you can't say? What is it? Is it bad?"

But all she could do was shake her head slightly, answering "I'll be right back, Let me go call the doctor"

The moment the door clicked behind her, the moment you were alone, tears started filling your eyes as your brain filled with images of all that was inevitably gonna happen.

"hey, hey, hey" Pedro cooed, noticing your reaction "it's ok"

"no it's not" you whimpered "There's something wrong"

"no there isn't" he promised, stroking your cheek "Nothing's wrong, I'm sure it's nothing, I'm sure she went to call the doctor so that he can tell us that we've got the most perfect baby in the word"

"Baby..." you murmured, melting into his touch "You know that's not true, I-I must have done something wrong- I-"

"don't you even think something like that sugar" he shook his head, crouching down to be at your level "You are the most amazing mother anyone could ask for, you did absolutely nothing wrong, I promise"

"I-I don't kno-"

But before you could finish the sentence, the doctor had entered, with the nurse right behind him.

"good morning, if you don't mind I would like to take a look myself"

And with a shy nod from your part, that cold instrument was on you again, while the tall, white-haired man looked attentively at the screen.

"yes" he murmured to himself "yes it seems so"

"w-what?" you couldn't stop yourself from asking, squeezing Pedro's hand tighter

"yeah, what?" he joined

"well" the man cleared his that, checking the monitor once again "the ecograph is picking up two heartbeats" 

Your heart sank, 

Your baby has two hearts? You haven't even seen that on greys anatomy

"W-what do you mean two heartbeats?"

A soft smile now ghosted his features as he saw the worry on your face "Oh sorry" he apologized "I meant to say that you're having twins"

And just like that, your heart was racing again, actually not racing, it was going as fast as the fucking speed of light.

Your hearing became muffled and your mouth fell open as you turned to your left, finding in Pedro's eyes all your surprise and excitement perfectly mirrored.

His eyes were glimmering, and his lips were turned into one of the biggest smiles you'd ever seen, the same one he had on the day he proposed, on your wedding day, the day that Emma was born, and now... now the day you found out you were gonna have two beautiful babies at once.

"w-we-" you stuttered, gripping his hand and forgetting all about the company you had in the room as you got lost in his eyes

"we're having twins" he laughed, not able to stop himself from kissing you "We're having twins" he repeated "We're having twins sweetheart" he breathed once again, looking into your eyes 

"god I love you so much"

[fairy-writes]

hallo >:]

i would like to request the prompt :

“Oh, excuse me for freaking out. I only thought you were dead!”

for narumi gen from kaiju no.8

and any gender would be fine!

A LONG ROAD TO RECOVERY

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Prompt: “Oh, excuse me for freaking out. I only thought you were dead!”

Fandom(s): Kaiju No. 8

Pairing(s): Narumi Gen x Reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Gender Neutral!Reader, Angst, Hospitals, Injuries, Minor Arguments

Notes: Combining this with another request that is exactly the same :)

This is likely medically inaccurate, but pls bear with me.

__________________________________________________________________________

The beeping of hospital machines was driving you up the wall. But it also brought you solace in that it showed that the man you loved was still alive. 

It had been three days since he slipped into a coma. 

You sat beside him the entire time, holding Gen’s hand as the ventilator breathed for him. His army of machines did a variety of things. Things like the ventilator, which inflated his lungs. He had a chest tube placed to drain fluid building around his lungs. There was a catheter to drain his bladder. There were multitudes of other machines and devices, all to help Gen stay alive. 

But no one knew when he’d wake up.

If he’d even wake up.

A frantic beeping awoke you from your doze. 

When did you fall asleep?

You look up at the machines and barely have time to comprehend the sight of his heart monitor lit up in a frenzy. 

It’s flatlining. 

Gen is dying. 

You let out a cry and dive for the blue button next to his bed, slamming your thumb onto it and hearing the call for a “Code Blue in room G342. Code Blue in room G343” just outside in the hall. A flood of nurses and doctors come in, and you are pushed out.

“Please! You have to save him!” You beg, and a nurse you vaguely recognize from seeing in the hallways offers a kind smile.

“We’ll do everything we can. But you need to stand back and let us work.” She says quickly before Gen’s hospital room door slides shut behind her.

You are forced to wait in the waiting room as Gen is wheeled in for emergency surgery after they get his heartbeat back.

They didn’t say what it was for—maybe they did—but you had signed the necessary forms regardless, seeing as you were Gen’s significant other and he had no other family.

You sit with your head in your hands, your breathing quick and gasping and panicky as you wait for any sort of news from the medical staff working to save his life. As you sit there, you can’t help but wish he hadn’t been called in for the most recent kaiju attack. Because while yes, he vanquished the monster, it left him in this sort of state.

He was going to get an earful when he woke up.

If he woke up, that is…

Your name being called snaps you from your reverie. You had been zoning out, not thinking about anything but what you were going to say to Gen if he ever recovered. But as you jolted out of your thoughts, you checked the clock and realized that hours had passed. No one was in the waiting room except you and a nurse behind the receptionist's desk, who looked like he wanted to go home. 

Well… you two and the doctor you recognized as the man who had wheeled the crash cart into the room when Gen was actively coding. 

You were on your feet in seconds before you even registered standing up. 

“How is he?” You demanded when the doctor approached. He gestured for you to follow him, 

“We’ll talk on the way. But he’s asking for you.” 

He was asking for you.

So he was alive?

Your knees felt weak, and you actually caught yourself on the wall. 

“So he’s alive?” You whisper, and the doctor gives you a warm smile. 

“He’s a fighter, that’s for sure. Now, follow me, I’ll take you to him.”

Gen is already awake and sitting up in bed when you get to the hospital room. A flurry of nurses flit around him like a bunch of buzzing bees. But he isn’t watching any of them. 

No… Gen’s eyes are locked on yours the second you come into view. 

The doctor begins to speak, telling you about the surgery, but you don’t hear him. All you hear is muffled speaking, almost as if he’s talking through cotton. It’s like this for a few moments until you come back to the present and hear, 

“I’m confident he’ll make a full recovery.” The doctor says, and you feel the pricks of tears in your eyes. 

He was alive. 

He was going to be okay. 

You all but yank the door open and slip inside as the nurses and medical personnel file out of the room to give you two some privacy. But as soon as the door shuts, it’s as if all the strength in your knees has left you again, and you all but collapse on the side of his bed, reaching to grasp his hand. You’re mindful of the IV in the back of his hand as you cradle his palm in both hands. He arches an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything just yet. 

“How are you feeling?” You ask quietly, and he shrugs with one shoulder, settling back into his mountain of pillows. 

“‘m fine.” He mumbles with a yawn.

“Is there anything I can do for you?’ You press, and he shakes his head, 

“Not unless you’ll get me one of my games. The doc won’t let me have my phone just yet.” He complains, and you hang your head with a dry chuckle.

Of course, he wants one of his games. You wouldn’t expect anything different from your boyfriend. 

“If the doctor says no, I’m going to listen to him.” You say, and he immediately lets out a whine. But before he can complain, you cut him off, “Gen, you need to take it easy. Getting worked up over video games isn’t going to help.”

He rolls his eyes and tugs his hand from yours to cross his arms across his chest, huffing indignantly, and you realize this is going nowhere. But that still didn’t mean your anger rose any less. In fact, it actively pulsed within your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you scowled. 

He noticed, and his eyebrows shot up. It wasn’t often you actively showed your anger. 

“What has you freaking out? I didn’t die, did I?” He asks, and you glare, 

“You coded Gen. Your heart stopped.” 

“But they got it back! Stop freaking out, seriously, it’s gonna give me a headache.”

“Oh, excuse me for freaking out. I only thought you were dead!” You borderline shout, and he rolls his eyes. 

Gen gives you an impish, boyish grin despite your fury, the kind he gives you when he beats you at a video game or successfully kills a kaiju. He works his hand over so he can entwine his fingers with yours. You can feel your anger melting away as he speaks. 

“You can’t kill me that easily.”

[malecardiolove]

The Test, Chapter 6

Jack lay on the stretcher, tied down and completely defenseless, his body still trembling from the last test that had nearly taken his life. His lungs struggled for air, and his heart, miraculously recovered, beat with a strength that no longer belonged to him. He knew that something far worse was coming.

Dr. Ruiz had mentioned a final test, one that would be different from all the others.

The door to the room creaked open, and Ruiz entered, accompanied by a team of assistants. Jack noticed that they were all wearing surgical gowns and gloves, holding shiny, cold, and sinister tools in their hands. At that moment, reality hit him hard: this time, there would be no cables, electrodes, or pink gas. This time, his heart would be the direct object of the experiment. He was going to lose it.

Ruiz approached the stretcher, observing Jack with an oddly serene expression.

“We’ve pushed you to the limit, Jack. Your heart has proven to be perfect… beyond anything I could have ever imagined. And now,” Ruiz paused, leaning in closer, almost whispering, “we’re going to make sure it keeps beating… even outside your body.”

Jack felt his skin prickle with pure terror. He tried to move, tried to scream, but his strength was gone. He was completely trapped.

“Don’t worry, Jack. You’ll remain awake throughout the entire process. I want you to witness the greatness of your heart.”

With a swift motion, Ruiz lifted a syringe filled with a clear substance and injected it directly into Jack’s neck. Immediately, a numbing sensation spread through his body, starting from his limbs and slowly creeping toward his chest. He could feel, but he couldn’t move. He could see, but he could do nothing to stop what was about to happen.

The assistants moved around him, preparing the surgical instruments with terrifying precision. Ruiz picked up a scalpel and held it over Jack’s chest, right above the sternum. The fear in Jack’s eyes intensified as he watched the cold metal descend toward his skin.

With methodical calm, Ruiz made the first incision. Jack felt no pain, only an intense pressure as the scalpel cut through his skin and muscle. Then, the team opened his chest, exposing his heart, which beat with powerful, steady force. Jack saw it reflected on the screens around him: his own heart, strong and perfect, exposed and vulnerable.

The sound of his own heartbeat filled the room, the only reminder that, for now, he was still alive.

“It’s a masterpiece,” Ruiz whispered, almost reverently, as he placed his hand over Jack’s heart, feeling its perfect rhythm. “I have never seen anything so perfect.”

With a gesture, Ruiz signaled to his assistants, who quickly moved to bring in a strange machine—a cylindrical device filled with bubbling liquid. It had cables and tubes connected to various monitors and emitted a faint hum. Inside, Jack could see a thick, bright green fluid bubbling—the same liquid that had filled the tank where he had been submerged before.

“This device will keep your heart safe with all the files of your echocardiograms” Ruiz explained, his voice calm as he adjusted some controls on the machine. “We will extract it and connect it here, where it will keep beating indefinitely. We need it in perfect condition for the next phase: cloning.”

Jack’s eyes filled with horror as he realized what was about to happen. His own heart, his source of life, would be removed from his body, torn from its natural place, and placed into a machine that would keep it alive separately. And what would be left of him? How could he keep living without his heart?

Ruiz leaned over him, holding a device that looked like an extractor designed to separate the heart from the rest of the body. Jack felt unbearable pressure in his chest as the doctor’s hands manipulated his vital organ with almost inhuman precision. His eyes couldn’t look away from the screen, where he saw his own heart struggling to keep beating.

The moment arrived. Ruiz severed the last blood vessels, and suddenly, Jack felt an absolute emptiness in his chest.

He watched as his heart was slowly extracted from his body, still faintly beating in Ruiz’s hands. The doctor carefully placed it into the bubbling device, where it was immediately connected to a series of tubes and cables. The sound of its beating filled the room once more, but this time, it didn’t come from his body. His heart, floating in the greenish liquid, was still alive—but separated from him.

Jack felt a wave of nausea and terror. His chest was empty. Something unnatural was keeping him alive now, but it wasn’t him. It was an imitation, a machine. And even though his heart was still beating, it no longer belonged to him.

“Your heart will be cloned,” Ruiz continued, wiping his hands clean and observing the device with satisfaction. “It will be the first in a series of perfect hearts, destined for research… and to save lives at the Heart Farm. There, all your suffering will have been worth it.”

Jack, weak and barely conscious, could hardly process what he was hearing. His vision blurred, and only the mechanical sound of his heart in the machine kept him awake. He tried to take a deep breath, but each inhalation felt shallower than the last.

The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was Dr. Ruiz adjusting the controls of the device that now held his heart, as the green bubbles slowly rose to the surface. His own life, beating inside a machine, far away from him.

And then, everything went dark.

...

An special thanks to @gayatheart and his beautiful heart in the echo video. Give him love and good fantasies with his heart.

[thevoidstaredback]

Danny was not having a Good Time™ but he also wasn’t having a Bad Time™. He was stuck in an idle limbo between the two where he was both numb and not. It didn’t really make sense to him, either.

Somewhere between stumbling upon the Justice League Dark and coming to live in the House of Mysteries full time, Danny found himself seeing the group as something akin to family. He was starting to see them as part of his Fraid and it scared him because good things don’t happen to his Fraid. Sure, nothing inherently dangerous happens, but nothing really good happens, either.

He didn’t like that the House had picked up on his feelings because that meant that it was now making sure he was encountering the rest of the JLD whenever any of them were visiting. Constantine and Deadman were the two he saw the most, but that’s only because they, like him, are almost permanent residents.

Constantine ripping into the Justice League did not help his feelings on the matter of his Fraid. The same man now knowing what happened to his family as well as what he looks like in both forms isn’t helping, either. He doesn’t regret letting John see him as Danny, though.

“Have you seen the security footage from the last League Meeting?” Billy asked around his sandwich.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Danny sipped his coffee. It still needs vodka. “And, no, I haven’t. Anything I should worry about?”

Billy swallowed his food, grabbed his League communicator from his jacket’s inner pocket, and pulled up the footage. “It’s actually really funny,” He handed the device over so Danny could watch. “Much funnier on a halo screen, but it’s funny like this, too.”

He had to admit that watching Constantine rip the heroes a new one was really funny. “I have never seen any of them look so cowed before.”

“Right?” He stashed the communicator away again, drinking his lemonade at the same time. “I think Batsy-boy actually took home the powerpoint to study. Do you think he took notes?”

Danny hummed, “I don’t know Batsy-babe all that well, but I wouldn’t doubt that he’s taking notes. From what I do know about him, he’s probably gonna make everyone that operates in Gotham memorize the thing.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they’re looking at information sensitive to you and your home and people. They could find something to use against you. We all know what Bat-dad is like.”

He shrugged. “There isn’t any way into the Realms that I’m not monitoring. And any information that Batman thinks he can use against me can’t be used against me.”

“How do ya mean?”

“I’ve seen what I can become and I know what happens if I ever become him. I already have so many plans in place to prevent the worst- Bat-mad will be Bat-sad to figure out that nothing he could try and use against me would work, no matter what he tries.”

“Do I, um, even want to know?”

“No, probably not.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Hey, you can’t just tack on a word after ‘bat’ to describe him! That’s not how this game works!”

Danny smirked. “Aw, are you bat-mad? Are you gonna throw a bat-fit?”

Bill glared, getting ready to lunge. “I’ll show you a bat-fit! Get over here, asshole!”

Bill launched himself across the picnic table they were sitting at. Danny caught him, letting the both of them fall backwards, though he used a bit of flight to catch them before hitting the ground. In the same move, the two rolled over each other for a few feet.

After a few minutes, Danny had Billy pinned to the grass, his knee on his chest. “You gonna raise the white bat-flag?”

“As if B-man would surrender with a bat-flag.” Bill scoffed.

“Oh? What’re you gonna do about it, adoption bait?”

“This, old hag!”

Billy drew his knee back, hitting Danny’s back and sending him off balance. Once free, Billy pushed himself from the ground, spun to face his faux opponent, then relaunched himself at him.

Once again, Danny caught Billy, but he didn’t let them fall. Instead, with the young boy’s hands on his shoulders, he lifted him by his waist effortlessly and carried him back to where they had been eating.

Billy huffed when he was set back down, crossing his arms and looking away. “Coward.”

Danny raised an eyebrow as he retook his own seat. “You wouldn’t’ve beaten me anyway.”

“I totally would’ve won!”

“Big words coming from a toddler.”

“Yeah, maybe from you, old man. You’re older than time itself!”

“Hey! I’ve met Time, and I’ll have you know that he is not old.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“You must be ancient if even a concept is younger than you!”

“Oh, you little brat! You’re gonna eat your words, ya hear me?”

“Threatening a child?” Billy put his hand on his chest, his expression offended. “I could have you arrested for that!”

Danny scoffed. “How’re you gonna call? The Ghostbusters?”

Billy shrugged. “I was thinking more along the lines of Young Justice.”

Danny closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. “They’re coming up behind me, aren’t they?” It was less of a question and more of a resigned statement.

“Yep!”

“At least they don’t know who we are?”

“I speak only for myself, man.”

Danny groaned and bit into what was left of his sandwich. He’d much rather delay the inevitable if ignoring the teen hero team didn’t make them go away. Unfortunately, luck was not on his side.

“Daniel Fenton?” Red Robin, dressed in civilian clothing, asked.

Danny didn’t react. Instead, he washed down his food with some more spiked coffee. It needed more vodka.

Superboy - Danny would know a Kryptonian’s strength anywhere - put his hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you Daniel Fenton?”

He turned with the hand, swinging his legs over the bench and leaning against the table to face the group. “Depends on who’s asking.”

Red Robin stuck his hand out for a handshake as Superboy stepped back to join Impulse and Wonder Girl. “Tim Drake, it’s nice to meet you.”

“No it’s not.” Danny didn’t even try to hide his appraising expression as he looked the four up and down, his gaze jumping between them all for a few seconds before he flipped back around, ignoring Tim’s handshake. “Be careful how you share your name with,” he patted the seat next to him, “Red Robin.” He sensed the four behind him stiffen as he shared a look with Billy who nodded slightly at him.

The four heroes sat on benches, Red Robin and Superboy beside Danny while Wonder Girl and Impulse sat beside Billy. “How did you..?”

“I’m not an idiot. Your disguises may work on everyone else, but I - as I’m sure you know - can see your souls. And, as much as I’m sure it pains Bat-lad, your soul is the one thing that can never be changed.”

“Really?” Impulse asked.

“No, that’s all bullshit,” he admitted with a shrug, “Thanks for confirming it, though!” He only knew because Billy knows them all because of a string of unfortunate identity reveals. They don’t know who he is, though.

Tim shared a look with his teammates. “So we were right, then. You’re Phantom.”

Billy, ever the drama queen, gasped with his entire body, his right hand slapping against his chest. “You lied to me? A child? You said you weren’t a superhero!”

Danny snorted at the shocked looks from the four teenagers. He kicked Billy. “Come off it, kid, you knew already. Don’t give them another reason to keel over.”

“You told him who we are!” Wonder Girl accused.

“No, he told me who you are,” Danny corrected, “I just rolled with the punches.” He finished off his coffee. “Honestly, you guys make it too easy.”

The group spluttered. Finally, Tim cleared his throat. “I, um, just wanted to apologize-”

“Okay.”

“I- ‘okay’?”

“Yep. ‘Okay’.”

Tim blinked. “Cool, um…Sorry for being insensitive-”

“And that’s where I’m taking my cue to leave.” Danny said, standing up.

“What?” Superboy asked, “Why? He hasn’t even said anything yet.”

“Because I know how the rest of this is gonna play out, and frankly, I want no part of it.” He picked up his trash, Billy doing the same. “You’re gonna apologize and think everythings perfectly fine and you’re going to ask even more invasive questions under the assumption that forgiveness means you can do it all over again. I hate to break it to you, but that’s not how this works.”

“I wasn’t-”

“If you were really honest in your apology,” He took a piece of chalk from his pocket. “-then you wouldn’t’ve sought me out as a civilian.” He was quick to draw a door on the grass, the chalk somehow sticking. “Thank you, Tim, for blowing my cover. If I find out that any of you four have told anyone, I will reign hell upon you all. Now, if you’ll excuse us.” He reached down and grasped the now 3D door handle, twisting it and pulling the door open. Before he and Billy jumped through it, he looked over his shoulder at the four. “You’re not forgiven, if that wasn’t obvious. Try again after you’ve looked through Constantine’s powerpoint; he’s much more knowledgeable than you.” The door closed with a click behind him, the chalk dust absorbing into the dirt.

Part 10 Part 12

[storiesofsvu]

A Slice of Sonshine

Sonny Carisi x reader warnings: language, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort crime scene (incl blood), background character death, trauma, anxiety, disassociating.Comfort, tenderness. brought on by a request, inspired by s26e8 but using my own case/story line. the aftermath.

Sonny sat on the edge of the hospital cot staring down at his smashed phone screen, his eyes faintly registering the speckles of blood on the cuff of his sleeve. The other one had been hastily rolled up, shoved far enough up his arm so the nurse could properly take his vitals. His head was spinning and he wasn’t sure if it was from actual dizziness or something else, his ears buzzing, unable to grab onto anything anyone around him was saying. The ER wasn’t overly chaotic but the beeping and whirring of machines paired with the constant chatter and hurried-ness going on around him was making his eyes foggy. Raising his head he tried to look around, blurred shapes swiftly moving around him in every direction. Rather than trying to make any sense of it he dropped his head again, taking a long breath while he closed his eyes only to reopen them to the shattered screen once again.

He could make out splinters of light, shades of colour and if he squinted and tilted the phone at exactly the right angle he was pretty sure that he could see what time it was. That, and about four missed notifications he wasn’t able to check or reply to. He felt a surge of something hanging over him, like an ocean wave was forcing him down, a weight pushing on his shoulders and moving through his entire body until it wound chains around his ankles and cement blocks kept him trapped on the bottom of the ocean. He felt like he was suddenly struggling to get air into his lungs but a glance at the blurry monitor made him well aware that he was getting enough oxygen. A blur moved across his vision and he felt a breeze prickling at his skin; they were close enough to him for him to actually hear some of what they were saying. He heard one series of the beeps stop, something warm brush his arm and suddenly it wasn’t being squeezed so hard. A muffled voice that he nodded a response to, mindlessly taking the paper he was handed. His gaze fell again to the phone and he felt a wave of sympathy pass through him for the device. The little guy, broken, cracked open now with its vulnerabilities beginning to seep out, expectations shattered with nothing left for it but a home in the trash. Abandoned and left all alone so something fancier and new could replace him. There was something that was beginning to feel a little too familiar about that.

“Hey…” This voice was softer, one he recognized, a familiar warm touch on his shoulder and this time when he glanced up he registered Olivia in front of him. “You’re cleared to go, let’s get you out of here.”

“M—my phone?” He help up the rectangle, looking between it and Liv, a lost look in his eyes.

“It’s okay.” She wrapped her hand around it, guiding it back down to Carisi’s lap while she nudged him to standing, “I’ll take you home, get a new phone to you in the morning.”

She kept an arm linked in his as they made their way out of the emergency room, the parking lot covered in darkness, rain starting to sprinkle from the skies. She wasn’t worried about him stumbling, but she knew the contact was grounding him, reminding him that he was out of there, was physically okay and was on his way somewhere safe. After making sure he got in the car okay she rounded to the other side and slipped into the driver’s seat.

“Home or is there somewhere else you want to go?”

“Jus’ home.” He murmured, leaning his elbow against the windowsill to brace his head in, the exhaustion beginning to seep into his bones.

As the car made its way through the city flickers of light flashed through the car windows and memories of the day began to flash through Sonny’s mind. Witnessing some punks fucking around in a bodega wasn’t anything new to any New Yorker, though he was never one to turn a blind eye to it. Sometimes he kicked himself for always having to get involved and tonight was one of those time he was wishing he had one single unethical bone in his body and had just walked away. This time was different, he didn’t have a gun or a badge, he had no authority to his name, not one that meant anything to a common thief anyways.

He was so used to having a gun on his hip he didn’t even think twice before stepping between the punk and the poor girl behind the counter. His hand even went to his side, the realization crashing over him that he’d given up his career as a cop three weeks ago. Second tactic, talk your way out of it, take the money and run, no one’s ever gonna know, we’re certainly not gonna tell anyone. But everything went to shit when the clerk pushed the alert button under the counter. Sonny couldn’t blame her, she was young, scared, probably filling in for someone else in her family who was sick or needed a smoke break.

Before he knew it the guy had the door locked, the girl tied behind the counter and chose then to rough him up. The doctors had said superficial injuries; he’d have a couple of bruises but would be fine in a few days. The girl on the other hand, the one who called the police, who’d made everything worse for the perp, well the guy gave her what he thought she deserved. And he didn’t do it quickly. He knew what he was doing, he was well thought out, detailed, methodical as he tortured her, inflicting as much physical pain as he could while he went. Sonny had never seen so much blood at one time; he was certain the pool of it creeping slowly towards him would haunt his dreams for months. Every single cry, scream and sob etched into his brain as she begged for it to be over, pleaded with him to just kill her already. Sonny had never heard someone beg for their own death like that.

“You need help up?” Olivia asked, her voice breaking through his memories and he barely glanced her way as he shook his head.

“M’fine.”

“Okay.” She picked up the bag from the center console and handed it to him, “you remember what the doctor said? Any nausea or vomiting, you call right away and take it easy for a few days, don’t want to make those ribs worse.”

“Yeah.” He did his best to give her a tight lipped smile, “thanks.”

Grasping the bag with one hand he opened the car door, feeling Olivia’s eyes on his back as he made his way into his complex. Upstairs he couldn’t bring himself to move from the door, feeling that weighted down feeling in his legs again, his shoulders sagging as his hand dropped the bag. He knew he should shower, should rid himself of the clothes spattered with blood, food would probably be a good idea about now, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. With a gulp he took a leaded step away from the door, practically toppling into the kitchen and the only thing he had on his mind was the bottle of rum stashed in the freezer. A few ounces of that should at least be able to distract him for a bit, help him get to sleep with a blank imagination.

*

You shivered, wrapping your cardigan tighter around your frame as you stared out the window, the sky had turned black, a sheet of rain plummeting from it, spraying the windows and coating the ground in wet. It was a night you were happy to be inside, letting out a soft sigh before moving through your apartment, picking up the last couple of scattered items. Organizing the pile of magazines and books you swapped between, folding a blanket over the back of the couch before collecting whatever dishes and take out containers were left to take to the kitchen. Your original plan for the day included lunch with Sonny, but he’d called that morning asking if you could shift it thanks to a hefty amount of paperwork he had to get through. You’d brought up dinner, saying you would host and he could easily keep working without feeling bad about it, you promised not to be too much of a distraction. He said he would think about it but didn’t want to be bad company, that he’d call to give you a heads up if he was going to come over. You didn’t think much about it, you knew how busy he was and how he preferred quiet while he worked, you weren’t a distraction but he couldn’t help to break his focus, much rather paying attention to you. It wasn’t an offence that you ended up eating dinner alone that night.

Which is why when there was a sudden knocking on your door you nearly jumped out of your skin, your eyes darting towards the sound as your heart hammered in your chest. Quickly closing the distance you peered through the peep hole and pulled the door open when you saw Sonny on the other side.

“Hey, I thought you weren’t coming over tonight.” You greeted, stepping back from the doorframe, frowning when he didn’t move, stuck to the floor in the hallway.

“’M sorry.” He murmured, not really wanting to meet your gaze, “didn’t mean to just show up like this.”

“It’s okay.” Your eyes lingered on him, narrowing in on the pools of water forming around his feet, dripping off his clothes. “Oh my god Son, get in here.” You reached a hand out, tugging him inside your apartment, swinging the door shut behind him and flicking the lock.

Inside your apartment Sonny was now dripping little puddles onto your entryway rather than the hallway. You gave him a minute to toe out of his shoes, follow you back into the kitchen so you could pour him out a glass of wine. Instead when you glanced back over your shoulder he was still frozen on the doormat, a faraway look in his eyes as they remained unfocused, staring at nothing in the distance of your apartment. Something turned over in your gut, stomach flip flopping when you started to put two and two together. The evening news had played in the background while you made dinner, a hostage situation that you knew Sonny’s past Captain was on the scene for and had a personal connection to. One that there had been an incredibly gruesome murder… one that you were now certain your boyfriend had witnessed.

“Hey...” you slowly stepped back toward him, “Sonny?”

“’M sorry.” He whimpered, still staring off into space, “’m sorry.” He started to shake his head, water droplets whipping off the ends of his hair as his shoulders began to quiver.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” You tentatively reached out, a hand cupping his shoulder and you gave him a gentle squeeze. That was when you realized he was absolutely soaked, he could barely meet your eye, disassociating as memories of that afternoon played on a loop in his mind. “How about we get you out of these wet clothes? Hmm?”

Sonny blinked, thinking for a second before he finally gave the tiniest nod and let you direct him down the hallway toward your room. You flicked the light on in the ensuite bathroom, picking a towel from the cupboard before turning back to him.

“How does a warm shower sound?” You asked, reaching a hand out towards him, letting out a breath when he took it, slowly stepping towards you. You started at the bottom of his shirt, unbutton it one button at a time, giving him the ample time to either stop you or slow you down. The last thing you wanted right now was to spook him. When you reached the top button your hands slid over his collarbone, fingers tickling under the slick fabric and you noticed the collection of bruises splayed across his torso. Finally he met your gaze, answering your question.

“Ye... yeah..”

“Okay.” You smiled warmly at him, nudging his soaked shirt over his shoulders, “can you toss these all in the sink for me? I’ll put them in the laundry when we’re done.”

He nodded meekly, starting to strip out of his clothes as you pulled back the curtain and turned the shower on, running the water over your hand until you were sure the temperature was perfect. You quickly stripped down, tossing your clothes with Sonny’s before offering him your hand again and guiding him into the tub.

Your hands gently on his waist you turned him so the water was running over his back, trailing over his skin and washing away around his feet. Sonny let out a breath, his shoulders starting to relax, dropping from the hunched position by his ears they’d been held in for god knew how long. He felt the feeling coming back into his toes, the warmth finally beginning to ebb through his body and he let out a shiver. After all those long hours he was finally starting to come back to earth, he was somewhere quiet, somewhere he knew he was safe, somewhere there was someone else to protect and take care of him, somewhere he no longer needed to be top dog.

Your hands squeezed at his waist softly, urging him to spin under the water, letting the warmth coat his entire body before you picked up your bodywash and washcloth, squeezing some of the lavender scented liquid into it. You lathered it between the cloth and your hand, gently running the fabric over Sonny’s skin, starting at his shoulders, trailing down one arm then back up and down the other. Resting the cloth over his shoulder you took the time with each of his hands to massage them, working out the tension in the heel of his hand, digging into his palms and gently squeezing your way through each finger. Each time your fingers dropped from his he let out a little sigh, another horrid memory of the day slipping away as you worked it out of his body.

Picking up the cloth again you began to wash the rest of his body, instructing him to turn when you needed him to, adding more of the soothing soap to his skin when it ran low. Sonny began to feel another surge of emotions sweep through, inching through his veins until his entire body was slowly encompassed with them and he really wasn’t sure what he was feeling. The mask he’d been wearing all day was dissolving, the power he’d been trying to hold onto relinquished as he submitted entirely to you, letting you be the one taking care of him, letting you guide him exactly where he needed. He had a weird sense of being weighted down yet his head feeling floaty all at the same time, but it wasn’t that he was being pulled in opposite directions rather he was perfectly balanced.

You squirted shampoo into your hands and then realized your mistake, reaching up to his head only to have most of the product dripping down your wrists. Wordlessly he sunk down to his knees in front of you so you could actually wash his hair, fully ridding his body of what it currently held onto. The moment your hands sunk into his hair, fingers threading through the silver locks, nails tenderly scratching at his scalp his arms tightly wrapped around your waist. He buried his face into your stomach, nose digging into tender flesh as you worked a lather up in his hair. It was as if he couldn’t get close enough to you, couldn’t hold you tight enough, if he let go even for a second you would disappear, a figment of his imagination and he would be lost to the cold rain outside again. Instead the steady rub of your fingers kept him sane as you scrubbed behind his ears, tickling down the back of his neck, leaving not a single strand out. You had to shift him a bit, bracing yourself on his shoulder to grab the detachable shower head so you could rinse the shampoo out, but he didn’t sway an inch, hands splayed across your lower back as he held you to him. Moving onto conditioner you repeated your process, making sure every strand of hair was slicked, gently massaging the product into his scalp before rinsing it off again, smoothing the stream of water away from his face to not get it into his eyes before you latched the showerhead in place again.

Water continued to flow from the shower, the new angle hitting Sonny at the nape of his neck, keeping his body under the warmth while your fingers combed through his hair. You slicked it back, wiping water droplets away from his face, twirling the longer strands around your fingers gently so they would curl up the way you adored. Your fingers curled behind his ear, trailing down his cheek,

“All done.” You murmured.

Rather than reply, Sonny’s face turned, his cheek pressing into your stomach and his arms suddenly squeezed you tighter, a sob breaking free from his lips. His shoulders began to convulse, his entire body rocking as the cries moved their way through his tensed body. The tips of his fingers dug into your lower back and all you could do was cup the back of his head, holding him to you in a way you prayed was reassuring. This wasn’t just about comfort or needing to get warm, it was so much more than that.

Sonny clutched to you, his lungs nearly burning with how hard he was bawling, each tear dripping from him, each cry that left his lips shaking his body harder. But with each shot of pain it brought from him, it absorbed an ounce more of comfort. Here he was vulnerable, yet he was safe, he was weakened but not broken, he was something worth saving and had someone who was helping bring him back to life. A warm shower was one thing, but this was a release of all the trauma, all the bullshit, the mask he had to put on all day, everything he had been holding tightly onto was being let go. The only thing he was left holding onto was you.

You let him cry until the water turned cold and you started to shiver, the tremors in his body now calming, little shakes of his shoulders each time a water droplet hit him. Reaching up you turned off the tap, your hands cupping his cheeks as you turned his face up towards you.

“Sonshine…” you murmured, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “You’re okay.” Your thumbs soothed across his reddened cheeks, “you’re safe. I promise. I’m here. Right here.” One of his arms slowly detached from your waist, hand wrapping around your wrist, squeezing affectionately. “I’m not going anywhere. Because I love you. And no matter what you’re feeling, I’m proud of you. Because you were exceptionally brave today.”

His lower lip quivered but he didn’t break eye contact with you, his hand squeezing softly around your wrist again and you smiled down at him.

“You did everything you could. I know you wish you could have done more, but you got yourself out of there safely and sometimes that is really what matters the most. You’ve saved so many people and helped even more, today was a shitty outcome but that doesn’t change the fact that you are an incredibly good person. You’re a strong, brave, compassionate, loving man and nothing will ever make that go away, you hear me?”

A new set of tears formed in his red rimmed eyes as he nodded, his hand shifting your wrist so he could place a timid kiss in your palm, holding your skin against his lips for a moment as his eyes shut. Sonny took a deep breath, letting your words fully sink into his body before you nudged gently at him.

“C’mon. It’s cold and your knees are going to be aching in the morning if you don’t get up soon.”

“Okay.”

His voice was barely above a whisper but it was there, and much more concrete than when he’d first arrived at your apartment. His eyes while teary, were focused, watching you carefully as he got up to his feet and you helped him out of the tub. Sonny let you dry him off, wrapping the towel around his waist while you wrapped one around your body. You pulled out a pair of sweats a faded Fordham tee from his drawer of the dresser, handing it to him and he gave you a tiny nod to say he was okay on his own finally, you were able to properly dry yourself off, toss your hair in a braid and throw on some pyjamas.

The overhead light in the bedroom was already off, only the soft glow from a lamp on the nightstand that usually got left on overnight. You found Sonny’s phone, plugging it in before you slipped into the bed, smiling softly at him as he slid under the covers.

“Did you want to talk about it?” You asked, reaching for his hand and he shook his head.

“Not right now.” His arms launched around your waist, dragging you impossibly close to him, settling you on your back while he nuzzled into your chest. “I just need you.”

“Alright.” You let out a soft sigh, relaxing into his embrace as he wrapped himself fully around you, legs intertwining with yours and your hands found their way back to his hair. You pressed a few tender kisses to his forehead, smiling at the happy hum he let out in return. “You’ve got me. Now and always Dominick.” You brushed a few lone strands off his face, smiling when blue eyes met yours and you were just starting to see the spark of life returning to them. “Trust me. I’m not going anywhere. I will always be here for you, whenever and for whatever you need. I love you more than anything.”

He took a moment, eyes shutting briefly as he breathed in your words again as personal affirmations. Repeating everything you’d said to him tonight as a mantra, engraving it into his brain so he would hear it every morning, on the drive to work, on days where he just wanted the world to suck him up whole so he wouldn’t have to face it ever again. He could repeat everything you said, remind himself that not only did you say it, you meant it, from the deepest part of your soul. He strived to be a good person, to help others, to make their journeys in life as smooth as possible, no matter what walk of life they came from. Some days he felt like he wasn’t seen, especially for things like that, for doing everything he could, feeling stuck like he should always be trying for more, do more, say more, be the best.

But now, tears still escaping his eyes, sliding over his cheeks onto your shirt he knew that he was doing his best. Even in the moments where the demon in the back of his brain was continually nagging him, blaming him for everything that could possibly have gone wrong, he had to remind himself it wasn’t true. And that with each day it would be easier to agree with, to comes to terms with, to shake off and feel the truth of your words ringing through him like a pledge to himself.

“Thank you.” His words were muffled by your shirt as he sniffled, pressing a kiss to your sternum through the fabric.

You smiled softly, fingertips scratching his head, “you’re welcome Sonshine.”

_____________

@bisexualcrowley @detective-giggles @plaidbooks @averyhotchner @glimmerglittergirl @beccabarba @itsjustmyfantasyroom @thatesqcrush @altsvu @lawandorderimagines @caracalwithchips @mysticfalls01 @mrsrafaelbarba @lila-lola45 @ssaic-jareau @barbasbodaciousbeard @alwaysachorusgirl @australiancarisi @rafivadafreddy @thestarrynightslover @sia2raw @cycat4077 @anlin2058 @xoxabs88xox @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @itisdoctortoyousir @beardedbarba @alexxavicry @m00nkn1ghts @onmykneesformarvel @kmc1989 @silversprings-mp3 @just-moondust @alexxavicry @deanwinchestersgirl87 @cabotnovak24

[httpvomitello]

In the Glow of the Lab Light *⁠.⁠✧

donnie x male!reader

The lair was quiet, save for the soft hum of Donnie’s lab equipment. Earlier, it had been alive with energy, laughter bouncing off the walls as you, April, Casey, and the turtles played games and ate way too much pizza. But now, everyone had retreated to their respective corners to sleep.

Everyone except you.

The fire was everywhere, roaring and relentless. You could feel its heat, hear its crackle as it devoured everything in its path. The smoke burned your lungs, making it impossible to breathe. Voices screamed your name, but you couldn’t reach them—couldn’t save them.

You woke up with a sharp gasp, sitting bolt upright. The air in the lair was cool, but it felt suffocating against the sheen of sweat on your skin. Your heart raced, pounding so loudly in your ears you barely noticed the tears streaming down your face.

You rubbed your hands over your face, fingers brushing against the scars that marked your skin. The burns—visible reminders of a night you could never forget. A night that had taken everything from you.

You didn’t notice the soft footsteps approaching until a voice, gentle and laced with concern, broke through the silence.

“Y/N?”

You turned to see Donnie standing in the doorway, his bo staff in one hand and a frown creasing his brow.

“I heard you,” he said, stepping closer. “Are you… alright?”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, your voice shaky and unconvincing. “Just a bad dream. Go back to bed, Donnie.”

But he didn’t move. Instead, he set his bo staff aside and crouched down next to your bed. “That didn’t sound like just a bad dream,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

You hesitated, your hands clenching the blanket tightly. You’d never told him the full story. You’d never told anyone, really. The scars on your body were explanation enough for most people. But Donnie wasn’t most people. Or turtle...

“It’s just… memories,” you finally admitted. “Of the fire.”

His eyes flickered to your scars for just a moment before meeting yours again. “The fire that…?”

You nodded. “That took my family. I couldn’t save them.”

Donnie’s gaze softened further, and he sat down beside you. “Y/N, it wasn’t your fault.”

“I know,” you said quickly, though the words felt hollow. “It’s just… it always feels so real. Like I’m back there again.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then, without a word, he reached out and placed a hand on your shoulder. The gesture was small, but it grounded you.

“I can’t pretend to understand what you went through,” Donnie said, his voice steady. “But I can promise you this: you’re not alone now. If you ever feel like the memories are too much, I’m here. You're my boyfriend, and I don't want to see you suffering because of this, thinking you can't tell me anything. I'm here for you.”

You looked at him, the glow from his lab casting soft purple light across his face. “Thanks, babe.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “It’s what I do. Emotional support genius, at your service.”

Despite everything, you chuckled. “Is that an official title?”

“It is now,” he said, standing up. “Come on. Let’s go to the lab. I have some projects I could use your input on. Distractions are an underrated coping mechanism, you know.”

You followed him, grateful for the excuse to leave your nightmare behind.

You followed him to his workstation, where he rummaged through a drawer before pulling out a sleek, circular device. “This,” he began, holding it up, “is a prototype I’ve been working on. It’s designed to help regulate stress responses.”

“How does it work?” you asked, curiosity momentarily overriding your anxiety.

He smiled faintly, the excitement of explaining his invention clear in his tone. “It uses biometric feedback to monitor your heart rate and breathing patterns. When it detects elevated levels of stress, it emits a calming frequency.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So, it’s a stress-busting gadget?”

“Essentially,” he said, handing it to you. “I haven’t tested it much yet, but… I thought it might help you. Especially on nights like this.”

Your chest tightened, but this time, it wasn’t from panic. “You made this for me?”

“Well, I made it for anyone who might need it,” he said, his voice dropping into his usual awkward ramble. “But yes, I had you in mind specifically. Your well-being is—uh—important to me. Very important.”

The corners of your mouth lifted into a small smile after kissing his cheek “Thank you, Donnie. Really.”

He cleared his throat, clearly flustered. “It’s what I do. Genius inventor and, apparently, boyfriend extraordinaire.”

You chuckled softly, reaching out to take his hand. “You’re definitely both.”

Donnie squeezed your hand gently, his thumb brushing over your scarred skin without hesitation. “Y/N, I can’t erase what happened, but I’ll do whatever I can to make things easier for you.”

“I know,” you said, the weight on your chest lifting just a little. “And i love you for that.”

The two of you stayed like that for a while, the steady hum of the lab filling the silence.

[clarepreed]

Micro-Story: Faulty

Story Content and Summary: 1,750 words. Micah's wife succumbs to a fault in a futuristic prosthetic heart. No EMS. On-site resuscitation.

--

Fuck!

The way she fell, first stiffening, then going boneless and collapsing in a heap before he could reach her. The way she fell, her face slack and her eyes rolling back. The way she fell pulled a silent curse from him, one he kept repeating as he skidded to his knees beside her, the accidental impact of his body rocking hers in the dirt.

“FUCK!” Micah finally shouted, losing control, his hands shaking as he reached for her, already knowing what was wrong as his fingers pressed into her neck.

Goddamn artificial heart. First mass-produced cardiac replacement piece of shit!

The artery beneath his fingers lay still, and her light eyes stared half-lidded up at him, even as her mouth slanted open and her lungs stuttered air.

Recalled.

He unzipped her coat and spread it wide, then dug in his pocket for his knife, flipping it open. Her hands curled, body shaking as her brain freaked the fuck out at the sudden lack of oxygenated blood. Micah sliced his blade through the collar of her t-shirt, then tossed his knife to the side and gripped her shirt with both hands. The shirt tore down to her navel and he spread the fabric wide open, reaching next for the small, rectangular lump just below her collarbone and above the cups of her lavender bra.

Recalled, and a fucking waiting list…

He pressed the center of the implant, just like he’d pantomimed with her before, when he’d printed the reset instructions from the manufacturer’s website. This time, he felt a button click, depressing firmly and then popping back up beneath his fingers.

“Come on, Gretchen,” he breathed, quiet now as he reached for the butterfly clasp of her bra. He popped it open as she gave another rattling agonal breath, quickly spreading the cups and sliding his fingers down to the tiny display implanted laterally. The miniature monitor glowed red, awakening with the activation of her reset button. He pressed the center of the glowing light three times, initiating the reset sequence.

Stay calm! the instructions had advised. The heart WILL restart!

“I’ve got you,” Micah gasped, his hands skimming over her chest and settling low on her sternum, along the line of her first surgery scar.

Okay. I have to be her heart and lungs until the device restarts. 

He linked his fingers, rolled his shoulders over his hands, and started pumping.

“One, two, three…”

His mind flashed back to the little practice mannequin he’d bought and subsequently worn out in the basement where she couldn’t see him desperately trying to learn. Terrified that one day, before she could get in to surgery, her replacement heart would glitch out and take Gretchen away from him forever. 

What good is a heart that resumes beating ten, twenty, forty-five minutes later if her brain is dead?

“…thirty!” Micah leaned down and quickly tipped her head back before pinching her nose closed and drawing a deep breath. Strands of her silken hair clung to her face and his fingers as he gripped her jaw with his other hand. He held her mouth open and covered her lips with his, exhaling, watching her chest rise out of the corner of his eye. Micah broke the seal and felt his recycled air waft over his face before giving her a second.

He returned to her chest, his voice shaking as he started counting. Gretchen’s ribcage sank and her breasts wobbled as he worked, the force rocking her head from side to side. Each time he pressed down, her navel popped up in a harsh seesaw motion. Her shoulders shrugged rhythmically, body bending to the force of his love.

“Huh, huh, huh…” Breathless sounds slipped from her parted lips as he reached thirty again.

Her soft mouth beneath his felt lifeless, already cool to the touch of his overheated skin. Another breath, her cheeks rounding out, neck swelling slightly as the breath made its way down her airway. Micah turned, quickly getting back into position for compressions, his hands skimming her smooth skin as he found his landmark.

“One, two, three…” Her breast felt soft under his fingers as the heel of his stacked hands thrust into her. Her nipples, erect in the cool autumn air, pointed briefly inward with each hard compression. Oblong tracks appeared in the dirt beneath her slim-fingered as her body danced to the rhythm of his thrusts.

“…twelve, thirteen…”

Her brainstem stopped trying to make her breathe as her eyes locked on nothing, already glassy with death. Shadows gathered beneath her eyes.

“…eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…”

A glance down toward her feet showed him that her entire body twitched with each thrust, legs rocking, toes drawing little circles in the air.

“Please, Gretchen!” he begged, before giving her another deep breath. Her breasts swelled once, twice. His eyes darted to the illuminated display in her side as he resumed chest compressions. One line, regular and jagged, represented his chest compressions. The second line, however, lay flat. Asystole.

“…nine, ten, eleven, twelve…”

Micah rocked into her chest, forcing himself to work as perfectly as he was capable, judging his compression depth with a critical eye and keeping the rhythm going as he counted. Each harsh thrust forced her sternum to squeeze blood from the useless artificial organ. As he pressed, her belly rounded against the waistband of her leggings, the hollow of her navel riding the crest of each wave. Sunlight stretching through the canopy dappled her body, leaves rustling as he shifted on his knees. A snoring sound abruptly emitted from Gretchen’s throat.

“…Christ! Thirty!” He sucked in a breath and covered her mouth with his, closing her nostrils just in time. Again, the air puffed out her cheeks and throat visibly. A thin string of saliva pulled between them as he broke the seal long enough to let her body exhale. Micah pressed his lips to hers again and gave her another breath. Then his hands slammed back into the center of her chest, fingers quickly linking. “One, two, three, four…”

“Hurk, huh, huh, hurk…”

“…nine, ten…” Her chest popped, the sensation crackling under his palm. He kept at it, watching her sternum and ribcage sink and bob beneath the strength of his pumping arms as he hoped, begged, that his effort was good enough.

“…sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…” Watching the wave of force ripple down her abdomen, eyes burning, he choked back the tears that threatened to fall.

Let this be enough. Let me be enough…

As he bent for mouth-to-mouth, he thought of her that morning, legs spread wide beneath him, mouth ripe for the taking, skin so soft as he stroked her. Now, she lay lifeless beneath him, her mouth slack and her eyes staring as he forced air into her silent lungs. The flat line on her prosthetic monitor haunted him as he shifted back over her bruised, motionless chest. Panic threatened to overwhelm him, even as the sensation of her body softening under his hands sent a wave of nausea rolling through him.

“…nine, please just start beating, fuck, come on! PLEASE! Fifteen, sixteen…” Micah worked desperately, letting his weight fall into his hands. She made abortive grunts as he thrust down into her chest, air escaping her lungs in harsh wheezes. “…twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty—”

BEEEEEEEP! An artificial sound cut through his panic.

“Gretchen?!” Micah leaned closer, hands shifting to frame the heart prosthesis screen. The chest compression line disappeared, but beneath it, where the flatline had been…

A rhythm!

“Gretchen!” Micah lunged, planting his hands to either side of her head. Her face tipped slightly to the side, skin ashen, eyelids slightly lifted. He moved one hand to her face, patting her cheek gently at first, then harder. “Honey? Gretchen!” Micah’s eyes trailed over her mottled chest, looking for signs of life. Despite her beating heart, Gretchen remained completely still. 

He moved a hand over her mouth, suspicion leading him to feel for breath that apparently wasn’t coming. Fear made him shiver as he bent to open her airway and tip his ear close to her pale lips. He hovered there, silently counting out the seconds as the dead air spread between them. 

With a groan of anguish, Micah crashed his mouth into hers, the angle of his face blocking her nostrils as he filled her lungs, pressure forcing a buzz of air out of the corners of their mouths. He pulled back enough to feel the air drift across his face, remembering then to pinch her nose. His eyes grazed the display embedded into her side, reassuring himself that the artificial heart still beat. Then he gave her another breath, the fingers of his other hand gently stroking the soft skin of her throat as it expanded beneath his fingertips.

“Please, Gretchen…” His plea came out quiet and broken. “I was right here. I helped you. Please!”

Another breath. His mind filled with awful thoughts. Gretchen dead, Marcus forced to sign paperwork to remove the heart surgically prior to her burial. Gretchen in long-term care, unable to recognize him or care for herself. His Gretchen, dead as her body lived. His eyes grew wet as he exhaled a fourth breath. 

As he broke the seal, Gretchen flinched beneath him and sucked in a shallow, ragged breath. Micah gasped and cupped her face with both hands, watching as her eyelids fluttered. “That’s it, Gretchen! Just breathe! You’re okay. I love you, you’re okay!” He shook with relief, his eyes blurring with tears as she coughed and gasped and moved her hands weakly. She curled them onto her chest, covering the redness there and letting out a soft groan.

Micah brushed her hair back from her face and then covered her hands with his. “I’m sorry. I know you’re in pain. Just open your eyes for me so I know you’re alright.”

Gretchen complied, her eyelids peeling open. She blinked several times before her eyes focused, latching on to his own. “Micah,” she whispered, barely audible. 

Micah shuddered and curled over her, pressing his forehead to hers and choking out: “Thank you… Thank you! Oh, I love you…”

“Love you…” she wheezed. “S’okay…”

His fingers threading in her hair, Micah wept.

[icu-fetish]

Bliss

Hoses, tubes, catheters… You’re still perfect. You lie before me, enveloped in a web of medical devices. Your cervical collar holds your head in place — the hard plastic chills my fingers as I adjust the soft lining, inhaling the sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with the warmth of your skin. A blue nasogastric tube slightly bends the contour of your nostril, secured by a thin strip of tape clinging tightly to your skin. It doesn’t mar you. Your dry, cracked lips still hold the outline of temptation — as if, even in a coma, they carry a heat that overshadows the sterility of this room.

A tracheostomy tube at the base of your neck breathes for you — a small, clean incision with a plastic cannula that rhythmically channels your breath. The hoses from the ventilator stretch toward you, flexible and taut, pumping air in steady pulses. I check the monitor — pulse 74, saturation 96%. Stable.

The bed creaks as I raise its edge, drawing closer to you — it makes your body rest more comfortably, and I feel the warmth of your skin cutting through the sterile chill of the ward. “You’ll like the massage, won’t you?” I whisper, kneading your arms to keep the blood flowing. My gloved fingers glide over your skin, but I imagine how it would feel without them — just you and me.

Your hospital gown is thin, barely held by its ties. “Let’s take it off, it’ll be better for you,” I say, untying the knots. The fabric slips away, revealing your chest, stomach, thighs.

But we have little time. “Time to try,” I whisper, placing my hand on the hose. Sometimes you can breathe on your own — I saw it last week when your lungs, weak but sure, took in air. Today, I want to try again. “Are you ready?” I ask softly, though your eyes are closed. I disconnect the ventilator — the machine’s hum fades, and you inhale. At first, it’s barely audible, then deeper. Your chest rises on its own, and I place my palm on it, feeling that faint warmth. My fingers tremble, catching the rhythm of your heart. Your skin flushes pink, and it’s mesmerizing — how your breath, barely noticeable, pulses with warmth beneath my fingers.

I take a sponge, soak it in warm water, and run it over you — slowly, feeling every curve. Droplets trickle down your skin, and I linger at your thigh, where it faintly quivers under my touch. My gaze slides to your lips, beckoning even in silence, and I freeze for a moment, unable to look away. Your stillness makes my heart race, and I breathe in your scent — a hint of antiseptic, a hint of you.

My lips tremble as they near yours — dry, cracked, but so warm they radiate your faint pulse of life. I pause, feeling the heat of your skin so close to my lips.

And then your eyelids flutter. At first, barely noticeable, then stronger. You open your eyes — weak, but with a faint spark. I can’t move. You inhale on your own, hoarsely, through the tracheostomy tube, and your fingers weakly clutch the sheet.

I touch your hand, barely containing my excitement, and a quiet warmth spreads through my chest, curving my lips into a restrained smile. I lean in and kiss you — gently, carefully, but with all the tenderness I can muster.