#Surgical Sinks

[cmipooja]

Global Surgical Sinks Market Is Estimated To Witness High Growth Owing To Increasing Demand for Infection Prevention Equipment

The global Surgical Sinks market is estimated to be valued at US$ 2.90 billion in 2022 and is expected to exhibit a CAGR of 5.60% over the forecast period 2023-2030, as highlighted in a new report published by Coherent Market Insights. Market Overview: Surgical sinks are specially designed sinks used in healthcare facilities, particularly in operating rooms and sterile processing areas. These sinks are equipped with features such as hands-free operation, antimicrobial coatings, and easy-to-clean surfaces, which help reduce the risk of infection transmission. The growing need for infection prevention equipment and the increasing prevalence of hospital-acquired infections (HAIs) are driving the demand for surgical sinks. Market Key Trends: One key trend in the Surgical Sinks market is the adoption of touchless technology. With the increasing emphasis on infection control, touchless surgical sinks are gaining popularity as they minimize the risk of cross-contamination. These sinks are equipped with motion sensors or foot pedals, allowing healthcare workers to operate them without touching the faucet handles. For instance, TEAL Patents Ltd., a key player in the market, offers touchless surgical sinks with sensor-activated faucets, making them more hygienic and convenient to use. PEST Analysis: - Political: Governments across the globe are implementing stringent regulations and guidelines regarding infection control in healthcare settings. For instance, organizations such as the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDin the U.S. provide recommendations for infection prevention and control in healthcare facilities. - Economic: The demand for surgical sinks is influenced by factors such as healthcare expenditure, infrastructure development, and healthcare facility expansions. Developing economies with a focus on improving healthcare infrastructure offer significant growth opportunities for market players. - Social: Increasing awareness about the importance of infection prevention among healthcare workers and patients is driving the demand for surgical sinks. Additionally, the rise in surgical procedures and the need for sterile environments are contributing to market growth. - Technological: Advancements in technology have led to the development of innovative features in surgical sinks, such as touchless operation, antimicrobial coatings, and self-cleaning capabilities. These technological advancements are expected to drive the adoption of surgical sinks in healthcare facilities. Key Takeaways: - The Global Surgical Sinks Market Size is expected to witness high growth, exhibiting a CAGR of 5.60% over the forecast period. This growth can be attributed to the increasing need for infection prevention equipment and the rising prevalence of HAIs. - In terms of regional analysis, North America is expected to be the fastest-growing and dominating region in the Surgical Sinks market. This can be attributed to the well-established healthcare infrastructure, growing awareness about infection control, and favorable reimbursement policies in the region. - Key players operating in the global Surgical Sinks market include TBJ Incorporated, Getinge AB, Steelco S.p.A., MAC Medical, Inc., TEAL Patents Ltd., MEGASAN Medikal, Elmo Technology, The Brewer Company, Inmoclinc, Bemis Manufacturing Company, Ophthalmic Instruments, Inc., Duravit AG, Infection Prevention Technologies, Fractovia.org, and Surgical Sink Company. These companies are focusing on product innovation, strategic collaborations, and mergers and acquisitions to strengthen their market presence.

[swordsandholly]

Double Date - Double Down

NSFW | MDNI

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem!plus size!reader

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: When you get a call in the middle of the afternoon from your friend begging you to fill an empty spot on a double date your initial instinct is a hard no. After all, no one wants to go on a blind double date and be surprised by the fat friend. It doesn’t help that this Simon guy is stupid fucking hot and obviously doesn’t like you - if his lack of talking is anything to go by.

A/N: Just a fun little oneshot I used as a warmup between working on chapters of future multi chapter projects.

“I said *no*.” You snap, angrily folding the washcloth in your hands.

Your friend splutters from the other side of the phone, the desperation in her voice only growing now that she’s on her fourth ask. “*Pleeeaase*! Steph backed out last minute and no one else is free-“

“How do you know I’m free?”

“You just said you were!”

You huff. She’s got you there. When she first called, you admitted you didn’t have anything going on but that was *before* she told you the plan for the night. Before she mentioned that her very, very conventionally hot military boyfriend wanted to do a little double date with his friend and one of hers. Plus, you take a least a little offense to being second choice. Really, last choice, it seems.

“Cass, you can’t just set up a blind date and take your fat friend. That’s not-“

“You’re not fat, love. You’re beautiful.” Her words drip with turned honey. You make a gagging face to yourself in the mirror. “You just need more confidence!”

You sigh loudly, pinching the bridge of your nose. You could try, for the millionth time, to explain to her the nuanced ins and outs of dating as a fat woman. The rules and stats that could rival even the most complex rpg… or you could be petty. It takes less time to be petty. “If I go, you’re paying for my drinks.”

“Johnny’s friend will probably-“

“Yeah, and when he leaves you’re paying for my tab.”

“He won’t-“

“We got a deal?”

She clicks her tongue. “*Fiiiine*.”

At least you can get wasted for free either way. A small consolation. She texts you the time and location, barely leaving you with enough time to shower and turn yourself into something presentable. Not that you really care. It’s going to be shit either way, most likely. Staring yourself down in the mirror, you suppose you could at least try to look somewhat attractive. If you’re about to get rejected (or possibly shouted at, you’ll never forget *that* horrendous interaction) you might as well feel your best.

The pub is small as you push through the front door. Casual. A couple pool tables, some darts, a large bar and few booths with stools on the outer side. You scan the room, searching for Cass’s familiar face.

“Over here!” Cass waves with a wide arc at you, a grin plastered from ear to ear. At least she’s having fun.

You take a long breath, bracing yourself for whatever is about to happen. Cass introduces you to her boyfriend - who is somehow even hotter in person. You can see why she’s so smitten with him. Johnny looks you up and down as he shakes your hand. He doesn’t comment, or make a face, or really react in any particular way, but you can feel a shift. Something in his eyes…

Maybe it’s just your imagination. You’ve always been a little over sensitive.

“Si will be back in a sec. Stepped over tae get a drink.” He flashes a grin.

You hum, quietly folding your hand as Cass pushes a cocktail for you that she preemptively ordered. Criticize her as much as you like, she knows her mixes.

“There he is.” Johnny grins, turning slightly.

You follow his gaze, heart sinking as your eyes settle on the man approaching your table. He’s massive. Tall and wide. Total brick shithouse. His face is mostly covered by a black surgical mask. A few years ago you might have questioned it but at this point you couldn’t care less, especially when his dark eyes meet yours, small flecks of gold honey catching the low bar lights. Barely styled tufts of blonde hair stick up from his head. They look like they might curl if he let it grow a little longer.

All in all, wayyyy out of your league.

He settles into his seat with all the confidence of any military man - back ramrod straight. He extends a large hand. “Simon Riley.”

You murmur your name, somewhat enthralled by the half lidded, almost bored look in his eyes. Now that he’s closer you notice a large scar splitting his left eyebrow and light, newly forming crows feet in the corners of his eyes.

“S-so you’re military, too?” You stutter, eyes trained on his the massive hand holding his glass. It’s nicely vascular, his nails are well groomed but it also looks like he could snap you in half with it.

Not that that’s entirely a bad thing - whatever that may or may not say about you.

He nods. “I’m a Lieutenant.”

“Oh! Officer position. So you’re smart, then?” You try to be charming, to give him a sweet smile and keep your body language open.

“Enough.” He deadpans. It takes a few beats for you to realize he’s not going to say anything else.

“Uh…” You squirm awkwardly under his gaze. It’s intense - his dark eyes nearly black in the low light of the bar. “I do hair.”

Conversation is slow, to say the least. The longest answer he gives you is maybe five words. He only flips up the mask long enough to take a sip of his drink every so often. You start to talk less, opting toward a group conversation in which Johnny takes the lead, which he is obviously very good at. He regales you and Cass with a few stories of his and Simon’s adventures. Some funny, some brave, some worrying. He’s setting the man up to be a god, nearly, but Simon himself just shakes his head and insists Johnny is exaggerating.

You wonder what he sees in Simon. Alternatively, you wonder what *you’re* supposed to see in Simon. Besides his good looks, of course. He’s… bland. Obviously bored if his constant glances toward the exits and rhythmic, occasional tapping on the corner of the table are anything to go by.

“Want tae go dance, lovie?” You overhear Johnny as he leans in toward Cass.

She glances at you, then Simon, then back to you before nodding enthusiastically. “We’ll give you two some time *alone*.”

In any other situation, you’d probably beg her to stay in desperation for a conversation buffer. Here and now, though, you’re grateful. You can finally let this poor guy off the hook. You wait until they’re gone; fully out of earshot before turning to the man in front of you.

“I…uh… look…” You chew your lip, glancing between him and your folded hands on the table. “Sorry… I know I’m probably not what, uh, what you expected… I get it if you want to leave. It’s - you don’t have to stay, or whatever. Don’t have to be polite…”

He cocks an eyebrow, eyes boring through your skull. “Why would I want to leave?”

“I know what I look like. You don’t have to be nice.”

His raised brow turns into a slight frown. “I think you’re quite pretty.”

You scoff - blushing despite yourself. “Again, you don’t have to be nice.”

“Do I seem like the type to just be nice?”

You continue to gnaw at your lip. He’s got you there. Simon definietly doesn’t come off as the type to bow to polite society. “You’ve barely talked to me.”

He stares for a moment. It’s his turn to avert his eyes, swirling around the whiskey in his glass awkwardly. Almost bashfully. “It’s not you. I’m… not great in public… especially in crowds…”

Oh.

*Oh*.

You’ve completely misjudged him, haven’t you? Shit. He’s just a big awkward lug isn’t he?You sigh, rubbing your temple. “Oh God, *I’m* the asshole, aren’t I?”

He chuckles, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I’m sorry it’s just…” you scrub a hand over your face. “Most men don’t really want to be surprised with a fat girl on a blind date. Guess I assumed the worst.”

Simon hums. A low vibration that settles into your bones. He gets up, sliding into the booth side of the table beside you - his massive frame pushing into your space. He smells like spices. Cinnamon and pepper. A little hint of leather and tobacco underneath. It’s heady, and some primal part of your mind wishes you could roll around in it like a dog.

“Some men might like a waifish little thing, that’s their business, but personally…” He leans in, a large hand resting on your wide thigh. “Yeah. I like somethin’ I can get a proper handful of.”

“*Oh*.” You squeak, back stiff. Was that what you saw in Johnny’s face before? Approval?

“‘Ere’s a thought - we go back to mine. S’quiet. Can talk more freely. See where the night goes, hm?”

You smile hesitantly, finally looking up to meet his gaze. It’s honest. Kind. Dark pools of sincerity. It’s against your better judgement. Impractical. Out of character. Even so, you allow yourself to surrender with a warmth in your cheeks and a small nod.

“I’ll get an Uber.” He pulls out his phone, tapping away. “Five minutes out.”

“Want to wait outside?” You offer, nodding toward the front entrance. Simon just nods, following you out close behind. Neither of you say much of anything while you wait, but you watch him out of the corner of your eye. He taps on his leg a few times in much the same way as he did on the table.

He dutifully opens the car door for you, letting you slide in before climbing in beside you, long legs slightly cramped in the small sedan.

“You don’t live on base?” You ask as the Uber drives away from the infamous military housing. You’d been there once or twice - a while ago when you were younger and messier.

“S’too loud.” He shrugs. “Too crowded.”

“Well, at least you’re consistent.” You smile.

Simon hums, resting his hand on your thigh once again. It’s casual, not too high up or too much pressure. Not presumptuous.

“How’d Johnny get you out there in the first place? If you’re so *averse*.” You tilt your head.

He shrugs, “Was supposed to be another Sergeant we work with but I guess he cancelled. No one else was free.”

“Ah, so we’re both last choices, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Made Cass promise me free drinks if I came.”

“Smart girl.” He chuckles, holding out a hand to help you up out of the car upon your arrival. His hand is warm when you take it, and a small part of you feels disappointed when he lets go.

The building is small. Old. All red brick with a thirty year old intercom and an elevator that you’re pretty sure hasn’t been inspected since the place was built. About halfway down the hall, you start to second guess yourself. You don’t know a thing about this guy - you don’t know what’s going to happen as soon as you get on the other side of his door. His weird, bright red door. Wait - why is this whole floor covered in red doors?

“Alright?” He grunts, back turned to you as he wrestles with the lock.

“Uh - why is your floor color themed?”

Simon laughs, wide shoulders shaking with the movement. It’s a low sound, something that vibrates in his chest. Makes you want to press your ear to it, see how it feels. If it will reverberate into your bones as well. “The old lady that owns the building is a bit… unique. Likes to talk about colors and karma and destiny stuff.”

“Ah.” You nod, as if that makes any sense at all. “So you’re red?”

“Apparently.”

His apartment is actually quite homey, as you step into it. From a stiff military man like him you expected something akin to an ikea floor model. Instead it’s furnished with a well worn, green couch. A large TV with an extremely up-to date surround sound system and an entertainment center filled to the brim with CDs sits against the wall. A few movie posters fill the walls. All horror classics - you count three of the scream movies. The first two final destination. There are condensation rings on the coffee table.

Behind you, you hear the door lock and unlock three times, but you don’t pay it much mind.

“Want a drink?” Simon asks, already popping open a decanter full of something gold on a small drink cart beside the kitchen island.

“Sure.” The agreement is automatic - blurted out before you can second guess taking a drink from a total stranger.

You watch a little too closely as he takes off his light jacket, exposing his strong arms and a half sleeve tattoo. It’s a bit tacky, all skulls and military symbols. The black ink has been sun worn over time. The motif of a young getting his first tattoo after enlisting. He settles down on the couch with the decanter and two glasses, patting the spot beside him. You plop down. It’s pretty comfortable, honestly.

His fingers loop into the mask’s straps. You find yourself watching with wide eyes and bated breath as he removes it. His nose is crooked - broken more than a couple times, you think. There’s a scar running from his nose to upper lip that could only come from a cleft palette. It’s charming, in a way. When he turns toward you, you notice a patch on the side of his face that looks like a rather large burn all the way down to his sharp jaw. The roughness of him works, somehow. The scars and tattoos and choppy hair all coming together to create the visage of a life hard lived.

“You’re really pretty…” the words slip from your tongue before you can stop them.

Simon splutters out a laugh, the slightest hint of color appearing across his cheeks. “Didn’t take you for a flatterer.”

“I’m not.” You huff before nodding toward the posters. “Horror fan?”

He hums, passing you a glass. “Are you a fan? Of horror, I mean.”

“Found footage!” You grin a little too excited. “It’s the best genre.”

“Terrible taste.” He scoffs.

“Wrong! Found footage can be anything you want it to be - slasher, thriller, mystery, mocumentary. Anything.”

“Which makes them messy.” He argues. “Anyone can make one.”

“Yeah! Theres so many hidden gems out there.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Oh, I’ll put you on them. We just need to get you a good one.”

“Askin’ me on a second date already, love?”

“Oh, fuck off.” You shove at his shoulder. He was right, it is so much easier to talk freely out of the bar. Away from everyone and everything. His posture is far more relaxed, laid back into the couch with his hips canted forward rather than stiff as a board.

“We could watch one now?” He offers. If you were more sober, you might have heard the twinge of pleading in his voice. As it stands you’ve already drained the glass he gave you and are perfectly buzzed enough to be ignorant to the subtler parts of communication.

How convenient.

“Okay.” You whisper.

After a bit of debating back and forth you settle on Hell House. After all, it’s been your tried and true method for getting anyone and everyone into the genre. You don’t notice it, at first, but you slowly begin to scoot closer to him as you fold your knees up on the couch. Eventually, tucking yourself under his arm sling across the back cushions. Between him and the drinks - which you’re pretty sure is a rather fancy bourbon - you feel what could only be described as snuggly. Limbs loose and pliant, smile easy and words flowing as you cheer and jeer at the characters together.

At some point, Simon’s dark eyes meet between yours. You lean in, so does he. Inch by inch until your lips meet. It’s tentative, at first. Testing the waters. His lips are soft and move expertly against yours. You part for him has his tongue darts across your lower lip.

It’s easier than it usually is for you. Easy to let him pull you over his lap. To rest your hands on his broad shoulders as you take each other in. Normally, you’re not a person for one night stands. A commitment kind of gal. You can’t exactly say no, though, when you have a beautiful man’s hands traveling over your body like it’s the only thing in the world worth paying attention to right now.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to grunt, “Bedroom?”

“*Yes*.” You gasp between kisses.

Suddenly those large hands grasp under your ass as you’re hauled up. You grapple to hold onto the back of his neck, keeping your weight forward.

“Simon!”

“Yes, love?” He asks as if he didn’t just life you like a sack of potatoes.

“A-aren't I heavy?” You question as he makes his way through the apartment, peppering kisses over your neck and jaw.

“No.” He replies bluntly. Like what you asked was stupid.

You’re placed on a bed with all the gentleness of a rare china plate- one hand cradling your upper back and the other tucked under your thighs. There isn’t any time to take in the room before Simon is kissing you again but you do count approximately five pillows and zero navy sheets.

That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Simon leans in close, nose ever so slightly bumping yours. “Before we keep going, I want to establish a rule. Red light means stop. At any time, for any reason.”

You can’t help but smile. “Okay.”

“Say it back, doll.”

“Red light means stop.” You reach up and cup his face. So handsome. So warm.

“Good girl.” He murmurs. “Let’s get these off, hm?” Simon pulls your clothes off deftly - dragging those rough palms over your skin as he moves and kneading at the plushness of your hips appreciatively.

You reach up to tug at his shirt. “S’not fair if I’m the only one naked.”

Simon chuckles and hastily sits back to yank the shirt over his head, giving a lovely show in the process. You think this what people mean when they talk about an Adonis. There’s a comfortable soft layer of his strong abdomen. Something you want to sink your teeth into. Your fingers trace each dip and curve of his muscles, the lovely shape of his pectorals, the raised scars littering his body. Floral shapes from bullets along with slashes and smaller jabs. A particularly nasty one runs down his side, coving his ribs. A burn, you think.

“You’re beautiful.” You murmur. Definitely out of your fucking league. You move to sit up, reaching for his waistband.

His hand pushes your shoulder back on the bed. “Let me take care of you tonight, bird.”

Your face warms. Simon kisses your cheek, continuing down to your chest and taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Gently sucking and nipping at it while flicking the other with his hand. A shameful whimper escapes your throat.

Simon leans up to murmur in your ear, “What do you want, sweet girl?”

“Want you to fuck me…” You murmur, embarrassment making you want to close your legs. His solid hips block you.

“Oh, I will, but first I want those beautiful thighs wrapped around my head.” Simon continues to place kisses down your body, over your stomach, stopping right at your panty line and tracing along it with rough fingers. His arms circle your thighs and in one swift motion your hips teeter on the edge of the bed, Simon kneeling between them. His fingers hook in the waistband of your underwear.

“W-wait…” You sit up on your elbows.

He freezes, looking up at you.

“I, uh, I haven’t exactly *landscaped* in a while… wasn’t really planning-“

Simon huffs out a laugh. “I’m a grown man, love. You think a little bush is gonna scare me off?”

All thoughts related to anything within the proximity of embarrassment come to an instant halt as Simon’s lips wrap around your clit- sucking and nipping and lapping like a man starved. Like he’d die without it. A low groan rumbles through his throat.

“F-fuck!” You gasp, whimpers and moans interrupting any chance you may have at putting words together.

“Taste so fucking good, princess.” He mumbles against you. A shaky moan rattles through you as he pushes a thick finger in, working it gently. His other than grips your hip tightly, pinning you in place. The pet-name sends a shiver down your spine - leaving you rolling your hips and clenching on the finger inside you.

“Fuck, Si…” You gasp, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I can tell your close, baby.” Simon groans. “Cum for me. Come on, be a good girl and cum all over my fucking tongue.”

The bastard knows the power he has in that voice. He *has* to. That baritone gravel sinks in your veins and all you can do is whimper. Panting pathetically the closer you get. His fingers curl up and your back arches harshly as your climax washes over you. Your legs tremble as he works you through it; stopping just shy of pushing you too far.

“Hey!” You gasp indignantly as a jolt shoots up your spine as he settles a final, harsh suck on your clit.

Simon taps your hip, climbing back over you as you scoot up on the bed. He carelessly kicks off his pants as he goes, toeing them off before settling between your legs. Those dark eyes rake over you leisurely - taking in every inch. Every curve and dip and flaw categorically. He sucks in a breath and sighs. “Bloody ‘ell, look at you… so fuckin’ pretty.”

Your face heats and you look away. “Who’s the flatterer now?”

“Not me. Just bein’ honest.” He places a quick kiss to your soft jawline before reaching over to dig through his nightstand drawer. You don’t miss the gold foil of the condom wrapper.

You can’t stop yourself from licking your lips as he pulls off his boxer briefs. Simon is uncut, already ruddy and leaking and just begging for your mouth. Maybe next time, though. He’s already slipped on the condom, carefully hooking one of your legs over his shoulder and the other around his hip. The man has a laser-focus to him, you’ll give him that.

“Still want t’ keep goin’?” He mumbles, eyes locked on his cock as is drags between your folds.

“*Please*.” You whine pathetically. Simon’s chuckle turns into a gasp as he presses in. It’s achingly slow and you roll your hips in demand for more.

Simon lets out a low groan as his hips meet yours. The stretch is perfect - just enough to feel completely full without pushing you too far. As though your bodies were made to slot together just so. Your head falls back, chest heaving as you beg him to move, to fuck you, just *please* for the love of god-

“Needy little thing.” He gives you a sloppy smile before setting a brutal pace. You find yourself clawing at his back, clinging to him as your back arches and the most obscene sounds are systematically torn from your throat. The angle he has your hips placed causes his cock to bully that sensitive spot inside you - dragging over it with every thrust.

Simon leans toward, bracing himself on his forearms and pinning you under him as he fucks into you. “So fuckin’ good f’me. Knew you would be. So soft and sweet and goddamn *pretty*.”

“*Fuck, Simon*.” You gasp, nose bumping against his as your lips intertwine. Breaths and moans intermingle as you both chase that edge. There’s nothing else, in this moment, just you and Simon and the sounds only he has ever managed to pull from you.

Your orgasm hits you like a train. Out of nowhere and all at once, tensing every muscle into a trembling mess as you clamp down around his cock. Simon sinks his teeth into your neck as his own climax takes him, cradling you close and moaning out your name so muddled you almost miss it.

For a few moments, you stay frozen in place trying to catch your breath as you come down. Your limbs feel like jelly when you finally try to move, body limp and pliable. It almost feels like a loss as he pushes off of you, leaving you open and vulnerable to the cool night air while he ties off the condom.

“Be right back.” He murmurs, slowly climbing off you and heading for an attached bathroom off to the left.

You let your eyes slipped closed only to jump and shoot back open as a dap rag drags between your thighs. A little yelp escapes you as the rough material drags across your oversensitive clit. Simon chuckles at you, tossing the rag back somewhere in the bathroom before crawling into the bed beside you. It’s so easy to curl into his chest and let those strong arms encircle you.

“Have fun, love?” Simon murmurs into your hair.

You just hum happily, smiling against his hard chest.

“Good.”

It’s just as easy as the rest of it to fall asleep like that. To seek out the warmth of his body in your satiated haze and press into him, allowing the night and rhythmic beating of his heart to overtake you. You feel four small taps between your shoulder blades just before tipping over the edge into comfortable nothing.

You wake slowly to an empty bed. The light from the window above you streams in - bathing the room in a light golden tone. It’s cozy. The blankets seem to pull you in, keeping you snugly in place. Distantly, you hear the sound of pots and pans clinking.

Shockingly, you’re not hungover. Well, not much at least. There’s a slight twinge in your head and a not unpleasant soreness in your hips. You dig around, finding your clothes strewn across the room haphazardly. Your underwear are nowhere to be found and you eventually give up with a shrug. They weren’t one of your best pairs anyway.

When you come out of the bedroom, you pause. Simon stands in the kitchen, working on something over the stove wearing only a pair of sweatpants. They hang loosely around his hips, showing off the rises and dips of his strong muscles and well defined waist. This scene somehow feels too intimate despite your activities the night before.

“Perfect timing.” Simon turns, placing a plate down on the kitchen island. The omelette before you looks immaculate, all the way down to a light garnish on top.

Your eyes turn to saucers. “You…you made me breakfast?”

“Course.” He nods sharply as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if *not* doing so would be some sort of affront. Either you’re still asleep and this is all a dream or you stumbled upon the perfect man through pure happenstance.

He turns the stove off and on and off twice before standing at the counter across from you while you sit on one of the stools at the island. It’s a comfortable silence as you both eat. Simon keeps glancing up at you as if waiting for your disapproval. Boyish, somehow, despite the size and breadth of him.

It’s perfect. The eggs practically melt in your mouth and the goat cheese and vegetables taste fresh. You can’t help but him happily as you eat.

By the time you’re done, you think you might be a little in love.

Maybe you should text Cass and thank her or something. Maybe a gift basket. “Oh. My phone’s dead.”

“Didn’t charge it before y’left last night?” Simon cocks an eyebrow, chewing on his last bite.

You snort. “It was last minute, remember?”

“What if I’d been some sort of psycho? What was your plan?” He grins as he takes your empty plate. If you were a more impulsive woman you may have gone so far as to lick the damn thing.

“Are you a psycho?”

“Not generally, no.”

“Well then, nothing to worry about.” You grin, watching a little too happily as he rinses down the dishes and loads the dishwasher.

Simon just scoffs at you.

You glance at the time above the stove, disappointment settling deep in your chest. “Shit. I should get going.”

“I’ll get you a cab.” Simon offers automatically, reaching for his phone.

You shift side to side, twiddling your thumbs. “Y’know… we never finished the movie…”

Simon cocks and eyebrow. From the pleased smirk on his face you can tell he knows what you’re implying. He still patiently waits for you to say it out loud.

“Would, uh, would you want to exchange numbers? Maybe… meet up… again…?” Your voice is more timid than you’d like. This fear of rejection is new. Being rejected is nothing new for you, so why does it suddenly feel so high stakes with this one guy you barely know?

You don’t miss the way his eyes light up ever so slightly at the question. “I’d love to.”

[modular-hospital-equipment]

If we talk about modular operation theater, then it is a bacteria-free area and it is also known as modular OT.

Modular Operation Theater is a space in hospitals that is designed for the safe treatment of patients. The more advanced it is, the more positive patient outcomes it provides. Today's operation theater includes a small equipment to large machines such as X-ray, anesthesia system, Operating table, Surgical lights, Electro cautery machine, Surgical microscope, Ventilator, Infusion pumps etc.

[stevestark]

Eddie survives the Upside Down by sheer force of Steve Harrington's will. He, Robin, and Nancy come upon Dustin sobbing over Eddie's very alarmingly still body, and Steve doesn't even hesitate to heave Eddie over his shoulder and carry him to the gate. He refuses to think about whether or not Eddie is dead and this is pointless — he'll be damned if he doesn't try everything. They manage to get Eddie through and escape themselves before the earth starts ripping itself open, and Steve carefully lays Eddie on the bed in the RV, tearing down the road at an ungodly speed, driving straight for the hospital.

He's so singularly focused on not letting Eddie die that he doesn't remember about Erica, Lucas, and Max until he watches in horror as a gurney carrying Max comes flying through the doors of the emergency room, Lucas and Erica running behind it. The nurses stop the Sinclairs from following her through to the surgical wing, and Steve hurriedly vacates his seat, pulling the two kids into a hug, apologies pouring from his lips. Eventually, he stops babbling, and everyone takes a seat, Steve wincing as he does so.

The bites on his sides still smart, but he can — and will — wait to get seen himself until he hears something about Eddie. When they'd shown up, Steve carrying Eddie bridal style and screaming for help, everyone around them had thought Eddie was dead; after getting him on a gurney, a nurse yelled at everyone to shut up as she pressed a stethoscope to Eddie's chest, and the next thing Steve knew, Eddie was being wheeled away from them to surgery. Dustin had fallen to his knees, appearing to be praying to anything listening, and Steve nearly joined him. Somehow, Eddie was still alive. Steve refused to be seen until he knew that was still the case.

Hours pass before they're allowed in to see Eddie; when they are, it's somehow more horrifying than the moment Steve had found him cradled in Dustin's lap. Eddie is still motionless, but now he's paler, there's what looks like a hundred wires coming out of his body, and a tube is breathing for him. Steve hazily registers the doctors explaining that the blood loss was significant, as were the wounds littering Eddie's body, and that it's going to be a waiting game to see what happens next. He startles when he hears the gentle comment that if Eddie doesn't wake within a week, it's unlikely he ever will; Steve refuses to even consider that as a possibility.

Nancy manages to talk Steve into getting his own bites cleaned and stitched, which turns into taking him home for a shower and a change of clothes; they're still driving the stolen RV, and when Steve pulls back into the hospital parking lot, he hesitates before climbing out. Eddie's denim vest is still sitting on the sofa, bloodstained and ripped all over. Steve digs through the cabinets of the RV until he finds a sewing kit, and brings the vest inside with him.

He carefully washes out as much of the blood as he can in the bathroom sink, and plops into a chair at Eddie's bedside, pulling out red thread and a needle from the sewing kit. Nancy, Robin, and Dustin all exchange looks before simply sitting in silence, watching Steve carefully begin to repair every tear in the fabric.

Eventually, Nancy gets a hold of Wayne Munson, who enters the room, sees Steve hard at work on his project, and doesn't say a word — he just pulls a chair up next to Steve's, claps him on the shoulder, and reaches out to pat Eddie's leg through the hospital blankets. Neither Steve nor Wayne leave their spots other than to use the bathroom, and nobody tries to make them.

Three days into Eddie's hospital stay, the door opens, and Eleven, Jonathan, Will, Mike, and someone Steve doesn't recognize enter the room. Steve looks up, unblinking and on the verge of unseeing, before turning his attention back to the vest; two small hands reach out and cover his, and it's only then that he registers who's standing in front of him. Eleven is looking at him sadly, and hesitates only briefly before she leans forward to hug him.

He grips her tightly, and takes a shaky breath before holding a hand out toward the Byers brothers and Mike, and sooner than anyone can blink, there's a massive huddle of arms enveloping Steve. For the first time since leaving the Upside Down, Steve lets himself cry; nobody comments at it, nobody even acknowledges it — other than Eleven, who gently wipes his face with her sleeves when they finally separate.

More chairs are dragged into the room, and suddenly Eddie is the most popular patient in the hospital — tied with Max, of course, as the group takes shifts between the two rooms. Steve and Wayne are the only permanent fixtures in Eddie's room, just as Lucas and Erica are the only permanent residents with Max.

Steve finishes patching the tears in the vest, but Eddie hasn't woken up yet, so his fingers itch to keep going. He pulls out a spool of white thread, and outlines the jagged stitches he made before, carefully working his way over the entire vest once more. When he finishes that, he grabs black thread, and repeats the process.

He's in a sort of trance as he stitches away, conversations happening around him but sounding like they're miles away. It's not until someone physically stops his hands moving again that he realizes the words are being directed towards him; confused, he looks up and jolts so strongly he nearly tips his chair backwards. The person who stopped him working this time is Jim Hopper, and for the first time since the doctor gave them the stupid timeline, Steve feels hope. If Hopper can come back, Eddie can too. Eddie can too.

On day 6 of Eddie's coma, Steve speaks for the first time, tired eyes looking at Eleven beseechingly. "Can you... will you see if he's still in there?"

Eleven takes the bandana Wayne passes her and ties it over her eyes, one hand gripping Eddie's, the other intertwined with Steve's. She focuses on the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the wheezing of the oxygen pump, the sounds allowing her to drift into the in-between. She finds Eddie curled in a ball, hands clutching his sides, tears silently streaming down his face.

As she did with Steve, she gently reaches out and wipes his face clean, and waits for him to acknowledge her; he eventually looks up at her and his eyebrows furrow. "Who are you?" he asks, voice scratchy with disuse.

"Eleven," she says, holding out her hand to you.

"Henderson's friend?"

Eleven nods. "Come. Time to leave here. They're waiting for you."

She pulls Eddie to his feet and starts walking forward, focusing her hearing until she can isolate Steve's breathing pattern under the din of the hospital machinery. Her eyes fly open under the bandana, and she rips it off, turning to look at Eddie expectantly. For a moment, there's nothing and then —

Eddie starts choking on the breathing tube, Wayne starts yelling for a doctor, Steve breaks down in fresh tears, and the kids are cheering.

It's hours of examinations later that Steve is finally able to return to his seat at Eddie's side, everyone, Wayne included, giving him a minute alone with Eddie. When he enters, he notices Eddie is holding the vest, tracing his fingers over Steve's haphazard stitching.

Sheepishly, Steve raises a hand to rub the back of his neck. "Sorry," he mumbles. "I did the best I could."

The stitches zigzag across all the places the fabric had been slashed, both by demobat talons and sharp bushes in the Upside Down forest, and Steve's work has it looking like branches of lightning working their way across the vest. Eddie shakes his head and looks up at Steve, eyes wide and shining. "You fixed it."

Steve shrugs and Eddie shakes his head again. "Harrington.... Steve. You... you fixed it. For me."

Steve inches forward in his seat, and reaches out to grab one of Eddie's hands. "I dunno, I kinda think I fucked it up. But I could tell when you threw it at me that this was something that was important to you. I didn't let that place take you away, why would I let it take your things?"

Eddie laughs, head thrown back against his pillows, hand squeezing the absolute life out of Steve's. When he finally settles, he looks at Steve bashfully, head dipped down just enough that he's looking up at him through his eyelashes. "Talk about a declaration of unambiguous true love," he whispers.

Steve doesn't seem surprised or put off by Eddie's assessment; in fact, all he does is beam at him before lifting Eddie's hand to his face, pressing a featherlight kiss to his bruised knuckles.

"Take me out on a date first, Munson. Then we can start throwing words like love around."

As the room fills with the sound of Eddie and Steve's laughter, the rest of the group filters back in, including Lucas pushing a wheelchair-bound Max; Steve looks around at all of them and sighs around a soft smile.

They won.

[ironambivalence]

The first thing you feel is the sharp pinch of the needle in your arm. Warmth flooding your body, your face flushed and lips tingling. The sensation spreading to your core and between your legs. Suddenly you feel warm and wet. Your cunt swelling slightly, lips parting... You try to touch yourself, pulling against something, and then…

Your eyes snap open and the bright light temporarily blinds you. Thick leather straps hold you down against the examination table, spread-eagled. Fear and adrenaline prick your skin, your drug-induced warmth now slick with a sheen of cold sweat. The shame of your dripping cunt hits you hard, and you try to tell yourself that it’s not your fault, it’s the drugs. It has to be the drugs…

Your mouth is held wide with a dental gag, jaw already beginning to ache. Your head is kept still with a thick leather strap across your forehead even as you see me cross your field of vision, my face behind a surgical mask, your eyes wide. “Today, I have an experiment…”

Another pinch, and a strong sedative makes your limbs go limp, too weak and heavy to move much, your mind perfectly alert. You feel my fingers spread your labia, pull back your clitoral hood, and the sharp excruciating pain of a needle in your clit, then your labia, the drug making them swell. Your tits are injected next, making them full and heavy as the syringe is emptied. The warmth spreads, combining with the pain, your cunt locked in a deep ache and drooling immediately. You are helpless, swollen, sensitive, and completely overstimulated. A vibrator is pushed against your cunt, shockwaves of sensation flooding your body as you try not to moan. My gloved hand encircles your throat, choking you. My fingers probe your gag reflex, making you drool all over yourself as you begin to see stars. You pass out a few times, slapped awake after each one, oxygen flooding your body and setting every nerve on fire. Each orgasm wrecking your body more than the last, the time between them growing shorter until they are just seconds apart. Forced to cum against your will so much it hurts. A gagging drooling mess. A ruined, helpless thing. Your cunt is swollen and unrecognizable, dripping down the table and onto the floor.

The vibrator is suddenly switched off. I slap your cunt hard and laugh as you scream, convulsing as shockwaves of pain cascade through your core. You groan as the thick electric plug is slid deep inside your anus, stretching you wide as tears spring to your eyes. The electricity makes you whimper, not just from pain, but from forcing your pelvic floor muscles to contract in time to the current. I press the head of my swollen cock against your dripping labia, and sink deep inside your helpless ruined hole. Choking you, slapping you, and spitting on you as I rape you, your restrained body swaying with each deep thrust, vulnerable and spread wide. Gagging you as you make disgusting noises, your face and tits covered in drool. Torturing your grossly swollen nipples, bruising them almost instantly with my fingers as I pinch, pull, and twist them savagely, tearing harsh, violent screams from your throat as the pain sears through your body. Your spasming cunt milks my cock inside you as I rape you. Your own body forced to betray you. Even the autonomy of your own muscles raped away as I force them to pleasure my cock. To splatter your cervix with my cum. And worse, to make you cum as well.

It hurts too much to orgasm now. You’ve been holding it off so long, trying to avoid the sensations from last time. It makes your muscles clench out of sync with the current, doubling up and eventually forcing that wave to crest, your eyes rolling back, legs shaking as you let out a horrible shriek of despair... Then it tears through you, every muscle taut and shaking. Mind going blank, unable to register anything but a horrible emptiness in the pit of your stomach, all stimulation gone. Just an object. A toy. A ruined thing.

When your eyes open, you become dimly aware of my voice. Your cunt is held open with a speculum, my cum still dripping out as you are examined in detail. Your most private, intimate parts helpless, vulnerable, and exposed. Nothing private, nothing secret.

“Indeed. The subject has become deeply suggestible. The formula was substituted for saline with no decline in response...” Saline!? No! It has to be the drugs. It was the drugs! Your mind is breaking as the mirror above you reveals the truth: Your tits and cunt are grossly swollen in the humiliating caricature of a fuckdoll, not injected with some new pharmaceutical, but simple saline solution…

“...more experiments are needed to determine the efficacy of any new formula.” In your turmoil, you suddenly notice the red light of a webcam, stomach churning... How many saw? How many people saw what I did to you?

“We will keep the experiment and continue to perform tests...” And as my first words drift back to you, it suddenly becomes clear: YOU are The Experiment.

[lis-likes-fics]

The Sound of His Voice

Pairings: Spencer Reid x agent!Reader Word Count: 3k words Warnings: Descriptions of crime scenes/vague gore, mentions of death and murder, standard Criminal Minds stuff, fluff otherwise... A/N: I started watching CM a while ago and now I can't stop so enjoy this. There will be more, I dunno when. (Should I be working on my months-in-progress-wips? Yes, I absolutely should. Am I? Mostly. I'm trying my best)

Morgan rubs his temple, digging his fingers into the side of his forehead as he shakes his head. Tapping his pen on the desk, he tosses down his file. “But here's what I don't get,” he says, drawing the attention of the rest of the team. “If the unsub thinks of his victims as prey, even going as far as to torture the victim, why go through all the trouble of tucking them into bed?”

Hotch looks back at the picture in his own hands, where he had been analyzing the scene for the hundredth time in search of something he missed the first hundred. He shrugs, “Tucking them in can usually indicate signs of remorse.”

JJ motions to the pictures. “Yeah, but look at this guy. Does this look remorseful to you?”

You lift a shoulder, leaning back in your seat and crossing your arms. “Could be a second unsub.”

You are a relatively new addition to the team. It was your fifth case with them, but they already treated you like part of the team, like family. It was easy to sink into the ebb and flow of everything, especially when they trust your skills and instincts and let you know when you're doing something wrong so you know not to do it again.

But this case was difficult. Your unsub had a strange profile: an organized, white male, with surgical experience and the MO reminiscent of a cat. He kills men and women alike, and the only connection between his victims have been their smaller statures.

The age range itself was too wide, though there was a slight reoccurrence of ages between 25 and 35. But it was still too wide, either way, not enough to work with.

He ties up and tortures them before finally ending their lives with strangulation. He uses his bare hands to get the job done, which makes him a sexual sadist. As if that wasn't enough, he carves out the victim’s heart after death and takes it as a trophy.

He shows plenty of psychopathic characteristics, but he also fits the profile of a sociopath, so it's hard to make anything stick. His MO suggests a lack of empathy and guilt, but the bed-tucking… You always lose him with the bed-tucking…

Morgan shakes his head a little, humming. “But we already ruled out multiple unsubs,” he says. You nod gently. “Besides, if this guy is mimicking the hunting habits of a cat, he would hunt alone, wouldn't he?”

Reid’s head perks up. He points a pen in Morgan's direction as he shakes his head. “Actually, no.” He licks his lips, and he's grabbed your attention like a siren to a sailor. “It's a very common misconception that cats are loners, but it's untrue. Cats prefer the companionship of others just as much as a human being would.”

You lean toward him a bit across the table, watching him as he speaks, his hands moving to illustrate his words as he does. “People often think, because of their aloof nature, that they like to be left alone or actually despise the presence of other people, including their owners or other cats—which is why people believe them to be low maintenance creatures. But they are just as social as, say, a dog. Actually, it's interesting, big cats like lions, or sometimes even cheetahs, hunt in packs to take down larger prey. Domestic cats–”

“Reid,” Morgan interrupts, making a cutting motion with his hand to his neck.

Your eyes turn back to Spencer, who seems to retreat in on himself a bit as he gives an apologetic smile and a small nod. “Sorry,” he says, pulling his lips in a wide smile.

You set a hand on the table, shaking your head. “No, keep going. That was interesting.”

Spencer looks at you with these eyes that seem to shine. Your heart feels fonder, warmer, at the sight of him.

“We really don't have time to go through all of this,” Hotch says, his tone final.

“I mean,” you continue. Since joining the team, you've grown a certain affinity toward Spencer and his genius mind. Every time he's gone on his tangents, you've become enchanted by the words coming out of his mouth like he's put some sort of spell over you. You lift a shoulder, gesturing toward him. “If this guy is basing his MO off the hunting patterns of cats, we should…know everything we need to know about them, right?”

Hotch looks at you, his face hard and unreadable. You're unsure if he's considering your proposal or just trying to intimidate you. But then he sighs, his crossed arms loosening a little as he turns to Spencer.

“Reid?”

Spencer looks between you and Hotch, relenting hesitantly as he starts off slow. “Well…I was going to say domestic cats are solitary hunters but sociable creatures.” He picks up his normal speed once more, “They can be very affectionate, especially toward their owners and other cats within their households. They're also one of the only types of cats who play with their prey before killing them, which could be a reason this unsub tortures his victims so extensively in his murders.”

“Wait…” Prentiss says, catching all of your attentions. “You said ‘affectionate toward their owners’.”

“Yeah,” Spencer nods.

She waves her hands gently, “How do cats show affection for their owners?”

Spencer shrugs, “Um, bunting, purring, some scratch, sometimes they leave offerings, like dead rodents, around the house–”

“Right there!” Prentiss exclaims. “They leave offerings.”

You sit up, “The hearts.”

Hotch’s dark brows furrow. “You're saying this unsub is taking the hearts as an offering to someone else?”

Spencer thinks over that, nodding. “It's possible.”

JJ sighs. “But that still doesn't explain why we wouldn't have identified a second unsub earlier.”

Spencer holds out a hand, pointing with his pen. “Actually, it could. You see, cats also have the tendency to mimic the people they hold affection for. We might not have noticed a second MO because the submissive unsub may be mimicking the dominant one.”

“Or learning from him,” Morgan says.

“Learning?” Hotch asks.

Morgan glances around, “Well, if we're sticking so close to this cat thing, older cats often nurture the young and teach them to hunt.” He shrugs, “We could be looking at…brothers? Older and younger?”

“Or lovers,” JJ suggests. She points to a picture, the image of a chest carefully carved open to reveal a missing heart. “If the hearts are offerings, it could be a Valentine.”

“And the bed-tucking?” you ask.

Hotch picks up the picture of one of the victims, “safely” and securely tucked into bed…put to sleep. “Well, if the hearts are offerings for a lover, this unsub is sentimental. He could feel some type of sympathy or guilt for the victim and want to ‘put them to sleep’ after the torture.” He studies the image, a flash of unease behind his eyes that you know all too well. He sets it down.

“Okay, so how do we find them?” Prentiss asks, clicking her pen before setting it down to begin a definitive course of action.

Spencer points to yet another picture. “Look at these injuries. These incisions are surgical,” he clarifies. “So the dominant is a doctor or a—a veterinarian, which can be implied through his intimate knowledge of cats’ behaviors.”

“And the submissive might work under him as a nurse or an assistant,” you continue, adding on to his clever insight. He glances over at you, smiling almost giddily at your understanding.

Hotch turns to Morgan. “Do you think that's enough to work with?”

Morgan thinks for a moment, his shrug melding into a nod as he turns back to Hotch. “To fit in with the rest of the profile,” he hums, “I'd say so.”

“Okay.” Hotch nods firmly. “We'll present the profile ASAP. Morgan, get Garcia to search for any vets in the area with any records of assault charges.” He says this all while taking long strides toward the door, his red tie bouncing slightly with his movements.

Prentiss follows him with her gaze as he exits. “You think the unsub is aggressive?”

He turns briefly. “Look at the bruising on the neck. The torture alone is an indicator of anger and frustration, but the way the victim was strangled suggests force. Much more than necessary just to crush a windpipe. He's an organized killer with a lot of rage. If he moves more along the lines of a sociopath, our best guess is he's had some kind of trouble with the law at some point in his life,” he concludes. Glancing aside, he speaks again, a little more firmly. “Morgan.”

“On it,” he says, his phone already ready to contact Garcia on speed dial.

“And Reid,” Hotch says, focusing his hard stare on the younger agent.

He stiffens, straightening his back and awaiting his response. “Yes?”

There's a pause as Hotch examines him silently. With a single nod, he says, “Good work.”

He glances at you. A nod.

You nod back.

Hotch leaves in a hurry, and your gaze immediately and instinctively flicks to Spencer. He smiles at you, turning away as though he was shyly hiding that same smile.

~

There were two unsubs: a surgical veterinarian and his nurse. You caught them just in time, just as that knife was gleaming in the golden light of the lamps swinging above the three bodies down in the basement of the submissive unsub’s house.

And now you soared 40,000 feet above the ground with another killer put away for good.

Everyone's in their own spirit, placing you across the aisle from JJ and Spencer in their own booths, a crochet set in your lap as you continue one of your projects. Emily's eyes linger on JJ, watching the crease of her brow as she studies case files.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, setting her book to the side to shift her attention. Derek darts his eyes up from his own book, lifting his brow as he does it.

JJ looks up, breathing in and lifting her shoulder in a half shrug. “I don't know about you,” she says, “but I know that if I got an actual human heart on Valentine's Day, me and my alleged partner would have some serious issues.”

Snorts and chuckles lift from multiple places among the seats, heads shaking and attentions shifting back to their own activities.

But as soon as you hear the first lilt of Spencer's voice, like clockwork, you're a fish on a hook.

“Actually,” he begins, “if we were set back thousands of years, that would not be a very unusual occurrence.” He licks his lips quickly, “You see, Valentine's Day’s origins actually go back to a festival called Lupercal, or Lupercalia. The festival was in itself a very violent and sexually charged affair that lasted roughly three days—from the 13th to the 15th—set in Rome. Its traditions were carried out in two separate locations, firstly–”

“Alright,” JJ rises to her feet, her eyes wide in annoyance as she closes her case file in a large announcement to Spencer. “I'm getting coffee. Do you want anything?”

Spencer purses his lips, that same wide, apologetic grin covering his face as he leans back in his seat and shakes his head. “Uh, no. All good here.”

She nods, turning to walk away, “Great.”

You watch JJ leave, your eyes fall back upon Spencer, who's pulling his book back into his palms to turn his focus back on the pages. His eyes flit over the words at lightning speed, absorbing the information and moving to the next.

Taking your crochet set in your hands, you stand and plop down in JJ’s old spot. Spencer's eyes darts up to you, glancing between you and his book as you set your stuff down and readjust your yarn.

Beginning again, you nod toward him. “You were saying?”

Spencer, his eyes wide and confused and his lips parted in wonder and his cheeks a little pink, stares at you. After remembering he had to respond, he sputters in an attempt to.

“Uh, it's-it's really not that…interesting,” he mumbles, trailing off at the end as he sets his book down, his fingertips pressing against the edge of the desk between the both of you.

“Well,” you look up at him, setting your elbow on the table and tucking your first underneath your chin, “I was very interested.”

His Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. His lips form the word before it comes out of his mouth. “You were?”

You nod, “Mhm.”

Looking at him for a moment—just looking at him for a moment—you take in the pretty sight of his bewildered expression, fascination and confusion and excitement crossing his face in a flurry of emotion.

You move your elbow from the table and pick up your hook, nodding toward him before training your eyes on your work again as you await his words. “Firstly?” you prompt.

Scrambling to organize his thoughts, Spencer nods. As the words form in his brain, he smiles as he thrusts himself into another rant, speaking a little softer so as not to aggravate the rest of the team.

“Well, firstly, the uh— The-the first location was in a cave called Lupercus—named after the Roman fertility god that the celebration was dedicated to—and the second is a public meeting place called the Comitium.”

You tilt your head toward him, smiling a little. “Like the word ‘committee’.”

“Exactly like the word ‘committee’,” he beams.

Your attention, as hard as you tried to split it, becomes entirely caught up in Spencer as you forget about your project and focus your gaze entirely on him. You set your arms on the table separating you and watch as he speaks, your smile definitely too love-sick to be a hint anymore. He seems to lean in closer.

“So how did Lupercalia become Valentine's Day?” you wonder aloud.

“Well,” he starts, prompting a larger grin from you, “in the late 5th century A.D., Pope Gelasius I eliminated it and declared February 14th a day to celebrate the martyrdom of Saint Valentine instead—although it's highly unlikely he intended the day to commemorate love and passion as it is celebrated now. In fact, some modern biblical scholars warn Christians not to celebrate Valentine's Day at all, due to its Pagan roots and rituals.”

You hum, your eyes taking glances at the stretch of his skin over his fingers and the way they move when he speaks.

“Do you celebrate Valentine's Day?” you ask gently, speaking slowly.

His hands fall back down to his lap, and he shakes his head as he straightens his posture a bit. “Well…I don't usually have anyone to celebrate it with, so… No, not really.”

Feeling the shyness slipping into your veins, you set your hands on the table and let your fingers slowly inch toward him, staring at them inside of his eyes. You don't want to see the rejection if it lives there, in his eyes.

You speak slowly, emphasizing every syllable. “Would you like to have someone to celebrate it with?”

He swallows thickly, letting one hand lift onto the table, still close to him but building up courage to maybe meet you in the middle. “Like…” he clears his throat quietly. “Like you?”

You offer a right smile, finally flicking your eyes up to meet his and feeling giddy at the light blush on his cheeks, the nervous wideness of his gaze. “I promise no actual hearts.”

You watch him, and again…his eyes, his Adam's apple, his cheeks, his lips. “Uh…yeah,” he stutters. “Yeah, sure. I'll be your…your Valentine.”

You smile, a wide smile that splits your face in two. Spencer's own grin follows suit. Looking past you, he catches the eyes of Derek, who smirks and offers a cheesy thumbs up, proud of him for securing you as he did.

His gaze falls back to you when you begin to speak, your voice just as song-ish to him as his is to you. You're both equally as infatuated as the other. “You know,” you trail off slowly, “supposedly, Saint Valentine might be so commonly associated with our day of love because there are rumors that he used to perform secret weddings against the wishes of the authorities in the third century.”

He nods slowly, his brows furrowed slightly. “Yes, that's right…” Licking his bottom lip, he speaks again. “You already knew all that stuff about Lupercalia, didn't you?”

You smile, your face squished a bit as you raise your hands and close your thumb and forefinger close together. “Maybe a little,” you whisper. But then you shrug and just keep looking at him. “But I like listening to you talk.”

Spencer suddenly doesn't think you're real, but he isn't about to question it if you aren't. There's someone who enjoys his tangents. He isn't going to jeopardize that.

“Oh,” is all he says.

With your crocheting long forgotten, you lean forward on the table and give him every ounce of attention in your mind. With a fond smile on your lips and a twinkle in your eye, you rest your chin on your folded hands. “You should tell me about…” you pause, thinking, before you smile curls even more, “bees.”

His brows lift as he nods. “Okay, well,” he starts, “did you know the first civilization to practice widespread, organized beekeeping was the Ancient Egyptians, who began beekeeping around 2,500 BCE?”

Your brows lift in fascination. You shake your head, “No, I didn't.”

His smile grows. “Well…”

For the remainder of the flight, Spencer talks and talks and talks, his voice quiet and meant solely for you as he talks about whatever you want: bees and wine and marbles and Halloween. He keeps smiling at you, as you keep smiling at him. Somewhere along the way, he officially asks you on a date, and you both get off the jet together to get a cup of coffee.

You love the way he talks.

Criminal Minds taglist: ... Tag yourself here...

[commonstarguy]

literally digging my heels into the mud begging to be freed from old interests i had when i was 14

[sofasoap]

At the barbers

Pairing: John Price x F!Medic! Reader (call sign : Chameleon)

Summary: Part of @glitterypirateduck's John Price "O, Captain! Challenge" prompt used : 92: Giving Price a haircut and/or shave

Warning: T-M rating.

A/N: as mention previously in my Little secret series, Reader is from immigrant/non-Caucasian background. I know nothing about military. Thank you @mini-metal for giving me few suggestions and few ideas! *hugs*

Part of the Memory in a Fragrance series Part of Little secret series

Master list

“Love.”

“Hmmm?” 

“Would you mind giving me a hand here please?” John struggled as he tried to lift his injured arm to trim his beard. 

You sighed. “I am only good with surgical knives and scissors.” You took the trimmer off his hand and gently pushed his arm down. “Why not go to a barber?” 

“.... I am not quite comfortable with someone holding a blade to my neck.” 

“And you are comfortable with ME doing it?” you cocked an eyebrow. 

He hummed. “That’s because you are my wife. I trust you with all my life.” he pressed a kiss into your forehead. Wrapping his good arm around you as you sink into his embrace. 

“Well I am flattered by the great Captain Price trusting me with a knife to his throat.” you giggled, “But I really wouldn’t trust myself to trim my own dead ends off, let alone take a risk of destroying your luscious mutton chop.” You could almost feel him rolling his eyes as he mumbled something incoherent.

“How about one of the boys helping you?”

“I don’t trust them either.” he rumbled. “I trust them with my life.. But I wouldn’t trust them NOT destroying my beard. I already heard them plotting to shave my beard off in my sleep a few times.” 

You couldn't help but laugh. “ Well… We gotta think of something. Can’t let you leave your hair and beard go until your arms heal….” 

The strong leathery, lavender and cedarwood, faint hint of cigar smell hits you as soon as the two of you walk into the shop. The old radio playing some jazz music in the background, the old barber sitting on the wooden stool, reading the newspaper. It brings you distant memories. One of those rare happier moments when you were younger…. 

John finally agreed after a bit of coaxing from you to get his hair and beard done by the professional instead of you trying your luck. 

“I will go with you, how about that? And maybe I can learn a few tricks and tips from the professional?” you suggested. 

The barber waved to your husband to sit down on the chair after you explained to him what needs to be done. He was more than happy to teach you how to help John to maintain his pride and joy. 

Price couldn’t hold back his smile as he saw how focused and concentrated you are, pouting and wrinkling your nose as you listened to the barber explaining each step and how to use the tools. It helps to distract him from some strangers working so closely to him with sharp apparatus. The barber even handed over the scissors a few times for you to try out. 

“Stop moving, you are laughing too much.” you mumbled as you tried to trim the extra long strains around the edge of his jaw. “I don’t think you want me to accidentally take a chunk out of your beard, and have the boys laugh at you at work.” “I could always shave all my beard off.” “Oh so you changed your mind? You're definitely going to give them a heart attack and give me a heart break if you do that. So…  Never.” you laughed as you handed the scissors back to the barber. 

“You get to see Lieutenant John Price?” 

“As much as you were a handsome young man back then,I would rather keep that memory in the photos.” You pointed out as you sat back down, letting the professional get back to work. 

You observe your husband’s side profile with a faint smile on your face as the barber finishes off the rest of the trimming and hair cut. Even after years of marriage, you still have a hard time believing, this handsome man is your husband. 

The moment you set your eyes on him, you didn’t think you had much of a chance. The ranks, the personality, the background…. Everything. 

But he chose you. 

“I choose you? I should be thankful you chose me, my love.” he whispered into your ear one night after you confessed your insecurity. Nuzzling his face into your neck. “For bearing my temper…my imperfections.” 

“What do you think?” he looked at your eyes through the mirror as the barber dust the rest of the beard and hair off his shoulder, seeking for approval. 

Moving yourself to stand in front of him, you gently lay your hand on his face, tilting it to the left, and to the right, and finally, giving him a kiss on the lip, enjoying the smell of the aftershave.

“Handsome. And the best mutton chop I have ever seen.”

“You sound like you have seen quite a few in your life.” he chuckled as thank and paid the barber for his service.

“Maybe, maybe not.” you teased him as you wrap your arm around him. “But it’s definitely the mutton chop that always gives me a good time.” you could see his cheek redden under the beard. “Now, it’s not so scary is it? Having someone else to trim your beard for you.” 

“If you come with me again next time.” he squeezed your hand fondly.

“Gladly.”

“Oh what, you mean we missed out a chance of trying to shave his beard off?” “And You will get your mohawk shaved off too if you do that, MacTavish.” 

Thank you @glitterypirateduck for hosting another wonderful event!!!! *hug*

Tag list: @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world

@homicidal-slvt @mini-metal

@okayyadriana @deadbranch @cumikering @siilvan

@random-thot-generator @random0lover @devcica @nrdmssgs @glitterypirateduck @mmyrrhh

@mistydeyes, @groguspicklejar @roosterr

@gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot, @writeforfandoms @whydoilikewhump @tapioca-marzipan @alypink, @liyanahelena, @phoenixhalliwell

[longhardtransitionreturns]

Mpreg birth where bunny omega’s are the lowest class in society and have high fertility rates and so are forced to be surrogates and so their only purpose is to be bred and give birth.

***

The fucking had been brutal. He remembered how he had been bred by over 100 different Alpha’s in the course of 4 weeks. The intended parents had decided to stay for each and every time he was bred.

The breeding had been successful. And now 9 months later he’s in a similar position to when he was bred. Legs strapped wide in stirrups, naked except from the green hospital sheets covering his legs. The doctor geared up in surgical gear and scrubs ignoring him whimper as he gazes intensely between his legs, stretching his red burning hole wider. 2 nurses also geared up gripping his restrained legs on either side as three sets of eyes observe his hole as it stretches wider and wider.

The room is silent besides the beep of the heart monitor and his little whimpers.

“Please sir please let me push?” the question is asked meekly, as he squirm's trying to fight the burning sensation. The nurses both look to him and he gasps as one abandons holding his legs to pin his head to table before clamping an O2 mask to his face. Virtually stopping him from making any noise at all.

Or any protest.

He feels the doctor place his large gloved palm over his crowning hole before gently slapping his cock which had been taped back, causing him to flinch.

“Don’t Push.”

The command is simple, his voice cruel and cold as it tended to be. The only thing he could do is obey him- too weak and naturally obedient to resist.

“Nurse, get me the scissors and forceps.”

He gasped as he heard those words, eyes feeling with tears as he felt the nurse holding his mask push it tighter to him, to avoid him making unnecessary noise.

The doctor had always liked the omega’s to be nice and quiet. Either being fucked or giving birth it didn't matter.

He gasped lightly as he felt the cool sharp edge of the scissors run down his hot burning hole, teasing it over his taught skin stretching with the weight of his baby’s head as it sat heavy just outside his passage.

And thenthe doctor cut.

He let out a strangled scream, obscured by his mask as he felt warm red liquid run between his legs and into his ass crack, the uncomfortable sensation barely surpassing the cut of his skin the scissor shad made.

He was ignored as the doctor immediately forced the forceps into him causing him to cry out and shudder. The nurse holding onto his leg looking interestingly between his spread legs. And the nurse holding his head and his mask looking interestingly at the scene.

He felt himself sobbing at the sensation of it all. He really just was a breeding slave. That was the purpose he served.

He barely registered the distant cries of the infant as it passed through his hole, only whimpering as his hole contracted and burned, now cold and left open as the doctors and nurses attended to the baby, scrubbing it down and wheeling it off to give to the intended parents.

The rest was silent as the doctor stitched him up- his actions callous with no affection or praise, both the nurses cleaning him up.

In the end he was still strapped wide in stirrups, completely naked, the green sheets removed from his legs as the doctor discared his gloves and made his way to wash his hands at the sink.

“Wheel him up to the breeding room again.”

The nurses obeyed as they pushed his gurney into the hallway. His broken hole on display for all to see as he was wheeled to the breeding room- listening to the sounds echo off from that room from the slap of skin to moans, whimpers and screams.

He had resigned himself to his fate.

Hope you enjoyed!!

Holy crap did I enjoy! 🤤 That was so unbelievably hot. What a gift! Thank you for writing and sharing!

[catscidr]

Can I please request Dottore x clingy reader who loves giving him affection thank you! 💕

hell yeah baby that's what i'm TALKIN ABOUT ୧(☉□☉୨ ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ cw: fluff, vague mentions of gore includes: gn!reader, dottore, webttore mentionned for like a second wc: 1k

6 minutes. 

That was the longest amount of time Dottore had gone without being bugged by your presence. Well, "bugged” was a bit of a strong word- maybe more so inconvenienced by your endless whining for attention. It’s not that he hated it, it was quite the opposite really, but he actually needed to get work done before tomorrow and couldn’t afford to get distracted this time around. You called out after him for the millionth time today, trotting up to his side with an almost puppy-like expression, looking up at him expectantly. 

Currently wrist deep in the guts of one of his poor victims, he swallowed down the urge to speak his mind honestly, instead choosing to glance over at you from the corner of his eyes. His glare (unfortunately) did nothing to deter your determination and willpower- with his attention now on you, you flash him a bright smile, wrapping your arms around his torso from his right side. 

“Hey, why don’t you take a break?” you ask, tilting your head up to look at him properly. Dottore’s sharp, angular features never failed to make you swoon no matter how many times you looked at his unmasked face. You think it’s a blessing, but he argues that it’s a curse- especially now that you won’t leave him alone, making him pause his work. 

“No,” he sighs for the nth time, bringing his attention back to the corpse on the metal table. “I have work to do. Why don’t you go bother Delta instead? He should be filing out some paperwork,” the doctor says, skillfully shrugging you off of him. You shake your head, resting your hands on his forearm to give him the space he needed. 

“I don’t want to hang out with him though,” you say with a frown, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “Come on, you’ve been working non-stop for ages now. Just a small break! An itty bitty one. Like thirty minutes. You can spare that much, can you?” 

The Harbinger stares at the wall with a deadpan expression, weighing his options. On one hand, he could give in, listen to you and take a much needed break. But on the other hand, he could always just... lock you in his office. Not that he would leave you there for long, just enough for him to get this experiment over with. Plus it’s not like you’d be like a dog stuck in a hot car in the middle of summer without any a/c, he had a plush sofa he never used im his office alongside a mini fridge he also never used. The amenities were there for this exact scenario, anyways- so you’d be comfortable while waiting for him to be done. Although, the more he thought about it, the more his body began to feel heavy, exhaustion seeping through his limbs. Dottore grumbles some choice words under his breath and withdraws his arms out from the bloody mess that came from his current experiment and makes his way towards the sink. You follow after him, curious. 

“‘Ttore?” 

“I give up,” the doctor sighs, his shoulders slumping forward. He turns on the sink and discards his bloody surgical gloves, washing his calloused hands under the cold water to get rid of whatever gunk had gotten on his skin. “What do you want?” he asks in an indecipherable tone. You perk up noticeably, a smile making its way back to your face as you watch him dry his hands and turn around to give you his full attention. 

“Just wanna spend time with you, honestly.” you say a little sheepishly. “Have you eaten yet?” 

“Not hungry.” 

“Wanna take a walk? Get some fresh air?” 

The offer seemed tempting. After spending hours smelling nothing but hospital-grade cleaning supplies, iron and death the doctor wouldn’t say no to a trip outside of his lab- that is to say if he were anyone but the second Harbinger. 

Instead, he grabs his mask and lab coat from the coat rack and begins to walk away, making a gesture for you to follow after him. And you do so eagerly, catching up to him fairly quickly considering how long his strides were. 

Your footsteps echo in the quiet hallways, the only sound bouncing off the ornate walls of the otherwise cold and barren palace. The both of you reach your destination, Dottore pushing the door open to reveal his (barely used) bedroom. Tossing his coat aside and placing his mask on his nightstand, he loosens his button-down shirt and sits on his bed, looking at you with a raised brow. 

“Are you going to stand in the doorway all day?” he asks with the slightest bit of amusement, kicking off his shoes and repositioning himself to lay down on the bed properly. You snap out of it and shake your head, closing the door behind you, jumping in next to him happily. Your bodies fit with one another perfectly, his arms snaking themselves around your waist while you hold him around his shoulders, keeping one free hand to stroke his icy locks. He hums contentedly, eyelids fluttering shut. 

“Happy?” he asks, voice muffled from how close his face is to your chest. Your nails gently scratch his scalp, drawing out a soft sigh from the doctor. 

“Very,” you say, smile audible in your tone of voice. Dottore simply hums in response, basking in the comfort of the warmth of your body against him. Part of you felt the need to ask him how long he wanted to stay like this knowing that the doctor hated being away from his lab but, feeling a bit selfish, you allow yourself to revel in the small victory that came in the form of finally convincing Dottore to let you have him all to yourself for a portion of his day. The both of you drift off peacefully, knowing perfectly well that you’re going to repeat this dance once more in the morning when the Harbinger has to work.

[mediumgayitalian]

“Your hands.”

William smiles, tiredly, glancing down at the chapped fingers crooked around the tarnished silverware.

“Yes,” he says. “I know.”

“Don’t they hurt?”

“I’m used to it.”

He smiles again, after he says it; I’m used to it, don’t worry. He eats fine, does not wince as he moves and flexes the cracking skin, but it does not take long for them to bleed; sluggishly, slowly, pearling along tectonic lines, pooling in creases and knuckle dips.

Niccolò returns to his dinner, and watches him. The tap of his foot is at odds with the clink clink clink of his knife, the scrape of his fork along his chipped front tooth. His shoulders droop but his face does not, hair still pinned back, eyes sleepy and far away. His freckles seem to twinkle under the flickering of the candlelight, making those blue eyes into something sparkling.

“You should sleep,” Niccolò says, swallowing. “You’re tired.”

William finishes the last of his plate, and smiles, again, small and pretty and tired, still, but the gentle kind.

“It is my turn with the washing.”

“Yes,” Niccolò agrees, “but you are sleepy. And your hands are chapped.”

William says nothing more, only hums, but he kisses Niccolò’s forehead as he passes, gentle, squeezing his shoulder, and sets his dishes on the counter by the sink, untouched.

“Goodnight,” he calls from the bedroom, as Niccolò’s hands are slippery from the soap, and warm.

“Goodnight,” Niccolò responds, and turns back to the sink. He can hear the bed springs creak, and William sigh, and he smiles, waiting on the snores. They do not take long. He hums along to them as he finishes, washing up the pots, too, and the oven, and the counters. Soon the kitchen is sparkling and the sun sits low on the horizon, and he dusts, too, having noticed the griminess floating among the golden rays.

At the end of it his hands are smarting. The soap clings to his skin, even as he rinses them, and he tries to avoid picking at his knuckles, rubbing the skin; reddening them further.

He tries to imagine this, day in and day out; bedpans and food trays and cutlery and surgical knives, all dirtied, all reused. Stinging lye soap and coppery bleach. Aching, chapping hands, curled to bleeding, stretched to tearing; worn through elastic.

He retreats to his study, frowning.

———

based on “he loved her to the point of invention” (7th slide)

[spacelazarwolf]

“Sex based oppression” is terf rhetoric. There is nothing about having a vagina that makes you magically more oppressed. What you’re talking about is misogyny, which transfems experience too, probably worse than you

i had to get parts of my body surgically removed so i could stop worrying about having an accidental pregnancy either through failed birth control or rape that my government has legally required that i would have to carry to term and give birth to whether i wanted to or not regardless of the medical consequences. so yeah actually there is something about having a vagina that makes me a target for a specific kind of oppression. and i genuinely do not know how we got to the point in the Discourse where we’re legitimately trying to argue it doesn’t. just because it’s something trans people who don’t have uteruses don’t have to deal with doesn’t mean they don’t also face a fuck ton of other misogyny and oppression. some of my fiercest supporters when roe v wade was struck down were trans women, and when our state government started going after all trans healthcare we were all there to support each other. bc, and i know this may be a foreign concept to u, we give a shit abt each other as human beings with diverse experiences. we talk about our similarities and differences and ways we can support each other even if we don’t personally know what it’s like to face a particular kind of bigotry. we’re all in the same sinking ship. stop making it sink quicker and help us with the fucking life rafts.

[modular-hospital-equipment]

We are leading as one of the most reputed manufacturer, exporter, wholesaler and trader of utmost quality Medical Equipments. The offered products are appreciated for their precise dimensions, optimum performance, high functionality and durability.

[frudoo]

Being Simon Riley’s barber <3

Warnings: Slight dub-con implied at the end, nothing graphic

He only comes by after dark, just after the shop closes and you’re about to clean up your area. He’s inconsistent with how frequently he visits, but you recognize him by the three short knocks on the window he always gives. You make sure to turn off the cameras before you let him in to respect his privacy—somehow, you’ve got your boss convinced that the security system glitches every so often, and he’s none the wiser. That’s what Simon likes about you, how willing you are to make him feel comfortable.

With a quick nod of your head, you usher him inside and lock the door behind him, double-checking that all the blinds are closed. Once you’re certain that his identity is protected and far out of the public eye’s reach, you allow him to take off his ball cap and black surgical mask (one time, he tried wearing his balaclava, but you didn’t recognize him and almost called the cops, so he swore he’d never wear it again). He huffs in amusement at your grimace when you see the state of his hair.

“Uh-uh. Sit here, I’m washing your hair this time,” you tut, guiding the massive man to sit in the small chair connected to the sink.

Simon grunts in pain when he sits, and you frown as you watch him adjust his body in an attempt to get more comfortable. You gently coax his head back until he’s positioned on the neck rest, running the water until it’s hot enough to sting—the way he prefers it. With careful hands, you run the water over his hair then massage shampoo into his roots, grinning at the content groan he lets out. His eyes fall shut and you steal a few glances at his peaceful face, watching the soft flutters of his long eyelashes when you scrub his scalp just right.

Once his hair is clean, you quickly towel-dry it and help him up from the uncomfortable seat. His joints pop when he stands and stretches but he doesn’t seem to mind. Your barber chair lets out a puff of air when he flops down into it, and you gently smack him with the damp towel in retaliation. Simon snickers, caramel-brown eyes meeting yours in the mirror. You run your fingers through his shaggy hair, identifying the spots that are shorter in places where he tried to cut it himself. He sniffs and watches your facial expressions change, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Tha’ bad?” He questions, happy creases forming around the corners of his eyes and mouth.

“That bad,” you confirm with a giggle, gently positioning his head to keep it straight.

Simon smiles, and it makes your chest feel warm. He’s a handsome guy—it makes you wonder why he’s so keen on hiding his face from the rest of the world. Regardless, he’s a good customer, and you know better than to question a good thing. You wrap the cape around him to catch the hairs that fall so as not to mess up his signature all-black outfit.

He keeps still while you trim his hair short; buzzed on the sides, soft swoop on top. The first time he came to the shop, he tried to convince you to just shave it all off, but when you pouted he told you to do whatever you wanted. Whatever you like, he likes. People rarely see him without his masks anyway.

“Chin down, please,” you mutter and wait for his compliance before trimming down the hair at the nape of his neck until it’s uniform.

You gently pat his shoulders to signal for him to lift his head so he can look at himself in the mirror. Simon tilts his head from side to side to examine your work before nodding in approval. You smile, rubbing some gel onto your fingers and working it through his hair to keep it styled despite knowing he’s just going to put his cap on again. You wipe your hands off on a towel before running cautious fingertips over his stubbled jaw. You click your tongue, mindlessly massaging his face.

“Goin’ for a shave tonight?” You ask, once again meeting his pretty eyes in the vanity mirror.

“Thinkin’ ‘bout growin’ it out,” he shrugs, acting nonchalant, but his heart is racing quicker than a schoolboy’s at your gentle touch.

“Doesn’t sound like you,” you cock an eyebrow but don’t press, “but I’m happy to keep it managed for you. As long as you don’t go for mutton chops—my boss has more than enough for the rest of the world.”

“Migh’ have to, jus’ f’you,” Simon teases, practicing a load of self-restraint to keep from leaning his face into your soft, warm palms. “‘Ow much?”

“It’s on me. You know that,” you grin, finally releasing his face and stepping back to watch him stand from the chair, except he doesn’t.

He sits completely still in the chair, maintaining intense eye contact with you in the mirror. You furrow your eyebrows and twirl his chair around so he’s facing you. He still doesn’t move a muscle, so you cross your arms over your chest.

“Forgettin’ somethin’, pet?” He asks bluntly, snickering at the way your nose shrivels up in confusion.

“I don’t think so?” You mumble, deftly scanning his head to make sure you didn’t miss a spot.

Simon shakes his head and reaches out to grab your waist, swiftly pulling you onto his lap. He grins at your gasp of surprise, fingertips gently running up your back before tangling into your hair. He pulls your head down until your quivering lips are just a breath away from his mouth, a raspy whisper ghosting across your face:

“Gotta pay y’somehow.”

[seravphs]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — IEIRI SHOKO x FEM READER

You went into Jujutsu High knowing you had to avoid crazy people like Ieri Shoko. Somewhere along the way, you married her. 

wc — 300 

tags — a scrap salvaged from a longer fic 

This…is not what you expected to happen when Shoko said she had a surprise for you, but you don’t exactly regret it. Though you might be going to hell for making out on one of her surgical tables. You push her off and wipe your mouth, face hot when you catch the wet stain on your sleeve. “Shoko, I’m not kissing you here. How many dead people have you dissected on this table?” 

She smiles at your expression - even if she would rather be one of her subjects than admit that she thinks your scrunched up nose is adorable. “Not many- oof.” 

She wheezes when you shove her again. “Not many is too many! And I told you to stop smoking - that’s why you run out of breath so easily.” 

“I’m just teasing,” she drawls. “This one is brand new! Can’t have Itadori Yuuji and his demon blood cross contaminating things. Who knows if Sukuna’s presence can be scrubbed off with bleach.” 

You’re still disgusted by the idea of making out on a mortuary gurney. Sending a quick apology prayer out there to whatever entity ruled over shamelessness, you march to the sink and scrub your hands furiously, after shrugging out of your jacket. 

Shoko sneaks up behind you and slips an arm around your waist, head pillowed on your shoulder. “Don’t be like that,” she smiles as you squirm. She’s too close, her breath coming out in warm puffs against your ear, forcing shivers out of you. “You know you love me.” 

You do. That’s why you put a ring on her finger. 

[raz-writes-the-thing]

Science Behind the Madness (Martin Whitly)

Martin Whitly x Fem!Reader 18+ ONLY / requests are open and encouraged

Summary: You're lucky to have a sexual partner so versed in the science behind the female orgasm.

CW: medical play (gloves, patients chair, medical talk), thigh slapping, daddy kink, overstimulation, dirty talk, verbal humiliation. vaginal fingering

Prodigal Sons tag list: (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

___ ___ ___ ___ ___

“Did you know,” Martin says as he slides one gloved, lubed-up finger across your soaked slit. “The behind-the-scenes of the female orgasm is really quite fascinating.” He’s grinning that killer shark grin that you love oh so much. It’s not cute, that’s for sure, in fact, it’s terrifying. A true darkness lay beneath that grin, those eyes. And yet, despite this, that darkness turned you on like nothing else. 

“I-is it?” You stutter, clit already pulsing despite the fact Martin hadn’t even done anything yet. 

“Oh, yes,” he said, absent-mindedly fingering at your slit. His eyes didn’t leave yours for a moment. “See, right now? Your sweet little cunt is lengthening, the cells in your vaginal walls lubricating you. That’s called the ‘excitement’ stage. Not an overly scientific name, I know.” 

You squirm in the stirrups of the patient's chair, cunt clenching on nothing. Martin laughs, and flicks at your clit teasingly. 

“Even that pretty clitoris of yours is starting to swell, isn’t it? How sweet, I’ve barely touched you and you’re so needy for me.” Martin’s tongue flicks across his front teeth, his eyes finally splitting from yours down to look at your pussy. He spreads two fingers across your slit now, splitting your labia apart. Your cheeks flush at the vague humiliation of the act. 

“Oh, but not just your clit, hmm? No, your nipples, too, they start to engorge. I’ll bet they’re starting to get perky, now, aren’t they?” 

You whimper, chewing on your lip. You’re going to start grinding on his fingers soon if he doesn’t finger fuck you to within an inch of your life in the next two seconds. Martin seems to understand this and tuts mockingly before sinking those two fingers to the knuckle inside you. You groan with relief, that deep ache inside easing. 

“Oh, there she is. Look at that. Looks like you’re entering the plateau stage, sweetness,” his fingers start to move, stroking your inner walls and stretching you out before beginning to thrust. You moan openly, to which Martin shushes you with a loving grin. “Now, during the plateau stage, all your other senses are washed away as your brain starts to focus on your orgasm.” 

His fingers start thrusting harder, and you struggle to keep your knees from closing. Martin wouldn’t appreciate that, and he’d have to punish you. You weren’t in the mood for a punishment just now. He chuckles. From his angle, he can almost see your clit twitching and pulsing with pleasure. 

“Oh I know, darling, you want Daddy to play with that pretty clit, don’t you? Can’t cum without it, I know. It’s very common, actually,” his fingers fuck into you harder as he continues. “I believe it’s something like eighty per cent of women can’t finish without clitoral stimulation.” 

Your head drops back into the headrest. You’re panting, chest heaving and sweat beginning to bead along your skin. God, you want to cum. Martin knows exactly how to keep you from doing so, however. He’s got your insides mapped out like a surgical textbook. He knows exactly what spots to hit to make you keen, which spots to avoid that hurt, or which spots to ruthlessly slam into you to make you cum harder than a fountain hose. 

Right now, though, he’s making you wait for it. 

“Where was I?” His fingers slow, and he rubs his thumb over your clit in soft, thoughtful motions. “Oh, yes, the plateau stage. Do you notice how you’re breathing harder now? That’s part of the plateau stage, darling.”

His fingers start stretching you out again, thrusting back and forth, aiming directly for that spot that makes you see stars. 

“Some of the outer parts of the vagina start to engorge with blood,” he continues, completely engrossed by the view of his fingers disappearing and reappearing from your sopping cunt. “Your heart rate, respiratory functions and blood pressure continue to increase as you get closer to that precious orgasm.” 

You bite back the moans threatening to slip loose, and your thighs shake with the effort of staying open. 

“And when you orgasm, and you will- fucking- orgasm for me, darling, that’ll be a whole bunch of vaginal and pelvic floor muscle contractions. Oh, look at that, so close for daddy, hmm? Such a good girl for me, come on.” 

You’re getting so close now, muscles starting to tense, your mouth opening in a silent plea.

“That’s it, oh, look at you. Such a prime example of the female form, hmm? So exquisite. My darling, come for me.”

 

When you can’t even utter a word, and you seem to just be leaning against that precipice, Martin scowls, flashing a murderously determined look towards you. 

“My dear,” he warns. “If you don’t cum for me, you’re going to regret it, I promise you.” He brings his other hand forward, slapping lightly at the inside of your thigh. Your whole body jumps, and Martin tuts. “Come on, little slut, cum for Daddy. Right. Now.” 

His words push you over the edge, orgasm ripping through you. Martin laughs, fucking you through the waves of pleasure. Fucking you through those contractions. You moan wantonly, muscles finally giving in and starting to relax.

“There we go, right there, sweet thing,” Martin says, all smiles once again. “That’s the resolution stage. Post-orgasm the blood pumps back through your system and away from your pretty little cunt.”

 

His fingers had started to slow as your orgasm drained out of you, your clit pulsing pleasurably. It was almost too much. 

“Another interesting fact for you, my dear. Males tend to need time to recuperate after orgasm,” he goes on. You whimper as his fingers start to speed back up again, abusing your, overstimulated G-spot. “But women? Oh, they can go over, and over, and over again. Essentially no recuperation time.”

He scrunches his cheeks up teasingly, standing up from his chair to lean over you, his arm pistons back and forth harder now and without mercy. He was going to make you cum whether you wanted to or not. 

“Isn’t that just- fascinating? I think so. You’re going to cum for me. One more time. Or two, if I feel like it. Daddy wants to watch you come undone on his fingers. And if you’re a good little whore, daddy will fuck you good and proper later, honey, hmm?” 

You nod, head dropping back onto the rest behind you. Your whole body is convulsing with the stimulation. It doesn’t take long at all before you’re reaching that peak again, much to Martin’s visible pleasure. 

“Oh, that’s it. Cum all over daddy’s fingers, darling.” 

You whine, legs twitching with the aftermath of your second orgasm. Martin pulls the glove from his fingers, tossing it into the bin in the corner of the room. 

“See? Now, wait until I tell you all about the benefits of toys, my dear.” 

Martin smirks deviously. 

“That will certainly be a night to remember.”