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#tw medical
dear-ao3 · 2 days
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edit: NOT FULL DISLOCATION
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cowboylexapro · 1 month
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look at my doctors dawg im gonna die
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fallenstarcat · 11 months
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“well it’s good your tests came back normal!”
no. it’s not.
a normal test result doesn’t mean i don’t have symptoms anymore. it just means we’re no closer to an explanation.
i’m still struggling. my symptoms are still getting worse. we just don’t know why, also meaning they don’t take me seriously.
a normal test result is not a a happy thing when disabled.
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identitty-dickruption · 8 months
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the fact that there’s still so much unknown about intersex health isn’t just a fun coincidence. it’s a result of continued medical bias, the focus on trying to make us “normal”, and active medical neglect of intersex people
like. sure, there’s much that is unknown about the human body in general. but the lack of knowledge about intersex people is not independent from medical intersexism
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redcrowncafe · 3 months
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behindthescreamz · 3 months
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katharine isabelle as mary mason in a publicity photoshoot for “american mary” (2012)
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ms-demeanor · 2 months
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IDK that I've ever put it in one post before, but here's the transplant speedrun.
1 - Valentines day 2021, he's admitted to the hospital. We take a pre-hospital selfie then I shave his head and he shaves his beard because he doesn't want to deal with hair at the hospital. Me and his mom drop him off; at that point you can only visit someone as they are actually dying and we're told that he's going to stay in the hospital until he gets a transplant or he dies, and if he's rejected as a transplant recipient he'll receive palliative care in this hospital.
2 - First week of March, they allow patients to have one screened visitor; this is our first visit - I take photos in the hospital to show his mom because at this point he has a pump in his shoulder and it is difficult for him to move his arms to use his phone. He has also been confined to a bed since the week he arrived because he's on the ECMO machine, so he can't walk or move around, though they stand him up every once in a while. At one point one of the ecmo tubes pulls out of his femoral artery, which is Not! Great! He also needed a blood transfusion about every two days at that point, which worried the doctors because it increased his likelihood of rejecting. But he had been approved for transplant at that point!
The first thing he said to me on this visit was "look, I have abs" and then he showed me his abs because it turns out when you're really really dying of heart failure your body begins to eat itself.
3 - Now That's What I Call Jaundice (cardiac cirrhosis is liver failure as a result of heart failure and it's pretty much the big giant neon flashing sign of heart failure that says "hey you're fucking dying" so if you've got heart failure and your bilirubin number is off or the whites of your eyes are yellow please kick up a gigantic stink until they check your liver; large bastard's GP, who is my doctor, who I hate, saw his bloodwork with a very high bilirubin number a month before he was diagnosed with cardiac cirrhosis and wrote it off as a testing fluke fuck that guy)
4 - Don't let the sad face fool you, he's acting pathetic so that his mom will stop yelling about the fact that I'm bringing him cookies. He's allowed to have cookies. At that point he weighed 98kg and was outsourcing his heartbeat, he was allowed to eat whatever he wanted. (have i mentioned that I was moving us from Vegas to LA at this time? I was bringing him cookies because I'd baked hundreds of peanut butter cookies and other cookies to use up the flour, sugar, and peanut butter in the vegas house)
5 - Mid-march, he's got a match! He called me when I was in Vegas filling up the truck with another load and I drove right back and to the hospital. Once he went in for surgery I drove to his mom's house and crashed, then woke up and drove to our storage unit and unpacked the truck while I waited to hear from the doctors. I was unloading a bookcase when I got the call. (There wasn't any point in waiting alone in the hospital for sixteen hours; either he was going to make it or he wasn't and someone was going to have to unload the truck at some point. People have been weird about this, like I should have been sitting at his side all the time, but there was a two-hour daily limit for most visits and look i have sat in a waiting room while this dude had a thirteen hour surgery i do not need a repeat of that experience without the soothing balm of nicotine getting me through it; so unloading a truck it was)
6 - Two days after surgery and kind of mad about it. His chest hurt a lot (obviously) but, like, a lot a lot because they'd had to open him up for the bypass just two years earlier.
7 - First walk outside of his room after transplant in early April; he needed a LOT of PT because of how much muscle he'd lost. He lost sixty pounds in the hospital before the surgery, and only gained back about twenty while he was in there.
8 - A visit from the tiny doggo
9 - I come to visit and I've got a new phone with a portrait mode so he steals it and takes stupid pictures for a few minutes. Dude is bored and restless; this is in late april and he's feeling well enough to be moody. ETA: There is a jar of pickles in front of him because he'd been fluid limited for a long time and his salt levels were off and when he got to the hospital they were like "you need electrolytes and a lot of salt" and he was like "sweetheart can you please please please bring me delicious salty things" so I was bringing him jars of pickled mushrooms and garlic stuffed olives and just a huge number of pickles that he kept trying to share with the nurses. "Alli brought the mushrooms again; would you like a pickled mushroom? I have fancy toothpicks to share them with!"
10 - He comes home for the first time in early May; he ends up getting readmitted two more times because of complications before finally being released in early July. ETA: The second time he got readmitted it was for something that he wasn't at all worried about but that they needed to monitor for a couple weeks so he was *SO BORED* and actually feeling pretty okay; so at one point when I was leaving the parking garage at 8pm my car wouldn't start, I did some troubleshooting with the manual and the internet and didn't figure it out, so I called him and he tried to troubleshoot over the phone and got frustrated and was begging his nurses to let him come out to the parking structure to work on my car (they refused) - I ended up getting a tow and fixing it when I replaced the battery terminals.
Photos are all posted with his permission.
Also I dyed my hair purple between photos one and two because it's his favorite color. I also bought a blue dress, red tights, and yellow shoes to wear to visit him because he always teases me for wearing so much black.
I just love him a lot. It was a hard couple years there, but things are getting better.
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kentocidal · 4 months
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OPEN UP AND SAY "AHH..." .txt
USERS: dentist!kento nanami x fem!afab!reader
WARNING! THIS FILE HAS BEEN CORRUPTED WITH THE FOLLOWING MALWARE: dubcon, oral inspection, gloves, medical malpractice(?), oral (m!receiving), spit, dacryphilia, choking/gagging, power imbalance, oral fixation, ask to tag
NOTES: something happened to me while i was writing this. anyway, here you go. ~3.2k words.
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the dentist’s office was one of those medical buildings that was clearly a house before it was an office. built in a cape cod style with a tiny parking lot that had been added far later. you had found this place online, after it had gotten some stellar five-star reviews that you trusted enough to schedule a consultation and a cleaning. 
it wasn’t one of those gimmicky, commercialized dentists either. it didn’t have a tooth for a mascot, or a commercial with a jingle that never left your head. it was simply a dentist’s office. the page on google came up as “kento nanami, d.m.d., dental practitioner and surgeon.” 
something about the blandness of the webpage, matched with the homey feel of the office, dissuaded your nerves. you had finally found an office you felt comfortable going to get your cleaning at.
you took a breath in as you stepped through the threshold, and found that the home had absolutely been converted to a medical building. the hardwood flooring, the almost sickly yellow lighting, the stock paintings on the walls of oceans or some tropical place. it would almost be tacky in any other place, but it felt right for a dentist’s office such as this.
the girl at the desk, clearly some part-timer, popped her gum as she looked up from her phone when you approached. “do you have an appointment?” “ah, yes. at twelve-thirty?” you nodded faintly, eyes glancing over the girl’s nametag. ‘k. nobara.’ perhaps she was studying under dr. nanami.
she hummed softly as she clicked around on her desktop for a moment, then nodded in agreement. “i see it. here, just fill this out, and i’ll send you right back.” she flashed the barest hint of a bored smile at you as she placed a teal clipboard on the desk with a pen, and you thanked her before going to sit in one of the padded chairs.
name, address, insurance information, when you had your last cleaning, reason for your visit. standard paperwork for a new patient. 
how did you hear about dr. nanami?
you wrote in: online. all positive reviews! :) 
you filled out the rest of your medical information before walking the paperwork back up to nobara, who took it from you and popped the bubble she made with her gum. she barely even looked at it before taking it to the scanner and making a copy. once she finished her own side of the paperwork, she looped around the desk and opened a door to lead you down a tiny hallway. “just this way, please.”
she brought you into a small room retrofitted to be an examination room. the dentist’s chair was in the middle surrounded by all of the necessary equipment. there was a television mounted to the wall, displaying what was on the computer monitor in the corner, there to reflect x-rays and other important images. nobara moved a little table filled with sharp instruments on it over to the side to allow you space to sit in the chair. you sat, taking a breath and sitting back. the leather squeaked under you, and it wasn’t the most comfortable place to be, but it was to be expected.
nobara made sure you were settled before grabbing a piece of blue medical tissue and a thin ball chain with clips on either end, leaning over you to place it around your neck as a bib.
“dr. nanami’s just finishing up with his patient, he’ll be right in for you.”
you nodded and thanked her again, to which she smiled softly before leaving and shutting the door behind herself.
it was quiet outside of the ticking of a clock behind you and faint music playing from another room. it didn’t take long for the music to be turned off, footsteps to come down the hall, muffled chatter to be heard as who you assumed to be the doctor’s last patient gets checked out.
you shift in the seat and lick your lips, nerves returning. you didn’t really like the dentist (who does, anyway?), but you couldn’t find a reason to be so worried about it outside of superstition and online horror stories. 
just as you buried yourself into your head, there were two rapt knocks on the door behind you before it was pushed open. “ms. l/n?”
“ah,” you turned your head and peered over the back of the chair the best you could as the doctor entered and shut the door behind him, “yes, that’s me, hi.”
“nice to meet you.” he was tall, broad, curt; his hair was perfectly styled atop his head, wearing a blue polo and khaki slacks rather than scrubs. the only dentist-ish thing about him was the surgical mask that was pulled under his chin. 
brown eyes met yours and his lips quirked up into a cordial smile as he approached. you smiled back, feeling heat rise to your cheeks; he was far more attractive in person than he was on his medical profile.
“nice to meet you as well. thank you for squeezing me in, i-”
“it’s no problem. there was an opening. it made sense to get you in here quicker rather than make you wait.” he shook his head as he grabbed the rolling stool from under the nearby desk and took a seat, dragging the computer stand over with him to start typing away. 
“you’re here for a consultation, yes?”
“consult and a cleaning, yeah,” you breathed, fingers curling into the fabric of your pants. “it’s… been a while.”
“when was the last time you had a cleaning?”
“three years?” you smiled sheepishly when the doctor cast you a sidelong glance and clicked his tongue. “i didn’t mean to keep forgetting! i was new to the area at that time, and it just kept slipping my mind.”
“still, it’s not good to neglect regular visits like that. i’ll make sure you schedule your six month follow-up before you leave today.”
you nodded, because that made sense. at least he seemed to care about your health, unlike some other dentists you’ve had before in the past.
dr. nanami typed for a moment more before pushing the computer away and getting back to his feet. “before we can start, i need to take some x-rays of your teeth. have you had this done before?”
“a long time ago, yeah,” you watched closely as dr. nanami took a step over to where a protective vest was hanging, watching him pull it down before approaching you again.
he used a foot pedal to lean the chair back slightly, and you went with it, your head resting against the high back of the chair. he looked much taller from this lower angle, his cheekbones high and his jaw cut and perfectly angled. 
he laid the heavy vest over your chest and then leaned over your body completely to reach for the x-ray camera that was hovering overhead, tugging it down closer to you. you sucked in a breath; he smelled of some foreign, expensive cologne, the scent making your head spin slightly. 
dr. nanami hummed in the back of his throat as he stepped away from you to reach for a box of gloves on the desk, tugging out two of the black latex garments and pulling them on, one at a time. you watched the latex shine in the sickly fluorescent light of the examination room, watched the way he stretched the rubbery material over thick fingers and broad palms. one by one, he snapped them on, making sure he was protected. 
you shifted in the chair again when he leaned over you to bring the plastic piece to your mouth. he was so close – he had to be, this was an exam, snap out of it! – “i just need you to open up wide and then bite down on this, okay? it’s going to take a few photos of your teeth and your jaw.”
you blinked like a deer in headlights, because suddenly a gloved finger was tapping your cheek. you opened your mouth, nice and wide, and felt the cold plastic slip past your lips and rest between your teeth.
“bite down,” and you did, “that’s it. good. now stay still.”
you found yourself preening under his ministrations. he would step away and let the machine whir as it photographed your teeth and your bones and your jaw structure, and then he would be right back in your space to adjust where you were holding the piece between your teeth. he took about five or six pictures (it felt like you were swimming in his cologne) before he finally pulled the piece from your mouth with a soft pop and pushed the attachment away.
his wide, gloved hands lifted the vest from your chest, and you felt like you could breathe again once the weight was gone.
“not so bad, hm?” dr. nanami quipped, though he didn’t smile, and you laughed airily like a little girl who got caught with ice cream she shouldn’t be having.
“not so bad, right.”
he nodded once before he took a seat on the stool again and sat right next to you, pulling up the fresh x-rays as they loaded up. you were presented with the images on the television just as dr. nanami viewed them up close on the computer screen in front of him.
“your teeth look good,” he murmured, as if it was more to himself than to you. “all even – none missing. adult teeth grew in almost perfectly, though you did wear a retainer briefly, did you not?”
“yes.”
“right.” he clicked over towards an image of your molars, humming under his breath. “have you been experiencing any pain in this area?”
“hm? no, why?”
“there’s a bit of a dark spot here,” he moved the mouse over to a spot on the image, on a tooth that had to be all the way in the back of your mouth. “it could be a cavity.”
you moved your tongue in your mouth to feel for it, but came up short. “i don’t feel it, but maybe.”
dr. nanami pushed the computer away and shifted closer to you, reaching up over your body to grab the light fixture and drag it down towards you. using the foot pedal again, he brought your chair back, back, back; it felt like you were completely horizontal by now. 
he rolled his stool over to be behind your head, leaning over you. it was almost as if your head was in his lap, separated only by the chair’s headrest.
he pulled the light down lower until it was perfectly on your lips. once settled into position, he moved his surgical mask back up and over his mouth and nose, and you thought that it somehow made his eyes all the more alluring to you.
“i need to conduct a further oral examination to assess the cavity. is that alright?”
“yes,” you breathed, and dr. nanami made a sound of approval. 
you figured he would reach over for the metal table and grab for one of those little mirrors, or maybe even a water pik of some kind, but, no; dr. nanami leaned more over you and pressed two gloved fingers to your lips.
“open up and stick your tongue out, yeah?”
you blinked at him, heat rushing up to your cheeks once again. you felt as though your ears were playing tricks on you; dr. nanami had sounded huskier, like his voice had dropped an entire octave when he muttered the command to you.
you swallowed the saliva that pooled on your tongue before opening your mouth as wide as you could, sticking out your tongue and flattening it so he could see your teeth better. 
“good girl.”
your whole body shuddered the moment those gloved fingers pressed on your tongue with the utterance of those two little words. what was this?
a part of you was saying that something was off about his ministrations, about the way his fingers pressed and almost petted the flat of your tongue before starting to explore deeper. the other parts of you, however…
it felt as though you were floating as dr. nanami brought his other hand up to your face to hook a finger in your cheek and pull slightly, tugging your mouth open just a little wider. your eyes fluttered and you made a wet little sound, only for dr. nanami to click his tongue behind his mask and murmur for you to settle. 
his fingers continued their journey, probing and prodding at the warm flesh of your cheeks, the hardness of your teeth, rubbing and feeling over your tongue and your flesh and bone.
you whimpered softly when you felt his index finger rub over your molar in the far back of your mouth. it felt as though his whole hand was forcing your little mouth open, but that definitely wasn’t the case. 
“what a pretty little mouth you have,” muttered the doctor, before his fingers dove down towards your throat.
you gagged harshly around his digits and kicked up a fuss in the chair, rattling the attachments and kicking your feet. dr. nanami let up only for a moment as you felt drool start to form at the corners of your mouth and coat your tongue. your eyes brimmed with tears, wetting your lashes, and dr. nanami only watched you with those golden brown eyes.
you couldn’t see the bottom half of his face, but he had to have been panting.
“your teeth are in very good condition,” he spoke in such a soft tone it almost had you relaxing again as he unhooked his finger from your cheek, letting your jaw slip just slightly closed again to try and find comfort. 
“ah, i’m not finished,” dr. nanami chastised you with a tap of his wet finger on your cheek, and you whined softly under him as his forefinger started to probe and inspect your mouth yet again.
one by one he inspected all of your teeth the best he could, feeling each one, filling your mouth with the taste of latex and the scent of his cologne. your eyes were locked on his face, while his were locked on the way your lashes stuck together, wet with tears, and drool started to drip from your lips and drag down your cheeks. 
his eyes flickered away from his inspection for a brief moment to watch the way your thighs were squeezing together, and that was it for him, the sign that he needed.
he pulled his fingers from your mouth and tugged his mask off of his face, placing it to the side as you heaved.
“now then,” he started, shifting back away from you as you caught your breath, “your teeth are in perfect condition, but i’m concerned about your throat. let’s… conduct an experiment.”
your wet eyes shifted hazily backwards as you tried to look at him again, only to be met by a thick cock springing free from dr. nanami’s khakis. he was leaky and drippy at the tip, and it smacked wetly against your cheek.
oh. oh.
you squirmed in the seat and moved yourself backwards (or, well, up towards him) with a bit of his help, a wet hand on your shoulder tugging your body up so your head would hang off the headrest of the dentist’s chair. 
from this angle, dr. nanami didn’t even need to get up. he could stay seated in his stool and let you do all the work.
but you were his patient, and he was your doctor. he would take care of you.
he shifted his weight and took his cock in hand, guiding the tip over your spit-soaked lips. his other hand wrapped loosely around your throat, his thumb hooking onto your jaw to force your mouth open.
“there you go, nice and wide, just like that…” dr. nanami hunched over you, studying your fucked out expression. “is this okay?” “ye-yes,” you whispered, and dr. nanami finally smiled down at you. it was brief and fleeting, but it was there.
and then he gathered spit between his lips and let it drip down onto your waiting tongue.
you moaned, quiet and wanton, just as dr. nanami slipped his cock into your mouth.
he tasted musky and salty and perfect. he fucked your mouth open slowly, his hand a nice weight on your throat, helping to hold your twitchy body down as you shook with anticipation.
slowly, slowly, he worked the tip of his cock further and further into your mouth, until he was muttering, “open wider, wider, just like that, good girl, take it…”
it felt like all of your blood was rushing to your brain in this position, but at the moment, you didn’t care. all you cared about was how you choked and gagged around the tip of dr. nanami’s cock as he worked it into your awaiting throat.
he sheathed himself in your tight heat and started to rut into you as your throat fluttered around his girthy length. the room filled with the sounds of skin-on-skin, soft gags, wet plaps, and dr. nanami’s little gasps and moans.
he moved his hand from your throat to the hem of your pants, managing to undo the button and the zipper with just one gloved hand before it was slipping into the front of your panties to graze over your clit.
you gasped and moaned around his cock before starting to choke again, drool dribbling all over your cheeks and face as dr. nanami collected some of your slick on his gloved fingers to rub your clit in quick circles.
“shh, quiet. feels good, right? feels nice to have your throat fucked like this? you like it when your doctor touches you here?”
you had gotten so turned on that his words were almost enough to send you over the edge, your nails clawing at the rubbery material of the dentist’s chair.
“i can feel you throbbing,” he grunted as he fucked his cock deeper into your throat, “go ahead, cum on my fingers, cum, cum-”
his fingers didn’t stop even as you creamed in your pants and all over his gloved hand, your body jerking and your throat constricting around his cock. dr. nanami groaned low in his throat as he finished down yours, pumping his hips slowly and riding out his own high.
he pulled back from you and panted, pulling his hand from your panties and licking your juices off of his glove, then discarding both. 
you laid on the dentist’s chair, head hung over the edge, boneless and still twitching from the waves of your pleasure.
“now, for your cleaning…”
“so, do you want to make your six-month follow-up now? or should we send you a letter reminder in the mail?” nobara popped her gum and twirled her pen between her fingers as she looked you over.
“i’d-i’d like to make it now, please.”
“sure. and don’t forget to leave us a good review online, alright?”
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faeriekit · 10 months
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Health and Hybrids 👽👻💚
[I can't remember the original prompt posters for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and whatever prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]
[Here's part one or whatever. If I feel like making more I'll make more and/or post it to ao333333.]
💚👻👽👻💚
The world is on fire, and Danny is burning.
The GAV is in shreds; wherever he’s crashed, there’s no way to determine up or down. He’s entombed in wreckage. Everything is on fire and everything burns, and it takes Danny all his strength to peel himself from where he’s contorted around the driver’s seat chair, to drag himself through the twisted metal and shards of glass with nothing but his hands and his tears.
He hurts.
It hurts so badly.
He crawls, because he can’t tell if he has legs or a tail right now, and is too afraid to find out he can’t walk by injuring one of his legs permanently. It’s hard to see through the smoke and the tears. He can’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe even if he wanted to.
There are instincts unique to being dead. Danny can’t tell up or down, and he can’t tell where he is or remember how he got here, but his core tugs him towards somewhere dark. Somewhere cool. Somewhere enclosed, even—even better, so Danny can curl up and sob in peace.
Danny wedges himself into a dark corner, curls himself up as much as he can, and lets himself drop into his core.
*
Something is touching him somethingistouchinghimsomethingistouchinghim—
Danny pops out of his core with a scream. No words. No coherency. Everything hurts, and all he can do is scream.
Someone is touching him. The thing touching him is body-shaped. Human-shaped. Danny screams higher, louder—some part of his hindbrain knows that if he screams for real then there won’t be a human but there will be guts and gore and blood, but Danny’s too tired to scream for real, and too weak. His scream is only enough to send the human sprawling back instead.
More humans take the place of the first. Danny keens, fights back a sob—when another tries to rouse him from his hiding spot with an exposed hand, Danny flashes his teeth.
The human flinches, but doesn’t go away.
Danny feigns a fanged bite. The figure jumps back. Good.
He’s too weak to run. He’s too weak to walk through the walls of his hiding spot and dart away. His visibility flickers—probably how a human found him in the first place. He’s so tired. Everything hurts. But if he looks dangerous and acts dangerous, maybe they’ll leave him alone. They have to leave him alone.
Please, please leave him alone.
They don’t.
There’s something in his face. Danny doesn’t recognize the shape immediately, but eventually something clicks: a loop on a stick is a catchpole. The strangers are trying to capture him.
He’s so afraid of something else around his neck. His whole body racks with shivers. He can’t run. He can’t bite. Please, please, please—
It doesn’t latch to his hand. It latches to his wrist.
Danny is only peripherally aware of being dragged onto his knees, of being dragged into a container. By the time the doors shut in around him, his mind is empty of anything that isn’t fear and pain, pain, pain.
He drops into his core.
*
Danny wakes up in a container.
It’s not the same container. But all containers are the same.
Danny screams. The soundwaves vibrate the glass until it shakes, slamming against the floor until cracks form in the concrete beneath him.
Still, no cracks form in the container. When he wails a second time, there’s no strength behind it. He just sobs.
He’s alone. He’s alone and he’s contained and no one is coming to get him. His transportation is in pieces. He’s injured and he’s scared. He’s so scared. Everything hurts. He wants to hide in his core and he wants to run away and he wants to slither through the wall and he doesn’t have the energy into any of it.
Danny curls up in a corner, hopes he’s left alone—or better, released—and hides.
He doesn’t know how much time passes before he hears a click.
…But he hears a click. Danny peeks open an eye.
There’s…food. He thinks it’s food, anyway. Oatmeal? It’s in a bowl and it’s beige and it’s on a tray on the ground.
Danny sniffs. …The last captors hadn’t offered him food. They hadn’t thought he’d had needs, or that they ought to feed him.
It’s a miserable, aching feeling when he thinks this is a step up.
There’s a flimsy plastic spoon on the tray. When Danny jumps on the bowl, devouring the contents as quickly as his body will let him, the spoon goes down the hatch with the gruel.
Danny falls back asleep in the far corner of the container miserable, cold, in pain, and injured. But he falls asleep full.
It’s a luxury to not be hungry.
*
There’s a click.
Danny ignores it. He’s not hungry. He’s sleepy. His body is trying to conserve calories and metabolize new ones. He doesn’t want to wake up.
The oatmeal goes uneaten.
*
There’s a click. Danny’s eyes crack open.
Apparently he’s been asleep for a while, because there are three bowls of uneaten oatmeal on the ground, waiting for him. All are in varying stages of crusting over.
Whatever. Free food. Danny wolfs it down anyway, and tucks himself back into his corner. He’s almost him-shaped again. His human traits are slowly returning, cell by cell, piece by piece. He can almost feel the fractures he knows he’ll have in his legs!
…Wait. Wasn’t his container opaque?
It’s…not anymore. The walls are clear. Danny can see—or, well, until he gets his eyes back, can sort of feel—the room around him, and the trace presences of the beings who occupy it.
It’s a lab. Danny knew it would be, but his core still drops down, down down. He had been praying he’d never see a live specimen lab ever again. He certainly hadn’t wanted to see yet another one from inside the cage.
Humans come and go from the lab. Most are in white coats and pants, but they’re not GIW. Or, well, they’re probably not GIW, anyway, considering that they’ve been feeding him. The guys in white never think of his needs, since they don’t care if he Ends or not. There are monitors that fuzz and warp in his not-vision with details he can’t make out on screen, but knows instinctively that the monitors pertain to him.
And to his capture.
There are some visitors in odd colored suits. They talk. The colorful ones don’t approach him, but they…watch.
No one approaches. Good. Danny will bite them if they do.
With the see-through window, Danny can see the bright-suited blob shove a tray of food through a slot in his container.
It doesn’t fall to the floor, though. There’s a little mechanical thing that brings the oatmeal and flimsy spoon to a safe rest on the steel floor.
…Alright. Bone appetite. Danny’s hungry, and food is food. He pours most of the bowl straight into his stretched mouth and scrapes the rest in with a spoon.
More of his wounds are sealing. Healing. His core doesn’t throb so horribly with pain. The cracks in his soul are smoothing out. With consistent food and rest, Danny will be able to actually mount an escape.
Good. Danny licks the flecks of meal from the edges of his mouth. Good.
When he naps, this time, it’s on purpose.
Soon he’ll be healed enough to leave.
*
The clear window doesn’t go away. Danny’s poor sight doesn’t improve, but he can see people come and go. Danny’s never truly left alone. There is always at least one brightly-colored human around (or one dark, silent human), and an assortment of white-coated scientists milling about.
The clear window lets them see him, presumably. If Danny wants to escape, he’ll have to be careful not to be seen.
Quietly, so quietly. Danny slo-o-o-owly amps up the resonance of his core.
There are cameras. There must be. There are always cameras. Disrupting the electrical flow in and around his container is essential to getting himself out of sight.
The lights flicker. The human milling about all flock to monitors, silent voices coming muffled through the see-though walls of the container. Danny reels in his resonance just a touch—whoops.
But no one is looking.
Something twinges in Danny. Well…no one is looking.
Very, very quietly, Danny peels a relatively safe amount of ectoplasm away from his core. A Danny-shaped shadow forms, and, yeesh, does he really look that bad?
Whatever. There’s no time.
Danny turns himself invisible. He slips through the walls of his container, and leaves the lab to explore the base.
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morallyinept · 6 days
Text
ADORATION - A Joel Miller x Breast Cancer/Mastectomy F!Reader One Shot
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Written as part of my B O D I E S Series 🤎
BODIES MASTERLIST
Summary: After some completely unexpected and devastating news, a long journey of loss and healing, Joel shows you how beautiful he still finds you.
Pairing: No Outbreak Joel Miller x Breast Cancer/Mastectomy F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader in terms of ethnicity, hair colour etc... However, Reader had breasts and hair before treatment. I've imagined Reader to be around a similar age as Joel, who is 56 when writing this, however Reader's age is not mentioned, so you can determine/imagine it's you, if you'd like to, bub.)
Word Count: 8.3k
Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."
Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.
Triggers & warnings: Mentions of breast cancer/double mastectomy/surgery/grief/loss/depression/body issues/illness & recovery/fear/mentions of death. Established relationship/unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks)/breast worship/Joel loves on you hard.
NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.
I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.
Author’s Note: It's important to me that all types of readers are represented in my work, therefore this collection of stories is written for readers with REAL bodies. However, anyone can enjoy them. Whilst this story may not specifically represent your own personal journey, it is my hope that it resonates and offers comfort and enjoyment. The condition/disability mentioned in this story is not 'one size fits all' - everyone's journey is personal and unique, and I have undertaken as much research as I can to write accurately and respectfully. 🤎
MAIN MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST
Enjoy! 🖤
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You’re whining, keening softly as your nose dusts the crown of greying curls resting just below your chin.
They tickle gently on the inside of your nostrils each time you inhale, smiling into the beam of sunlight that strobes onto the pillow, blinding you into a warm, balmy bliss.
Causing your body to spasm and jerk beneath him; little bursts of electricity soar with static, crackling down your spine. You arch your back, pushing your nipple further into his warm, wet mouth.
The insatiable pull around your nipple draws hisses from behind your teeth, eyes rolling back into the furthest reaches of your skull.
Your fingers press into the back of his cranium, cradling him close; losing yourself to the never-ending swirl of his tongue around that fleshy, hard bud as he tongues it, sucks it, nips it...
Hips grinding in a languid cadence against his crotch, a hard bulge catches on your clit as you grind against his cock; stiff and leaking into his faded, worn-out boxers.
Joel’s a self-confessed breast man. He likes pawing at your ass too on the very regular occasion, but he spends most of his foreplay time - and any time, really - latching onto your breasts like a hungry infant.
He likes to suck your nipples out of the puffy swell of your areolas on warm mornings when you wake nestled around him. Coax that stubborn left one out of it's invert with a probing, flickering tongue.
He loves to pinch the stiff, hardened peaks through your top when you're chilly to make you giggle and squirm against him. Feels closest to you when you sit together watching a rubbish film on Sunday evenings in his lap, and he casually has his hand up your shirt holding onto your breast like he would your hand.
It’s a comfort you both enjoy; a big, reassuring warmth holding onto you. He likes feeling the weight of them as they fill his palms, watching the bounce of them, mesmerized, as you ride on his cock vigorously.
Joel’s all up in your marvellous chest at any chance he can get. Sucking the pebbled teats between his lips, swirling his tongue around and around as you fist through his wavy locks and groan when he brings you to orgasm just by lavishing your breasts with his mouth - he loves how sensitive they are.
Especially the right one, it's almost as sensitive as your clit.
Just a few licks over it on this lazy weekend morning, has you panting and almost tearing the roots from his scalp as he squeezes the left one inside his deft fingers; flicking the nipple with his rough index pad and groping a lavish handful.
He’s rutting into you, on the cusp of just pulling his cock out of his boxers - that have seen better days - and slipping into his beautiful wife writhing underneath him; he can feel you seeping through the thin cotton against him.
Joel squeezes your breast again as he sucks at the other, humming at your moans. You croak out his name; each vowel rolling off your tongue with abject need.
Opening and closing his fist around the mound, grunting in rapture, he brushes his thumb along the underside, when he stops. Shiny nipple popping out of his wet mouth, with that furrowed brow pulling his face into a tight knot.
“Darlin’,” he says, with a pursed mouth; his heavy eyes falling to your breast, and his stubby thumb running under the obvious hardness of a lump. “Ya feel that?” He questions, gently.
You look down at him realising his pause.
“Why are you stopping?” You gasp, your hips still moving, slit making a sticky mess against his cottoned length.
You stop grinding, sitting up as you take your breast from him and squeeze all around it, slightly irritated at the interruption, until you find it for yourself.
You feel an unwelcome visitor nestled within the soft curve under your breast, inviting itself bluntly into yours and Joel’s lovemaking.
“God,” you say, his concerned eyes meeting yours.
A lump, no larger than a pea, yet heavy with the weight of uncertainty, that suddenly makes your blood run icy. Your heart pounds a frantic rhythm against your rib cage.
Fear, cold and unyielding, spreads poisoned rust through your veins as you trace its contours; your fingers lingering over the unfamiliar bobble of its terrain.
“It’s probably nothin’,” he reassures with a nod, with eyes so deep you could fall into them and never see light again.
"Yeah," you nod too, but your own eyes convey your trepidation.
And it’s enough to halt any chance of morning sex with your burly husband in its tracks, as you disappear quickly into the bathroom for a thorough inspection.
Disbelief, a fleeting hope that what your fingers trace is merely a figment of your imagination, or a cyst at best.
All weekend you fret and worry until you can call the doctor's office on Monday morning.
You can't count the number of times you touch it, prod at it. You tell yourself out loud that it’s probably nothing, like Joel suggests.
Yet, as reality sinks its claws into your rational thinking, fear takes root, gnawing away at the fragile threads of your composure.
Yeah. Probably a cyst.
Your breasts change all the time; lumpy and bumpy; they’re not as perky as they once were. Your monthly cycle sees them ache and weight heavy like granite blocks sometimes.
It’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about. You tell your weary reflection, but she has a hard time believing you as she stares back with unblinking eyes.
When Joel doesn't put his hand up your shirt as you nestle into him during your Sunday night film ritual, that's when the tears kick in.
Excusing yourself to the bathroom, you don’t cry in front of Joel, but he’s not so easy to convince that everything's fine, and it’s just allergies making your eyes red, when he knows it’s not allergy season. Or that you have any allergies.
“S’alright to be worried, darlin’. But ya gon’ be okay.” He tells you he’s coming to the doctor with you.
You argue that it’s fine, but he's insistent with his brooding frown and pursed lips like he’s constantly chewing on a wasp. He tells you he loves you no matter what, and you’ll be fine and that’s that, as he squeezes your hand.
He pulls you close as you watch the film together spread out on the sofa. Still no hand up your shirt. You see the colour moving on the screen, hear the dialogue and music, but none of it sinks in. You’re staring at the TV completely blank.
He excels at making you think clearly, challenges your fears and helps you confront them with simple questions and words to get you to think differently. It’s one of the main reasons you married him. He has a level head.
And you don’t realise how tense you are until Joel rubs your back and you melt fully into his chest.
With more soothing words and reassurances, eventually you believe him that you’re probably being irrational and panicking over nothing, because Joel has this knack of waving a magic wand and making everything okay.
But it isn’t okay, not this time.
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Within two weeks you have a mammogram and a biopsy after the doctor murmurs hmms and huhs at you.
You’re told not to worry as there’s only a two per cent chance that it’ll be cancer, as you’re stripped bare before the prying eyes of medical professionals and the cold embrace of diagnostic tests.
The loss of control over your own physicality is so fast, leaving you feeling exposed and deprived of the autonomy you'd once taken for granted.
Unfamiliar hands groping and prodding on your breasts replace Joel’s warm, tender ones, and you try to hold it together inside the sterile walls.
You break the moment he has you in his arms outside in the long, lonely corridor of the hospital and asks you how it went.
Joel throws himself into work on the construction site, and you throw yourself into a sinking depression, clouded with worry and worst case scenarios.
You’re sent home with stitches and painkillers after the biopsy, and all you can do is wait.
The invasion of a hostile takeover of your once jaunty mood hovers thickly in the air between you both at home during that time.
You do the one thing you shouldn’t and Google fucking everything. Survival rates, post-op images, types of cancer and all the dread that your eyes can take in until you can take in no more.
You then switch tactics and try to stay occupied and distracted. You play Joel’s old country rock playlist full blast, deciding to turn the house upside down and clean and bleach the shit out of every nook and cranny of it, until Joel comes home, eyes stinging with the fumes, and asks if you’ve lost your damned mind.
You smell bleach on your fingers for days after and it reminds you bleakly of the smell in the hospital corridors.
You lay in bed side-by-side at night, awkwardly staring at the ceiling, recalling how most nights you can hardly get enough of one another. But Joel rolls over and mumbles an exhausted goodnight to you, and you try your hardest not to cry; but the tears slip silently out the creases of your eyes anyway.
You’re called to come in for your biopsy results almost a week later, and the car journey there is deathly silent as Joel and you stare out the windshield and don’t say anything the whole way there.
Joel glances at you and you feel the weight of his ginormous hand on your thigh, squeezing it, and you barely register the sensation at first, turning to him as he squints in the sunlight as he turns the wheel.
There’s no casual flirting, no animated discussions about supper; no singing along to Bennie And The Jets together on Rock FM.
You watch the town pass you by out the window like it’s a stranger, equal parts numb and terrified.
The specialist takes a seat opposite you both, their gaze never wavering as they speak in a soft voice laced delicate with empathy, and you immediately know from the look on their face.
“It’s gon’ be alright, darlin’.” He says.
Although you’re unsure if it’s for your benefit or his, as his eyes remain focused on the road and glaze over in their emptiness somehow.
"I wish there was an easier way to say this, but the results of your biopsy came back, and I'm afraid it's cancer..."
Your breath catches in your throat, your world dangerously spinning out of control as the weight of those words settle over you like a suffocating shroud.
"Cancer? Two per cent…" You whisper, your voice barely audible above the rush of blood in your ears.
The medical speak jumbles your brain. Triple-Negative. Faulty BRCA1. Aggressive…
The words fade out and so do you.
But when you come back, you're looking at Joel; at his profile as he speaks. Mouth moving at the specialist with questions fired behind stunned snarls.
You're not sure where you go, or for how long, it’s just all muffled and quiet. Like being underwater, it fills your ears completely as you sink. Peaceful in a way.
The first time in weeks you’ve had any peace inside the tornado of your mind. It all stills.
He’s so beautiful.
You think it’s odd how a man can be deemed beautiful, like it emasculates him somehow, but it's the right word, you think. Beautiful, with heavy features etched with concern, yet softened by an unwavering love that radiates from his soulful brown eyes.
In the opaque light filtering through the window, you notice the creases at the corners of his eyes, the remnants of countless laughter-filled moments you’ve shared; your mind reliving through all of them in a handmade scrapbook decorated with glitter glue.
You can hear that little breathy snuffle he makes as he chuckles at something you say, whether it’s genuinely funny or moronic. His eyes, once bright with hope and joy, now glisten with unshed tears filling round shiny scleras, reflecting the tumult of emotions churning within him.
He talks, asks all the right questions you can't even form into comprehensible words. And somewhere through the falling, the tumbling, you love him even more for it.
You spend a quiet moment tracing the prominent curve of his nose with your eyes down into the way his lips will quirk upwards in a playful, crooked grin that never fails to warm your heart.
Yet now, they’re drawn down into a thin pout of worry; a silent plea for reassurance amidst the uncertainty that looms over you both.
Joel's a practical man, hands on. He needs to know. He needs to have all the facts and weigh up all the options presented to him like a gloomy spread of cards on the desk before him.
You can’t help yourself, reaching your fingers out and tangling them in the soft tendrils of his hair as you brush them behind his ear.
But you're fixating on his hair, once a riot of chestnut curls that framed his face with youthful exuberance, now bear the distinguished marks of time - strands of silver threaded through the greying curls that fall in gentle waves around his temples.
It’s almost like they’re greying further in front of you as you watch him now.
When was the last time he got a haircut?
Your fingers brush against the fuzzy, silken stubble that adorns his jawline and top lip, a tactile reminder of the physicality of your love, recalling the way he rubs it against your face, your inner thighs...
His jaw clenches slightly, a reflexive response to the weight of your shared anguish, yet his grip on your hand remains steadfast.
Your eyes drop to the calloused knot of thick, squeezing tendons and bone crushing around your own.
The look in his coffee bean eyes as you advanced towards him, stacked chest puffed out; filled with love and pride that you were his. You remember his speech, how he choked around carefully thought out words relishing that he’ll get to spend every waking moment with his best friend.
The gleam of his wedding ring and the feel of the warm metal is no longer perfect in its circumference as you trace your finger over the tarnish of it. It’s flecked with tiny scratches from his work.
You remember how handsome he looked in his snug-fitting tux as he waited for you at the end of the aisle scattered with rose petals.
You squeeze your eyes shut as you picture him looking down into your coffin, wearing the same tux; red eyes and snot falling from his nose as he collapses, wailing your name in haunted howls, and it’s enough to have you fleeing from your chair, with a spine-chilling scrape against the floor, in search of the nearest bathroom as your stomach lurches.
You barely make it, spilling your insides into the toilet bowl uncontrollably.
No. No, no, no…
The harsh fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting eerie shadows against the cold, tiled wall with you pressed up against it; your breaths coming in ragged gasps that echo in the hollow confines of the tiny bathroom.
Tears stream down your cheeks, hot and relentless, as the weight of the diagnosis presses down upon you like a suffocating lead blanket, threatening to engulf you in its darkness.
Panic claws at your chest, its icy fingers tightening with each heartbeat, squeezing the air from your lungs until you feel as though you’ll suffocate beneath its crushing weight.
You can't breathe as you fumble at your buttons on your shirt trying to loosen them.
"I got ya, darlin'. I got ya." He soothes. "It's okay. I got ya. Sssh. Just breathe. I got ya..."
It doesn’t take Joel long to find you at all. All tiny and cowering in the cubicle; sobbing wildly as you reach for him, and he pulls you to him and lets you shatter against his broad shoulders.
His voice is your anchor, pulling you back slowly.
It's not fair. You can’t leave him.
You slur something about fucking it all, you’re going to die anyway, right? Might as well go down swinging, before he takes the bottle from you, muttering fucks of his own, as he prods you back up to bed and wraps band-aids around your bleeding toes.
You don’t remember him picking you up and taking you home, or holding you all night.
You don’t remember him finding you in the kitchen at around two AM, drinking yourself stupid with broken glass around your feet, and his concerned tone asking you what the hell you’re doing.
You eventually fall asleep encased inside of his arms and inhaling the spiced scent of his skin, breathing it in deeply so you don’t forget it.
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He makes you breakfast in the morning that you don’t eat, irons clothes for you that you don’t wear.
Buys you brightly coloured flowers, that he knows you love, to cheer you up. But you simply let them wilt and die on the counter top, not bothering to get a vase out for them.
You just sit and watch them die; their velvety petals shrivelling and curling before your eyes over the course of days.
Cancer just doesn't affect you, it affects the people closest to you, too.
That’s what the website says that you’ve been directed to. You realise this when you notice Joel and you haven't had sex since the day he discovered the lump.
You haven’t kissed either, not passionately anyway. Your breasts have been unloved and untouched by him, for what feels like weeks, when the man usually can’t bear to not grope or pinch them playfully when he holds onto you. Or sneaks up behind you when you're washing up the dishes, making you splash bubbles in his face.
In a bout of feverish desperation, you climb into his lap whilst he’s watching a game and nursing a bottle of beer on his day off, kissing him with wanton bites on his neck making him frown, as you push your chest towards his face.
It only kills you further when he shakes his head and tells you not like this, darlin’ before he lifts you off of him.
It creates an argument. You accuse him of not finding you attractive anymore, and he growls at you that you’re being ridiculous, before you yell even louder.
You don’t even know why you’re yelling or how you even got to this point. Nothing makes sense anymore.
And yet now, for the first time, you don’t know what he’s thinking behind that knot of muscles pulling his face taught; what he’s feeling, and it fucking terrifies you as you plead for him to talk to you.
You and Joel never fight like this. You always talk about things that bother you both. You've never heard Joel raise his voice in the whole entire time you've known him.
Honesty and open communication has always driven your relationship and come naturally between you both.
But instead, he leaves to let you cool off. You don’t know that he doesn’t go far at all. He just drives his truck round the corner and sits there in it, sobbing helplessly into his thick palms until it gets dark and he goes to a bar in town to drown his sorrows further.
You don't know that it kills him not being able to touch you; he wants to. Fuck, he wants nothing more than to ravish you, but he’s terrified he’ll hurt you, or will do something dumb that only his own mounting panic convinces him he’ll do.
For the first time in his life, Joel feels completely helpless.
It’s not fair. He can’t lose you.
“Let me see,” you prompt, and he drops the ice-pack to reveal a nasty black eye in the early stages of birth.
You find him in the kitchen late when he eventually comes back home, and making no effort to hide the fact he’s had a heavy drink.
He looks up at you, holding an ice-pack to his face and waiting for the tirade from you.
Red grazes orbit around his fist too, knuckle skin missing, you note. His eye is almost sealed shut with the swelling that’s a mix between blue and purple, in stark contrast to his golden face. Broken blood vessels litter the area, and he sniffs deeply before he speaks again.
“Ya should see the other guy,” Joel assures with a tight mouth.
He has a large dimple on the left side of his face when he smiles; an almost perfect, crescent like the moon in its waxing phase. But it’s hard to coax a smile out of him for it to be fully revealed these days; his mouth constantly twitches into a downward arch most of the time.
As you look at him, there’s an old man somewhere inside of his face; a burdened man, exhausted and on the verge of giving up entirely.
Cancer just doesn't affect you, it affects the people closest to you, too.
“What happened?” You query, tentatively as you dab at his knuckles.
“I lost my shit.” He replies stoically, as you tend and fuss over him whilst sighing.
You look up at him and as much as you want to be mad with him, you can’t - he’s hurting too.
Comprehension is a difficult task to begin to tackle. You ask so many whys - why me? Why is this happening? But fail to find an answer to any them.
Everything has been spun one-eighty and you’re still dizzy from the shock of your diagnosis.
Hours and soon days disappear from your life, like sand falling in an hourglass, as you try to fully understand what’s happening around you.
You feel as though meandering through a blur, your body robotically doing the things you're supposed to, but your mind not being fully coherent. Get up, eat, work, go to bed and so on. It ticks continuously whilst your limbs belong to that of a zombie.
Questions, thoughts and images... all blinking through you trying to piece it all together whilst you move stagnantly. But eventually the anxiety begins to chip into your mentality and inserts thoughts that you daren’t venture down.
The exact truth is staring you in the face, but try as you might to refute it, it’s plainly obvious and it begins to terrify you in ways that are new.
You have cancer.
It invades your dreams and deprives you of sleep. Tears make themselves acknowledged, at the most inconvenient of times too, like shopping in the grocery store, or typing at your computer at your desk at work, and trying to hide them from the prying world is a task in itself.
And you don’t realise it at the time, but Joel’s going through the same. Questioning, worrying, just as paranoid and stressed as you are.
And you both need to talk about it, you know you do, but yet neither of you can quite summon the courage to do so.
“M’sorry,” he says into your hair, as he pulls you in for a crushing cuddle against him.
“It’s okay,” you murmur, as quiet tears absorb into the plaid flannel pulled tight over his chest from your eyes.
But it's not okay. You have cancer.
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Over the course of your discussions with the doctors, specialists and oncologists - and other medical professionals, whose names, faces and titles get lost in the swampy fog of your brain - the words ‘bilateral mastectomy’ are tossed around.
It’s clear the risks aren’t worth you keeping both of your breasts when they tell you you’re at high risk of it potentially coming back. To add another punch to the blow, they suggest removing your ovaries too, mumbling the words just in case.
Just in case…
You look at Joel, devastated. You’d both agreed that children were something you weren't both keen on having years ago, but it still feels like that choice of having an open dialogue about it is ripped from you.
When you agree it’s the best way forward, and he agrees too with a face that looks like he’s just had a lobotomy and doesn’t know where he is, a date is put in the diary for the surgeries and treatments, and it’s sooner than you think it will be.
There’s hardly any time to breathe and take it all in.
A day before the surgery and you’re sitting at the kitchen table with a face on as Joel comes in from work, sawdust caked in his hair and boots.
Your voice cracks as you explain that perhaps you should just call it time. Let him find someone else. You won’t be upset, you want him to be happy as you mutter incoherently about death and divorce, and death again, until he shakes his head defiantly and huffs loudly.
He reaches into the fridge for a cool beer and offers you one, but you don’t reply. He looks down at your face.
At the face that Joel affectionately calls butt face.
The beer fizzes over the top in a foamy eruption as he slams it down on the counter top.
“Ya really are an idiot, ain’t ya?” He says, slumping down heavily into the chair beside you.
“But,” you begin and he makes the butt face at you, with pushed out lips and squinted eyes. “You won’t want me anymore.” You whisper.
His face pulls serious as he drags your hand into his blistered ones. “I ain’t fuckin’ goin’ anywhere.” He grits. “And neither are you.”
“But-”
“Quit with the butt face, darlin’. In sickness and in health. Ain’t that what we promised?”
“Yeah, but-”
He shakes his head again, his stubby fingers finding their home on your face, catching renegade tears in the whorls of his fingerprints.
“What, ya think m’gonna not love ya anymore because ya ain’t gonna have any breasts, is that it?”
That’s exactly it, hit the nail on the head, and although you don’t say it, he knows. Damn it, he knows.
“Ya really think m’that shallow?” He clicks his tongue around his teeth.
“No, of course I don’t,” you shake your head. “I’m just… I’m scared, Joel. I'm really fucking scared.” You gulp.
“I know.” He says, pulling you into his lap and wrapping those big, strong arms around you. “M’gonna be right there, when ya wake up, okay? M’gonna bring ya home and we’ll get through this, together. You n’ me. One day at a time. Okay, butt face?”
It’s the first time in weeks you smile and the first time in weeks you kiss; a soft, but tentative peck against your lips, that still holds back somewhat.
Pushing your foreheads together you sigh out, unable to think about anything else.
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Two operations, four and a half months of chemotherapy and three weeks of radiotherapy, and it takes months for your hair to grow back.
You remember recoiling in horror as it fell out in clumps a few weeks after the chemo started, until you decided to just be done with it, and had Joel shave it off for you.
He offered to do his own in solidarity with you, until you snatched the clippers from him.
“Don’t you dare!” You almost shrieked as you ran your fingers through his tufty curls, smiling. “You’re never getting a haircut ever again.” And he smirked at that.
“Yes, ma’am.” He'd said as he put them away.
You had woken, groggy and aching, to Joel's face smiling at you and pushing a water beaker to your lips. You looked down to see your chest covered in bandages and drains under your hospital issue nightgown.
It was an odd feeling, you didn't feel much of a difference in those first few, post-op days; weighted down by the drains and dressings, and in and out with the pain meds.
They shifted you out of hospital the next day to recover at home, and Joel took up the role of carer, doctor and home cook as he fussed and got you comfy on the couch in a suffocating fort of pillows and blankets.
After the ovarian surgery, you started taking aromatase inhibitors, which were an added nightmare as these treatments bring on an almost immediate menopause with your ovaries now gone.
No gradual decline - a full push over the fucking cliff, face first. You can’t bear for Joel to touch you when you’re burning up and sweating; soaking the sheets through completely that you fear you’ve wet the bed.
When you’re sick from the radiotherapy, he feels useless hearing you heave behind a locked door. All you can do is lay in bed for days, struggling to keep food down and sleep it off.
You're too weak and exhausted to climb the stairs sometimes, so Joel carries you in his arms up them, even though it kills his knees and makes him groan silently when it pulls on his back. But he still does it anyway.
There are more discussions as the treatments carry on. More options, more pills, more chemicals. More time spent feeling like sludge.
Your bandages and dressings finally come off and you see yourself for the first time in front of a mirror, and there are a few moments when you can’t feel anything. Like there’s no water left in your body to cry anymore.
You just stare at your reflection with the nurse hovering by your side.
They warned you you’d be left with scarring. The scars from the mastectomy extend across the skin of your chest either side and into your armpits where you had lymph nodes removed too. They’ll fade over time, but will never completely disappear.
They warned you they’ll also feel permanently numb. And they’re right, as you touch your mutilated body with shaky fingers, you feel… nothing.
It’s another loss to mourn, the loss of your femininity, of yourself.
And that’s the worst feeling of all as you stare at the mess of your chest that was once curved and bouncy and shapely like a woman ought to be.
Now you’re flat as a board and there’s nothing remotely feminine about your body now, you think.
You can feel the sensation of touch to some degree, but it’s nothing like before. No sensitivity, no prickly feeling that creates goosebumps, just completely numbed out.
And over the course of some weeks, you can feel odd sensations arise, like you’ll touch your chest and you’ll feel it under your armpit. Your body feels all out of sorts as it slowly heals.
You have options; you can have more surgery to build you a pair of breasts if you'd like, but that comes with more pain and recovery and you decide you’re done with that.
You can wear a padded or filled out bra, you can have a tattoo which you briefly consider to cover the scarring.
But you settle on remaining as you are for now. Overwhelmed by the options out there, when you truly believed there was nothing that could make you feel even remotely feminine again.
Maybe something pretty, like flowers…
And Joel nods at all of them as you ask for his input, but ultimately he just wants what you want.
You cover the scars up with layers. You sleep with long sleeved tops and no longer undress in front of Joel. You can't bear him to see you like this, not yet.
Each day you think will be the day when you garner enough bravery to show him, but don't.
It feels weird, like some days they’re still there, akin to a phantom limb. You find yourself checking your chest as you feel the familiar bounce of them as you run down the stairs, or go to grope them with the suds to clean in the shower and the loss devastates you all over again.
He reassures you, telling you that you're beautiful with sincere eyes, and there's nothing that you need to worry about. But it still niggles away.
That lone, renegade thought that he might not be attracted to you anymore when he sees them, suddenly becomes the loudest of all.
They say time is a healer. Patience, understanding. And Joel has been all these things and more.
He’s carried you above the surface of the muddy water when all you’ve wanted to do is drown at times. He’s the one who nudges you awake each morning with a nose in your cheek and reminds you to take your pills.
He’s the one who brought you a beautiful coloured scarf to wear on your head when you lost your hair. A gorgeous floral print that you admired with a smile at the intricate pattern of petals as you ran your fingers over the silk of it.
He’s the one who, despite working all the hours God sends, still comes home and makes you something to eat because he knows you might not have any energy to cook.
He’s the one who still tells you he loves you, no matter what’s going on under your tops and sweaters that swamp you in their bagginess.
It isn’t time that does it at all, it’s him.
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You wake one morning, months after, as the sun pools in the bedroom, and look at Joel on his back, asleep and snoring gently.
Joel’s seen you at your absolute worst; your most vulnerable, and he’s still here. Resilient, strong. A man who puts others to shame.
A man that you still desire, and you want him to desire you, even if you’re not whole anymore.
You reach out and touch him, hand brushing over the swell of his golden belly to convince yourself he’s real. Soft, downy hairs around his belly button tickle your palm gently.
He stirs at your stroking, sleepy eyes looking down at you as he blinks, adjusting to the light.
“Ya alright?” Joel asks, and you nod with a smile.
“I love you.” You say to him and he blushes, like he always does at that. Pink capillaries coming to life in his cheeks.
“I love you, darlin’.” He confirms, clutching your hand and kissing across the knuckles gently.
His hair is a tousled mess, the greys on his chest seem more plentiful and it stirs something within you; something the intense and gruelling treatments haven't fully killed off.
You straddle him and lean over, kissing him, much to his surprise. Your hands roam over his soft belly, squeezing gently as he smirks around your lips, and yelps a little when you pinch a ticklish spot. 
“Hey now,” he warns, as your tongue licks over his lips. 
He hums out as his hands sweep up your back, cupping the back of your head as he slips his tongue inside your mouth.
To taste him again is divine as your body instantly relaxes onto him. He nips gently on your lip and you groan out as you feel how hard he gets underneath you.
You can’t help but subtly grind on him as he groans into your mouth.
You break the kiss to sit upright, heart thrumming in your chest as he looks up at you with those dark, molten eyes.
"I'm ready to show you." You say and he straightens up.
"Okay," he nods, thumbs stroking over your thighs gently.
Without hesitation, you lift up your top revealing the flat, scarred wasteland that is your chest now, that you haven’t had the courage to let him fully see.
For a moment, his face is completely unreadable and you consider reaching for your top to cover up again.
You hold your breath as his eyes wander over the puckered welts; you feel his fingers twitch against your hips.
He sits up on his elbows, eyes locked onto yours, licking over his lips slowly as his peepers follow the lines back and forth.
His eyes dip further down to the two, little dimpled scars from where your ovaries were removed, either side of your tummy.
“Don’t ya dare,” he says, as if able to read your mind.
And you realise that he can, in his own way. He’s always been able to see you even though you try to hide sometimes. He just has the patience to wait until you're ready.
He never pushes, he just waits, because he knows that eventually, you’ll crawl out from whatever hole you need to hide in for a while to deal, to process - whatever it is you need to do. Then you’ll come back to him.
And he’ll always be there aith open arms when you do.
Joel takes you in his arms, twists you so you’re laying on your back and he kisses you there without hesitation. Kisses gently where your breasts once were in the same way that he used to.
Runs his mouth delicately over the numbed skin, dragging lips and leaving wet tracks with open mouthed kisses.
You gasp out as your eyes fill with water, your fingers finding their rightful place, raking through his curls as he glides his tongue over every creased line of your scars.
“Joel,” you whimper, cradling him as you feel his hardness press up against your centre.
You can feel a tingle of the warmth from his lips on your skin kissing gently as your eyes pool. He looks up to see you crying.
“Baby, baby. Does it hurt?” He asks, worried.
You shake your head. “No. No, I can feel you.” You gasp, shaking. “It’s weird, but I can.”
“Where?” He asks.
“There, kind of,” you say, as he brushes his lips over the spot where your right nipple used to be.
He kisses you there and runs his tongue gently over the area making you shudder, and you feel the tingles again, strangely in your armpit.
It makes you giggle at how your nerves have patched themselves up all wonky, and he smiles at you, chuckling as he licks and tests all places that might have an ebb of feeling, with little kisses and watching your reaction to each one.
All the tension leaves your body, muscles relaxing beneath his gentle ministrations; breath steadying as you surrender to the intimacy of this moment.
Reaching down, you cup his swollen cock over his boxers, with the fraying elastic tickling your wrist.
“We really need to get you some new underwear,” you titter at the state of them.
He simply shrugs with a smirk. “I could just simply take ‘em off.”
You nod eagerly and he pushes them down over his hips as you stroke him; your palm sticky with him as he leaks undeniably into it.
“Ya sure?” He queries gently as you swipe him against your folds.
"Mmm, Joel." You groan at the feel of him as you pump him. "God, I want you."
It feels so good to have him touching you, so close. The weight of his body pressed into yours, crushing you again. How warm he feels against your skin. 
“I fucking want you, Joel.” You plead, as you clutch his face in your other hand. His warm breath breathes life into your tired bones. “I don’t want you to be gentle either. I need you to fuck me, hard.”
“Ya so fuckin’ beautiful, darlin’,” he grunts as he pushes his thick cock head against your drenched hole.
You both groan out as he fills you, stretching you wide around him and pumping into you gently as you acclimatise to his girth - it's been a while.
You wrap your legs around his waist as he mouths at your neck; tongue trailing down to your chest and finding that spot again.
“Snug as a bug in a rug... damn.” Joel quips, his tongue running over his teeth and then shaking his hips from side-to-side, making you feel all those little movements as he furrows up so tightly in there.
He flexes his groin and begins moving back and forth inside of you, pressing on that sweetly, pinchy spot deep inside; slightly uncomfy and yet incredibly good at the same time.
“Fuck me, Joel,” you plead, gripping onto his arm skin, “fuck me hard, please…” You whine as he sets to ploughing you like you command and demand of him.
You’re so wet that the sounds coming out of your pussy are almost farcical, making you giggle and him grunt as they squeak and soak him. He slips out a few times trying to gain his momentum - it’s like a damn slip n’ slide.
Joel presses down on your knee, bearing his weight on it so you can’t shut your legs. Making you endure it - to ride that full gigantic wave smashing into your pussy and rising up through your body.
“Ya so fuckin’ wet, ya drenched.” He’s panting, beside himself with the state you're in. “Gushing for me already, huh, darlin’?”
Your eyes roll back into your head and he smirks as he fucks hard into you like you want.
“Like this? This how ya want it?” 
“Yeah, Joel. Don’t stop!” You wail. 
“Ain’t gon’ stop til’ ya come for me, baby.” 
He only slows to lean in and kiss you as he pistons in deeper, winding those hips of his into you further.
“Joel…” you drone. It feels so good as he grinds, so deep.
“Darlin’ ya feel too good. Fuck, m’not gon’ last like this…” he whines with a panting smirk.
“Slow it down,” you moan as he grips a hold of your thighs and brings you back onto him slower, deeper.
He licks over your mouth clumsily, tongue swiping across your nostrils, grunting out loud as your pussy clenches around him as you shudder underneath him.
He watches with a smile, lighting up the contours of his heavy set brow as you come around him.
And it’s like staring at the sun for too long; his smile brands itself into the back of your eyelids - a permanent scorch that you never want to forget.  
And you feel every inch of him like this. He fucks into you slowly; your breaths hitching and falling from your chest quicker as you both work to build you up again.
“Joel!”
He reaches forward, stroking his thick fingers over the marred scars; feeling the smoothness of healing skin juxtaposed with the slight roughness of the scar tissue.
He strokes up to your neck, pulling you upright gently as you cry out when his cock hits so deep. 
“Like that, darlin’...” he croons, as he winds further into you. “Mmm, fuck!”
You tremble and shake uncontrollably as he brings you to another orgasm.
“There ya are, baby. There ya are…” Joel smiles, kissing over your nose and cheeks. "So fuckin' beautiful, ain't ya?"
And he’s right there with you, head pressed into yours, watching; feeling as you squeeze and contract. Feeling you tremble and shake.
Watching as your eyes water and you gasp; your hands squeeze around his biceps, nails digging in. 
You claw at him. Pulling him closer as he whimpers. A ragged cry escapes from his throat as he drives his hips deeper and struggles to contain himself.
You feel his teeth on your shoulder, grazing and desperate to bite down through the flesh. Your nails rake through his scalp, twisting and pulling as you pant and groan.
He watches in awe at you shaking on the end of his thick cock, rattling about as he turns you out and finally has his way with his gorgeous wife again.
His eyes fall over your chest and he looks at you adoringly, tongue weaving across the scars again without hesitation. Planting kisses and mouthing over the scars.
“Oh God! Oh Fuck!” You holler.
Making you feel every thick, beastly inch of him, as he pounds up into your insides like a boxer taking his fury out on the bag.
Joel pulls you by the hips upright, as he rolls onto his back, so you’re now on top of him. Everything’s fluid, swift and in a blur.
He anchors you down by your waist, making you sit on him; making you unable to escape him.
“Holy shit, oh shit-shit! Joel!” You exclaim as you gasp and struggle to swallow as the frantic intakes of breath choke you. “Oh my God!”
“Ya can take it… ya can do it, that’s it. Ride it.” Joel encourages. “So fuckin’ beautiful when ya take my cock like this, darlin’. God damn."
He just keeps coming at you; powering and thundering through you, without any hesitation in letting up anytime soon. He’s a powerhouse of sweat and grunts, breathing like he’s dying; small, quick rasps and wheezes gurgle in the back of his throat.
You find your pace, pressing palms into his broad chest and letting your hips bounce, and it feels so damn good as the curve of his cock rubs in all the sweet spots deep inside.
You reach down and stroke your clit, groaning at the feel of it tingling wildly under your fingertips.
“Stroke that pretty clit for me,” Joel croons, hammering up into you.
You stroke and rub the sticky nub, and then bring your digits up towards your mouth, sucking and teasing your lips with your fingers, and he watches enthralled.
“Suck those fingers, darlin’.” Joel hisses. “Tell me how good ya taste.”
“So good,” you smirk. You push your fingers to his lips, and he sucks them too.
"Yeah, ya do. Taste so fuckin' good."
You feel his thumb circle over your clit bringing you closer and closer with each swish of his pad against it.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes. YES!” You pant, as he grips around your waist tighter.
“Ya want me to fill ya up, hmm?”
“I want all of you, Joel.” You whine, desperate for him.
“That’s it, grind on my cock. Just like that.” He coos; his lip caught between his teeth as he cranks you around, holding onto your hips.
Your head flops onto his shoulder, your hand gripping onto the other as your lower half powers through.
“Mmm, Joel... please!” You groan, feeling your body tighten and clench again.
“Ya close again, baby?” He wheezes in your ear. "Gonna come for me?"
“Mhm… so close.”
“Come all over my cock.” He encourages. “Soak it, I want it all.”
“Oh God!” You whine.
“So damn good, fuck,” he grunts as you move around and around, your back tensing. He rubs it fondly with his big hands. “Right there, that’s it. Oh fuck, that’s so sweet, darlin’.” He groans. “M’gonna come so deep inside of ya.”
You cry out; your body shuddering and trembling on top of him, and you feel him tense and grunt out on a long, satisfied sigh.
You come, your head expanding and your body floating; your cunt clenching around him as you milk him completely dry. Tingles flood your body, your back arches and you can see the sun burning behind your eyes again.
Unable to think or say anything, Joel kisses you; silencing you before you have the chance to ruin this moment by shrinking back or wrapping yourself back up and hiding your body away from him.
For one millisecond, he’s weak; just a sweaty mess of bewildered man meat beneath you. Joel loses himself inside the holistic spiral of your irises for a moment, unable to get out or find his way through the maze of them.
And part of him wants to stay lost in them forever.
He trembles as he rocks slowly, feeling himself empty and deflate with a final grunt of your name, and his shoulders sag in unison into the mattress.
You wrap your arms around him and finally collapse upon him and lay there for a few minutes, listening to nothing but his heartbeat thrumming in your ears, eventually slowing its pace back to its normal rhythm.
Joel looks down at you as you run your fingers across his scalp and it makes him shiver; goosebumps travelling down his spine at breakneck speeds.
You stop winding the curls, shifting and resting your head up against his as you catch your breath.
He holds you, kissing you gently over your eyelashes and cheeks.
“Ya more fuckin’ beautiful to me than you’ve ever been, ya know that?” He murmurs into your face.
"They made 'em neater than I thought they'd be." He says.
You feel his knuckles sweep over your chest gently, unafraid to touch you at all, and you feel like a weight as been lifted as he does it.
You watch as he traces the ridge of the scars delicately.
"Yeah." You nod. You lift your arm up so he can see them run into your pit.
"Do ya feel much pain still? I didn't hurt ya, did I?"
You smile and shake your head. "No. It's just mostly numb. Just feels different. I'm really happy that I could feel something when you kissed me. Even if it was in my armpit," you chuckle.
"Ya still fuckin' beautiful," he smiles, and kisses inside your armpit.
You smile bashfully, headbutting his chin gently as you try not to let the tears water your eyes.
“Look at me, darlin’.” His fingers tip your chin up to him. Thumbs smearing away any tears. “I mean it. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. Fuckin’ balls on ya are bigger than mine.”
“I don’t know about that,” you say, reaching down to cup and stroke the soft swell of his between your fingers.
He groans, biting on his lip before his mouth finds yours again. "Ya tryin' to kill me?" He slips his tongue inside and tastes you all over again, his hands slipping down your back and groping your ass. “Ya so fuckin' sexy."
"You think so?" You smile.
"Oh, I know so. Ya always have been. Don't hide from me anymore, okay?"
"Okay." You breathe.
"Want ya sleepin' naked next to me again." He thinks for a moment. "Why don't I take ya out to dinner tonight? Anywhere ya want. If ya feelin' up for it?"
"You taking me out on a date, hmm?"
"Yeah. I am. Maybe put one of them nice dresses ya got on. I'll put on that shirt ya like. The green plaid one. Spruce myself up for ya."
"That's my favourite." You agree.
"Ya deserve to feel good, darlin'. Wanna take ya out. Show the world how fuckin' lucky I am."
You smile into his face. "What did I do to deserve you, Mr Miller?"
He kisses you again. Soft lips brushing against yours. "M’gonna keep loving ya. You n’ ya stupid butt face. Ya hear me, Mrs Miller?”
You nod, chuckling, safe in his arms; a place where you can feel safe and heal, and begin to feel like yourself again.
“I hear you.” You smile, as he pelts your face with swamping kisses in the warm sunlit bedroom. "I love you."
He smiles and he's never looked more beautiful.
“I love ya too, butt face.” Joel hums, as he crushes you to his chest and never lets you go.
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I really hope you enjoyed reading this story with Joel, and welcome your comments/thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog if you liked it so others can find it on their dash to read and enjoy too - thank you very much! 🖤
BODIES MASTERLIST
MAIN MASTERLIST
JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST
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cupcraft · 4 months
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A Medical Guide To Radiation Poisoning: From A Real and True Expert (a c!Tommy poem):
(Click for better quality or link for AO3 text)
If you like it would be kind of you to rb :)!
Poetry Tag List:
@blissfali @the-g-m @phantoids @tubborucho @whereisela @cishetinniter @wiiwarechronicles @snaxle @genlossicle @boygirltitties @legendofscarf @voidless-screaming @lupvium @hecksee @blockofhoney
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sminkus · 20 days
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AMA knives fell on me
FAQs: Q: How did this happen? A: Knives fell on me bcoz they were improperly stored (aka NOT MY FAULT)
Q: Did it hurt? A: Nothing hurts at first
Q: How big was that thang? A: Wound was 2.5" long and 1cm at its widest
Q: How did you feel? A: The thing about having your arm slashed open by a falling knife is that everyone around you is a lot more freaked out about it than you are. You end up being the calmest person while you are actively bleeding. You eat an Oreo and drink some water then wait for your friend to come walk you to the student medical center. Several people haphazardly bandaged up your arm, and no matter how much they deny it, you're pretty sure it's gonna need stitches. You go to the student health center and explain what's going on. A nurse sees you and gets the expert on sutures to come in. He takes one look and tells you that you're going to need stitches. You feel some validation that you were right. They tell you it's been ten years since your last tetanus shot, so they're gonna have to give you one. They numb the wound and the sutures expert sews you up so neatly that another medical professional comes in to admire it. The last stitch was in an area that didn't get numbed so that one hurt. And then you got a tetanus shot. And then you go to Trader Joe's. Also the whole time you were so so scared because your shirt read "a boy without a pussy is like an angel without wings" and you really didn't want the nurses and suture guy to acknowledge it.
Q: What will you do with your newfound fame? A: Convince more people to have a sex change.
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Not to be chronically ill on main but if I get one more doctor tell me the tests came back normal again as if its GOOD news Im gonna make it everyones problem.
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lobotomy stimboard
tw: medical stuff, knife, brains!
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dear-ao3 · 3 months
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hey gang why the fuck cant i breathe post exercise
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sweetestbasil · 2 months
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RUBATOSIS || chapter one: self digestion
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PAIRING : Dr.Gaul's Assistant!Coriolanus Snow x Experiment!Reader-Insert ( afab, they / them, sometimes it )
RATING : 18+ ( no smut in this chapter, but it's very unsettling )
WORD COUNT : 13, 776
WARNINGS : infidelity ( coryo's engaged to livia ), power imbalance, unreliable narrator ( it's 3rd POV but focuses on coryo's view ), unhealthy dynamics, dehumanizing language, medical experimentation, body examination that has... strange vibes, body horror-esque, coryo and gaul are messed up in this fic, he's more like his book version than movie
SUMMARY : 🙶 rubatosis - noun. the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat 🙷
Fortune, marriage, and success - all within the hands of Coriolanus Snow, and it still isn’t enough to satisfy him. Tigris has grown distant and Livia is far more trouble than it's worth. 
Dr. Gaul has just the solution for him.
A/N : This is my first time posting my fanfic work on tumblr, so I hope everyone has fun reading this. If there are any mistakes, lemme know. This is the first of five chapters!
[ If you want to read it on AO3 instead ]
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self digestion || autolysis - stage one of decomposition 
Oh, he hated this. 
He absolutely despised this.
A click of the soles, stepping against the freshly clean sidewalk, rid of any possible careless litter and debris. Had it not been for others who, too, were using the same path, even if they were going in opposite directions, had he half a mind, Coriolanus would have taken the moment to prop himself against a wall and let out the loudest sound of frustration. It wouldn’t be unwarranted, it wouldn’t be uncalled for. Dare he say, he almost feels he should be entitled to it. It had only been four days, but four days should have been enough time for Tigris to get back to him already. The correspondence was not even something of dire content, at least, Coriolanus imagined so. Questions of Grandma’am, if her time with Mrs. Plinth ( he was not going to refer to her as ‘Ma Plinth’ ) had been going well, how was the solo business venture regarding Tigris’s fashion going, was there any renovations that the home needed, how were they — things that he assumed, wrongly he guessed, that would be so simple to answer. 
God forbid that he still had the decency to still check in with his family even after he long moved out into his own place. 
If Tigris thought she could play him for a fool, she was the one in the wrong; the signs were as clear as can be, that Tigris was trying to ice him out as much as she could. And after all he’s worked hard for? Fixing the home up, making sure the fridge never stays empty, stabilizing the family. He’s even gotten engaged before Grandma’am could even croak, and is letting Tigris design his fiancé’s wedding gown! What else was he supposed to do to try and gain back her warmth? Dance and clap like a District to make himself seem smaller, more dumb, to please her? There was a lock to his jaw, a small grit in Coriolanus’s teeth, as he sipped down the coffee in his hand, the other in his coat pocket. 
He didn’t even wish to broach the idea of his fiancé on his walk to the Citadel. The heavy breath, a sigh, that breached itself out his lips. A hand raised to rub a gloved thumb briefly at the bridge of his nose. 
Ugh, Livia… It was a pain to even internally taste the words of her name on his tongue. 
It was an arranged marriage of convenience that he sought after, an extra piggy bank that he could expend on; and how quickly the elder Cardews lapped up at his palm when he planted the idea of marrying their daughter. A man who was of the old guard elite families, an assistant of Dr. Gaul’s, inheritor of the Plinth’s fortune, a gamemaker in training? They were downright salivating, that he almost felt embarrassed for Livia having to witness her parents’ stripped to their barest of greeds. The keyword being almost. Coriolanus needed to play his cards right to ensure his future, it was only fair game. If that meant taking his chance with the Cardews’ and their banks, he’d be just the fool that Tigris would want him to be if he turned them away. But, he could reluctantly suppose that the arrangement could be considered an equal drain on both parties. He seized their assets and their daughter seized up his free time. How could he forget the fundraiser dinner that Livia had invited them both to later on in the evening? She was delightful enough to remind him of it while they shared breakfast together, between his bites of quiche so that he couldn’t show a hint of a frown. 
Coriolanus sucked in a careful breath between his teeth. 
If she could only put herself to better use than just the one redeeming quality of a socialite. There was a slim chance he may have miscalculated. Perhaps it would have been an easier time, having something set up with Clemensia, or Lysistrata. 
“Mr. Snow! Good morning and welcome back, Dr. Gaul is already waiting for you in—“ 
“In Lab H05, got it! And a good morning to you, too.” He smiled back effortlessly to the front desk worker, giving them a wave and just the right, charming amount of teeth with the upwards pull of his mouth. 
Entering into the Citadel and seeing the hive of workers shift from one place to another in constant movement; they all tried to keep their voices at a low volume, but there was a constant buzz in the air, as they went from one hall to the other. Coriolanus maneuvered himself around them, slipping his deep mahogany overcoat seamlessly folded across his forearm. Full-Grain leather gloves that kept him warm from the cold, taken off his hands and instead placed neatly into the pocket of his overcoat. What a marvel it would have been for his young, naïve self to bear witness the luxury of a full wardrobe he now had. Never again did he have to spend long nights studying for the Academy besides an equally tired Tigris, who busied herself with trimming down the sizes of his father’s discarded shirts to fit him for school the next day. 
It was a muscle memory at this point, the path to one of the many labs that Dr. Gaul had established her practice in. She had told Coriolanus that she had a lab for each different study and project she was passionate towards, ones that were more… presentable, to the average Capital citizen, and ones that were more uncensored. Having worked for over a year under Dr. Gaul’s tutelage, Coriolanus had seen a decent amount, the clean and the vile, but even then, he knew very well he had not seen all. He wasn’t even sure if he did want to see all. Especially regarding what happened last time he wandered around the Citadel during Academy days. The doors to Lab H05 were wide open, Coriolanus noted, seeing it in his line of sight, getting closer and closer. It was inviting, telling any worker to come in and step in at any time ( should Dr. Gaul be around ). 
The air here was entirely different from what it was in the hallway. Where the air from when he first entered had been warm, inviting from the nipping cold outside. The vague smell of coffee, and an even fainter scent of something chemical, had mingled and intertwined to give the vaguest illusion that the Citadel could pass for a workplace like any other. However, the lab was as if entering an entirely different building. The lights that shone uncomfortably glaring, fluorescent lights that were hung overhead, on the ceiling. There were small lights, embedded into the floors and columns as well, guiding the path to any who walked in. It drowned the large room in an almost blue light. Lab H05 was one of the “clean” labs. A sterile scent in the air, the chemicals that were so faint in the halls were far more prominent, evident here. But, to the trained nose, there was something faint here too. The rusted scent of iron tickled under Coriolanus’s nose, but it barely registered to him anymore as anything concerning. Seeing the endless shelves of… odd specimens, the scent of blood was the last thing that should ever scare him away. 
“Dr. Gaul, good morning,” He kept a steady tone, not one that sounded tired, nor too joyous. Being seen as her “favorite” didn’t mean he could speak to her as casually as he pleased. It just meant that he took her current attention. A fickle thing that could be stripped away at any moment if he showed any less than acceptable. 
“Coryo,” He tensed his shoulders the same time she breathed it out in loving fashion. Her back once facing him, now turned as she walks towards him to cut the distance between the two. Since the gap started to form between Tigris and him, Dr. Gaul had taken to using that nickname on him. If it was to be used in terms of endearing him to her, or to mock him with the name that ghosts had called him, none could say for sure.
Coriolanus liked to believe it to be both, if he believed his assumptions of her character were right.
He never once let his eyes leave contact with her own, but he could hear the movement of her prominent, red latex gloves being peeled off her hands. She always thought it to be ironic, to wear such a color despite her profession. It matched the dye job that she had done on her surgical gown. He felt the weight of hands touching either side of his forearms, the smile on Dr. Gaul’s face caused a crinkle in her eyes as she bared all teeth in her smile. He wondered if she knew how threatening her grin looked.
“A morning to you as well. Has it been treating you good?”  
It felt as if some sort of warm feeling was spreading out from Dr. Gaul’s hands, through his arms and into his body. What a disgusting sensation, it made goosebumps rise on his skin. 
“As well as it could be.” Coriolanus’s voice spoke softly. 
Livia drained his energy far more than he expected with her morning rambles and gossip. 
Dr. Gaul’s hands smacked against his arms in a laugh, loud and knowing, she always knew, turning around to walk deeper in the lab. “Hah! By the sounds of it, it seems you’re not getting some peace of mind when you head home,” She turned back to look at him, giving him a glance, she was prying something out of him. “That’s no good, Coryo. You need to be in top shape to work, I can’t have my assistant become so… drained.” 
The crease in her eyes showed again. 
“If this is your preferred state, there is a new species of leeches I am working on. I assure you it is far more efficient than a Cardew of species.”
Well, now it was his turn to laugh. 
A dry chuckle that slipped from Coriolanus’s lips, moving to follow Dr. Gaul. Placing his coat on a table made of rich wood, something less… aseptic looking. There were moments where he often froze under the woman’s gaze; a humiliating, bodily reaction that made him feel so small, so vulnerable as he used to be. Yet, it was in times like these, where he could understand how Dr. Gaul still managed to hold sway over people besides just exemplary displays of fear and power. There was a sense of humor to her, if he could call it that, where if a powerful woman like her involved yourself in - you felt so included, special. 
“It was nothing like that. Livia just reminded me that after work today, she and I have to attend dinner later in the evening. It’s a fundraiser for the improvement and reconstruction of the Corso.” He turned his sight away from Dr. Gaul’s eyes, not being able to keep the contact any more. Flicking to the sight of the endless, bright shelves that lit up the tubes containing various specimens and experiments. Some failures, some on pauses, some successes, and some were just creative ‘what-ifs’; that would explain some of the seemingly useless fusions, like the jellyfish that had spider legs mixed in with some of its natural lappets, now encased in a resin tube. Coriolanus can’t recall if he was employed at the Citadel yet when this specimen was made. His fingers briefly touched upon the cool glass of it. What a disgusting idea. “I almost nearly forgot about it.” Dr. Gaul hummed at his response. 
“Why, doesn’t that sound riveting! What a joy young life is, flitting from one function to the other, all the night-time glamor. You know, before I was transferred to work in the Citadel, I was the same. I thought of giving my children some of my old wardrobe from my youth, but it’s so out of the current trends, it just collects dust now.” What a blessing, for her kids. They could avoid the embarrassment of coming into the room looking as if they robbed the Pre-Dark Days exhibit at the Capital’s museum. The heels of Dr. Gaul’s heels clicked against the smooth, waxed floor. Coriolanus could feel the brief sliver of her heavy presence pass him by from behind, as she went to head over to another area in the room. It sounded vaguely close to the center of it. 
“You must be excited, Coryo. Are you going to wear,” Her words paused. She was tasting the air for something. “Ah, what’s her name… That cousin of yours, the one who started her new business a while ago.”
What was the point of this conversation?
“Tigris.” 
A brief flare tickled behind his ribs, reminding him of his thoughts earlier before. Standing up from his spot, fingers now leaving the glass of the odd ( sickening ) creature, his prints left slightly behind on the glass. Stretching his shoulders back with his arms, muscles pulled, away from their previously hunched position. Coriolanus walked over to where Dr. Gaul was, who stood nearby another table at the center of the lab. This time, this one was far cleaner, made of what seemed to be a material of stainless steel. In her hands she carried a manila folder, or two, in her hands; her painted nails sifted through the papers carefully. She was writing something quickly down inside of it. He wanted to know, but he held his tongue. Gaul would tell him if it was something he needed to be aware of. 
“And I’m not sure. Livia is still picking out her dress and I want to match with her.” He smiled at her. 
“Aren’t you a romantic,” She gives him a look out of the corner of her eye, the blue one that matched his. It made his skin crawl, he hated the feeling of it. “Is your heart melting, Snow?”
Coriolanus hopes she sticks to her career as a Gamemaker, being a comedian looks like a bleak future for her. 
The smile on his lips grew wider, a small laugh at her words, his hand reaching to cover his mouth slightly to muffle the sound in the large room. 
“I wouldn’t say that just yet.” 
He wouldn’t say it at all. Livia? Melt his heart? Sure, she could melt his eardrums when she had that obnoxious snort to her loud laughs. It made her sound like a pig, shipped straight to the Capital from the farms of District 10. That would defeat the purpose of why he married her in the first place. It would be the utmost betrayal to himself, after he had promised to close himself after– 
“Since you have a date tonight,” His ears perked up immediately. “I’ll reduce the amount of work you have for today, I’ll be merciful.” He wouldn’t argue if she decided to give him more. She pressed a manila folder into his open hands, her grip was tight on it. This was a folder that not many eyes needed to be on. Taking it carefully from her hands, he raised it to his eyesight curiously, catching the sight of the project name written on top of it. 
PROJECT: CAPTIVE – A.01 PROMETHEUS 
Coriolanus brought his gaze back towards Dr. Gaul. He assumed he slipped a confused gaze at her, because before he could even ask her, she’s already speaking up:
“This is a project I had started around the time you were exiled in District 12.” 
His jaw slightly tightened. She didn’t have to use that exact word to describe it. 
“It’s far more… unique,” Her eyes rolled around the room as she sought out the word, the moment it landed on her tongue, she locked her sight immediately onto him. Gaul’s smile pulled a bit more at her cheeks, a festering excitement that was slipping out from her internal confines. The threat of teeth in her smile was no longer an attempt of niceties, but far more sinister in its intentions. Coriolanus would argue on a good day that both were the same, that Dr. Gaul’s cruelty was her being kind. “Than my other projects. Far more different than any of my other muttations, this is a beast of a different breed, but one that you and I know intimately well.”
 So this was a human experimentation, Coriolanus deduced. 
Dr. Gaul would never dare to refer to those below Capital ranks as something human, there was always something else she had to refer to them by. Animal, beast, plague, insect, if it stripped them of their humanity, she was eager to take it. They shared similar sentiments, but sometimes, he had to give them some form of distinct name to separate them. “I’ve actually grown quite fond of it. Usually, I’d handle its tests and exams, but you seem like you need a pick-me-up.” 
It should make him disgusted at how easily she could see through him. 
The older woman stepped further away from him, into one of the dark recesses of the room. Lab H05 was one of the main center labs within the Citadel, meaning it earned itself the privilege to have its layout be connected to other rooms, outside areas, halls, and the like. It just happened to be, the darker areas that Gaul was heading in were towards the direction of one of the elevators connected to the room. Coriolanus watched her body retreat into the dimly lit area, not quite following after her. He didn’t know why. His hands felt stiff with the folder in his hands. The pounding beat of his heart in his ears matched in tempo with the steps of her heels against the floor. If he was going to move, she was going to need to ask him. She knew too, the doctor knew her own footsteps, and she was very aware when others’ joined in. Turning around to look at where he still was, standing, watching, she looked back at him. Coriolanus could make out her faint silhouette in the dark, but Dr. Gaul’s blue eyes shone brighter in the dark. As if she had tapetum lucidum, how it reflected so wildly. She was not helping the rumors made against her, that questioned if she ever used herself for a subject of fascination. 
“Come now, Coryo. You don’t want to waste time.”
A silence fell upon them both. 
“Understood, I’m right behind you.”
Walking after her, Coriolanus descended the small set of stairs that she had gone down from, he stepped into the dimly lit area. The manila folder was still grasped tightly in his one hand, at his side. He didn’t understand it, he didn’t understand her. Yes, she said that she wanted to cheer him up, but he’d be a fool if he was to believe that’d was to be the only reason why she was doing this. Volumnia Gaul, telling confidential secrets because she cared for his well being? No, there was always something else. An ulterior motive she wished to serve, or a lesson she wanted to teach. When he was brought back from his sentence of being a peacekeeper, it was not because her heart broke over him. She was not weeping at him having to tread his feet into the muck and grime of District 12. It was because she was holding him up to an ambition that both him and her both wished to see. 
“This one,” Dr. Gaul started her words, occasionally turning her head to the side to make sure he was still following her ( he was ). “Started out as a simple curiosity. I had to sit with myself quite a bit to figure out a punishment that would actually serve some productivity.” Her hands reached behind her, flicking at the folder that Coriolanus was holding. He opened up the folder, finally, to look through the report. Whatever the Doctor was gesturing vaguely in conversation, it would be more explicit in her writings. “Displays of cadavers, desecration of the human silhouette, trauma to the cerebrum, these punishments can only go for so long before new ideas must be made. If the rebels expect the same disciplinary action, you can expect them to gain a tolerance to it.”
Squinting at the paper, he leaned his head slightly down to get a closer look of the subject. A small photo was attached to the report by a paperclip, it was a person who seemed to be in a similar age group to his. They looked clean, proper - they wore an ironed, white button up shirt under a dark vest, with unique, yet simple earrings they donned on. Pearls and tiny opals that dangled from a gold chain earring. A family heirloom, if Coriolanus had to guess. They smiled widely in the photo. Their teeth weren’t perfect, their upper cuspid was a bit more pointed in comparison to all others. 
They had once been a capital citizen, turned rebel, to… this. 
“I wanted to truly push my mind forward, and see if the impossible would truly be… well, possible.” Dr. Gaul grinned at the end of the sentence. Coriolanus lifted the photo up, after hooking his gaze unto the former for a moment. It’s a shame, he thought to himself. How pretty they are, had they not tainted their mind with childish ideas they would have continued to live in the comforts that they were so comfortably lavishing in before. He was curious as to whose family they once belonged to. A filthy curiosity enticed him, a want to digest more at the report at the risk of tuning out Gaul’s feverish ramblings. 
“Personally, I outdid myself.”
There was a small desire to curse her under his breath, the writing for the subject’s name was far too rushed and messy to read properly. Did she want him to read the report, or play word scramble? 
Dr. Gaul’s steps had stopped, the white noise of her chatter turned to silence was enough to bring his head back from the report. She stood between him and the elevator, holding her hands in front of her, folded. Peeking to the side, the button for the down level was lit up in a glow of red. Her smile widened. 
“Curiosity eating away at you, Coryo?” 
It still made his skin crawl, everytime she used that name. How frightening it was, that it also brought him a strange sense of the coldest warmth. 
“You’ve talked so vividly about them,” Not clear enough. “I want to see what makes you so excited about them.” He wants to see if they could come close to bringing him out of his frustrations. Fingers that touched the edge of the subject’s photo twitched in tempo with the small ding of the elevator. Doors opening, Dr. Gaul stepped to the side. Hands gestured, letting him know to step in first which he obliged. Yet, no other steps than his own followed him in. Coriolanus turned around, a puzzled look on his face when he noticed how Dr. Gaul was standing in the middle of the elevator’s doors. 
“Expected me to come join you? You can’t be so attached to my hip, Coryo.” She laughed, her hands reached in between her surgical gown and work attire. Pulling out a set of keys attached to her worker’s ID, she tugged a key off. Dr. Gaul dipped her body slightly in to twist at a lock that had revealed another panel of floor buttons aside from the usual floor ones. This must have been the key designated for the Citadel’s researchers and engineers. He had a private key of his own, but that was reserved for Game Makers. Still in training, but Dr. Gaul had persuaded the others to give him his own copy. “I have other things that need tending to, so you’ll have to have your fun without me.” Pushing a floor button that was labeled C09, glowing red under her touch, she gave him her key. She pressed into Coriolanus’s free palm, closing his fingers to clasp around it. 
“You can keep this one. I’ll ask for another copy.”
Was it because this one almost seemed rusted over to hell and back? Coriolanus wasn’t an idiot. He could feel the textured sensation of something that, usually, was supposed to be smooth metal. 
“Thank you, Dr. Gaul.” He spoke softly back to her. 
Dr. Gaul sent him another smile towards his way, the abominable sight of her gradually leaving his sight as the doors closed. A divide now between the both of them. 
Instantly, a breath of air was released from Coriolanus. His head reeled back, eyes closed,  leaning against the wall of the elevator. He was now by himself. Free from that imposing woman, he finally could be released from her watchful gaze. Always gauging him, examining him as if he, too, was another subject on her surgical table. Perhaps, in a strange, distant sense, he was. Which is why he likes it far more when their interactions are limited. Even if it makes him feel guilty if he hasn’t spoken to her for any prolonged amount of time. 
Another breath, he brought his head back down, eyes open. Opening his hand to where the key was held in his hand. It was frighteningly warm in his hand, most likely from when both Dr. Gaul and him held onto it. The material of the key was dark in color, rust having formed around some of the edges. Spots of dark stains marred its dull shine, it almost looks black in contrast to the key’s natural dark hue. This most definitely was blood, now dried. In his head, Coriolanus could see the vivid picture in his head: Dr. Gaul barely bothering to remove her gloves after leaving the examination room, holding the key between sticky gloves. A sneer pulled on Coriolanus’s face. He pocketed the key away. 
He wanted to focus on something else. 
The weight of the manila report at his side stuck out glaringly obvious, he still had yet to fully read through everything. His fingers were still thumbing between one of the pages, bookmarking a random place in the report. Should he wait to see the project on his own? Give himself something ‘fun’ to surprise himself with? A discomfort prickled at the hairs on his neck. No, he didn’t like surprises too much. Surprises meant no control, and no control meant chaos that wasn’t under his hand. And what more could be asked, when what he needed to know was right here. Hands flipped back open the manila folder while he waited for the elevator to finish its descent. 
On the first page, there was only one photo of the subject, before the project had started. Dr. Gaul was always so thorough, so there must have been more to see. And how he loved to be right, when the sight of more clipped on photos peeked through in between pages. He stopped at the sight of them. These had been nude, taken in what was most definitely an examination room. They must’ve been in captivity for a few days for how haggard they looked. Gleam completely gone, with only a dark emptiness seen on their face. Signs of minimal swelling on their left cheek from when they were hit by a peacekeeper when resisting arrest. Bags under the optics, suggesting either sleep deprivation or developed insomnia. His eyes lingered on the photos that took in zoomed in shots of identifiable beauty marks that were scattered around their body. One around the back of their left acromial, around the sternocleidomastoid, one on the left mammary gland, and another on the right femoral muscle. Unconsciously, his fingers traced along the edges of each photo as he examined them until they traced after the words of ink. 
The objective of the project: engaging and testing pain receptors on the subject. By use of non-licensed medication and surgical operations, the subject’s NTRK1 gene was mutated to a certain extent to gain the closest imitation to Congenital Analgesia ( while still keeping the subject alive ). If Coriolanus recalled, in his textbooks, Congenital Analgesia was a condition that always was given to a patient by a pass down from the parent. It was never really something ‘made’, or ‘given’. He could understand now why Dr. Gaul was so pleased with herself for accomplishing this feat. Curiosity was beckoning him, wanting to see more of what the report entailed. 
Pages dedicated to each operation, each test done. There were pain charts made, scales from 1 to 10, to test out the nerve receptors. Each test, the numbers on the chart went lower and lower; 10s that went to 9s, to the current lowest being a 6 for the majority of the subject’s body. The more sensitive areas, such as the frontal or the palmar of the body, were around 7 to 8 on the chart. Flipping to the back of the contents, there was a small note in Dr. Gaul’s handwriting.
Today, please take care of Project Prometheus’s nerve exams. The last surgical operation was done last month and they have just now fully recovered. Update the report by the end of today, to measure if there are any fluctuations on their pain receptors.
Sounded simple enough. If this was all he had to do today, then there was a chance he could clock out from work even earlier to give himself space before tonight’s event. A ding finally was heard from the elevator, he was here at Lab C09. Folder closed in his hands, his foot stepped out of the elevator and onto the floor. What a drastic difference Lab C09 had been in comparison to Lab H05. If it hadn’t belonged to Dr. Gaul, Coriolanus may not have been able to believe that this was an actual functioning lab. It almost seemed forgotten by the Citadel, half of the fluorescent lights not working, or blinking at different intervals. It bathed the floor in a very gray, almost vile green hue. The scent of copper and rust was far more noticeable, and the smell of medicine felt almost nauseous here. There were no grand columns in sight, and no endless amount of shelves dedicated to new specimens and ideas of creation. The floors were unkempt, specks of dirt packed into the corners of where the wall and once sleek tiles met. Occasional cracks on the floor, parts of the design broken and shattered into bits of ceramic. The halls were long, with endless doors that ( thankfully ) all were open, empty, or both. With the exception of the large corridor doors at the other end. He could make out the sight of Peacekeepers that stood on guard, near the corridor door and by the elevator entrance. 
This definitely was Dr. Gaul’s more… uncensored labs. 
Coriolanus took a few more steps into the lab and noticed the large stain of dried blood that dragged from where his feet stood, past the corridor doors. Eyebrows raised at the sight, but his eyes did not widen. Marvelous, the subject might still be rebellious. If this was to be the case, he’d be severely unimpressed. All these exams to change the NTRK1 and nothing done to affect the amygdala. 
Sloppy work here, Dr. Gaul. 
Pushing through the corridor doors, after giving the briefest of nods and acknowledgement towards the Peacekeepers, he found himself exactly where he needed to be. Entering an area that was entirely void of light, except for one thing. 
A large window glass on the other side, showing the examination room on the other side. It lit up this half of the hall, shelves of varying medicines and chemicals lined against the walls of the examination room. Surgical tools were lined up high on the wall, out of reach, not yet pulled out and placed on the side. Today there was no operation to be done. Examination lights shone overhead, and under it was the examination table where Project Prometheus sat. 
They sat down so compactly, so politely, knees folded to their chest and arms wrapped around them, their face leaned against the crevice their legs gave. The subject definitely had changed, physically, since the projects had begun. Their skin barely had the warm glow it had in their photo, had it not been for the peeks of color on their joints, he’d assume that there was no more blood rushing through their body. Their hair that once looked so well maintained, luxurious, was cut at awkward angles. Yet, it still managed to frame their face well enough. Figures, that was former Capital genes at work. Their body has taken significant damage since then. Scars of various shapes were scattered all across, bandages wrapped in some areas, and stitches that dragged around entire limbs, like their arms, thighs, feet, even one on their face. As if they were some over-played ragdoll that was patched up far too many times. There was no fight he could see from their eyes, and no anger. Was the blood on the floor halls really theirs, or did that belong to someone else?
This could not even be called anything, but a shell of a husk. 
Coriolanus stood there, watching, taking in the sight of them. It barely felt like he was breathing. And that alone irritated him. It’s like his body was trying to make itself seem smaller; as if he was somehow bothering them. He sighed out his frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose. They couldn’t even hear him from the thick glass, what would he be so concerned with? Bringing his hand back down, about to open the manila folder once again to compare their ID photo to their current state - he peeked at their form again. 
He had been noticed by it. 
His breath felt lodged in his throat, his original action now tossed to the side, as they and him both just… watched each other. Their eyes that had looked so sullen and distant before, were so focused and vigilant of him. But, they didn’t seem scared of him. Their body didn’t look tense, their expression didn’t twist into any wrinkles. What feeling was running through their body? Could they possibly feel anything? Coriolanus stepped away from the glass, slowly, and down further into the hall, to where the door of their examination room was. A peacekeeper stood guard near the heavy door, beside them a surgical gown, cap, goggles and gloves were on a hook. Excusing the other to the side, so he could reach and grab the attire to put on himself. Coriolanus questioned, as he tugged the latex rubber gloves on, if he still wanted to entertain the idea of holding their test today. Teeth grinded inside his jaw, he hated to admit weakness, but it was no lie that they unsettled him when they had stared back. 
That probably contributed to why Dr. Gaul favored the project so much, both must take joy from bringing him such unease. A sigh hissed from his teeth, as he put the surgical mask on. 
“I’ll be back out in just a moment. I’ll let you know if an emergency comes up.” 
It’ll be easy work, and then he can leave.
Opening the door, the sterile smell of the room rushed past him as the metal door was moved from its tight seal and then closed heavily behind him. Their head had moved away from where the glass window was, turned to stare at where he stood near the door, their folder still in his hands. Thinly-veiled sweat was forming inside the gloves, with the silence that fell heavy in the room. He opened the folder. 
“Good morning, Subject A01, I am–”
…? 
Did they say something? 
“...I’m sorry, did you say something?”
Another tense silence fell in the air. 
“... That isn’t my name.” Its voice was quiet, slightly hoarse but not entirely. Unexpected, considering their length of stay here. His fingers pinched tightly at one of the pages. 
“...What do you mean?” He was not going to call them by their Capital name. They had long since lost the right to use it, after rebelling against Panem. 
“Dr. Gaul calls me something else.” Coriolanus was going to kill it if they did not clarify. 
“And what does she call you?” This was the nicest tone he could muster. 
They spoke it once into the air, still looking at him with those dead eyes of theirs. Had Dr. Gaul been so fond of it to have given it an entirely new name? And they accepted and went along with it? That didn’t feel right, from what he’s examined about them so far. They were a rebel, they had fought against a Peacekeeper, they were dragged around the halls bleeding. 
And they gave up their old name?
It had shifted out of its cradled position, their legs dangled off the examination table and their arms were placed on their side. Coriolanus could see the patient gown they wore more clearly. It kicked its feet in the air idly, as it waited for his response. 
… Do they even know the situation that they’re in? 
“...Right. Well, do you know why I’m here?” 
“Not really. I’ve never met you before.” Was context clues also something it gave up while in captivity? “I know the guards, and I know Dr. Gaul. I don’t think I know about you,” They’re a prisoner, it’d be counter-intuitive if people were giving them info about every single staff member here. His mask covered the lower half of his face, but he hoped the slight shift of facial muscle was enough to convey that was trying to smile towards them. He walked further into the examination room, closer to where it sat and where the shelves of drugs and medical equipment were lined up. Their stare was burrowing holes into his back, while he shifted around, opening and closing shelves and drawers to check inside for what he needed. 
“Well, I am Dr. Gaul’s assistant. You can call me Snow,” He was not giving his first name to a former rebel. “I’m here today because Dr. Gaul is a bit busy today to handle your check-up, so I’ll be filling in her role.” Gloves shifted bottles around, turning them around to read the labels. The disinfectant, cotton swabs, tweezers, needles, rubbing alcohol, syringes, the bite-rag, marker, he had it all except the custom medicine that Dr. Gaul had made for it. In the instructions of how to construct their exam, Dr. Gaul had explicitly mentioned that they were to take specific medication, as they had helped keep it conscious at all times for operations and exams. It was needed so that they’d be able to relay the ratings, which is why Coriolanus was reading yet another prescription bottle in his hands, squinting in frustration. 
“It’s this bottle over here.” 
A delicate, scarred hand had pointed at another bottle that sat idly on the shelf. Coriolanus turned his head slightly, seeing the subject no longer on the examination table, standing behind him quietly. Not staring at him, they were entirely looking at where their hand pointed. They were only standing just a couple inches away from his body, careful not to touch him as they stood on the tips of their toes to point at the medicine. With this proximity, it was easier for him to get a closer look at them. The stitches on its body were done with thick, prominent threads; there were far more beauty marks he could pick out on their face that the photos didn’t display. The patient gown was made from a material far thinner than he expected, a visible silhouette could be seen from underneath the flimsy cloth. His mouth felt unusually dry. 
A cold chill trickled down his spine. He barely noticed them. He doesn’t even think it made a sound when it moved. 
“Careful, keep your space from me.” He spoke, a careful warning to their ears and a threatening promise on his. He didn’t want to risk being so close to them like this, he barely knew the extent of how violent the project could possibly be yet. Still, they listened, backing away from him and putting their hand back down to their side. Both it and him stared at each other again, the tense air dancing back inside the room. They looked as if they had wanted to say something, and Coriolanus, internally, felt almost violent for how demure they were being with him. It repulsed him, how it felt almost endearing if he looked at them for a second more. 
“Is something wrong?” Eventually he bit the bullet, speaking first between the two of them. He can’t bear another moment of silence with it. 
“... I don’t need a bite-rag. I don’t think I really scream much anymore.” They still had an issue with explaining context to him more, he’ll tell Dr. Gaul that needed some work lat– His jaw ticked… Why did he care about your abysmal social skills? It was a captive, it had no one to speak to other than their own captors. Pulling down their prescription from the shelf, a dark, thick liquid, he said in return: “It’s best to have it on hand, just in case you need it. Now, return back to the examination table.” For a split second, he thought he could see their gaze soften at him. Were they seriously entertaining the idea that he was being nice to them? Coriolanus just didn’t want to deal with their sounds while he worked. It’d be like trading one screaming fit for another, for when he had to go on his date with Livia later in the evening. 
They nodded, and followed his command, walking back to sit on top of it. Their body was sitting in his direction though, observing, waiting for him. Coriolanus still felt unsure about them, but… it was strange, their obedience. It made him suspicious of its intent with all this. Trailing back to the center of the examination room, he placed all the tools on a metal tray. Pulling out an exam stool from under one of the tables, he set the syringe to the cap of its prescription. He pulled the plunger of the syringe up, watching as the barrel filled up with medicine, until it sat nicely. The needle left smoothly from the cap, and a drop of the liquid dangled at the edge of it. This form of silence he liked far more better. 
“...Do you have family, Dr. Snow?” 
So close. Coriolanus flicked the needle harshly, the drop hitting somewhere else. He placed the ready syringe down, and picked up the black marker. Turning back towards them, their head rested in their palms, watching him intensely. 
“That’s none of your concern. Now please, remove your gown so we can get started on the examination.” Grabbing the stool to pull it underneath him, he got comfortable in the seat while it moved to get up. As their hands reached behind them to undo the tie around their waist first, it still spoke ( much to his chagrin ). 
“I was just wondering since Dr. Gaul usually talks whenever she comes to visit.” That explained why their throat was not as hoarse as he was expecting. Dr. Gaul was treating her trials with them as a morning brunch. “She sometimes talks about her day, or talks about her family.” They loosened the tie around their waist, the fabric more flowy around their lower body. Coriolanus stared intently, taking in the first peek of skin. Looking past the scars, despite the stitches pulling at parts of their skin, and the dented scars, their skin looked soft, malleable. They must’ve been popular on weekend nights, back then. Their hands reached up to undo the tie around their collar. Rather than watching him while he worked, it was his turn to watch them. There was that beauty mark on their left acromial. Eyes leisurely trailed back up to their fingers, the smallest note with how it fumbled around behind them to untie the flimsy string. Their movements were clumsy, in his eyes, which almost surprised him. “She likes to talk about her three kids often.”
Coriolanus looked away from their stitched fingers, confusion on his face. 
“Dr. Gaul only has two kids.” He’s seen the photos she has in her office. She has two sons, both who have gone on to have families of their own. Not once has she mentioned a third kid, Coriolanus isn’t even sure it was possible at her age. Didn’t menopause usually affect a person’s chances of getting pregnant? Maybe it was a secret child she had abandoned at the maternal ward while dropping off her resignation as an obstetrician. 
“No, she has three. She told me their names: Caius, Martius, and Coriolanus.” 
Oh. 
Oh, now that’s… 
“I see. You must be closer to Dr. Gaul than I am.” 
He didn’t know what to really say to that. There was really nothing for him to go and argue about, especially with the patient. Coriolanus couldn’t quite outright say that the third child was him, especially when he specifically told them to refer to him by his last name. And if he revealed that this was an entire lie on Dr. Gaul’s end, he wasn’t quite sure how the woman would react for doing so. It wasn’t his place, when he had no idea what Gaul had wanted to achieve. He understood the physical punishment and hypothesis being put upon Project Prometheus, but he had yet to understand where the emotional, and the mental, aspect of this punishment was. Dr. Gaul will tell him if it was needed, or he’ll figure it out based on his own conclusions. That must be one of the purposes Dr. Gaul had assigned this task to him. 
“Alright. I’m done.”
Coriolanus blinked. He didn’t even realize he lost focus on them, he let out a small exhale as he lifted himself from the exam stool, marker ready in hand. 
“Right, for the next step of this exam, I need to…” 
Words trailed off for him. 
What an entirely different view it was, from before, looking at them only from the back. From behind, it was just read to him as a large canvas of skin that had already been stained and painted on. Nothing that gave way to what person under the flesh could be. Yet, the front… There was more to regard and take note of, a far more different feeling than just having viewed from the photos alone in the reports. If he were to ignore the marks left on their body, had they stayed perfect from before, he could’ve made the argument about their body being more alluring than the average Capital citizen. That familiar, dry feeling touched his throat again. What a waste, for genes like that to be wasted on a rebel. There were more beauty marks and moles in the front, along with more stitches and scars. Coriolanus could see the surgical scars that were healing between their pectoralis major area. A curiosity rose, questioning how scarred tissue would feel under his gloves. He raised an eyebrow, as his gaze dared to move to a lower section on their body. Must be for easier mapping, that Dr. Gaul decided it was best to have their pubic area shaved clean.
“...Dr. Snow, are you okay?”
His tongue darted out to lick his dry lips under the surgical mask. 
“Fine, just thinking about Dr. Gaul’s instructions.” He was going to go insane before he could even head to the fundraiser tonight. Coriolanus reached his free hand out, hovering it over their shoulder area, guiding them to stand closer to the area between the exam table, and his stool. He took note, that despite the way their body has changed since their captivity, their body still held a warmth that radiated off from their skin. “Stand here, please. For this next step, I’ll be using this marker here to map out the different muscles and areas on your body. Are you familiar with this?”
The subject nodded, a yes from their lips. 
Good. 
The sound of the marker cap popping off filled in the lack of words on Coriolanus’s part, the black cap falling on the tiled floor and rolling off to a dark, distant corner of the room. “For today, we’ll only be focusing on the external pain chart. Meaning skin surface only,” He lifted the subject’s hair, pushing up against the subject’s head, strands that were long enough to block full access to the neck. Bringing the marker up, he pressed down the chiseled tip of alcoholic ink on the subject’s skin, making the first section of dotted lines. Writing on their skin in careful, small letters, the areas that compromised their neck; the semispinalis capitis, the levator scapulae, the rhomboid minor–
“How long have you worked for Dr. Gaul?”
Fingers nearly stumbled in drawing when the muscle stretched in movement, he lifted the marker carefully away from its skin. The idea of putting in Gaul’s suggestion box the order of a mouth gag was becoming all the more tempting to him. 
“It doesn’t concern you.” Coriolanus responded, coolly. 
He pressed the marker back down on its skin, moving himself to the anterior of its body. Between his gloved fingers, he held their chin. The muscle limp in his hands, letting him lift their chin up to show more, exposing the unfolded expanse of their skin. The project was an annoying one, but at the least,they were a pliant one. The black dotted lines drew itself across the subject’s body: the sternocleidomastoid, the sternohyoid–
“How has your day been so far, Dr. Snow?”
Would Dr. Gaul throw him to the curb if he strangled one of her projects?
Coriolanus lifted himself slightly from his leaned down angle, his fingers that once lifted its chin up, had pulled their chin back down to look at him eye to eye. Its gaze stared back at him with such emptiness, a lack of anything to be seen, no anger, no defiance, no discomfort, not even joy. His eyebrows narrowed down slightly as he took in the face that held no question to how, and what, manner he held their body in. Were they trying to please him? Make his guard drop down by asking questions, hoping that he’d become more sympathetic towards them? 
“Dr. Gaul isn’t here. You are under no requirement to attempt conversations like you’ve done with her.” He spoke, trying his best attempt at sounding sympathetic to their ears. That would be the easiest explanation. The soul of them was sucked out by Dr. Gaul forcing them into an illusion of a grotesque socialite. That’d explain away the project’s incessant speaking. 
Yet, the subject had tilted their head under his fingers. The slightest push against his grasp. 
“... Do you not like talking, Dr. Snow? Dr. Gaul always looks so happy when she’s talking.”
So they were trying to suck up to him. He locked his teeth. And to think, he was giving them a chance of redemption, by assuming that they had been conditioned to engage in meaningless conversation. Maybe he was wrong about their obedience. There was still a spark of a rebel within them regardless of their time, their experiences, in captivity. 
“I only ever see Dr. Gaul, so I got excited to see someone new. I’m sorry for upsetting you,”
They could’ve fooled him with that tone of voice. They sounded as dead as their eyes had looked. Yet, Coriolanus bit his bottom lip as the doubt touched his head; the subject’s stare, if he gazed deeply enough he felt as if he could almost make out a sullenness to them. Were they legitimately apologetic? He didn’t want to even know the answer, he just wanted to finish this job as quickly as possible. He let go of their chin, releasing it. Gloved fingers now traced the space between their shoulder and collarbone, the subject angling their neck to the other side to give him room. He brought the marker back down to their skin, more dotted lines appearing under his wake. 
“... What exactly is your relationship to Dr. Gaul, if I may ask?” He hated them, he decided. He hated how quickly they managed to rope him into this dumb small talk. It was almost audible, the sound of the subject blinking, feeling their gaze boring under the layers of his clothes. Did he say the wrong thing? Did they not want conversation? He adjusted the weight of his stance, uncomfortable under the silence the subject had unwillingly placed him in. Was he not doing what they wanted, was that not enough for them?
“Dr. Gaul is…” Their words trailed off. They were trying to find the words, unsure of what to say to him. They most likely didn’t want to try and insult her, considering her assistant was in the room with them. They don’t want to risk possibly earning more punishment. Project Prometheus may have been smarter than what he initially assumed. Coriolanus moved back to the posterior, hands trailed themselves across the subject’s shoulders, feeling, to remind him of the muscle underneath before he marked it down. Trapezius. 
“Dr. Gaul is my caretaker, I think.” 
Well isn’t that something unique. 
If the subject had decided to say captor, overseer, punisher, he wouldn’t have cared. It would’ve been honest. Caretaker? That was something different, that was something sympathetic. The thought of them turning this twisted dynamic into something heartfelt, fell sour on his tongue. It made him feel repulsion towards them. Why bother to lie? “Tell me about that.” His voice was soft, inviting the project to open themselves to him. As the marker continued to mark their skin, Coriolanus took one of its arms under his hand. The subject’s fingers twitched slightly, when he brought his hand under theirs. Their hand was not that big in comparison to his own, unable to fully fill out of his palm. The fingertips were usually the more sensitive parts, when it came to sensations. He hummed. Adductor pollicis. 
“...I’m not sure how to describe it well.” They sounded unsure. Spending this extended amount of time with them, Coriolanus could make out the slight tonal differences they had in their voice. It was very small, though. The muscles in his hands seem to slightly tense.
“Do your best for me.” 
Their fingertips, the slightly yellowed nails, tapped slightly at the latex material of his gloves. Almost as if fidgeting to gather the words, the right ones, to say to him. 
“Dr. Gaul has always been… someone there, I suppose.” Because she has to. “The guards are there too, but they don’t really notice me in the way Dr. Gaul does.” He wrote down on another part of the subject’s arm, drawing another dotted line. Brachioradialis. “Even though the tests kind of hurt, but I’m getting used to it now, she’s been the only one so far to give me a name, a birthday, check up on me, tell me about her day,” He was almost impressed at how their were trying to upsell the ‘normalcy’ of their captivity. A new name and birthday? Maybe the secret third child of Dr. Gaul wasn’t him, but actually them instead. He almost laughed aloud at the prospect of it. Coriolanus turns to the other side of their body, taking the other arm of the subject to write on after finishing the other. Biceps brachii. “That’s like a caretaker, right?” And now it was asking for his confirmation? It truly does want to appease him. He let out another hum, as if he was thinking to himself when he was going to go along with their delusions. “It sounds like Dr. Gaul cares a great deal for you.” He lied to them. 
Making his back to the anterior of the subject’s body, he stood in front of them, the subject tilting their head up to him. Project Prometheus was shorter, in comparison to him, standing at eye level against his chest. Latex touched the area of the linea alba, Coriolanus kept his gaze steady on them and they did the same. There was a silence that fell between them, but it felt so uninviting to him now that he finally had it. The subject still held their indifference, their apathy, and he wanted to know why it bothered him so much when he should like how easy of a prisoner they were being. No, there had to be something more. There was always something more. His fingers dragged down their skin, and his marker followed behind, writing down the names of the muscles he touched. The subject had moved their arms, and Coriolanus tensed for a second, thinking they were finally going to react, going to grab him, hit him, something – yet, their arms shifted away from the angle of his body, moving in to hold the muscles of the pectoralis major up in their hands, cupping them. They were making more room for him to write on their upper abdomen. 
Coriolanus loathed them. 
Had he had half the control, he would’ve smacked the stitched hands away. He liked it far more when they acted like a ragdoll, instead of this game of pacification it was trying to play. Writing down on the external oblique aponeurosis, he brought his hands back up their skin until it rested under their wrists. He held both their wrists on either hand. “Please, bring your hands down so I can continue mapping.” The words came out more as a whisper than he had intended. They instantly had listened to his command, letting their arms fall back on either side and their chest exposed to him. His eyes lingered briefly on the sight, taking in the small details that made the subject unique. The beauty mark on their left mammary gland, now in his line of sight. No longer blocked by the limit of only just a photo. There was that dry feeling in his mouth again. 
Carefully, bringing a hand up, gauging their reaction, he held one of the mammary glands in his free hand and a marker up in the other. Judging their face, they seemed neutral, no frown or smile, no wrinkle, no squint. He could assume there must have been discomfort under those dark pits for eyes. He knew that’s what he felt, doing this right now. Coriolanus wondered if it would have been better or worse, if Project Prometheus were to be more… reactionary. 
“Let me know if anything bothers you.” Dotted lines followed after his hand. He’d take it, the laborious small talk. It was much more preferred right now than this tortuous silence that had fallen between them. Thick and constricting, had it gone on any longer, Coriolanus knew he would drive himself internally insane if he was to be left alone to his own thoughts. If Project Prometheus had done nothing while he was holding onto their very own breasts in his hands. Had it been any other person, they would’ve squirmed under his touch. Possibly even a twitch to unconsciously move away, as the marker moved against the skin of the areola. The mapping of the right gland was dotted and marked completely. 
“You don’t bother me.” 
Now, that felt deliberate. 
Ink halted, stopping after writing out the final letter of the pectoralis minor. The words were written next to the beauty mark he had noted before. Coriolanus was tempted to make dotted lines around the area, as a place of special interest, though marks like these were no major muscle or nerve. Blue eyes had looked up through thick lashes, he slightly lifted his craned head up to get a better look at the subject. Peering towards their face, he didn’t know why he expected anything different. It was the same look of disinterest, the broken lights hung above them casted a haunting shadow over their face. Did he also look similar, when they stared back at him? In certain angles, despite the unnerving look the room had given them, Coriolanus might’ve thought their eyes seemed naturally soft towards him. Innocent, maybe. 
Did they see nothing wrong with what he was doing? … Or had all the tests and operations ruined not just their nerves, but fried them, that their sense of danger seemed near non-existent? 
Was this another form of appeasement that it was trying to pull on him? 
Unconsciously, his hands had released themselves, finally, from holding onto Project’s Prometheus’s breasts. Both now marked, his free hand slid down the expanse of their abdomen. The ridges and bumps of their scars and stitches were felt briefly, the full grasp of the sensation blocked by the barrier of latex rubber wrapped around his fingers. Not once did he look away from the subject as his hands made its way down, and neither did Project Prometheus. His hand stopped at the tensor fasciae latae. Something was wrapping itself around the cavity of his chest, making the activity of breathing a difficult feat for him to do. Coriolanus didn’t know what he was doing. Was he trying to garner a bigger reaction from it? An attempt of possibly stirring violence, even? 
Maybe it was delaying his own discomfort, he realized. Looking down, he stared to see the spread of skin below that had no splotches of black ink. They were shorter than him, he’d have to get down on his knees if he wanted to have clear and easy access to mark its legs. How humiliating… Having risen up through the ranks and bringing the Snow family back to its rightful place of acclaim and fortune; only to fall back down on his knees to a prisoner, a former rebel. If the other families caught wind of this, he’d never hear the end of it. 
Reluctantly, still holding onto their hip, his body moved itself to the floor. Knees touched against the uneven grout of the tiles, the position a bit awkward. He was thankful, for the surgical gown he wore, that the vile floor of the examination room wouldn’t stain against his clothes. Tracing his hand down to the stitch mark path of their leg, he rested it at the back of their thigh. Coriolanus tilted his head up, ready to command that Project Prometheus moved their leg more towards him. But, his words fell into a silent, held breath as he gazed up at them from his position. The shadow that had cascaded over their face briefly from before was now entirely enveloped around their body. Sickly green fluorescent lights shone above their head, akin to a haloing effect. Illuminated around the edges of their body, their hair, the subject still looking at him. Only him, and nothing else. A thrumming noise was loud in his ears; it felt dangerous. It felt like a warning that something was wrong here. He had felt it before.
Project Prometheus moved its leg forward, more into him, without a word ever spoken between the two of them. How pliant it was with him. 
He pressed the marker against their skin as thank you, dipping his head back down to their thigh. It would be risky, if he lost focus. There was still so much he had yet to know of the subject, the layers that were contained behind the flimsy shield of flesh and tissue. He dotted the area of the vastus medialis, careful not to press the ink against the subject’s stitches so as not to irritate the healing skin there. Maybe its attempts of appeasement were working on him. Not once did he think he’d have a shred of enough care to think about the possibility of ink seeping into their wounds. 
He marked down the region of the knee. Patella. 
“...You’re a very gentle person, Dr. Snow.” The subject spoke quietly, in a whisper just loud for him to hear. “You treat me so carefully, I barely feel a thing when you hold me.” 
It mistook his lightweight hands for kindness. Reality was that he was just wary about setting them off. 
“Does Dr. Gaul not treat you in the same manner?” The words came out softly from him. Reaching now the ankle of the subject, gloved hands reached down underneath the sole of its foot, lifting it up for better writing access. Instinctively, Project Prometheus placed their hands on either side of his shoulders so as to not fall. Their body leaned itself more into him, using him as a steady weight of support. The proximity of their small body bent over his, the glare of the fluorescent lights was entirely swallowed up, casting a dark shadow over him, blocking the light from reaching him. Could they feel, under their ragged fingers, the tenseness in his body at their action? If the subject wanted to, they could easily go in to attack him in this vulnerable position. He’d do the same if he was in their position. He continued to write, marker steady in hand. There would be no satisfaction to be gained for the subject, in seeing him stumble and cower. 
He wrote the words ‘abductor hallucis’ on their foot.
“She… does not treat me rough, no. If I had to describe it, I think the word for it is more… ‘inanimate’.” He doesn’t quite recall if a new law was passed that required captors to treat prisoners humanely. It sounded as if it was trying to recall certain words again. Should the exam go entirely smoothly with no problems, he might feel generous enough to convince Dr. Gaul to bring Project Prometheus a dictionary for them to study up on. Not like it would do much. It wasn’t like they had anyone to really practice their knowledge on. 
Coriolanus wondered what the prisoner was exactly before all this, back when they were formerly Capital. They lacked the air of dignity and ignorance that most Capital elites donned well, but maybe that could be attributed to their decay while staying here. Or perhaps the prisoner had come from a small, simple family. The kind that handled all the manual labor that the Capital never liked to speak loud about. The workers who were hardly ever seen, or acknowledged. That could explain why he never heard any recent fuss over a family’s child being ‘sent away’. No one would ever care for a background prop. 
It held onto his shoulders more tightly, as he adjusted the subject’s position. It didn’t want to topple over him. 
Project Prometheus's right foot now marked accordingly, he placed its foot back down on the rotten floor. Ready to reach his hand to hold onto their left, the subject moved without the need for his touch. The left leg was gestured forward for him. How sweet of them to realize a pattern. “I don’t mind it, though. As long as she still talked to me.” How fascinating. The subject was pacified by the easy act of conversation. Such a simple thing to be pleased by, Coriolanus could think they were joking. Regardless of how things were going so far, he still didn’t forget it. The bloodstains on the halls was something he could not erase so easily. That suggested, no, it told him, that Project Prometheus had something up their sleeve still. Though, nothing had occurred. Nothing had happened because they were still speaking to each other. Coriolanus continued to write on its foot. Lumbrical.
“...Do you get upset if she doesn’t speak to you?” 
He couldn’t help but ask. 
He wanted to know. He needed to know. 
“...I get lonely, and sad.” Was it trying to downplay its emotional reactions to him? “I wonder if it's because I did something wrong to upset her.” If a prisoner of his tried to fight back numerous times during their captivity, he’d get annoyed too. It was strange, though. Coriolanus knew that morals and values were of no concern for Dr. Gaul, especially against rebels. Any torture, punishment, placed on them was not seen as being done onto another person, but just another animal, a specimen in her collection. It would not be above Dr. Gaul to cut off a limb, or two, to get a prisoner to stop fighting. So… why not do the same here? Perhaps, this form of mental and emotional punishment was more lethal than he assumed. Another curious test from the mad woman, it was impossible to ever understand her whims. 
“Sometimes, I think it might be one of her tests.”
Coriolanus didn’t say those words. 
He didn’t like this. Such a statement, spoken so simply, brought him a sick swirl of unease. 
The movement of ink had halted, yet his mind continued to race. The thin hairs at the back of his neck stood at its ends, and he held tightly onto the marker in his hand. Quietly, carefully, he placed the plantar surface of Project Prometheus’s foot back down on the uneven tiles below the both of them. Reaching his hands up to his shoulders, where the subject’s extensor retinaculum were, he held onto it firmly. The subject put up no sign of objection. Sweat was slowly building up under the tight material of the gloves he donned on, but it was not a sweltering warmth. It was a cold, clammy sensation. 
“What do you mean by ‘one of her tests’?” Punctuating the words at the end, he kept his tone inquisitive, curious. Perhaps, a dabble of suspicion. Not towards the subject, but more towards the matter. What was needed in this situation was caution, and he’d be a gutted fool if he was to let the rebel become aware of how much the question startled him to his core. For right now, he’d play the gentle, confused assistant that it assumed of him before. He already told the lie of it knowing Dr. Gaul better than he did. 
“Her tests,” 
It spoke as if he knew! He knew very well what it was. What once was a flash of fear, had become a steady stream of anger. He knew because he is Dr. Gaul’s assistant. It was his job to follow in the steps she’s placed out for him, and more. Why would a prisoner, a subject, know about the ways Dr. Gaul operated? How much does Dr. Gaul tell it in these ‘conversations’? 
It made him sick, that the lie he told before could actually become true. 
“I never notice it until it’s done, until she tells me at the end. She never shares the results with me.” For once, he is tempted to strip his pride and beg for more details. “Most days, it’ll be physical tests, like today. Others, it’s more… talking, or writing.” 
“Writing?” 
It came out quickly before he could properly think his words over. He doesn’t recall seeing possible writing exams in Subject A01’s report. To be fair to himself, he did skim it briefly since he was only just now introduced to the project. There wasn’t much time for him to familiarize himself with all the tiny details written inside. At least, the things that were legible. 
“Dr. Gaul hands me scraps of paper and just asks me to write what I think. Like uh, a journal…I guess.” Keeping a diary couldn’t be the only test Dr. Gaul was having it do. If writing random streams of thought was enough to be intellectually challenging, he wouldn’t be seeing students at the University fighting to win passing grades. “I don’t understand the reason why, and I never remember what I write. My memory is not the best.” It was giving him an excuse to try and shift the conversation. How funny it was, trying to take control of the situation. He’d never let such a thing happen. In this examination room, there was only one person and a subject, the dynamic that was at play was clear. The grip Coriolanus had on their extensor retinaculum tightened, an unconscious movement on his part. Project Prometheus had taken in a soft breath of air at the action, the sound loud enough between the both of them. Had it not come from a prisoner, what a sweet sound it could’ve been. 
“Could you explain it to me,” His voice came out softly, despite the gnawing irritation that he held back. The tight grasp he had loosened, one hand stroking down a careful thumb down the stitched wrist of the subject in gentle circles. He shifted in his kneeled position, adjusting to a more comfortable weight as the layers he wore started to wear at him, an uncomfortable shift. Wearing the surgical uniform could be sweltering. Tilting his head up slightly to gaze up at the subject, praying that his eyes did not betray and reveal his inner thoughts. “Try to remember.” 
Coriolanus could’ve sworn he saw a slight falter, a tremble, in the dark optics of Project Prometheus. Its supercilium furrowed just the slightest inch upwards; did it look apologetic? The first visible change of expression he’s witnessed in the time he’s spent here in this examination room, and it’s one of regret. The subject’s fingers twisted itself into the fabric of his surgical gown, opening its mouth partially as they sought the right sound, the right word. He could make out the faint peeks of its canines. 
“... I’m sorry, Dr. Snow. I can’t remember at all,” They breathed out, in admission, surrendering. It treated it as a guilty confession. 
“Not a thing?” He whispered softly to them, prompting them to speak more. Coriolanus applauded himself internally, for how sympathetic he sounded. 
The subject shook its head. 
“My memory is not good.” Again, it reaffirmed its previous statement. 
Was his question that hard? Surely, specks of small details, flashes of imagery, that would be sufficient enough of an answer for him. He wasn’t asking for a full essay of their inner workings ( though, he wouldn’t mind it ). However, as both their eyes continued locked in a stare, his thumb slowed its movements. The leathered finger stopping at the center junction of its stitches, the feel of the raised, textured skin apparent under the feel of the material. Project Prometheus was being sincere. Its face hadn’t changed, its body had not moved away from him. Dare he say, the minimal space between them; something he did not mind earlier before, had become much more apparent in his feverish mind. The subject answered him so honestly, it made his suspicions of before seem so ridiculous now. One thing did nag at him though, the writing, the insistence of journaling, the memory. 
“... Do you remember how long you’ve been here?” Two years ago, Coriolanus recalled. Two years ago, that was when he was abandoned in District 12. When Dr. Gaul had started the experiment on Subject A01, busying herself with curiosities while he was drowning himself in depravities and vices, waiting out like a dog for some form of mercy to reach him. 
A new, tense silence consumed them both. He watched the subject carefully, taking note of the slightest movement that could give any indication of anything more. Tracing with his eyes, following how Project Prometheus’s cuspid snagged at their chapped bottom lip. A faint flush of red spread across the muscle, from the pressure exerted on it. Unconsciously, it reminded him of how dry his own mouth felt, the hoarse sensation in his throat. He darted out his own tongue for a brief moment to wet his own mouth, hidden underneath the surgical mask he wore. Nothing was being said between them, but yet there was so much being told. A fierce feeling was soaring, running through the veins of Coriolanus; he knew what it meant and he feared for it. Not for what the answer could be, but what it possibly could bring up. 
“You don’t remember how you got it here at all, do you?” His voice was so hushed, spoken as if taboo. It gave him the same feeling of it, the rush as the blood was entering his head and his heartbeat loud in his ears. 
A form of dissociative amnesia. 
Project Prometheus had developed gaps in memory due to an extended amount of isolation and exposure to severe trauma. It all clicked in Coriolanus’s head. He understood now what Dr. Gaul was attempting to achieve in her games with the subject. The tests, the daily conversations, the journal writing – Dr. Gaul was examining the subject’s mental decay as part of the Project’s ongoing research. Not only has the woman deteriorated and changed the way the prisoner’s nerves had worked, but their mind as well. Is continuing the Project even viable to do anymore? It was a form of punishment. Would it be ethical to operate on a being of flesh, when the subject no longer knew what it was being punished for? The question would most likely give Dr. Gaul a kick of joy. She loved to ponder questions worthy of debate. Coriolanus wouldn’t put it past the woman if she already gave the inquiry out to one of her classes in a lecture hall. 
“I vaguely do,” 
His eyebrows rose in interest. 
“But only in subtle feelings.” 
Nevermind. 
“I think I experienced some form of confusion. And bits of anger, too. Dr. Gaul… For a moment, I used to be so scared of her. Now, I can’t even remember the reason why.” 
Project Prometheus’s indifference, Coriolanus realized, it was not just solely based on apathy. What had become of it was a blank state, unsure of how to process things so the mind refused to process it all. But, it was still something highly susceptible to influences, shown in how Project Prometheus had become conditioned like Pavolv Dog, to associate Dr. Gaul’s silence with anger and disappointment, and her socialness with satisfaction and joy. It all was dawning on him. He could see it now, why Dr. Gaul was so disturbingly fascinated by this project. Gloved hands moved away from the subject’s wrist, and reached out to lay in gentle manner against the side of their bare thighs. The subject allowed him to, never raising a sign of objection. Could he teach it to experience anger once more, when he treated their body like this? Maybe discomfort, disgust, despair - he wanted to show their blank canvas of a mind what it felt like to fully immerse themselves in these ugly emotions. He knew why they were like this, but there still was a lingering crumb of vexation directed at the subject. Somehow, in their newfound state, they still felt far more free than he ever did; how they almost felt nothing, and he had to feel everything. 
And yet, there was another thought that touched him. He wondered, if he spent enough time with the subject, could he too, be able to condition them to other things. They thought of him as merciful, kind, in comparison to Dr. Gaul. Could he make Project Prometheus worship him, and in the same quiet breaths they were fond of, resent him? The thought of making them accustomed to anticipating his attendance, and lamenting his absence sounded tempting. 
How nice it would be, to have someone other than a deranged crone enjoy his presence. 
Tigris certainly didn’t anymore. 
Coriolanus rose himself from the ground, gripping on the meat of Project’s Prometheus’s flesh to lift him. Under his touch, the pliant stretch of skin and tissue made the subject remove their hands from his shoulders. Another faint breath escaped their exhale. It was a sound he was slowly getting used to. Back to their original height difference, he no longer had to crane his head up to look at the subject. The subject had to lift their head up to look up at him, now. What did Project Prometheus see, in their gaze as they stared at him, Coriolanus thought. Was he too, consumed in shadow and bathed under the gritty lights of the examination room like they once had? 
“We’re done with the mark-up.” It took him a moment to move away from the subject. “We’ll move to holding the nerve exam now, after I administer a low dosage of your medication.” 
The uncapped, black marker was placed back down on the metal tray, aside from the examination table. Replacing its empty space was now the syringe he had filled out before, the dark color swishing as he picked it up. The needle gleamed under the fluorescent light. Turning his back around, Project Prometheus had already sat themselves up nicely on the edge of the examination table for him. Their legs dangled off, their hands held at the edges of the worn-out leather cushion, eyes fixated on his person. They were waiting for him. He’s almost bothered, how easily the subject could anticipate his next set of commands. He hoped that this was just due to routine, not because he had become easy to read. Coming up to meet them there, the only sound that filled the air was the sole of his shoes stepping against the tiles. Gloved fingers reached to grab at the jaw of Project Prometheus, the syringe held close to their face. It shone particularly brilliant, mere inches away from their face. The subject showed him no fear, no resistance, despite the way the skin of the cheeks had moved under his grasp. 
Already, he wanted to break them.
“Show me where to inject you.” 
He’d be sweet, Coriolanus would let them pick where it was most comfortable for him to inject the medication in. Project Prometheus complied immediately to him, holding on the hand that held their needle to adjust the position. They guided him to the back of their neck, moving their hair to make space. To reward their compliance, he pricked the syringe quickly under the skin, careful not to touch an artery or nerve. The dark liquid inside the barrel slowly filled out, emptying itself as he pushed the plunger down. The subject did not let out a sound, a favorable contrast to Livia, who waited for him outside these Citadel walls. 
He was going to mold them into something useful.
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