Warframe - Lettie's little bird

 

Summary | Yet once more the cycle reset - items lost to the reset needing to be found, blockades reverted, inventory once more scattered as the year reverts to approximate former positions. And so the Drifter assists Lettie to move the makeshift clinic's inventory for the coming year - not everything stays in place.

Characters | Arali (Drifter [He/They butch]) & Leticia "Lettie" Garcia | Butch/Femme
Contents | Weird biology, medical kink, surgery, (consensual) vivisection, dissection, BDSM, RACK, masochism, gutplay, pain kink, fingering, oral, fingering, overstimulation, freeform - fisting, freeform - organ rearranging
Length | 18,510w

NOTE: Spanish sections may adjust as needed

Last year’s confetti still scatters within the low drone of the abandoned mall as metal screeches against concrete – a year over, cycle in repeat. Where once civvies had flocked sits silent and still, reverted back to slate and furniture reshuffled back to a year prior. Barricades once sat firm slump in their scattered implements, fragmentary wear damage to atomicycles returned and replacements scattered to once they came – to be once more retrieved. Once more they heave - pushing the hulk of an abandoned vehicle against the lingering techrot spores.

She stretches back to accesses their progress, rolling her shoulders as he rests against the back of the car. Still a few centimeters from the door, “odio esta mierda”, groans before taking her spot beside them. And together, once again, they push as with a final jolt the vehicle clicks over the cable growth.

“That was the last one, right?” wavers through the radio as the silent warframe body rests against the vehicle, helm leaning upon the crossed arms.

“Sí, for now,” Lettie leans against the side of the cab, catching her breath as she checks the map once more. “Others should hold for now - may need to be replaced next month.” The panels of her metal skirt chatter as she moves again. Another task at hand, and the warframe body so obediently follows back beneath winter’s ethereal gaze. Back and beneath the quiet counters and abandoned storefronts, footsteps left in the refreshed layer of dust as they continue to keep themselves busy in the cold January morning - and a lone generator continues to hum.

Though now voided of the activity that once buzzed through the mall’s quiet halls, it’s not exactly any more quiet than how it was in the first cycle. From reorganizing their separate spaces to once what they remembered, to bickering about once-found-now-lost equipment, each of them has their own task to prepare for the coming year. And that includes the makeshift clinic that is back to consisting of a few sprawled mattresses.

Packing up the few sterile instruments she has left, Lettie catches the silent warframe beside her with the layout she has planned - trading off the spot on the mezzanine for something quieter. To the far end of the mall which will be quieter than the auditory hell the year would bring. Balancing three of the mattresses on their ends, they’re hugged tight against the warframe’s steely exterior, and with a breath of void energy the drifter steps out with a grunt, a hand kneading against their stomach.

“How you holding out,” Leticia heaves the parcel of still sterile bandaging from the floor, pausing just long enough for him to push off the railing, picking up another box of medical supplies with a prolonged grumble and a wince.

“It’s been better,” they lament, “I’ll just take it slow for a few, will catch up with you.”

Her head tilts slightly to the side, looking over his armored clothing as she adjusts her grip on the box, “sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable with a little less, las cosas.” Armored greaves, covered in all sort of tight fitting armor, the material just beneath can barely wrinkle as Arali adjusts his posture and grip on the supplies - smaller and lighter than the one she now holds.

He shakes his head, following her as they make their way down the stairway to the ground floor. “It’s fine - it goes away on its own eventually,” their steps are careful, measured as Lettie’s shoes squeaks against the tile, easily outpacing them before again she waits, measuring their gait in turn as on the other end of the hall both of them can hear a distant argument - for what she doesn’t yet care.

“Like the shrapnel I pulled from your arm?”

“Eh,” he approaches steady, having to adjust the box again to push between the ribs of their armor, “kinda.”

The medic chuffs, her metal skirt bouncing with her steps down the stairs. “Did you take the medicine I gave you? At the right amount like I said,” at the foot of the steps again she waits for them - observing just how the pain affects his posture, their gait as each step down a flinch dances over their inked face. An eye twitch, a flick at the corner of their mouth, the disregard as at the bottom he pauses, breathing in deep as behind the nose balancing glasses his eyes screw shut.

“I did - didn’t help much.”

“Ahh,” Lettie sighs, continuing her pace towards the far corner - letting him keep up as they pass Quincy carrying another board towards his small range. “Quincy, right side secured.” He only nods in acknowledgment, and they go their separate ways. Chit-chat kept to a bare minimum - a few more days and they’re set to receive the first wave of civilians escaping Scaldra’s expanding buffer zones. Hoping they’d aim in a direction that doesn’t cause such a huge influx - and either way, they need to be ready.

“Where do you want these?” He glances at her from the corner of the boundary - marked by the scattered tables of the food court.

“Lay them down in the first stall - we’ll finish stripping it later.” As with his, she lays her box down upon the stall’s small counter-top, stepping aside as he moves towards the center, transferring the mattress lugging warframe in their wake. Contrast outlined as the prime hailing from her injection’s make easily hauls the mattresses towards the small corner to start her new clinic - tented by a tarp anchored to the broadcast speakers. They don’t transference out once they’re done - letting the silver metal glean in the brief light that makes it through the skylight as they walk off to fetch the few still remaining.

For a moment Lettie watches them walk back towards the stairs.“Pajarito testarudo,” she grunts, following after the silver and indigo trinity prime with a brisk walking pace, “babas,” Lettie easily catches up with them, her stare flattened as the sightless warframe stares back at her - and he takes place of the silent warframe.

“Yes, Lettie?”

“This stomach pain of yours - it’s related to what happened before. No?” Running up to his side after a scaldra APC blew up in his face; the dark ichor scattered upon the autumn leaves as with a shutter and a gasp their waframe took his place before the smoke fully cleared. “You still haven’t let me check you over since then.”

“I’m fine, love, promise,” his broken smile only makes her eyes narrow. “I just need to take it easy.”

“When do you ever take it easy, mi corazón.” She massages the bridge of her nose, breathing deep, “we’ve still got to pick up supplies before night fall.  Stay in that sweet body of yours until then. ¿Entiendes?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Arali sighs, a hand still subconsciously kneading against his upper stomach, pressing between the ribs of his armored exterior.

 

Arali’s mind drifts as silently he fetches the rest of the Lettie’s medical supplies.

A scalpel pressing against his trinity’s metal carapace; bracing himself for a pain that never really comes, watching as the skin of his frame’s knee is splayed opened before the hex’s medic. “Remember to shoulder tap if it’s too much,” her voice is soft as she reminds him, her attention too focused on the layers she cuts through with her expert scalpel, picking at the ligaments as from the edge of the couch they just watch her knelt before them.

Her blue latex gloves are slicken with blood as steady hands continue to explore the prime’s musculature beneath the resilient shell, using forceps to keep the site from closing as she cuts further and further down the indigo tone. Such pressure holds against their ankle as each draw of the sharp blade has to glean centimeters at a time - such a pressure weighs heavily on his mind as the anticipation looms.

Session after explorative session; he waits. And he waits and watches her flay open his thigh. His wrist. His arm. Feeling the pressure of the blade pressed against the warframe’s spine as he leans against the couch for her, sight always lingering on her concentrated face and the bright cherry lips that never fades.

Awaiting the staggering blooms of pain that never comes.

Even as the blood pools in the strips she uses to catch the spilling mess, the piles of bloodied rags that braced around the incisions she cuts into his skin. As she lets them heal themselves before her - a chip of bone regenerated, a slice of muscle mending itself back together, expertly severed tendons and ligaments fusing themselves back together as long as energy sat in their warframe’s reserves.

He felt. Nothing.

Nothing but the slightest pressure. The jolt of lax ligaments and flopping limbs before they mended themselves. A doll under her patient fingers as she inspects what makes a warframe work.

He traces the site of the incision she last made in the warframe’s shell - across the lower torso to splay for the connection between the metal skirt that sang around her and the primed warframe’s body for any measure to remove it. A trace that lingers a little further than he intends, a little longer than intended as they lean against the atomicycle.

The pain in his torso is gone, but the thought still remains.

“Arali,” she calls out.

Their hand drops only to rise again in a brief wave. “How’d the fight go with the microwave?” His smile is brief, watching as she grabs the handles of her atomicycle and hops the front wheel over the concrete wedge.

“He’ll be fine,” Lettie sighs, mounting hers as she moves close. “Not the first time it happened, actually.”

“Think Arthur will figure it out after a few cycles?” Arali mounts his own.

Atomicycles revved, Lettie shrugs. “Nos vemos. Drop is out near the mountains.”

 

Sun long set, their atomicycles rumble through the darkened streets.

The drifter’s trinity continues surveying the surrounding buildings as they reach the narrow alleyway, pushing their bikes over scattered fliers. Curfew reminders, propaganda posters reminder civilians it’s their duty to report suspicious persons – all well ignored as they hop them over the curb to hide behind a totaled van.

“We’re here,” Lettie calls over the comms, “conducting search.”

“The usual?” They gesture towards the south end of the alleyway, to check all the ‘usual’ locations their contact would drop off. About a two hour excursion - give or take. Even after a cycled year, habits remain unchanged.

Throwing a tarp over their paired atomicycles, Lettie nods. “Sí, it’s about two backpacks, we can carry them back no problem,” meeting his canary yellow glow with her brown. “How’s your stomach feeling, mi corazón?”

“Ah,” an exhale, a slighted laugh as they begin to walk down the dark alley, the pair’s steps are prelude by their enhanced sight. “Better, or well, back to how it usually is. It comes and goes - some days are worse than others.”

“Ach,” Lettie sighs as they begin their search, rounding a forsaken courtyard on the lookout for the pair of backpacks. “A chronic pain then? To match that fatigue of yours,” her glance is brief, “how are you feeling now, at this moment? Any tingling? Numbness? Pins and needles?” Her attention on him remains advert, scanning every inch to the left as he monitors to the right.

“Well,” a hand idly wanders between the ribs of his armored midsection, the glove grazing over the thick fabric that lies beneath. “There is a constant tightness - but if I keep my gear tight it’s less present, and the stomach pain really only comes on when I’m outside a body too long.” Lettie’s palm halts his steps, to inspect the wayward shrubs as he stands guard, monitoring for scaldra.

One after another she peers behind the overgrowth, and after a detailed pass, its back to the search.

“And how long is that?”

“Every couple days, I think,” his idle hand is replaced by the gentle rasp of her knuckles, “it’s not worse than eating Arthur’s square spaghetti,” they stammer, feeling her hand raise up towards his ribs, his arm limp as she guides it to raise. “Ah,” he gasps as steady fingers knead at his covered ribs, feeling something click within, “careful, Lettie,” he gasps under the low light, keeping himself steady as his boots slide over the ice glazed brick.

The grip she has on the metal handle of his armor keeps them close, her hand gentle now over the tendered section of his ribs. Where a single breath clicks something back into place, the sudden pain gone in an instant. “How long have you felt it,” her glaze keeps steady, save for the small crease in her brow as she looks at him, “or when did you start to notice it?”

“In my stomach or,” he pauses, her hand still at the thick fabric, “since as long as I can remember,” he watches her past the rim of his glasses, “it feels, softer in duviri, but it stays constant.” His mouth pauses, licking off the dry air, “when I swap with a kid it feels a bit numb, but when I swap with my reflection it feels like something is squirming around in my chest.” Arali gestures his attention to continue with the search, still held in place as her concerns have not been eased. “It’s, not normal?”

Taking a deep breath, massaging the bridge of her nose, Lettie releases him,  “mi canario, el imbécil”. She continues leading them as they wander through the darkness, voices kept low as above a once abandoned apartment’s light peers into the night. By whom neither care to find out as they wander behind enemy lines.

“Is that why you cower so much in those stolen bodies of yours? To escape it?”

“Not really,” he looks up from where he searches behind a pile of discarded furniture, “right now it’s more of a haze, like static.” They brush off the snow clinging to their boots, brushing the gentle white from their dark hair as he returns to where she monitors, “I can just ignore it -” they almost yelp as he’s stopped mid-stride, almost sent spinning as her enhanced grip almost sends him into a wall.

“¿Qué? You’ve been ignoring it!?” She holds tight to the armored handle, “mi corazón, you shouldn’t have to ignore it if it’s nothing serious. Is this another one of your forgetful body things, like with that oven?”

The drifter pauses, his hands still slightly raised as he rests himself against the wall as she steps back, a hand at her hip. “Well,” remembering the burning on his fingers; Amir still hasn’t let him down, “I learned, didn’t I?”

“Not after returning to one of those bodies,” she sighs.

“Well, I was embarrassed!” He steadily pushes himself from the wall, “I’ve gotten used to it, is all,” Arali breathes, following her as they continue. “My body just recovers faster if I’m inside them. I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was something to worry about.”

Lettie chuckles to herself, “eh, lo siento. You’ve only told me about duviri, and since you’ve always sounded so disappointed after our sessions, thought there was something else going on.” She glances back, “we haven’t got that shrapnel out, no?”

He blinks, catching himself as her head tilts, “no. No we haven’t had the time.”

“Ahh,” she groans, “and you still need to take that equipment back.”

“It shouldn’t take too long,” he returns to her side, resuming the search before the handle of his torso is grabbed again, her palm roams beneath it to the gap in the armor, two fingers pressing light. Her hand follows his spine as she continues to walk.

“Next session,” her voice is firm, “no frame. We’re looking at your body this time.”

Licking his dried lips, he nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

 

Void energy whispers into the silence of the concrete chamber as they step past the breach.

Echoes of energy follows the warframe’s steps, metal and flourishes chattering against one another as they make their way up the steps, across the wooden slat floor as the quiet of the backroom fills his mind. Beyond the half drawn curtains dusk draws closer, hour drawing near as the boots of the trinity prime ceases at the statue of the solar system. Stepping down, letting the body kneel before it – a silence is filled with wandering thoughts, impatient thoughts as he continues to leave the body posed – stepping back as the trinity’s body falls statue still.

A glance to the clock; he still has time.

“One thing at a time,” he breathes to himself, anxious hands already at work to free himself of the pauldrons resting upon his shoulders. “By the void,” he grunts, stretching as much as he can beneath the restraints of his gear, dropping the thick armor pieces at the base of the mirror as he steps back. “Maybe I can get one out before setting up,” his breath is light as be begins to undo the guards around his midsection, flinching as he sucks in his gut to get at the tight latches. The armored brace shares space with the discarded pauldrons, his hands returning to their stomach and the thick material between his gloves and his void scarred body.

“Hope it’s just shrapnel,” rumbles as he raises his neck, releasing the buckle that keeps his neck guard in place, letting it thump against the growing pile as he rids himself of the top layer armor, working down as the golden buckles are undone, pulled through to linger as he finally breathes deep - gasping as the pressure against his ribs slack and the clicks return.

“It’s not going to be just shrapnel,” his voice lingers, sight barreling through the cream void ring and somatic yellow, “you’ve always known there was something wrong,” their voice wanders, hands careful as they continue to strip him waist up. “First collision,” an echo wanders in the shadow of their voice - feeling the void preying on his stomach, the claws dragging through their flesh as their reflection plunged himself in the void for a second time. And their own hands make the same path as armored palms are freed of their vices, gloves cast aside as oil dipped limbs shadow the ghastly touch.

Dark fingers graze around their throat as he raises it for the mirror; over the scar on the left of their face, down along their throat where the lower level transference suit holds them together. “Should take it off,” thoughts wander, breathing staggered and slowed as the creaks of bone pushes against the binding muscles. And so he stands as he looks over his near nude body - the transference suit sits tight against their layer of fat, their layer of fat held tightly against their exhausted muscles by skin and suit as the hand meets the other - cupping against the sag of their gut.

And their fingers press; nearly sent dizzy as light spots their vision, the stomach pain returned in an instant with a gasp and a stumble - knuckles fist against the display, pushing it against the wall as the other has wrapped around their center, cradling it as he catches his breath. “-Lohk-”, stumbles deep as they fight to right themself, breathing low and deep, feeling the crackling inside their body as their chest expands.

“Maybe I can’t fist one out,” grumbles as void darkened fingers brush against the strips of the transference suit. Arali is careful as he rounds the stilled warframe, supporting himself as he collapses on the open couch, freely gasping as the clicking in his chest bounce on landing, light rebounds through tightened eyes, helpless as imagines of duviri flashes the hind of an inattentive eyes as knuckles bury into the softness that surrounds them. Their mouth gasps into the cowl once resting round his neck, pressing it close.

Laid flat against cold stone, their eyes float in an ocean of adrenaline.

Dark liquids scatters around them in memory and fantasy; liquid warm as it bubbles over lips and throats, as it soils torn clothing; ecstasy and relief intertwined.

Their hand begins to wander past the buckle of their pants, dark fingers diving through the sweat laden forest as his head falls back, staring up at the ceiling with a sigh as fingers gently stroke. He has to adjust as the clicking of bones continue to distract their wandering mind; hitching his raising need as somewhere within their chest something beats - impatient pulses roll as knuckles press against the hem of their pants, sucking in air as they try and outrun the prickling that continues to grow in their belly.

Moisture sullies the small gap between body and pants as fingers try and work through the shakes; as they frantically suck in air as thoughts bounce to anticipation and reminiscence - of the medic straddling them as her blade breaks more than numbed warframe skin. Of steady hands spread blood red as bright pink blooms beneath her fingers - what if they had felt it? Laid open before her, everything laid bare through adrenaline and sweat.

They whimper as slick flesh grows louder over the echo of clicking bones, hands frantic as knuckles knead against the thick fabric of their pants, head heaving backwards, gasping. A chase that grows ever fainter as agony continues to overtake - and wet fingers cradle as something, somewhere within their body something cramps - stilling them with a grunt. A gasp as void energy shoots through their body.

“-Lohk-”, snarls as all they can do is wait.

Voided out sight lies flushed as energy continues to crawl beneath the transference suit holding them together, dancing from the ceiling to the distant windows. Breathing only in shallow gasps, feeling blood pooling somewhere as the light-headed beams float behind his eyes. And all he can do is wait and watch as the analog clock continues to click away.

“Damn,” oozes between his lips as sullied hands fumble to fix his fly, twitches as the clicks within his body steady alongside his breaths. It takes a few more moments to adjust his posture as a swarm floats beyond his eyes as he leans forward to stand - taking a few more before the knot within his gut resolves enough to right himself to his feet.

The drifter takes his time to cross back down the stairs, knuckles bare white against the railing as each step runs shivers down his spine, sucking in air before letting a foot slip over the edge and to the next step. “I need to lie down,” mumbles as his bare fingers remained affixed to the rail, and his boots follow in matching steps. “She’ll be here at sundown,” they remind themself, glancing at the nearby concrete wall for guidance, steps kept steady as the short transfer draws another crack through his spine. He groans in annoyance.

Resting his spine against the concrete wall, they let their steps slip one after the other as their back scoots down the carved wall, moving steadily until he’s finally sitting, stained arms leaning upon still armored knees as he finally lets himself rest. “Steady,” whispers between saliva dampened lips, “in,” he speaks as one. Breathing in deep they feel the expansion through his belabored torso, “out,” their voice soothes as he looks out to the far window over the soft chime of entrati machinary.

“In,” again he breathes slow, focus dispersed as sol’s gaze crawls over the concrete, “out,” and the somatic sight falls closed, and wrists rest beneath raised knees.

They only flicker open as void energy swirls around the gate between the quiet hideout and the mall, watching from where he remains against the wall, a sideway glance as Lettie steps through. A deflated backpack rests over her shoulder as she stops, brow wrinkled as he gives a small wave from where he rests. “Ugh, pajarito testarudo. You should’ve waited.” She drops the backpack beside him, a folded tarp tucked between it and the wall. “Cushions are upstairs?” Even at a glance she can tell he’s not up for walking, with how his messy black hair rolls against the wall.

“Mhm,” Arali breathes as he works to adjust, exhaling through his nose as he tries to scoot forward. “Couch on the balcony,” he calls as she ascends the stairs, watching as instead of carrying them down she throws them off the edge, landing at his feet.

It doesn’t take long for them to set up - with the tarp rolled up to fit behind his back, they scoot him to lie upon the middle as its pulled out beneath him, his boots landing on the outside of the cut piece, head resting upon the small nest of pillows as she begins to pick through the backpack. “Thank you, love,” Arali breathes as he unwraps the cowl from his throat, brushing his long hair back with both hands as somatic sight falls shut.

“No problem,” her voice is soft as the backpack is heaved to his other side, “what’s that you’re wearing?”

“This?” His hand brushes over the material pulled taut against his body, “it’s a transference suit.”

“Looks fashionable,” she chuckles, setting parcels of sterilized tools to one side. “Did it happen again,” a brief glance before she counts her tools again, a metal tin clatters to the floor beside them.

“Yeah,” groans as he rests against the cushions, letting a hand lie on his chest. “Without the external layer I’m feeling a lot more moving around inside me - especially clicking in my chest.”

“Mhn,” Lettie’s attention remains on her tools, letting a bag of forceps drop at his side, “let’s get that off and see what we got.” She ushers him to sit, watching him push from the floor with shaky fists, catching a requesting hand to complete the command. “Does it wrap around beneath your pants?”

“Oh, no,” Arali tries to perch himself on one elbow, “just my body,” an eye flinches as something within him clicks, gasping as she begins to undo the straps along his exposed side.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” swallows, “something just moved again, I’ll be fine. The void energy will soothe it in a few seconds.”

“So,” she continues, fingertips whispering along his side as each of the taut straps are drawn loose, ends hanging from either side of his torso as she works. “You feel something moving around in there, is it in your chest?” He nods as she slips another strap, “only one?” He shakes his head, “sounds like a fractured rib,” she continues, “after this I’m keeping you on bed rest until it’s cleared. You’re as bad as Arthur, not letting things completely heal.” She feels against the side of the transference suit, gently prodding along the side of his ribs as pained grunts are withheld in his throat. “None of that,” she glances.

“Apologies,” the drifter grumbles, pulling the straps free at his other side. “It should come off now,” His hand paws with a flinch, feeling her hands exchange with his own, easily slipping the last strap from its holster. And he lets her as she quickly finds the seams on either side, pulling the layered zip to free his body of the restraint - as well the nausea that suddenly shoots up his throat, catching himself as void energy surges through his body.  Spitting only blood.

Lettie looks between him and the bloody spittle. And finishes up by sliding the front over his head. “Ay, Lua, sálvame”, grumbles as she tosses the material aside, looking over the vivisection scar that carries over his clavicle, down his center, meeting with a scar that pairs beneath the crest of his heavy stomach. “Lie down,” she holds one of his wrists as the other leans back, supporting until his dark haired head rests against the pillows once more. “We’ll give you a minute,” Lettie looks back to her tools in search of a scalpel. “Where’d this come from,” she gestures.

“From duviri,” he bites back another wave of nausea, feeling void energy flashing through his throat once more. “When I my first collision with my reflection, I think the void tore me up and spat me back into duviri.” Watching as the scalpel dances in her hand.

“Hm,” she adjusts, posturing herself as the overhead light makes a shadow over her torso, blurring the dark scar tissue that crosses him shoulders to crotch. A flashlight waits to their side. “Usually they’re from torture,” her attention dances as she looks over his bared torso; his soft breasts, the gradual movement of his chest with each slow and stepped breaths. “This will feel different than the other bodies,” she reminds him, looking up at the flushed features, “and since you’re actually here. I want to hear you the entire time. Entender mi canario?”

Wrapping his hands in the cowl, settling them behind his head, Arali’s breath is light. “Yes, ma’am,” watching as she straddles one of his thighs, feeling as her hand presses against the crease between his stomach and crotch - eyes following the descending glint of the scalpel.

Slivers of second pass as the shimmering blade grazes over the void stained tissue, from chest to stomach it follows the guidance of her knuckles, feeling the topography of his exposed body, the soft mounds of his breasts that would make a quick cut slip either direction. To make a single stroke or several small ones - either way her steady hands move back over his exposed chest, pressing down to create the first incision.

Arali’s groan is light as the blade cuts through the scar tissue between his breasts, looking through half-lid eyes and past the rim of his glasses as she looks on between his mound, her hand coming to rest upon his stomach as void energy bleeds through the cut. Mending him as if nothing had ever happened.

“Great,” she sighs, resting the scalpel to her left as she leans to the right. “Do you want me to start from there?” She gestures from where she sits, her knee resting against his crotch.

Arali nods, “y-yeah. Is something wrong?” already flushed as he continues to look up at her.

“That energy of yours is healing too fast,” she leans back in, balancing a pair of forceps in her other hand, “so I’ll need to hold everything open. Keep the layers open as I work so I don’t waste any of my scalpels.”

He nods again, watching as the scalpel descends again.

“Exhale,” commands.

And he does, feeling the blade cut through his flesh in the same instant, a flash of pain that sores through his spine, gasping as gradual snaps of cut muscle creases down between his breasts. Pressure pushes them to hold gash, forceps clipped into his flayed flesh as she grabs the next set. “Inhale,” she returns, her attention remains on the scar tissue, knee pressing against his crotch. Clipping in another set of forceps at the base of the incision, she waits for his chest of fully expand, watching the wisps of void energy gathering at the bleeding slit.

She leans again, blade poised, the next set at the ready.

“Exhale.”

Arali groans as the blade cuts from his lower chest to his stomach, feeling her wrist pressing against either side of his distended belly, the pressure of forceps snapping against his flesh as the ones upon his chest clamber from where they spread him wide. Again she commands him to breath, to relax, to exhale as she finishes the long line down his center, separating the flesh of his lower stomach as the area of his clavicle is still connected - his hands wring into the cowl, head kneading back.

Again, “exhale,” and he whimpers as the scalpel runs through flesh.

Once more the pressure of forceps yields scattered focus. From where they clip into his skin they deny the wisps that continue to ebb from within, tools dancing over tender skin as he continues to breathe, continues to whimper as his head kneads into the pillows, leaned back as the edges of the incisions are drawn open by steady hands, spreading the division of skin to deepen as she cuts through fat and muscle. Adjusting the forceps as she goes.

“That’s it,” her voice is low as she continues to work, “let it all out,” the scalpel cuts low against his belly, bouncing the forceps as his breath shutters, waiting for the draw to cease before another simmering inhale. “You’re doing good, mi canario, steady now. Breathe,” damp fingers press between his flesh, scattering ink dark blood as the forceps clamp hard, drawing more blood to ooze from the open wound.

“Leticia,” the drifter gasps as she returns to them. Her fingers linger over their rising chest, pressing it down as the blade cuts again, letting the heave of one breast draw the centerline taut.

“Yes, Arali?” she doesn’t look up from her work; attention remained drawn to the darkness that peers through their skin.

“N-nothing,” shutters as he breathes once more, feeling the shift of weight upon his chest as she continues to cut. A heat continues to roll through their body as they watch, attentive as the jaws of the bloodied forceps ensnare their flesh, watching as she continues to cut through muscle as he squirms. He should’ve rubbed one out sooner, he laments.

A small smile creases her cherry red lipstick, glancing at his half-lid sight. “Tapping out?”

“No,” rolls through them with a sigh, fists knuckling into the cowl. “Keep going, I’ll be fine.”

“Jajaja, pajarito testarudo,” she purrs, “just let me know if it’s too much. Or if you need a break,” sighing as she sits back, she looks over the work so far. Eyeing the slick of black that peers between the lines of the incision, the void energy that sticks between the edges and floats around the resting forceps. “I want you to start talking, alright?”

The drifter nods, “oh-okay,” they breathe, waiting as she adjusts once more, “how far have you cut...?”

“Working on getting through the muscle,” she leans in, her hand caressing his lopsided breast as the connection in his chest is steadily sliced, “there should be a layer beneath this one connecting it to your ribs,” her voice is light as she works, “but there’s this sticky black sludge that’s making it difficult to see what I’m working on, so I’ll need to cut right up to the edge.” Her hand rests on his other breast, holding it there as she cuts along the clavicle boundary. “The best place to cut would be right beneath your abdominal muscles, but I’ll need to cut down towards your groin.” She flashes a look up to his woozy sight, “is that alright?”

“Yeah,” they blink, clueless to the rising warmth in his crotch as he looks over the forceps decorating his chest as they linger and clamor with every breath. A slimy sensation oozes somewhere within as the sensitive exposed tissue gradually begins to slide from their perch, held there by the junction at his belly. The same one drawn under the medic’s guiding knuckles once more as she draws out the direction in her mind.

Down through what remains of his belly button, over the heave of resting fat that layers thick in his lower stomach. The first of three as she marks out the order - the last of three as her fingers press against his pants and his resting belly.

“Exhale.”

Arali groans as it cut clean through his soft tissue, feeling the liquid warmth crease along the valley of his pelvis and the trail of hair. Back against the cushion he continues to yield as cold forceps ensnare his flesh, two dangling against the crease of his pants as the others bounce against his belly, pulling the flesh outwards as her hand returns to his belly - she looks up. “Ready?”

“Mhn,” a whimper dances through their throat, anticipation swirls in their groin.

He swallows the blood pooling in his mouth, feeling the tightness wound in his belly.

Lettie’s hand yields against the soft skin of his stomach, fingers peering against the edges as the flesh is drawn upwards, made taut as she cuts. Again, she calls the signal. Again, the scalpel draws through the taut flesh once more. Though steady as ever, he feels the slow give along the incisions as each draw of the blade creases towards his groin. Upwards there is a restraint that steadily gives – and gives as she cuts through his yellow fat, through ichor stained muscles.

She looks up as he coughs blood.

A deep groan begins to roll as his back begins to arch – feeling pulling deep inside – as it all begins to give. It robs them of their voice as arms clutch tight, as surges of blood rolls over snarling lips, as pressure pushes up against the incision as flayed flesh gives.

From one side to another tendons snap – giving up as sticky black trails are left in their wake, eruptions of void energy flares as the carved flesh begins to falter down their aching body. Waves of adrenaline roll through as his body begins to buckle beneath her. Agonizing as their thighs frantically rub beneath her, teeth gnash as void stained hands curl over their flushed face, tinted as the energy continues to run through their spine.

Waves that heave, breathing labored as they stagger to find some semblance of sense to a floating mind as the cowl remains stuffed to their face. Flustered heat cradles within the darkness they find themself - feeling as air warps through their exposed torso, as the clicking of the ribs is more than felt as the silence let it curl through their mind. A whimper is all they can make out between drooling lips, trying to flush the wave of ecstasy from his system.

“Jajaja, warn me next time, mi canario,” her head shakes as she attends to the now languishing forceps laid splayed against the tarp. Weight heavy in their vice of flesh, yielding the ichor blacks strands that continue to reach from within their exposed torso throat to crotch. A glean of velvet silk that follows the grace of shattered bones, the lashings of same ichor black anchors around the crest of their opened stomach, rippling with each shaking breath. “Now then,” her attention shifts with a sigh, the scalpel laid down, “let’s see what we got.”

“H-hold on,” their voice staggers, whimpering as the crackle of their ribs dances within the ichor black,  the white peers between the rolling folds. Bones dance as void energy continues to flare beneath her careful gaze as his breathing steadily calms, far too aware of the wet warmth within his pants. Pressed up against her knee. “I’m sorry, Lettie. It was -”

“It’s alright, pajarito,” she laughs, leaning over him to straddle from one leg to two. “How are you feeling?” His flayed tissue rests just above her knees as she comes to sit once more.

“Flooded, with adrenaline,” he groans, trying to look past the rim of his glasses as she tries to make sense of the silky material that fills their chest and abdominal sac. “How does it look?” Their voice wavers between void-bound and staggered breaths; hands digging into the cowl as shaking arms come to rest once more.

Between the breaching of rib fragments that continue to bobble among the ichor black and with whatever is going on within their abdominal sac, Lettie’s brows draw tight, eyes flashing over the mimicry that floats within the confines. Bone fragments. Pieces of organs, a shard of metal here and there that is folded back into the abdominal ooze that rolls with an ever shaky breath. “This, might take longer than I thought,” she admits, picking out one of the metal trays she had stuffed in the backpack. “I’m going to... try and remove the pieces of metal, but you’ve got a lot going on in there,” her eyes easily trace the whispers of energy that continues to breathe through the organic sludge.

“Alright,” his voice drags as the bone fragments dance close to the surface, hearing them click against one another.

“I need you to tell me what you feel, pajarito,” she looks over the ichor black that fills his chest cavity, ignoring the problem of the abdominal sac for later, “I’m going to insert a finger inside, alright?”

“Mhm,” drones as he looks back to the ceiling. “Okay.”

Between the dance of fragmented bone and the gentle roll of the silky material, her surgical glove creases against the shadow of his clavicle. “I will be working myself around the edges first,” her singular finger moves upwards, pressing in light as a sigh breathes through the unsettled mass.

“I-it’s a light pressure right now,” her finger continues down towards the crest of his armpit, hand moved inwards as the weight of his breast narrows the space. And every few seconds he repeats as her finger moves down towards his crotch, following back up the splay as ichor black clings to the bright blue latex glove. And as she discards it, watching as the path she made is filled with those little wandering tethers - searching to mend once more as the latex snaps around her hand.

“Okay, so,” she unclasps one of the forceps from his flayed right side, “it looks like you have more than a few broken ribs.” And is able to see the edges have gone smooth, tumbled about in that body of theirs, “I might need to extract them to take a look at your heart and lungs, alright?”

“How many?” their voice slurs, still floating as air continues to brush along exposed nerve endings of torso and flesh.

“Most of them,” a rough guesstimate. She leans in to shadow over the floating segments, making them easier to spot. “I will need you to breathe slower, pajarito. I don’t know what I’m working with here.”

“I’ll try,” their voice rolls, feeling the graze of her fingers as they wait for a bone to peer. “I feel it,” simmers as a finger gently presses against it, sinking it back beneath the ichor mass.

“Good or bad?” Her eyes dance to him, catching his low gaze between heavy lids and metal rims.

“Mhn,” a complaint tries to rouse, head kneading back against the cushions, hands wringing into the cowl. “It feels, good. The pressure feels good, Lettie.” rumbles through his throat, through his chest as it rises in another long, deep breath.

And so, she begins to pick the floating bones.

Steady fingers hold against the smoothed bone as the ichor mass struggles to reclaim it once more. Tethers yawn in the open air as once by one they separate - dropping back into the mass as he sighs - the bone dropping into the metal tray with a clatter.

“Mhm,” rolls through them as she picks another bone fragment from the mass in their chest, “mistress,” whimpers. And she perks up. Encouragement as she continues her work as bone after bone begins to gather in the metal tray. Five. Ten. Twenty four shards roll around as void energy continues to ebb, wandering for each other as her attention remains on his opened body, searching for what remains of their heart.

“I’m going to reach inside your chest, okay?”

Light lid eyes flutter, nodding with a sigh.

A voice garbles as a finger penetrates the wandering silky mass, followed by another as the search starts shallow. It deepens as the pressure put upon his lungs steady them, even as lips quiver. Even as the lingering drool and coaxed tears trace over inked flesh. Aside them the rib fragments continue in idle clatter, void energy bathing them as she feels the thumps grow close through the roving mass, down nearly to her wrist as she makes contact.

“Ah!” his body startles around her steady palm. Their heart thumps heavily as lungs embrace - she puts pressure on the base of his throat, holding him still until she can excise her explorative palm. “-Lohk-,” garbles as senses flash back, back arched to the echoing sensation surging through their spine.

“You need to keep still, mi canario.”

“Mhnn yes,” he groans, still shivering as warmth pools in his belly. “Yes, mistress,” whispers with another exhale, arms stretching back to adjust, returning to settle as they grip a pillow.

“Ready?”

With another steadied breath, he nods.

“Relax for me, mi canario,” again her hand eases through the swarming ichor mass, starting low close to the abdominal sac. “I’m going to be feeling your left side to assess your lung,” her hand begins to dip into the ichor, coaxing another groan to roll, “and then I’ll be moving to the other side.” First one hand, then two as she feels their legs press up between her thighs, held there as she watches the quivering lips. “Breathe deep for me,” and she waits.

Steadying between bent elbows, they exhale. And draw a long inhale that expands what remain of their lungs - Lettie feels them against her palm, thumbs grazing over the injuries torn into the exposed pluera, feeling over the torn chunks with an ever increasing concern as ichor stains her gloves, making it hard to distinguish between her fingers and the ichor waves as she moves to the right. “Inhale,” she looks over him.

Again the drifter breathes deep as Lettie’s fingers burrow into their chest; she feels the same damage as their left. Torn apart from within as her hands withdraw, brow drawn tight as she looks towards the center - their heart.

And her sight returns to the awaiting abdominal sac, ignoring the idle clatter that continues in the metal tray.

At least the diaphragm looks more or less intact, separating their torso in two.

Picking up the scalpel, she proceeds. “I’m going to be cutting open your abdominal sac,” she prefaces, “I want you to keep breathing low and slow for me, okay?”

Arali nods, legs twitching beneath her.

Lettie rests her wrists at the crease of their abdominal sac, feeling their body flinch beneath her under the slight pressure, pausing to let them catch their bearings. “Exhale,” she listens as air bubbles through their nose, and draws the scalpel over the lingering bloat.

It eases before her as she perches over kneading, letting the blade trail the descending palm pushing gentle to draw the taut sac. Where carefully, little by little, listening to the whimpers broken by gasping lips, the vessel of organs begins to sac. The scalpel slowly breaks the line of the incision, set to bubble over as the pressure held within pools upwards against their diaphragm. Liquid ichor tethers latch sporadic as pieces of intestines flutter about in the silky collective as forceps latch to the edges of the split - thicker compared to the chest’s soup as she can make out pieces of fragmented organs.

“Okay,” Lettie bites her lip; looking over their heaving chest where the pink of lungs part the ichor, lighter as the sticky material still clings around the exposed borders in trails. To her left, the bones still click within the metal tray, void energy wavering between it and their open body.

Maybe...

The medic glances back to the mass that remains of their abdominal; clearly, more than just a belly ache.

“Mi corazón, how does that feel?”

“Better,” he groans, exhale staggered as more meat parts the divided sac, “I think it was, the pressure,” whines between parted lips, licking off the trails of snot. Behind the glasses their eyes are flooded blind, glossy through the matting tears, arms shivering with every breath.

“Mhm,” her lips purse into a pout, dancing the scalpel in her fingers as she looks over the limited tools beside her. Only one other tray as their bones continue to dance within the other, a single near empty box of latex gloves, an uncertainty raised as she considers how much line of sutures she has in stock. Lettie bites her lip, no choice but to continue. “I’m going to touch inside you again, alright? I’m going to start from the top, near the location of your stomach.” Two fingers parse around the ichor oozing through the slit.

“G-go ahead,” whimpers as their legs continues to knead beneath her, “is it there?” A voice slurred.

“We’ll see,” Lettie sighs, leaning forward as one hand leans into the mass, the other following the along the side of the sac. “I’m right now at where your stomach should be -” her fingers continue to quest, “and I’m going to follow around the outside first before I go any deeper,” she sighs, seeing the tint of blue beneath the jiggling abdominal sac.

“Mhn.”

“Now, I’ll be moving down along your side,” her hands move in a pair, ichor silk gleans between her void stained gloves, tethers latching to her from within the scattered organ stew. Steady fingers are careful as she feels the warmth bump against her knuckles, more than just the intestines the area should occupy as they move down. “Now, I’ll be reaching down into your pelvic cavity. Breathe, pajarito.”

They nod against crossed arms; hips shifting.

Arms tremble as they can feel her fingers penetrate into the pooling warmth - finding tightness within the silky mass, tubular structures that pet them to whimper for the re-tightened pressure. Curious fingers inspect further in downwards strokes, finding the anchor lying beneath the silky mass.

“Your vaginal canal is intact,” she comments, voice lingering low as again she feels over pair of tubes resting within the ichor mass, “and so is your lower large intestines,” she glances up towards him, her hand remains to continue the inspection. Fingers dancing upwards in search of the third within the pelvic sack, feeling the surrounding muscles relieve to her touch, “they’re partly intact, but I can feel your muscles working in there, pajarito. Have you been using them without me?”

Licking off the drool pooling in their facial hair, the arms rest themselves to the side, just enough to look down and watch as her other hand pushes into his abdominal cavity, sharing the tender organs. “I’ve been, practicing,” groans as her fingers caress what remains of their sigmoid colon, hips hitching once more beneath her weight. “I was asking Natalie, about what sexual arousal was,” he gives in as fingers part into the sensitive tube of meat, stroking the tightening organ.

“Who is she?” Lettie continues to feel around inside them, prodding into what remains of a fragmented uterus - a slight pressure pushes upon their cervix. Still tight.

“A warframe,” whimpers as hips try to knead, grinding upon the wet spot pressed against them. “She, she taught me in duviri -” arms rest upon temple again, back straining to arch through the tide of energy ebbing through their remaining flesh. “And it felt so good, Lettie. I felt my body stretching, it felt so full.”

“Well,” she purrs, leaning in. A hand rests around their vulnerable tube inside the ichor mass, “how about after we put you back together, we put them to good use for me, mi canario?” Fingertips part around the open end, rubbing gentle as they breathe beneath her.

“Please,” Arali whimpers as the finger presses further - back trying to arch for the pressure, “I want to feel full again,” gasps.

“Not right now,” sighs as her hand retreats - void ichor clings to the saturated glove as it parks upon the wobbling abdominal sac, her eyes wander in contemplation between the work set out before her. And the almost empty box of spare gloves. Sitting back upon his aching knees, Lettie begins to roll the dirty gloves down her wrists, pulling them inside-out with a snap. “I may not have enough gloves to finish up,” she tosses them onto the discard pile, “so I may need to get up and grab another from the clinic.” Her eyes dance over their splayed torso, catching the light glint of the somatics pass their rims. “Unless, while it’s not something I would prefer to do. I can work without them.”

Biting across his lips, trying to blink through the sticky tears, Arali’s eyes ever continue to float through the torrents of agony. Of ecstasy as her restraining weight continues to keep them pinned to the floor, vulnerable as the warmth pooling within the scattering ichor draws focus unbridled. Their head lulls, trying to look down, failing as such to fall back against the cushions.

“Need a break?” She whispers above, wiping a cloth against the ragged tears.

“Mhn, please,” he breathes, feeling their warmth spread against the chilled air of the backroom.

“Let’s get you cleaned up before we continue,” Lettie leans to the side, uncapping a sealed bottle of water. “If we remove everything that is still not attached in there,” water dunks against the cloth briefly, wetting it before once again the bottle is set aside. “However that void energy works, it’s piecing the bones of your ribs back together, I might need to separate some of them, so I won’t have to cut more. I only go so many scalpels.” Her voice is light as she leans back over him, wiping the strain of tears from his cheeks, as well as the trails of bubbling snot that catches in their facial hair.

“You,” their body breathes deep as void energy swirls through their tired sight, “could you remove my pants? Use my legs to wipe your hands... I won’t mind.”

“Are you sure, mi canario? It’ll be messy; you got a lot going on in there.”

They nod.

“Well then,” she kneels, “may I offer a suggestion then?”

“Mhn?”

“Your arms,” she glances, “we can’t have them flailing around anymore, you’ve been muffling that beautiful voice of yours too much. That cowl won’t do any good, unless you want to tear it.”

“Wh,” they lick their lips, wiggling their hips as she stands, “what do you have in mind?”

“They are not ideal,” the medic reaches deep into the discarded backpack, “too rough for usual play, but I will make an exception for you, mi canario.” From within she pulls a yield of bright yellow climbing rope - a frayed end knotted back upon itself. It’s thick as it rests upon void stained wrists, measuring before a prusik head knot draws the wrists close.

Nimble fingers make quick work of the impromptu bondage, as behind dark scattering hair the ropes force their wrists upon the pillows, keeping them there as the rope winds around their biceps and knots somewhere beneath their nape. She settles the pillows around the new bondage, forcing his chin against their open chest, position making them see the open splay of the wavering ichor. And still, they shuffle within the confines of their chest as steady hands undo the armor around his thighs, discarding them against the wall. Closer, their mind wanders beyond flustered cheeks, only able to watch as steady fingers undo the fly.

One hip over the other, together they work his pants down to his knees.

Metal tray moved to the other side, giving her room to their right. Lettie’s fingers begin to pet him - spreading through the thick forest of hair. “So,” the medic purrs, stroking the warm twitch that lies within, “do you want me to start here, mi canario? Your bladder is the only one disconnected down there, and if attention is what brings it back,” her fingers divide within his confines, testing against the hairy folds. “do you want to find out?”

“Yeah,” breathes, legs wiggling as their pants have come to rest around their knees, keeping them close as the medic’s hand continues to stroke.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” Lettie breathes, “ICR didn’t really give me as much time to play as much as I used to,” and her fingers press between the folds - her other pressing upon the low bump in the ichor mass. “Relax your muscles,” she whispers, feeling upwards along the squeezing walls with two fingers as the others rest upon their mound, her wrist rubbing against their tender erection. “There we go,” her voice purrs, feeling along their walls, fingers coaxing along the small tunnel buried above. “You’re urethra’s still there, so I’m going to reach inside you again, mi canario.”

“Yeh, mnhm,” grovels as her fingers continue to work - they stroke against their damp walls as ungloved fingers pierce the veil of ichor once more. While a tightness still lingers through their spine, it shuffles under the behest of her steady fingers as pressure is made to move, pushing along the ichor mass in search of their fragments. It strokes along the tender mass of their lower stomach, fingers spreading them as knees pull against the restraining weight.

Kneeling, Lettie kneels upon the fabric of their pants, “stay still, mi canario,” her hand pushes further into their belly, “what if I pulled on the wrong thing, hm?” Her hand finds grip around a tube of meat as the ichor struggles to cling to it as it’s pulled from their abdominal sac - a fragment of their large intestines. Void energy still ebbs on either end of the lobbed organ as she drops it into one of the empty metal trays.

The drifter can’t help but watch as the wet, bloodied, void stained organs are pulled from their bared body.

Her fingers remain inside them as her hand draws out a long length of their small intestines - its wound around her wrist as dark wine blood stains her fingers, speckling across her cheek as she is lost in her work. Pulling each piece out one by one as the pile in the metal tray grows larger, air gasps through them as the pressure of their torn kidneys, as parts of their sundered liver weighs heavy upon their disembodied bowels as the ichor swollen sac begins to deflate - her moisture slick fingers shares in the search as she picks out the small pieces that pool low against their partial uterus, groaning as air brushes upon the void wrought edges.

“Almost done, mi canario.” Her voice sings as she continues to hum - “I can see your body clenching down there for me. You’re doing so well.” Blood stained fingers wipe along his bared thighs, a thumb brushing against the budding arousal that parts between their folds and their forest. “My, look how big you’ve gotten,” her finger taps, drawing between the engorged divided crown and down between the tightening folds.

Looking down upon the ruin of a once heavy belly, their eyes are clouded with ecstatic tears as her fingers continue to stroke between their needy thighs. Her knee pins them to the floor as their loins continue to clench, muscles aching warm as they’re touched again inside and out - disregarding the wisp of void energy that well somewhere within reaching for the stack of their organs. For more he groans as two fingers become three inside them - coaxing another moan to plead as within her fingers hold around the meat of his loins.

“There,” she cooes as the shivers return to his arms - leaving them to ache, needy as air curls around their wet bush, “that’s better, pajarito”. Lettie moves the tray of organs for the other - her attention returning to their chest.

They whimper, “please, let me,” voice murmuring.

“Let you what, mi canario?” She stares over their flustered warmth, over the pool of drool that creases against the forceps clung to their clavicle. “Let you come?”

“Mhnm,” groans - and they hiss as her hand pushes against their diaphragm, lifting the ichor mass that swarms within their chest.

“No,” her voice is firm, “not until I got a good look at what I’m going to be working with, mi canario.” She rests her palm upon his forehead, brushing hair from their woozy sight. “Just stay with me until then, mi corazón. I’ll make you feel good, I promise.”

They whine within the restraints.

Again, they can feel her hands inside them.

Steady fingers plead through the gooey warmth that entombs their lungs as meat continues to slop unceremoniously into the metal tray. Pieces of their lung wavers pink in her void stained palm, and although one part was already discarded to manage later, as she pinches it for extraction, the drifter’s breathing staggers. It drops as they struggle to catch their breath, and she watches as it expands alongside the remains of their tattered lungs.

Still connected as void energy wisps down into the ichor mass.

Watching through unfocused, Arali stares beyond the gaze of their own glasses as the medic continues to dig through their chests. His breathing hitches as her fingers brush upon their anchored lungs, fading between the fluttering warmth that persists between their thighs, and flashes of duviri grasses brushing against their cheek.

“What are thinking about, mi canario?” She feels through them once more, feeling the growing hitches in their breath, the slight twitching that belies in their thighs as hips struggle to move.

“Duviri,” mumbles between drool and steady groans.

“Can you tell me what you see, mi corazón?” Her hands pause at either edge of their shattered rib cage, looking down into the unfocused somatic sights.

“The fields are golden with fresh harvest,” they groan through the bit, soaking it with drool. “The silphsela seeds are dancing above me, I pull against the ropes around my wrists,” their hips buckle, trembling as she keeps them pinned to the floor. “Red and pink blooms across a golden field - I can see my legs twitching on the other side,” their body twitches, feeling air suck down through their exposed lungs, “I’m scattered, the machine keeps pulling me along the grass.”

Lettie sighs as she sits back, looking over them as they continue to writhe in misdirected ecstasy. “That’s not exactly, a great thing you should be thinking about,” but her hand still moves between his legs, stroking upon the anxious erection. It twitches against her blood slick fingers, hips grinding as they continue to float. “Mi canario, I want you to imagine something else for me.”

“Oh-okay,” groans as her fingers divide over their engorged erection, tender as they stroke.

“Lie back, and listen to my voice, mi canario.” She hums, waiting for his eyes to slide close, waiting as his breathing begins to level. “You’re lying in that golden field, still bound, legs spread for me.” Fingers stroke between the engorging lips, one taping against the smallest of their holes. “You’ve already taken one,” her finger slips inside against their aching wet walls walls, “and two,” another joins, “and three, breathe for me,” her voice sighs with him as she feels his body clench around her. “And four,” it only pokes between the lips, a tease as she continues to dance the fantasy. “There is no machine - only you and me as you slowly,” her fingers press, “you take my entire hand. Spreading you open.” Her other bloodied hands rubs against their arousal, and she looks down as she can see his flesh move from within, it nudges upwards against their pelvis as her fingers stroke deeper, “it’s thrusting inside you now, mi canario.” She breathes as she pushes further.

His breathing hitches.

“Sing for me, mi corazón. Your body is bulging so beautifully in there - could you take another if you tried?”

Fought against the restraints, their limp mouth groans helplessly against the increasing barrage. Their fantasy follows as images of her hand penetrate his body over and over - the noise twice rebound through their ecstasy laden mind. Remembering how their void manifestations had once worked him open - of hands punching deeper into their body, wrist deep as hips buckle and as body gapes. Teeth gnash over and over as they whine - whimpering as they try to bow, try to thrust against the gentle taunting fingers.

“Pleasepleaselettie,” grovels against the saliva soaked ropes, their exposed lungs sucking up air as their voice picks up pitch. A mantra of desire drawn anguished as her hands is removed - abandoning his needing walls as wet fingers brush over trembling thighs. So close. “Ohpleaselettie,” they gasp, “pleaseletmecome.”

Her hand does at last return to him - but something is different as she grunts, lifting herself.

“Usually, when people want people’s hands inside them,” warmth presses against his thigh as she moves to settle beneath his legs, the blades of her trinity skirt dancing against the concrete, “they want to get fisted.” She collects herself on top of him as she spreads blood against their painted thigh. “But you need to be stretched out more before that happens, mi canario.”

Drowning in their own intoxicating arousal, Arali can barely make out the curling mass brushing against their thigh.

“So, we’ll go with the next best thing for now,” and his legs are pushed upwards to rest on her shoulders.

It’s her cherry red lips that brings them over.

They seal themselves around his aching arousal as her fingers hold firm, spreading the flesh of his thighs as their exhausted body weakly bucks. Although their body is still splayed out against the concrete, blood pooling around their flayed flesh, he still tries to fight against the restraints as she continues to suck the twitching crown. And against the ropes they scream - and scream as over and over her tongue works along the dividing crease that meets their buckling pelvis. It runs them hoarse as fluid lurches through their spent body. Hips buckling weak as torn lungs continue to suck upon the surrounding air.

It’s only once he falls still does she raise her head from the forest of hair, listening to the idle groans that continue to roll. “There we go,” the medic hums as she lets his legs fall back to the floor, licking her lips. “That’s better, mi canario.”

“Mhnm,” groans.

She gives them a playful pat on the thigh, watching over the cloud of void energy that continues to surround them. Where ichor once soaked throughout, it now only puddles in absence of the disemboweled organs, and each moment she watches as his heart continues to beat sandwiched between their torn lungs. Every so often, even as their pulse continues to slow, it skips a beat. Tethered only by ichor strands keeping it in place.

Wiping down one of her hands, she moves the suture kit beside the tray of their ribs.

“Arali?”

“Mhnm,” continues to float, eyes slowly fluttering themselves open. “Yes, mistress?”

“Good, you’re still lucid,” she wraps the first draft of surgical thread around her wrist. “Since it looks like your body is trying to pull itself together, sutures might help keep them close enough so they can fuse. You’re going to feel pressure as I work, and I’m going to need to you say where you feel it.”

Their head lulls, eyes watching as she straddles them once more. “Is that...?” their somatic eyes cloud with void energy, drawing upon it as the energy within continues to bloom.

“An erection?” Lettie’s expression is flat, already looking through the tray of organs she pulled from their chest. “You gave quite a show, pajarito. Jajaja, are you really surprised?”

Arali groans as they rest upon the static crawling through their bound arms. “No... not really.” He barely even tries anymore as the warm flush continues to part over his cheeks, able to do little more than lick the drool and snot from their lips. Their eyes fall open as they hear the squelch of picked upon organs, feeling pressure flutter along their left side. “Left.”

A simple gasps slips as the curve needle punctures the small piece of their whole, set as she reaches for the next. And for each she tries to match it against the first - letting them indicate which side it’s supposed to be as she watches the drifting energy from above. Steady fingers setting each unmatched piece within the abandon of their excavated gut; their right lung, their left, their heart, until she finds the matching piece. They squirm beneath her as the needle is drawn again, pieces sewn together as she slips the knot tight, cutting the suture short with a quick snip.

And over they begin again - she picks a piece of disembodied breath, he indicates the side, and like a puzzle she searches for a partner. Little by little do they become the whole that remains to be set - from large chunks to long scour pieces with tatters and exposed bronchi, there is still more work to be done as they feel the pieces sloshing about inside their hollowed body, the sutured fragments become larger. Tears long gone dry crease over their cheeks, able to give little more than a hiss as the needle draws into their organ with a forceful thumb.

“Almost done,” she settles herself once more as the suture is drawn tight on the half of lung, “still with me?”

A weak nod, eyes fluttering behind the glasses.

“Good, mi canario,” leaning forward her trinity skirt dances against the concrete, scraping obscenely as in one hand she cradles what has been torn from their left lung. “I’m going to attach them now,” watchful as their breaths have gone low and slow - understandable as she holds the suture riddled piece against the intact portion in their warm chest. “Inhale.”

It’s steady as the organ expands - and only flinches as the needle is pushed through the pink tissue, pushing it through the fragment quickly as she makes the first of many knots.

“Inhale.” And they continue again until the medic is satisfied it won’t come lose. One of three in their chest. One of nine in total as she carefully works their organs back to where they should be.  Their lungs, their heart, and then onto the next as the tray that once hold pieces of their chest organs are filled with the slop of their intestines and what may or may not be bladder or uterus. And every so often she checks in on their lucidity as a suture is brought near taut.

And every time they nod, watching through eyes half lid.

“There, kidneys done,” she sighs, letting the energy streams guide her to where they should be - stemming the flow of thick ichor.

“Wha,” they groan as it fissures inside their body, as the needle again keeps them in position. “What are they for again?”

“Filtering blood, but,” her eyes flutter over his open torso, “not certain they’d work when you are. Like this.” She discards the short length of suture thread onto the pile of discards. “How are you feeling?”

A low groan rolls through their suture riddled body, their diaphragm bowing low against their still vacant belly, “how much do we got left?” Their sight is still hazy from flustered tears, trying to moisten their drying mouth with their tongue.

“Intestines. Bladder. Uterus.”

“Which is going to take the longest?”

“Intestines,” she draws up the next length of suture thread, the needle embedded in the fabric wrapped around her wrist. “They’re a couple meters long, and it might be more trial and error,” she pulls the thread through with a thread puller, knotting the ends to keep it from becoming undone.

They sigh beneath her, head resting upon their numbed arms. “What about the shrapnel...?”

“I’ve been picking them out as I go,” she reminds, “do you need a distraction?”

A hum rolls through them, feeling the warmth that continues to radiate further down between their thighs. “What about you...?”

“This?” Her hips shift to let the prehensile organ slide against their thigh, “I can work on it later. So do you want me to work on your intestines first?”

The drifter tries to stretch their numbing limbs, only able to shift how they rest upon their clavicle. “Sure,” their breath hitches with a wince, feeling the sutures drawn through their body once more. As the metal trays are moved around again they feel her weight shift upon their exhausted legs, beginning the routine once more of drawn thread and threaded needle.

Piece after piece of their organic puzzle are slowly weaved together, connections made by their wavering void energy are made physical as the breakages are matched. Suturing one side first, a further three complete around the tube of meat as it flops helplessly against their quarter full abdominal sac. They can only watch as the location doesn’t matter - the winding tubes exceeding their stature as Lettie lets them be latched by the remaining ichor tethers inside their body. Little by little letting the connective tissue find placement as she works further down the thin fleshy tubes.

Lettie resettles herself as the lengths of her skirt dance.

They watch as the prehensile organ between her leg twitches through half-lid eyes as she picks up a portion of their large intestines, the noded structure flops helplessly in her palm. He feels the pinch of the needle down along his right side, watching as it’s drawn though firm as the open end tilts into their vision.

Experimentally, waiting as she moves it again to check the sutures, he tightens it.

“¡AY!” Lettie extends her arm as the tube flexes just inches from her concentrated face, breaking it instantly as her attention snaps directly as their small exhausted grin. “¡Pendejos! Don’t scare me like that!” She’s quick to deliver a smack to his blood slattered thigh, “nice to know you still have bowel control,” she grumbles, finishing up her work with a less than professional tug to the suture. “Maybe I should stretch you out to show you a lesson, mi canario.” She grunts, moving onto the next section of their large intestines.

Somatic sight flickering down beyond the flopping tubes; they watch the prehensile organ twitch.

“If you wanted,” their voice is low, trying to keep the pain in their chest at a minimum, “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Mind what?” She snaps him a brief look, more focused on completing her work than the twitch between her thighs. “I’m busy, it can wait for later.” She draws the suture firm, letting the thread hang as she works on the next along the ring.

Breathing low, they shuffle beneath her, tighten the noded tube in her hand once more. “You won’t need to stretch it as much, mistress,” and their voice relieves with a brief cough, flinching as the sutures in their chest hold their voice in a vice.

Lettie finishes her work on their traversal colon, clipping the loose ends of the sutures.

“Mi canario,” she breathes, picking up the final section of their disemboweled organ, “you have no idea what you’re asking for. Do you?” She briefly laughs, settling upon them once more as the blades of the trinity skirt dance, getting comfortable. Threading the needle once more, she lets the flexible warm tube rest somewhere against their crotch, letting the warm flesh rub against the tender glans. “Fantasy is one thing,” she lets the suture thread fall free as she prepares the primary piece for attachment, “the actual thing is far different.”

They groan beneath her as the primary length is penetrated by her fingers, pushed knuckle deep, flexing around them as the needle draws pressure. Set somewhere between her fingers as they spread - forcing the tube to submit.

“This thing,” she breathes, shifting as she pairs the descending colon with the traversal, matching the points for her needle, “is just a stress relief to me. Five minutes, and I’m done if I want,” she lets the warm prehensile length snake across his bloodied thighs, hips shifting. “I can make it as big as I want; as thick as I want,” she draws the first suture tight, watching it clench as he groans.

Her fingers part them again, spreading them as the pieces are rotated. He whimpers.

“Relax, mi canario,” hums as she draws the needle again, puncturing the tender tube as it flinches, “let your body stretch. Don’t you want to take me?”

They continue to whine beneath her as the suture is made taut to the bleeding flesh. “Yes,” whimpers as the next is made. The ring complete.

“Good,” Lettie lets the fat tube of muscle fall back to their open abdominal sac, half filled now as the large intestines still hang free. Her fattening prehensile organ twitches as she handles the open end, fingers stroking at the limbering muscles as they stretch. “I want you to look at me,” she waits for their head to tilt, still tear stained pass the glasses but good enough. “Buen pajarito”. She smiles, holding the wet tube beyond their vision. To where the drifter can’t see - but can feel something pushing into the organ - and they twitch.

Something twitches inside them - clenches making their arousal twitch in the loop.

Lettie watches as the broken tube flutters over their divided erection, watching as they try and keep eye contact with her as she smiles. “Look at you,” she licks her cherry lips, “trying so desperately to clamp around yourself.” Her own arousal brushes against their thigh again, holding the tube there as they steadily grow harder, the small erection pulling against the stretching lips beneath the forest of hair.

“Mhn,” the drifter whines, eyes fluttering as the deep breaths are held in a vice of their chest. Forced to breathe shallow even as their severed organ brushes upon their tender erection, making it hard to string their words as their own body swallows them. They feel her fingers stroking their tube of meat – tightening it against their erection as blood drips over their engorged flesh. “Leticia,” they groan.

“Relax,” she purrs as the open tube of meat is drawn back, their coated erection twitching as cold air twirls between their thighs. “Relax,” she breathes again as her fingers stroke within the tube, watching their rising chest as her thumb makes play, feeling their legs tremble beneath her as her fist slips into the tube without any more resistance. “Buen pajarito”, she pulls her fist back, watching as the tube flexes. Empty.

“Mhn!” they whine as she pushes inside them again - feeling it along their left side, watching as between them she strokes the edges. Petting them as they clench again. Pushing back inside their open tube with a long drawn hum. “Lettie,” they can barely whisper as the hand pushes deeper into their tube, watching as it bulges as she moves.

“¿Sí, pajarito?” Lettie continues to smirk, withdrawing her hand to let the tube flop with a gape. And she continues to play with her as they gasp - breathing quickly as to not disturb their sutures.

“Oh, -Lohk-,” they briefly dip into void tongue, hips twitching beneath her as they’re spread open again.

“Want to see how much it is, him?” She tilts herself forward, the warmth of her prehensile arousal brushing their hairy crotch. “Look how much you can take, mi canario.” And she tilts the opening to them – two fingers spreading open, holding it posed as again her tapered fist easily slides into the relaxed tightness. “It’s so much easier without the three rings,” she sighs, popping her hand out as she watches them writhe beneath her, “but, it’s no fun. You take it too easily.”

Half-lid somatic eyes stare dazed as she continues with her work, suturing their intestines completely shut. “It’d be fun,” she admits, letting the prehensile end curl upon their thigh, “to see you writhing upon it, mi canario. But I got work.”

They groan beneath her, annoyed.

It’s quickly silenced as fingers part their blood soaked folds, a finger pushing the eager glans out of the way.

Lettie hums as their arousals kiss, shifting hers to cradle the drifter’s taunted erection. “You’ve deserve a treat for being so patient, mi corazón.”  And she lets her hips slide backwards – the prehensile end curls beneath the crown. “But we’re not done yet.” Balancing the small flashlight between her teeth.

They only glare at her, pouting through their bloodied lips and tear stained eyes.

She ignores it as she finishes up winding the next line of suture thread around her wrist, getting to work piecing together their bladder and uterus. And it’s with a grin does she turn back to them, coming to settle as she picks up a piece of organ and watches it drift downwards – to connect with the resting tight cervix. Lettie glances up without moving her head.

“I apologize for what’s going to happen for this next bit.” She draws the needle through the threader.

Half attentive, he comes to know soon enough as he screams out as the needle pierces flesh, snarling and cursing as she works to piece together their uterus. Though their arms have long gone numb, they still try to fight through it as Lettie quickly gets her work done, leaving the threads hanging as she moves onto the next portion, letting their breathless voice huff at her before she shakes blood from her hand.

“Sonuva-!” He’s briefly able to snarl, the organ cramping from where it’s been sewn into place.

Lettie is careful as she trims the excess thread.

“Hohn mahny,” they slur as their head finally falls back, legs twitching as the pain continues to echo through their spine.

“Just the bladder,” she sighs, “it’ll be a little less painful, but I’ll get it done quickly. Just hold in there.”

Arali groans, eyes screwing shut as he feels her picking up the small organ. Surely enough she was right; it coaxes them to whimper as their legs continue to shake, feeling each puncture of the needle as it’s brought together, as its sewn securely in the little nook between their pelvis and their aching uterus.

“Now,” Lettie sighs, stacking the empty metal trays off to the side as void energy continues to seep, portions of their body scattered into the pure energy cloud that hangs heavy. “Let’s see how it goes,” she leans in, coaxing their organs completely into place within their abdominal sac. Beneath her, through the pulses of agony, the drifter exhales long and slow, eyes squeezed together as the wet noise of their organs and her hands continue to pervert their thoughts. The weight of her arousal remains ever present against their thigh, the stain of their blood on their own continues to dry, an annoying feeling they cannot itch as their hands remain cracked back against the pillows.

“Mhnn, hey,” he tries to piece, flinching as he breathes.

“What is it, mi corazón?”

Mouth pressing flat, their flush is masked by the tears and blood and snot, they try brushing against their arms. “Could you,” wetting their lips, their leg wiggles beneath her, glancing down. “Blood drying. Itches.”

“Ay,” the medic sighs, forearms completely soaked as she sits back upon them, “it does that.” Her hands rest upon their hips, leaving prints as she watches over the steady movement of their diaphragm. Energy continues to bleed through their mended organs, wisps curling between the sutured seams. Her own arousal twitches again at their thigh, the curled end brushing along their bush - but her attention remains adverted, attentive for the slightest change of pink in their exposed organs.

They wiggle again, sighing. “Could you... please, mistress.”

“Hm?” A hand gently roams down their thigh, “you want me to touch you, mi canario?”

They nod, staring down past the flutter of their lungs, over how the diaphragm pushes the divided abdominal sac into view. “Please,” they weakly buck.

Lettie sighs as her fingers divide around the blood soaked erection, spreading fresh blood as they knead against the lips among the forest. It coaxes a sigh between their desperate lungs, dropping back against the pillows, mouth left agape as a relieving breath groans.

And they’re spreading them - making space as the arousal twitches against their thigh.

“Jajaja,” Lettie draws a deep breath, releasing the forested need as their body drools. “Not yet, pajarito. You’ve not earned that right to feel it inside you,” her voice is husky as her hand returns to their hip, her eyes still focused on the movement within their torso. “You’ll need some bedrest before I do that anyway,” her cherry lips smile. “But if you’re a good little bird... I’ll consider letting you have a little taste,” leaning upon their hips, she sighs, voice low, “a shame I don’t have toys.”

Though still tear stricken, groggy eyes perk up. “I...” they take a slow breath. “Under... balcony couch.”

“You have some?”

They nod.

“Well,” Lettie shuffles, glancing at her blood soaked arms her lips curl, “I’ll need to clean up.” Adjusting again she extends a hand, a knuckle first. “Lick it clean for me, would you?”

Breathing deep, their void taint tongue extends, and the knuckle curls into their mouth.

He sucks upon her finger as it follows the extension of her digit, lapping around the hardened warframe skin as they groan. Sight once hung upon her cherry lips falter as another finger fills the space of their exhausted jaws. A suction he continues to draw as she purrs above them, enamors of praise as they continue to obediently lap every flake of dried blood from her fingers. Her fingers push against their jaws as they come to rest against the pillow, pulling their mouth to gasp as they breathe.

And inward dirtied fingers press against their tongue, treated again by their void taint mouth.

Their hips twitch.

“Buen pajarito,” she sighs, “cleaning up your mess. So eager.” Lettie watches through half-lid eyes as drool rolls over their blood soaked lips, catching it with her fingers as they’re drawn out of gasping lips. It twirls around her fingers as they watch her hand - waiting, groaning as their mouth remains agape. She smiles as they take her fingers paired - four almost pushing as it stretches their lips. They just won’t fit.

Their eagerness makes her twitch against their thigh. And they grumble beneath her as the quartet of fingers withdraw, granting only her thumb to the drifter’s bath.

“Maybe if you’re a good little bird,” she holds their blood soaked chin, thumb pressing against their tongue, “those four fingers will fit somewhere else.” Lettie lets them continue the work on her tongue, her palm, the back it. Even as beneath her their hips continue to shift, as she can feel their groin clenching beneath her still bloodied palm, she continues to play with their eager mouth. A little finger hook there, a lip pinch there, their tongue continues to reach out for every inch of their organ spilt blood.

And onto her other palm, it’s much the same. She toys with them her saliva licked hand rests on the arch of her dancing skirt blades. Seated there as she continues to watch their attentive mouth, giving brief flickers down to where energy continues to ebb from their open torso.

To their left their ribcage has fused itself back into shape. The last piece left to put into place.

Saliva drools between their mouth and her fingers as the second is finally cleaned.

“There we go,” charms as she kneels above them. “Don’t go anywhere, pajarito.”

He only groans, leg twitching as her lingering arousal brushes against their bush.

Lettie makes quick work at finding their little hideaway box of toys. Some are quite small while others are of more bold designs that would take more time to work to fit; surprisingly, not all that far off from what she had used in her experimental phase in the army. So she plucks out two roughly the size of two fingers. There’s still time to let their open body heal - and she still has to sew them shut.

Barely able to move, Arali can only glance beyond the restraints of their arm as she returns to them - laying the toys between their open thighs as the blades of her skirt click against the concrete. “Mhn,” sighs as she strokes their thigh, guiding as it roams down, fingers pressing between leg and floor in a voiceless command.

“Good,” she pulls down their pants as their knees bend, boots forced against the bloodied tarp.

Arali tries to stare down as their legs are propped, and even through the distance is blurred by lingering tears, he still feels the air draft between their legs as their pants hold their feet close, as her hands run over their inner thighs as their legs continue to part from the relaxed restraints. “Leticia,” they whine, whimpering as finally, finally she touches them. Fingers part their damp labia and sink into their warm body.

But, before they go any further, a silicone weigh presses against their lips.

Lips parting, their tongue eagerly invites it in. Bathing it. Sucking it. They continue to gasp as its drawn out, sight flickering to the toy as it’s brought down to their loins. Parting them as she hums.

“Relax,” her voice is soft. Beginning to push.

With dampen walls and saliva soaked girth; the toy steady begins to fill against their walls.

“Lettie,” they groan as the full feeling continues to grow inside them - it parts through their lungs as they gasp, clenching, feeling it drawn back.

“Oh, mi canario,” she purrs, “we haven’t even gone halfway, and you’re drooling for me.”

He tries to glance down. But curious thoughts are driven out as helplessly the toy is pressed into their body, filling upon their sensitive walls as hips beg and beg for relief. They bite their lip as her hands rests upon the crease of their groin, a thumb pressing the toy to vanish beyond their bush. The other teasing against the divided glans.

“¡Buen pajarito!” Cherry lips smile, humming as she watches him writhe. “One of two,” and again she leans in, the next parks upon their lips.

And even as they groan, seated around the toy buried into their front. Their mouth parts, eagerly sucking, leaving trails of drool as drifts down his body - leaving drool to drip into their open cavities. Half-lid eyes continue to flutter as she spits onto the toy, as she spits onto her fingers and rubs it further than where he’s already filled.

His loins clench in anticipation.

“Relax,” she purrs, “relax, pajarito.”

And so they do - gasping as the toy presses against their ass, gently parting them each time their loins relax. And little by little, even as the sensation of the first continues to overtake, the pressure against their pelvis drawing constant groans, their body hungrily swallows it. A fullfillment that keeps their mouth agape, their body gasping, their eyes fluttering as she presses the base against their hole - locked around the gentle swell of the plug.

“There,” Lettie smiles, helping them settle their legs once more against the tarp, taking her place upon their aching legs. “All filled up now, mi canario. Maybe now I can focus on my work,” but her hand wanders elsewhere - and above his twitching arousal she draws her own. Its texture flexes as her fingers draw around the mucus laden length, the prehensile end curls around her finger above their open gut.

“I could rub one out right now, mi corazón. Leave you a bit of me inside your body as you heal.” She strokes down the engorged length, tender nodules bouncing as the flesh is drawn back it. Beneath her their hips continue to lurch around the stilled toys, begging.

“Lettie,” they groan, drooling as they watch the curled end drool over their intestines. “Please,” whispers between the concurrent groans, staring as they watch her other hand cradle along the base, petting among her own drooling lips.

“Ay,” she sighs, stroking her sensitive girth, fingers playing between her legs, “how much do you want me inside you, mi canario? Tell me.” Her groan is light, soft as to not disrupt her concentration.

“Ah,” he gasps, body trying to rest around the pressure laid in their pelvis, failing as they continue to watch her stroke the drooling length, enamored as the end coils around her finger and around her hand. “So much, mistress,” they barely make out, breath stolen between their needing inhales and groaning exhales. Stumbling for words as drool dribbles down their chin, pooling between neck and flayed clacivle. “I want, you inside me,” they try and lick their lips free of drool.

“Hm,” Lettie sighs, letting her hand work harder, eyes lingering intent as she stares past the wet smacks her hand makes against her base. “More.”

Arali groans, trying to reach her hips with their own, too weak to move more than a breath of a centimeter. “I want, your hands,” a deep painful breath, “your fist, your cock,” their eyes are hazy, glossed by fresh frustrated tears. Their erection painfully twitching with their filled body. “Anything,” their loins clench again, feeling how the toys press against their under-worked body. “By lua, Lettie,” eyes remained focused on her coiling erection, “please, please. Please fuck me.”

Her strokes become slower, methodical as she draws in a deep breath. “Buen pajarito,” her finger coils around the prehensile end again, hips twitching, and with one last stroke with her other hand, it throbs. Spilling white seed along their sutured intestines, their kidneys, upwards others surge upon their heart. Uneventful as she leans back, letting her body do the work with a long drawn sigh.

They whine beneath her - feeling the warmth glazing their organs. Still unsated as their own erection aches, untouched.

Her organ continues to hang free as it curls up against her thigh, cleaning the dribbles that come between aching lips. “Don’t worry,” she cradles one of his cheeks, “I’ll tend to it once I’m done,” wiping away the frustrated tears.

Another groan, eyes screwing shut with a disappointed snarl.

“Ayy, lo siento, mi canario,” she settles again, winding suture thread around her wrist. “It’ll be sooner than you expect.” And she pats his aching crotch, pushing the one in his vagina back into place beyond the lips. “Just hold those for me while I work. Okay?”

Sighing as deep as they can as the sutures still ache, Arali nods. Legs trying to squeeze around the intrusion that still waits. Breath hitching as the needle is drawn through the top of their abdominal sac.

Lettie is careful as she draws the needle through the thin tissue of the abdominal sac, keeping two fingers beneath as she draws the continuous stitch. His flinches beneath her are made inconsequential, barely a twitch as every couple centimeters she knots it over itself, securing the suture as she continues down towards where it rests near their crotch. Sealing the spray of her seed inside.

“Buen pajarito,” she pats his thigh, fingers stroking again to push the peeking toy within once more.

Letting the needle rest within the fabric spun upon her wrist, she clicks their waiting ribs out of alignment with the mended sternum and places them back within their chest. Each is made with a low, guttural grunt as the bones meet with their fleshy counterparts, one by one settled back over their sutured lungs as they continue to breath beneath them, brushing void energy between the gaps as the sternum is pushed into place - forcing the bones to click together as she presses her full weight.

The forceps click against the tarp and concrete as one side is brought flush with their reformed ribcage, pushed into place as her hand cradles one of their breasts, her other drawing the needle through muscle and skin, drawing it taut beneath their clavicle before working down towards their shoulder.

Lettie follows through with her checks and assurances for herself and them - checking for the void tethers that try and pull their meat back to position, for the expansion of mended lungs, that the toys are still well seated inside their desperate holes. And again her hand is made an offering as she finishes their right side, letting the void tainted tongue lick off the split blood, sucking on her fingers until they inevitably retreat - to return to the sutures as forceps clatter into the metal tray.

But still he drips need, feeling the fluids grinding between his thighs as her curling arousal departs, as blood soaks down from the fresh suture wounds from their right and soon from their left, as their pelvis continues to accommodate the waiting weight. Groans of tempting need rise as each grazing check push against his soaked labia, thumb running teasingly upon the anxious arousal.

Yet onward she continues to work as she winds another length of suture thread around her wrist, threading the needle once more. “Almost done, mi canario,” she repositions herself as all that remains is the incision centering their torso - the final stretch as beneath the welting sutures their chest steadily breathes, their belly though still parted by the scalpel’s blade slowly rises by the steadied diaphragm. She watches the welts of ichor tethers fissure along the final cut, trying to pull the muscle and the fat and the skin back together as the forceps are removed one by one.

Only then does she relax.

Sitting back as she discards the unused thread, Lettie gives a brief visual examination. A once over, until she’s able to set the suture thread kit aside to give a brief physical exam as they rest against the pillows. That their ribs have settled, that none of the sutures are stretched to the point they may pop, that the toy is still sunk inside of them as she reorients herself to kneel beside them to work on the ropes.

They give in as her hands guide them to gently lean forward, to give her space before a pillow is shoved against the small of their back. It keeps them there as their arms are far too numb to coordinate as the void taint fingers can only wiggle as the ropes are drawn off of them - etches of the material are left in their skin, angry bruises left from their constant tugging that are already tint with their internal energy. It releases their biceps first as she draws their arms out from behind their aching head, letting them watch as she finishes untying them.

They heave a sigh as their arms are brought to a rest over their torso, left crossed as they try and shake some feelings back into their hands, eyes trying to blink free dried tears.

Lettie collects the dirtied rope, tossing it into a careless bundle as she gets to work gathering her things. Unused materials head back into the backpack however few it may be, the near empty box of gloves, the few other spools of suture thread, the handful of forceps and other tools left in her pack. She drops it a short distance away - the dirtied forceps and metal tins left for them to handle in the future. To worry about later as she returns to their side, snapping on a single glove.

“Now,” she kneels, letting the skirt blades dance as she gets herself into position at their side. “You’ve been good,” her fingers dance down the sutures of their stomach, towards the opening legs. “Mi canario ruidoso. How loud can you get, I wonder?” Her fingers stroke as hips raise into them, eager as still numb hands try to reach out for her, letting the fingers explore as she strokes between their dampened thighs.

“Leticia,” whispers in an oh so desperate tone, wanton as the medic’s glove easily slides through the lubricated mess, spreading over the aching lips.

“Hm?” She leans in; fingers tap upon the toy pushed inside them. “You’ll need to be louder, mi canario.” The gloved hand begins to take around the fluid laden toy, pulling it halfway. Steady and slow.

“Leticia,” they groan as it’s pushed inside them once more, rubber gloves spreading over their labia, pulling the skin so their arousal peaks between her fingers. “Mhn,” their static numbed hands continue to slowly regain their senses, able to knuckle from where they lay.

“What do you want, mi corazón? You’ll need to speak up,” Lettie almost laughs as she continues to play. Moving the toy inside them. Letting it sit as she strokes the anxious need with a purr.

“I-ah,” Arali groans, “I want to feel you inside me, Leticia.”

“Louder, mi canario,” she charms. Her fingers curl against the toy, thrusting it.

“I want your hand inside me,” they groan louder, working against their still healing lungs. Twitching as the toy rubs inside them, against the one still buried in their ass.

Lettie tsks, “I don’t think it’ll fit.” She thrusts the toy inside them with increasing speed, “you’re tight down there, Arali. These toys barely fit inside you.” One of their arms have gain enough sense to rest upon her knee, their other still struggling as they groan, arching into the thrusting toy. So Lettie continues to play as the knees steadily raise, increasing the strokes as their breathing hitches from the internal resistance, watching their snarling face and needing groans.

She pulls it out, watching that face clench in disappointment, eyes squinting past the glasses. “Don’t,” they shiver as she rubs the toy over their twitching erection, “stop... please. Don’t stop,” they whine.

“I’m not,” she smiles, pulling it along their mound, over their sutured heaving stomach until it kisses her lips. Licking it as they stare at her, mouth parted as they try and level their breathing, left open as she gives the toy a quick kiss. “You taste so lovely, mi corazón. It’s a shame,” she sets it aside, “that I can’t fit more into you.” A taunt.

“I -” they sigh low, brow furrowed, “I can fit more.” Flakes of blood crack down their throat.

“You sure?” The gloved hand returns.

“As many as you can,” and the gloved hand spreads their labia once more, feeling for the parted warm hole. Their hips arch for it as their one hand holds at her knee.

“Well,” her hand strokes the warm lubrication over their arousal, “don’t hold back on me, mi canario. I want to hear you loud and clear.”

An annoyed frown crosses them, broken as fingers plead upon their arousal. Lying back, arching into it, they groan, queuing their lungs, “I want your hand inside me, Lettie. I want to be your puppet.”

“That’s a good little toy,” she smiles, eyes half-lid as she stares down at them, “I’ll fit as many as I can, no promises, mi canario. As long as you’re singing, I’ll keep going.”

They huff, body shivering as two fingers part between their lips.

“We’ll start with two.”

Easily, with the dilation of the toy, the gloved fingers easily meet the folds knuckle deep. Tenderly they play along their soaking walls, rolling in circular motions to test the interior sensations, finding the sensitive spot sandwiched against their urethra. And as easily as they slid in, they slide out, spreading them before a palm buries them once more. Over and over she begins to work their reception, watching as so desperately their knees sit bent, their pants pulled between their still worn boots.

Lettie smiles down as with her other fingers she wonders.

The plug in their ass still in place.

Their pants are in the direct line of fire.

“Now we’re going to have three,” she announces; satisfied as the drifter groans for her, loudly as she feels the walls give around her trio of fingers.

“-Lohk-,” stammers from the void tainted mouth, head weary as thighs tremble.

“You need time to stretch, hm?” Her fingers bury themselves to the knuckles, her others cradling their crotch.

“N-no, ma’am,” their eyes betray their stimulation, one more open than the other, a tear drooping as their mouth continues to gasp.

“Good.” And her fingers thrust.

Slowly at first, of course, but she can feel the muscles clenching around her as they push in, how they give in as she lets the fingers wiggle inside the aching walls. Lettie bathes in the noises that part the drool stammered lips, watching the stubborn features soften with heightened need as their body becomes more receptive to the fingering barrage. While before the noise was softened by the steady movements, it becomes pronounced as the wet slaps of gloves upon lubricated flesh almost reigns louder than his groans!

“Leticia,” they gasp as she comes to rest for a moment inside them, letting them ride. “Please,” groans as their head grinds against the pillow, hand gripping her own that rests over their torso, giving something for them to hold as their legs keep trembling, body grasping for relief the fingers won’t yet give.

“Can we move onto four?” She smiles, enjoying them tremble as the trio emerges the parted heat.

“Yes!” Their body aches - pain and pleasure and desire as they can do naught more than be her play thing. Their legs part as much as they can with their heavy boots still strapped to their feet, their pants bagging around them framing her bright blue rubber glove every time they part a glance. Too much to stop now. Not enough to finally finish as they feel her hand rub upon them.

She clicks, kissing the air as her fingers wait, “beg.”

“Please, Leticia!” Tired hands hold her restraining arm, “please, make me come! Finger me harder!”

“Buen pajarito, mi canario ruidoso.”

They scream in satisfaction as four fingers begin to part their folds, not even all the way inside as the fingers go from straightened to cupped, two pleading upon the top while the others lag against the walls. Aggressively they work themselves into place as Lettie puts weight on their torso, just enough to keep them in place as her fingers begin to stroke - still barely halfway down her fingers as they’ve already started clenching around her. Over and over she pushes her fingers against their unstretched walls, helping them give with every slight curl of her fingers, ever slightly stretch as the noisy mess drips onto the bloodied tarp.

“Leticia!” They scream openly, head thrown against the pillow, arms gripping as tight as they can through the numbing static as hips quiver under the opening thrusts. Again and again they scream her name as closer and closer the knuckles come near to their loins, almost taking it.

Nearly there - they just have to last a little longer.

But their body fails them as the wave of pleasure rockets through their spine.

His head is spinning as it all suddenly hits - their pelvis trying to milk the thrusting fingers, trying to jerk against the palm jackhammering against their sensitive glans, trying to ride the aggressive hand as some levee within them breaks as her hands come to a stop, letting their body squirt as their eyes roll back with their head.

Gasping with all the space they have, “keep going,” they whine. Hips still bucking.

“Okay.”

And she’s at it again as her four fingers easily slide themselves in with the new wet warmth, stroking his sweet spot, filling up against their walls. The wet squelching of flesh and rubber and desire is all that fills their still reeling mind, the orgasm not finished flowing as the next one begins to build. Only with four fingers she continues to throw his mind out of wack, thrusting in hard and fast as his stomach begins to ache, a once worrying sensation welcomed as its felt low against their groin. Blown again as his body tries to empty space for more, squirting for a second time as their words slur, head again sent spinning against the pillows as their pelvis squeezes around the filling fingers. The thumb still outside, resting against their twitching erection.

“What a mess,” Lettie laughs, wiping her hand upon their thigh after removing the remaining toy. “You good?”

The words that come out are garbled, eyes unable to focus with the flutter of overstimulated lids. Still aching as their hips continue to twitch from the backlogged stimulation.

So, she pats their thigh, looking over their shivering legs and the squirt-hit pants. Not her problem. “So,” she begins pulling off the glove, “at least your bladder works.”

“Hhh?”

“Just make sure those pants are cleaned,” she discards the glove, “you did good, Arali, You fit four fingers for me.”

“Wh-oh,” groans. It takes a couple minutes for Arali to properly regain their senses, but Lettie remains at their sides. Helping massage their still aching arms, preparing to let them clean up their snot and sweat and tears and blood covered face, doing the minimal of what she needs to as the pants situation is not hers to deal with. Nor the bloodied tarp or the dirtied tools - his to take back into the future and sanitize however they do in the future.

It’s only when they can sit up by themselves does she begin to stand, collecting her things.

She’s still a busy woman.

“Just bring the rag and bottle back when you’re finished up,” she hauls up the backpack, watching them rub water against their face, trying to blink out the stubborn dried fluid. “I don’t know how fast that body of yours will recover. But if I see you doing any assignments I WILL make sure you’re having enough bed rest.”

“If you say so,” they take a deep breath to check their lung capacity - still around 70%. Arali rubs the wet cloth against their cheek as the medic has already got started on returning to her work. No matter how late it already is. “So, how about next session?”

Lettie stops a few steps short of the portal back to the mall, “How about stretching you open a little more?” Her cherry lips curl into a small smirk, “I’m sure you can find some proper toys from, where ever you got those from. I’d enjoy shopping around for the prefect thing for you.” She raises a small two finger wave, and departs back to the mall.

Steadily Arali rummages himself to their feet, palms pressing against the spared concrete as the pants still restrain their legs - it’s kicked off mostly, pulled rest of the way before finally stumbling onto unsteady legs. Staring down at the mess, their body flashes back into the waiting trinity prime with fists resting upon their hips.

Bed rest can wait.