That One Story Writer

Ren hummed.

Not a protest.

Not a command.

Just... entertained.

“You’re feral today,” he mused softly, almost idly, while guiding the micro-clamp to the final filament.

“I’m starving,” Akechi hissed, pressing his hips flush against Ren’s, grinding against him without care for the patient lying unconscious not two feet away. “And you keep feeding everything else but me. I watch your hands touch everything, speak to everyone, and I sit here, waiting like some dog.”

Ren finally turned his head—just a little. One goggle-eye tilted to glance toward Akechi. It spun in a slow, deliberate circle.

“You do make a rather possessive dog.”

Akechi shuddered. “Say that again.”

“Dog.”

A throaty growl rumbled from Akechi’s throat, and he kissed the curve of Ren’s shoulder blade through the fabric. Then his teeth followed. A nip, then another, then a harsh suck that would definitely bruise.

Still—Ren remained calm. Deliberate.

He reached for the final clamp.

“Careful,” he warned coolly, “you’re distracting the hand that holds your favorite scalpel.”

“And yet,” Akechi purred, teeth grazing skin again, “you haven’t told me to stop.”

Because he wouldn’t. He never did. Akechi had long since learned that Ren could tolerate him at his most deranged—scent-marking him mid-surgery, whispering fervent devotion into the shell of his ear, even pressing kisses to the nape of his neck while Ren cut someone open.

And it never startled him.

If anything, it made Ren smile.

Because Ren Amamiya was not normal. And that, in turn, made Akechi’s obsession righteous. Sacred.

The parasite gave one last twitch as Ren reached in.

And Akechi—pressing one last kiss to Ren’s goggled temple—murmured with unholy devotion:

“I’ll kill every god left in this rotting city if it means seeing your real eyes, Doctor. Just once. Let me see you.”

The parasite was plucked free with surgical grace.

And Ren—still silent, still calm—placed it gently into the specimen jar, his lips twitching into the faintest, quietest, and most infuriatingly unreadable smirk Akechi had ever seen.

Soon enough, Ren’s hands moved with the same unhurried precision even after the parasite had been fully extracted, as though the climax of the procedure had never truly been the point. He turned the specimen jar slowly between his fingers, watching the fleck parasite shimmer and scatter light like fractured glass, its microscopic forms still twitching in faint, dying defiance.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, almost fondly.

With practiced ease, he reached for a labeling strip, writing in clean, elegant script—Fleck Parasite: Ocular Variant. Subject responsive. Hallucinatory intensity—exceptional. He paused, then added a smaller note beneath it, almost as an afterthought. Screamed well.

The lid sealed with a soft click.

Only then did he turn, extending the jar toward Akechi without looking directly at him, as though it were simply another instrument to be passed along.

“Catalog this with the others,” Ren said lightly. Then, after a beat—just enough to let the air settle, just enough to let Akechi lean in, waiting—his voice dipped, quieter, threaded with something far more deliberate. “And if you behave today…”

One of the goggle lenses tilted toward him, its artificial pupil narrowing with something almost playful.

“…I might reward you.”

It was a small thing. A simple promise.

But to Akechi, it struck like a live wire.

His breath caught—sharp, immediate—and for a fraction of a second, his composure fractured entirely. Anyone else might’ve missed it, but Ren never did. He felt it in the way Akechi’s grip tightened around the specimen jar, in the way his posture straightened like a blade being drawn.