have you ever wondered what would it be like if you were a zombie being examined by a sweet scientist? i have! zombie (you) x scientist. no gendered terms. no smut! just weird obsession
the lab would be clean, sterile. the lighting would be soft instead of the harsh white of operating rooms. a muted light that'd give everything a strange warmth. the chair or table you’re placed on wouldn’t feel like an operating surface. more like a bed arranged carefully for comfort, covered with fresh linens that don’t belong in a lab at all.
the scientist is calm, soft, and soothing with their movements. like everything theyre doing is slow and measured, taking their time because they dont want to scare you.
they speak to you kindly, with genuine warmth in their voice, "i'm going to take care of you, like i always promised." they speak like you belong to them, like this moment was destined. they call you by your name in the softest tone, as if the sound itself could anchor you. “say it back to me. let me hear it on your lips.” they talk like they’ve been rehearsing these words for years, their lips shaping each syllable with devotion.
when they first reach out to touch you, they gently move your hair out of your face, fingers lingering on your skin. like they're trying to memorize the sensation of your decaying features. they tell you, "you're still beautiful. even in this state, you're so beautiful to me." their hand grazes your cheek, tracing your decay. they lightly run their fingers across the cold skin of your hand. it feels less like experimentation and more like affection.
when they go to check your pulse, they'll hold your wrist in their hand, staring at it with admiration. pressing their thumb against your pulse point, relishing in the closeness between you two. they speak so quietly, like its a shared secret, "i can feel it. i can feel your heart still beating for me." they'll lean in and, their gaze would pierce you as if you were their lover. "i've waited so long for you.. for this moment."
they would rearrange your body ever so slightly, adjusting your position like someone preparing their partner for sleep. their eyes would linger a little too long on your body and face. the way they speak is off, as if they believe deep down that you belong to them in some way. smoothing the fabric of your clothes, tugging at wrinkles. brushing away invisible dust. like presentation mattered for no one but them. they’d cradle the back of your head in their palm when shifting you, holding it steady like you were fragile porcelain.
they'll reach for their instruments without breaking eye contact. their movements slow, unhurried. when they slide the stethoscope into place, the sound of the metal against your chest makes them inhale softly,, like the moment itself is sacred. they'll lean close, their ear tilting toward the faint rhythm inside you. and their hand will spread across your sternum, fingers splayed wide. grounding you to them.
when they finally pull away, they'll take your arm in both hands, guiding it gently onto the sterile table. their touch feeling less like restraint and more like devotion. like they’re afraid you’ll break if they aren’t careful enough,, they'll clean your skin with a soft swipe, but the way their thumb will brush along your veins is indulgent. they'll press the tip of a needle against your arm pausing while searching your face, whispering, “i’ll be gentle. i promise. you trust me, don’t you?” they'd watch the way your skin gives, the faint tremor of your body. their lips would part in awe. when the blood begins to fill the vial, they'll smile softly, like someone receiving a gift they’ve long awaited. they'd caress over the puncture site after removing the needle. thumb circling lazily as though they’re soothing a wound rather than closing it.
they’ll take your temperature by pressing the thermometer against your temple, but their palm will linger there, holding your face as if they can will warmth back into you. their thumb will stroke along your temple while they watch the reading, eyes softened with a kind of grief.
when they test your reflexes. the touches are feather light, knuckles grazing your knees, your ankles. your wrists. every small movement you make is treasured. their lips curving into something between relief and hunger. “you respond to me. only me.”
their hands will drift down to your chest again, fingertips lingering against bone where your flesh has thinned. they’ll trace the shape of you, committing every fracture, every scar to memory. “fragile,” they'd whisper
they’ll take a small penlight and tilt your chin up, their fingers firm yet tender under your jaw. when the light passes over your clouded eyes, their voice softens even more. “still following me… even now. you never look away.” their thumb will brush along your lower eyelid, a fleeting touch meant more for them than for you.
