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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 2 months ago

Note

Sending Zayne frisky pictures during work hours

Meeting him that night in a suggestive attire

Teasing him till he breaks

= no walking for atleast a day

And, I, thank you

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒

— 𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆

𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃 the day with monastic precision—06:00 for procedures, 09:30 for lab analysis, 13:00 for final reports. The same sequence, adhered to without deviation, like liturgy. It gave shape to the silence. It excused his isolation. There was comfort in that—though he would never call it comfort aloud. It was discipline. Sterile gloves. Bloodied instruments scoured of memory. Silence. Always, silence.

And yet—

The message arrived precisely when the world was still.

He had just closed a file. His left hand lay quiet at the desk’s edge; a pen balanced between two fingers with surgical stillness. Then—vibration. A small sound, almost apologetic. Not urgent.

Her name.

That was all. A notification. A message. Nothing unusual. It might’ve been a follow-up question. A misplaced decimal. A joke. She had a way of doing that—disarming him, sliding into his thoughts with a kind of blithe intimacy, as if she had always belonged there.

He picked up the phone.

And at once, his breath faltered.

The image was not explicit. No, that was precisely the horror of it. Had it been vulgar, obscene—something he could discard with the sterile detachment of a surgeon—he would’ve felt nothing. But this? This was intentional. It was artful. A composition.

Her robe, half-fallen. Black lace visible beneath. Fingers at the knot. Lips parted. No face, not fully—but the mouth was enough. The expression there unmoored him more than any nudity could have.

He locked the phone. Too fast. As if caught. But there was no one. Only the hum of fluorescents and the sudden, suffocating thickness of air.

For a moment, he stood there—utterly still.

The pen had fallen. He hadn’t noticed. It lay near his foot like a desecrated instrument—dropped in a surgical theater, now unclean, now unworthy.

He peeled off his gloves and turned to the sink.

He did not need to wash his hands.

But he did.

Habit, he told himself. Reflex. Precision.

Lies.

The water ran for sixty-four seconds. He counted each one. Numbers steadied him, sometimes. The cold helped more. It shocked the system, drove the blood inward. His hands moved methodically—palms, backs, between the fingers, under the nails, up to the wrists—until the skin grew tight and flushed and borderline raw.

Still, she remained.

Not the image—he had closed the phone. But something in her lingered. Not in the eyes, but behind them. Not on the screen, but beneath his skin. She had entered him like a fever: slow, elegant, unannounced.

That robe. That fabric. That implication. That invitation.

A performance, yes. It had to be. Calculated.

And yet it felt—punitive.

As if he were being punished for something he had not yet admitted wanting.

He returned to his desk, sat, and stared at nothing.

Time passed. Minutes, maybe more. The edges of the room grew porous.

He imagined her wherever she was—still warm from taking the photograph. Did she check to see when he’d opened it? Did she wait? Did she wonder if he would reply? Did she hope?

He unlocked the phone.

Once. Just once, to confirm. To verify that he hadn’t hallucinated the severity of it.

It was worse.

He did not move.

He did not speak.

He did not touch himself.

But he was drowning in her.

It wasn’t lust—not merely. No, lust would have been easier. Familiar. Physiological. But this… this was sacrament spoiled. A reverence that strangled, holy and profane. The kind that ruins men—not with sin, but with devotion.

Zayne did not believe in possession. Not in the romantic sense. People were not things. Emotions were not facts. Love was a biochemical distortion. Lust, a reflexive betrayal of reason. He had built his mind like a fortress atop these principles—brick by brick, evidence by evidence. Rationality. Discipline. Observable data.

And yet—

The thought of another man seeing her like this—her robe falling open line scripture undone, her mouth slack with suggestion—sickened him. Not out of jealousy. No. That would imply entitlement. He knew she wasn’t his.

But it would be… wasteful.

A desecration.

A crime against something he did not yet have language for.

She was—

No.

He could not name what she was to him.

He feared what it would mean if he could.

He stood abruptly. The chair shrieked against the tile. The sound was too loud, too human. He paced. Once. Twice. The door loomed, a threshold he could not justify crossing. Where would he go? Where could he possibly leave her behind?

She was inside him now.

And burning.

Another message arrived.

He did not move.

The screen glowed in the periphery, a silent commandment. He knew what it was. Knew it would not save him. Still, the light held a gravity—like confession. Like damnation.

He could ignore it. Pretend. Resume the script of the man he was before.

Instead, he tapped the screen.

And exhaled through clenched teeth.

She was standing now. Or half-standing—angled toward a mirror. The robe was gone. In its place, red lace clung to her hips like capillaries, veins blooming over skin. Her back arched just so, her head tilted. And on her shoulder—something blurred. A smear. Lipstick. Or a bite.

He gripped the counter’s edge until his knuckles paled.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t even want.

It was reverence—terrible and holy. The kind of reverence that destroys. The kind that drips from Psalms and The Book of Job. The kind that made desert prophets wail beneath the stars and tear their garments in the face of God.

She had become an altar. And he—her heretic.

The thought struck him not with awe, but with shame.

Because he had known. He had always known. From the moment she first crossed the sterile threshold of his lab—unannounced, unafraid—something had shifted in him. Something tectonic. She was not simply beautiful. She was consecrated—and he had let her linger too long in the corridors of his restraint.

Now her image had become scripture.

And he was no longer a scientist, but a man unraveling at the feet of his own hypocrisy.

His fingers hovered above the keys.

A message bloomed in his mind:

My office. 8PM.

Simple. Clinical. Commanding.

But it rang like blasphemy in the stillness. To write it would be to cross a line—one he had drawn in blood and vowed never to breach. Not out of cowardice, but devotion. The kind of twisted, reverent denial that made monks tremble in their cells. The kind that gnawed holes into the soul.

No.

He could not write it.

To speak desire was to own it. To own it was to name it.

And once named, it would not be contained.

So instead—

He turned the phone over, face-down, as if shunning an idol.

He stood, methodically. Walked to the sink.

And washed his hands. Again.

Not for cleanliness.

Not even for control.

But because the ritual was the only thing left of him that still obeyed.

He loathed the warmth in his palms.

The water had long since cooled, yet still he scrubbed them together beneath the faucet, as if friction might cauterize the part of him that had responded—eagerly, hungrily, stupidly—to the sight of her. It wasn’t shame, not exactly. It was something darker. A recognition of sickness, as though desire itself were contamination and he’d breached his own sterile protocol.

He shut off the water, but lingered. Staring. As if the faucet might offer judgment. Or absolution.

Then the towel. Too rough. Too violent. He dried his hands with the force of a man punishing himself, and the fabric tore slightly at the edge. His grip again. Excessive. Undisciplined. He discarded it into the bin and returned to his desk, each step clipped with the weight of self-reproach.

The phone remained face-down. The screen black. Like an eye deliberately shut against sin.

He wouldn’t check it again.

He wouldn’t.

A knock broke the silence.

Zayne didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The door opened, uninvited—as it always did when Elias was involved.

“Still here?” Elias stepped inside, balancing two files in one hand, a tablet in the other. His tone was light, unaware. “Not even a coffee break. Do you ever stop?”

Zayne said nothing. Not out of cruelty—though it might have seemed that way—but because speaking required breath. And breath might summon scent. And scent might bring her back. He was convinced her perfume still haunted the air, like a spirit refusing exorcism.

“Right,” Elias muttered, unbothered. “I’ll make it quick.”

He crossed the room and laid the files on the desk. Zayne didn’t look at them. Couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on the phone—face-down, inert, yet radiating like an unholy relic.

It wasn’t a device anymore. It was a presence.

Not mechanical.

Not digital.

Something worse.

Organic.

Pulsing with implication.

“So,” Elias tried again, undeterred. “You doing anything tonight?”

A dozen answers flared in Zayne’s mind. All of them inappropriate. All of them true.

I’m planning to self-destruct. I’m planning to dissolve twenty years of control in the wake of a photograph. I’m planning to abandon the man I was for the promise of something I shouldn’t even want.

Instead, he rasped, “No.”

Even that single syllable felt like betrayal—spoken past a throat tight with disuse.

Elias looked at him more closely. “You okay?”

Zayne looked up.

Mistake.

Because at that precise moment, the phone vibrated again.

A brief pause. Short. Surgical. Inescapable.

He didn’t need to turn it over.

He knew.

“Another emergency?” Elias asked, half-laughing.

Zayne’s voice barely made it out. “No.”

“Well,” Elias exhaled, missing the weight entirely, “some of us are heading out later. You should come. You’ve looked like death all week.”

Zayne inhaled. Slow. Controlled. “I prefer solitude.”

“Yeah. Clearly.”

And then Elias was gone.

The door closed behind him, swinging like the last breath of something dying.

He did not move.

He let the silence settle again—let it congeal around him like a second skin, one that no longer fit. His hands remained still, his spine locked, but inside, everything was spiraling. Decay disguised as discipline. Reverence masquerading as restraint.

Then, slowly—inevitably—he reached for the phone.

Face-up now.

The light struck him like judgment.

He opened it.

And what stared back was not cruelty.

It was not vulgarity.

It was revelation.

She was lying down this time. Somewhere soft. Somewhere unseen. Her hair unbound—he’d never seen it like that before—and it spilled across the frame like silk undone. Light caressed her in places no light had the right to touch. Her thighs. Her stomach. Her breasts—bare now, the lace pushed aside, forgotten.

Her fingers rested between her legs.

Not crude.

Not obscene.

Intentional.

It was art. In its way. But it was also more.

A confession.

A provocation.

A dare and a liturgy all at once.

Something twisted in his chest.

Not a flutter. Not arousal. No—something deeper. A contraction. As if guilt had a physical shape and it had begun to devour him from within.

There was no longer space for denial.

This was not an accident.

Not a flirtation.

Not innocence.

It was orchestration.

She wanted him undone.

And what horrified him most—what sank teeth into the hollow of his stomach and turned slowly, like a ritual blade—was that a part of him wanted her to succeed.

He closed the image.

Then opened it again.

Longer, this time.

He told himself it was analysis. Confirmation. A study of composition.

He lied.

He knew better.

He could hear his own voice—cold, clinical, merciless—echoing in the recesses of his mind:

This is beneath you. You are not ruled by this.

But the image remained. And with it came memories he had not consciously summoned—like blood seeping through a gauze dressing long believed secure.

The pitch of her voice when she said his name—always softer than it should have been. The peculiar weight of her gaze when it lingered too long on his hands. And the smallest thing—the one that undid him the most—was that she always remembered. Every word. Every insignificant thing he’d ever said to her.

No one did that.

Not with him.

Zayne stood.

His entire body felt wrong.

The blood in his veins moved too fast.

His spine was too rigid, his breath too shallow—as if he had been occupying this form without permission and it had finally begun to reject him.

He paced. Not for relief. Not for order.

He didn’t count the steps this time.

There was nothing left to measure.

The lab behind the glass wall glowed with quiet sterility—unchanged, untouched—but it might as well have been another planet. He was no longer part of that world. That man. That silence.

He had crossed a threshold. A sacred line now blurred by heat.

He’d exiled himself the moment he opened the second message.

He could message her now.

He could summon her—

with a line, a time, a place.

He could lock the door behind her, speak in absolutes, claim her as if desire were proof enough.

He could pretend this descent was deliberate.

But he didn’t.

Because doing it would make it real.

Would transform the ache into action, the want into history.

And if it became real, then there would be no undoing.

No unseeing.

No forgetting.

No return to the cold safety of indifference.

Zayne—rational, clinical Zayne—had always relied on the possibility of erasure.

So instead, he sat.

And let the image devour him in silence.

Not as indulgence.

Not as pleasure.

But as punishment.

He stood. Then sat again. Then rose—

as though his own body had grown foreign, ungovernable.

As though stillness itself had turned against him.

The chair groaned in protest. He ignored it.

Paced the narrow span of the office like a prisoner retracing the same four steps—except this cell had no bars, only thoughts. No guards, only the self. And he, the most merciless warden of all.

Once.

Twice.

His fingers grazed the edge of a bookshelf, paused briefly at a drawer handle, then moved on. He was not touching objects—he was testing the world, searching for weight. But everything felt distant. Unmoored. Functionless.

Even the room seemed altered now.

As though someone had shifted it in his absence.

Not visibly—no. But fundamentally.

As if the space itself had turned on him in some slight, cruel way he couldn’t name.

He crossed to the window.

Of course there was no view. Just the sterile corridor beyond the reinforced glass-fluorescent lighting, shadows that moved like ghosts of routine. Reflections. Echoes. His own outline, faint and pale, stared back at him with too much knowing in the eyes.

His mouth was set in that same neutral line he wore before patients, before colleagues—impassive, unreadable. But his eyes….

He turned away.

He could not bear the sight of himself.

He opened a file on the desk. Reflexive. A patient’s chart—nothing urgent. He scanned the text, sought solace in numbers, margins, diagnosis. He had annotated it earlier that day. His own handwriting blinked back at him, unfamiliar.

But the figures lost their shape. The characters bled.

She returned—not in the data, but behind it. Beneath it. Her form slid between the lines, her legs replaced vital signs, the slope of her neck inserted itself into white space. Even the ink seemed to carry the impression of her skin.

He shut the folder. Too fast. Too violently.

The paper crinkled under the force of it.

He exhaled—slowly, deliberately—like a man attempting to bleed poison from his lungs.

It’s just arousal, said the rational voice in him.

The physician. The empiricist.

But it wasn’t.

It was longing, and it had metastasized. Not into want, but into need.

Not for her body—at least, not only—but for her presence. Her attention. Her voice when it dipped in pitch. Her gaze when it lingered too long.

Absurd.

Undignified.

Unacceptable.

And yet, undeniable.

He no longer craved her skin. He craved her awareness—the way she remembered things he said that even he had forgotten. The way she looked at him as if he were still human, not just useful.

It was not attraction. It was not obsession.

It was the beginning of a disease.

He sat again.

Not from fatigue—he was far past the luxury of tiredness—but because there was nowhere left to stand that didn’t feel exposed. The room no longer accepted him. It watched him now, complicit and unkind.

His hands moved to his tie. Without thinking. The knot loosened slowly, reluctantly, as if its unraveling might relieve the pressure beneath his sternum. The air hit his throat sharp, medicinal—too cold.

He glanced at the clock.

No—not the clock.

The phone.

It hadn’t buzzed again. Not once.

That should have brought relief.

Instead, it felt like absence—raw and echoing.

Like a presence withdrawn.

A silence that accused.

Had she grown bored of the game?

Had she sent that last image, and then—simply moved on? Gone back to her life? Her evening? Her mirror?

Was someone else seeing her like that now?

The thought struck him like a blunt instrument—no blood, just bruising.

A slow, spreading sickness in the chest.

He nearly stood again.

Instead, he forced himself down, fingers digging into the armrest like anchors.

It didn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it did.

He stared at the device.

Daring it to light up.

Dreading what would happen if it did.

Time no longer moved in sequence. It expanded. Warped.

He could not tell whether minutes or hours had passed.

It might still be afternoon.

It might be near midnight.

The light in the office was always the same—artificial, unfeeling.

So was the air.

So was the silence.

So was he—

or had been, until today.

He let his head fall back against the chair.

The ceiling stared down—blank, uncaring, the color of anesthesia. He could have been anywhere. In a morgue. In a chapel. Inside a dream.

The moment stretched.

Not a pause, but a void.

Then, unbidden, he remembered Elias. The offer. The bar.

Zayne rarely drank. Two, maybe three times a year. Alcohol dulled his thinking, made his mind heavy. Sluggish. But tonight—

Tonight he already felt impaired.

Hollowed. Humming with something he didn’t know how to hold.

And there was logic—cold, brutal logic—in sedating a wound before it turned septic.

The thought arrived like a prescription:

Leave the building.

Say yes.

Sit in a room full of noise and let other people’s voices drown out the one in your head.

He wouldn’t have to speak.

Only listen.

Only forget.

ANd if he drank—just enough—maybe he would sleep.

And maybe—if sleep took pity—

he wouldn’t dream of her.

He leaned forward.

Elbows on knees.

Eyes locked on the phone.

It didn’t ring.

It didn’t buzz.

It didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The stillness returned—but it no longer soothed.

It had calcified into something hostile. A vacuum that amplified the smallest things: the tick of his own pulse in his throat, the electrical hum threading through the walls, the dryness crawling across his tongue like dust.

And beneath it all—her.

Not the image.

Not anymore.

She had transcended the screen.

What she had sent him was not a photograph. It was a threshold.

And he had crossed it—

unwilling,

uninvited,

but entirely unable to look away.

He imagined her fingers parting the lace—

but not for a camera.

For him.

No performance. No angle curated for effect.

Just her. Unedited. At ease in her ruinous power.

The kind of intimacy that didn’t demand witness, only presence. A gesture not made to provoke, but because it felt good to do so. As if she were bored with subtlety now—done with the elegance of implication.

He saw her look at him through lowered lashes, amusement curled at the corner of her mouth. A soft laugh—not unkind—when his hands hovered, reverent, just short of contact.

Not posed.

Not choreographed—

just lazy, instinctual, indulgent.

He would touch her—

God, he would—but not in desperation.

In detail.

His hands would move like confession, slow and deliberate.

He would begin at her wrist, press his mouth there first—as if to repent.

Then upward.

Each inch of her arm a gospel to be read in flesh.

His fingers would find the fragile architecture of her hips, splay there with measured reverence. No grabbing. No claiming.

Only worship.

His thumb would brush that place where skin turned—

softest,

warmest.

The point of surrender. The place where breathing changed.

He would ask her—quietly, without accusation—

if she knew what she had done to him.

And when she smiled, he would kiss her like punishment.

Not violently.

Not cruelly.

But with a kind of relentless devotion—

the kind that pressed too long, too deep,

Until even pleasure began to ache.

Until reverence became unbearable.

He wanted her trembling.

Not from fear, but from restraint.

From the exquisite pain of being denied what she already ached to receive.

He wanted to make her wait.

Make her feel the weight of what she’d done.

Not because he was cruel.

But because she had undone him first.

ANd fairness had to mean something.

His mind betrayed him further.

He saw her mouth open against his neck, felt the pause—the sacred, breathless space before sound escaped her throat.

Her body tensed beneath his—not in resistance, but in surrender.

A tightening that begged for release.

That told him she trusted him enough to break.

And in the moment before he gave in—

before he pushed into her with all the ruin she had earned—

he would say something he hadn’t said aloud in years.

Not an endearment.

Not a promise.

Just her name.

Only her name.

His hands curled around the armrests.

He hadn’t realized how hard he was gripping until the fabric groaned beneath his fingers—tense, strained, as though the chair itself were trying to resist him.

He wanted to bury himself in her.

To forget who he had been before she touched him—without touching him at all.

He wanted to erase the space between their bodies until there was nothing left to deny.

His eyes burned.

And then—without warning—he stood.

Violently. Absolutely.

Both palms slammed down on the desk, a thunderclap in the quiet.

The sound ricocheted off the walls, louder than any alarm.

His breath was ragged.

His posture undone.

His tie hung half-loosened at his chest like a mark of defeat.

He couldn’t stay here.

He needed to move.

To leave the room, the building, himself.

He reached for his coat. The fabric felt foreign—cold, stiff.

He dragged it over his shoulders with frantic urgency, the sleeves bunching, resisting. He yanked them straight, uncaring. Next came the scarf—creased, tangled, irrelevant.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing fit right.

Nothing softened the pressure building beneath his ribs.

He just needed barriers.

Cloth. Movement.

Distance.

Anything to armor himself against this heat that wasn’t physical.

He crossed the room in long, agitated strides, shoulders hunched like a man pursued.

His reflection caught him in the window—

briefly.

Enough.

Pale. Hollow-eyed.

Mouth clenching against something unspeakable.

He looked away.

The door opened with a shove, hard enough to echo.

The hallway outside was too bright—obscenely bright. The kind of light that revealed things best left bruised.

He walked anyway.

The elevator waited at the end of the corridor.

It’s light glowed steady above the closed door—silent, expectant.

It looked like a mouth. A mechanical throat ready to swallow.

Maybe that was what he wanted.

To disappear into motion.

To be pressed between strangers, noise, anything.

To be drowned in the anonymity of other bodies.

To forget the shape of her skin and the sound he imagined she would make when—

No.

He pressed the call button harder than necessary.

The panel lit. The gears behind the wall groaned to life.

And Zayne stood there—

breathing like a man who’d just escaped a burning room.

The elevator didn’t come.

He stood motionless beneath its steady, indifferent light, jaw clenched, breath caught somewhere between chest and throat. He didn’t press the button again—what would be the point? Even that motion felt laughable now. As if action could atone for thought. As if descending one floor might deliver him from himself.

The air was wrong. Too clean. Too still.

Every breath scraped against the back of his throat, as though filtered through gauze. The corridor hummed faintly with electricity—but beneath it, something else vibrated. Something internal.

A low, gnawing heat.

He felt it beneath his collar. In the hollows of his palms.

Between his legs, where logic had lost jurisdiction.

He hadn’t looked at the phone again. He didn’t have to.

The image was fused to memory now—a neurological brand.

Her bare body reclined, so deliberately unaware of mercy.

He hissed between his teeth—sharp, involuntary.

Then turned.

Slammed a palm against the wall.

Leaned into it, hard enough to jar his shoulder.

It didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

He tried to count his breath, tried to impose rhythm, control—but it wasn’t breath anymore.

It was need.

It was humiliation.

It was rage masquerading as restraint.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, a breathless sneer. “You’ve dissected neural tissue under pressure, and this is what ruins you?”

The words came like vomit.

Bitter, involuntary.

They sickened him.

His forehead pressed against the cold plaster.

He could feel his pulse in his temple—erratic, defiant.

As if his own body had tried of obedience and now moved on its own terms.

The world narrowed into raw sensation:

the dampness gathering at the nape of his neck,

the sting coiled behind his eyes,

the bite of clenched teeth barely holding back—

what?

A cry? A confession? A fall?

He wanted to rip her from his mind.

Not because he hated her.

Because he didn’t.

He wanted her in ways that had no language.

No anatomy.

No cure.

There was no clinical explanation for this kind of ache.

No scan that could chart it.

No sedative strong enough to blunt it.

And the thought—

God, the knowledge—

that she wanted him too?

It didn’t thrill him.

It hollowed him.

He swallowed the sound rising in his throat. It hovered between a groan and a prayer.

She had sent herself to him in pieces—image by image, suggestion by suggestion—until her presence no longer lived in photographs, but inside him.

She was no longer a thought.

She was a condition.

A fever.

A state of being.

He didn’t know where she ended and he began anymore.

He shut his eyes.

Then—

a sound behind him.

Soft. Measured. Clicking.

He froze.

No.

No. No, not now. Not like this—

The sound came again.

Deliberate. Rhythmic.

Heels.

Each step unhurried.

Not mechanical, not rushed.

Intimate.

The air thickened. Grew heavy, as if sound itself displaced the oxygen.

He didn’t turn.

He couldn’t.

Not yet.

The steps drew closer.

One.

Then another.

Measured like a ritual.

Unhurried as a heartbeat beneath silk.

His body locked.

Every muscle drawn tight, every breath withheld like it might break him.

Spine rigid, hands still planted against the wall.

Was he hallucinating?

Had his mind—already scorched, already unraveling—finally abandoned logic?

No.

He turned.

And the world ended, gently.

She walked toward him with the kind of composure that made madness seem holy.

A trench coat belted at the waist. Loose.

The fabric moved with her—fluid, sinless, damning.

From the slit at its side, her leg emerged, then disappeared again.

A rhythm that mocked modesty.

her skin glowed under the corridor’s sterile light.

Her expression—

unreadable.

His hands fell to his sides.

The floor tilted beneath him—

or maybe it was just his blood abandoning reason.

The air thinned. Gravity stuttered.

He couldn’t look away.

Not from the way her hips moved—graceful, damning.

Not from the place where the coat parted with every step, revealing flash after flash of skin like a secret told in stutters.

Not from her eyes—

that unbearable alchemy of innocence and audacity.

As if she had always known.

That he would come undone the moment he saw her.

That she had planned for it.

Her hips swayed.

The coat parted.

Her eyes held him there.

His knees almost gave.

Not in some romantic, tragic metaphor.

In truth.

His body faltered under the weight of her—

not her form, but her knowing.

The way she moved with intention. The way she looked at him like he was already hers.

Like she could take him apart without ever touching him.

He kept himself upright through force alone—

jaw locked, breath dragged through nose like discipline could save him.

Like a man seconds from collapse.

A sound escaped him.

Raw.

Involuntary.

Low in his throat—closer to a groan than a word.

Almost a prayer.

Almost a moan.

He didn’t even care.

He didn’t know what he was anymore.

Not a doctor.

Not a scientist.

Not the man who once measured everything in proof and principle.

Just a man—

bare, wordless, trembling—

reduced to one silent, devastating plea:

Touch me.

Let me touch you.

Just once.

Let me worship what I was never allowed to want.

But he said nothing.

Because nothing he could offer—no word, no gesture—

would be equal to this.

So he stood.

Trembling.

Waiting.

As she moved—unhurried, unstoppable—

toward the point of no return.

She drew nearer.

He wanted to speak. Truly, he did.

A protest. A warning. A plea.

Anything to wedge between this moment and its consequence.

But the words—so many, urgent and inexact—clotted in his throat like stones.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came.

Only air.

Thin. Unsatisfying.

His hand moved.

Just a tremor at first. A small, shameful spasm near the wrist.

But it betrayed him more than any cry could have.

A man in control didn’t shake.

A man in control didn’t falter.

Her gaze caught it instantly.

Of course it did.

She stopped just in front of him.

Close.

But not touching.

No—never that. She didn’t need to.

Proximity was its own form of possession.

She looked up at him—unapologetic, unhurried.

Her eyes held no urgency. No shame.

There wasn’t even cruelty in her expression.

It was almost passive.

Almost.

But at the corner of her mouth, something shifted—

a shadow of amusement, subtle as breath.

Not mocking.

Not cold.

Something gentler.

More maddening.

She was enjoying this.

Not sadistically. Not with malice.

But with the patience of someone who understood exactly how men broke—and had chosen, gently, not to intervene.

She watched him come undone like one watches a fever run its course—not willing it, but allowing it.

Knowing it would break something.

But not caring what.

Zayne swallowed. Loudly.

It felt like dragging gravel through his throat.

His fingers twitched again. Both hands this time.

He wanted—

God, what did he want?

To drag her against him?

To fall to his knees?

To beg her to leave before he did something he could never take back?

His heart pounded—not fast, but hard.

Each beat landed like a drum struck by purpose.

War drums. Warning signs.

His vision blurred—not from heat or emotion, but from the sheer overload of sensation.

And still—

she said nothing.

That silence—hers—was unbearable.

Because it was full of knowledge.

She knew.

She knew what she’d done to him.

And worse—she knew he wouldn’t stop her.

The scent of her—warmth, skin, faint perfume—reached him like an affliction.

Subtle. Precise. Unrelenting.

It slipped into his lungs and made a home.

His throat worked. He tried again.

“I—”

But it died there.

What could he say?

I can’t.

You shouldn’t.

Please.

Useless.

His shoulders stiffened in shame.

But his eyes—traitorous, starving—remained locked on the small space between the lapels of her coat.

Just there.

A breath of skin.

The soft valley he knew, from memory now, led to lace and ruin.

The faintest smile deepened on her lips.

She hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

Not even a shift of weight.

And yet—

the entire hallway felt tilted toward her.

As if gravity itself had been rewritten.

That was when he understood.

With the brutal clarity of a man falling:

This wasn’t a whim.

Not a game.

Not even a test.

It was mercy.

In her language.

A quiet offering.

A chance to surrender before he shattered.

And still—

he did not move.

Not because he lacked the will, but because he had already offered it.

He simply stood there.

Trembling.

Held captive in the silence she had made sacred.

Waiting for her to decide whether he was worth the fall.

She tilted her head.

Barely.

But it broke the stillness like a whisper in a cathedral.

And then she spoke.

“Did you get my messages?”

The words were soft. Almost playful.

But tucked between syllables was something far more dangerous—a blade wrapped in velvet.

He flinched.

As if struck.

The elevator behind him chimed.

Sterile.

Emotionless.

Perfectly timed.

Perfectly cruel.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t move.

His breath hitched—

then held.

She hadn’t stepped closer.

She didn’t have to.

The silence between the crackled now—alive.

Charged

Like something pulled too tight.

He looked down.

Her leg—bare where the coat parted.

Light grazing along the line of her thigh, revealing everything and nothing.

No tights.

No stockings.

No pretense.

She had arrived like a secret.

Not offered—meant to be discovered.

His eyes climbed slowly.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t rush.

Each second felt like an offering, a moment suspended in something larger than choice.

And it undid him more than anything that had come before.

The muscle in his jaw twitched.

His fingers curled faintly, as if remembering what it felt like to hold nothing.

Then—without a word—she reached for the belt at her coat.

And pulled.

Just enough.

The fabric loosened. Shifted.

What lay beneath wasn’t vulgar.

Wasn’t loud.

It was intentional.

Burgundy lace.

Bare skin.

Soft shadows that invited and condemned in equal measure.

She didn’t reveal everything.

She didn’t need to.

He saw only what she allowed—and yet, in his mind, he traced the rest with the precision of a man who had studied her in dreams.

And something inside him—

snapped.

Not in rage.

Not in lust.

In relief.

His body moved before though could stop it.

No hesitation.

No stutter.

Only gravity, finally obeyed.

He stepped forward—not staggering, not rushed, but with the finality of a man who knew there would be no turning back.

One arm curled around her shoulders.

The other pressed firmly at the small of her back—anchoring her. Anchoring himself.

And then—

his mouth was on hers.

The kiss wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t careful.

It was starvation—

the mouth of a man who had survived restraint, only to discover that discipline had always been a slow kind of death.

He kissed her like she was air after drowning, heat after frost, absolution after sin.

She tasted like the only way out—

from the silence,

from the waiting,

from the nightmare he’d never woken from.

She yielded without surprise.

As though this had always been the ending.

As though his restraint had only ever been a curtain waiting to be drawn.

Her hand rose to his chest—fingers curling into the fabric of his coat—but he didn’t let her linger.

He turned.

Guided her back.

The elevator doors had already begun to close.

He caught them with one hand—forceful, unnecessary—and pulled them open like a man reclaiming something he’d been punished for wanting.

They stepped inside.

The light overhead flickered once, as if even the system knew this moment wasn’t meant to be observed.

The second the doors sealed, he lost what little remained of his restraint.

His hands seized her waist—possessive, not gentle—and he turned sharply, pressing her into the cold steel of the elevator wall.

Not thoughtfully. Not carefully.

With suppressed violence.

Not to harm.

To hold.

To tether himself to something solid before he fractured into vapor.

Her gasp bloomed against his cheek as her back hit metal.

He drank it in like a man starved of grace.

His hands moved—frantic, reverent.

He palmed her ribs, her stomach, the delicate underside of her breast through the lace.

The fabric was thin.

Too thin.

He hated it.

Wanted it gone.

But more than that—

He wanted to feel her through it.

To make her shiver beneath the barrier.

To know he could make her arch—not with skin, not with friction—but just from fingertips and will.

She leaned into him—arms sliding around neck, fingers threading into his hair with a trembling kind of care.

She tugged once.

He nearly lost his fitting.

His mouth found hers again—

but this time, it wasn’t a kiss.

It was a confession.

He kissed her like a man begging for mercy he knew wouldn’t come.

Tongue tangled with hers, breath caught between teeth, groans swallowed into heat.

There was no rhythm. No choreography.

Only want—

ugly and unfiltered.

He broke away—breathing hard, hoarse, wrecked.

Her eyes were already heavy-lidded.

Cheeks flushed.

Chest rising beneath the open coat like she’d been running for miles.

Zayne lowered his mouth to her throat—and bit.

Not cruel.

Not deep.

But sharp enough to leave something behind.

A mark.

A warning.

A memory.

Something she’d feel later and think of him.

His right hand slid down her thigh—fingers wrapping, firm, reverent.

He lifted. She let him.

Her leg curled around his hip, bare skin brushing the rough fabric of his slacks.

He was already hard.

Already aching.

And the pressure of her—right there, so close, so ready—

made his head spin.

Her head fell back—a soft thud against the elevator wall, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat.

He stared at it—pale, perfect, impossibly delicate.

And then kissed it—not with hunger, but with the kind of urgency reserved for last rites.

Not lust.

Not control.

Devotion.

Her coat slipped open—fully, finally.

And there she was.

Not in parts.

Not in suggestion.

Not in memory.

But whole.

No lens. No barrier.

Just her.

His breath caught.

All words abandoned him.

He said nothing.

Couldn’t.

He buried his face in her shoulder, inhaling the warm scent of her skin like it could steady the tremors in his hands.

It didn’t.

Nothing calmed.

Nothing could.

Her fingers slipped beneath his coat—dragged lightly down the back of his neck.

Nails grazing skin.

He shuddered.

It didn’t feel like seduction.

It felt like being claimed.

He kissed her again.

And again.

Each one rougher.

Each one slower.

Each one worse than the last.

They weren’t about pleasure anymore.

They were about surrender.

Each kiss another nail in the coffin of the man he had once pretended to be.

Her lips were swollen now.

Her thighs tightened around him—bare, trembling, unbearably warm.

He could feel her—not just body, but permission.

Every part of him wanted to tear the space between them into nothing. To sink into her until he forgot what it was to be alone.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

He held her tighter.

Not to take.

To remember.

This moment.

This body.

This surrender.

Because after this—

after her—

he would never go back.

His mouth hovered near her ear, breath unsteady—words clawing their way up his throat before he could tame them.

“You wore this for me,” he rasped, voice raw—gravel dragged through reverence. “This little thing under your coat… do I’d see it and lose my fucking mind?”

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Her fingers clutched the lapels of his coat like a lifeline.

Knuckles white.

Chest rising too fast against his.

He laughed—low, bitter.

Not mocking.

Punished.

“You wanted me to snap, didn’t you?” His lips brushed her jaw. “You wanted to know what I’d look like when I finally stopped pretending.”

She whimpered—soft, breathless—and it undid something low and deep in his spine.

“You like being watched?” he murmured, lips dragging down the column of her throat. “Standing in front of that mirror… touching yourself…”

His mouth brushed her skin.

“Knowing I’d see it. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to forget.”

He pulled back—just long enough to spin her beneath his grip.

She gasped as her body turned, coat slipping from her shoulders like a veil in slow motion.

Her spine met his chest.

Her palms struck the elevator wall—a muffled slap of flesh against steel.

Bracing herself.

He pressed into her from behind—chest to her back, hips grinding slow and deliberate between her thighs. Cruel in rhythm. Worshipful in intent.

Her breath caught.

She tilted her head to the side—automatically. Wordlessly.

Exposing her throat like it belonged to him.

He nuzzled once—then bit. Not hard.

But deep enough to hear her moan.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” he whispered, voice thick with grit and fire. “One look at you and I knew.”

His hand dragged slowly down her side, fingertips skating over ribs, waist, hip.

“You wore that lace, stood in front of that mirror, sent me that picture—just to end up here.”

His fingers dipped, teasing the curve of her thigh.

“To be bent over. Held like this. While I ruin you.”

He nudged her legs apart with his knee—deliberate. Decisive.

She didn’t resist.

Didn’t hesitate.

His breath ghosted across her ear.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Keep them open.”

His hand slid upward—slow, unmerciful—along the inside of her thigh.

The skin there burned.

Velvet and heat and want.

She gasped when he reached her center—slick, soaked, shameless.

Zayne groaned—

deep and guttural.

The sound vibrated against her spine.

“Fuck—so wet,” he whispered against her shoulder. “You’ve been like this all day, haven’t you?”

She nodded—barely.

He watched the motion of her cheek against the wall, her lip caught between her teeth.

“I should make you say it,” he muttered, his fingers teasing slow, punishing circles just shy of where she needed him. “Make you admit how much you need me.”

She arched—pushing back against him, hips desperate, thighs trembling.

He smiled against her skin.

Slow. Dark. Inevitable.

“No patience,” he murmured. “Good. I don’t have any left either.”

And then—

he slid one finger inside her.

Deep. Slow.

Deliberate.

until he was buried.

She cried out—muffled, desperate, beautiful.

His breath faltered.

A curse broke beneath it.

Her warmth—it was obscene. Unholy. Alive.

She clenched around his finger like she already knew how to hold him when he fucked her.

He curled his finger—once.

She shuddered so violently he had to catch her—one arm braced across her stomach, anchoring her to him.

His mouth pressed to her neck.

“You feel like sin,” he groaned. “And I don’t give a fuck if it damns me.”

She was melting.

Bent forward, hands braced against the wall, body trembling with every slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers.

Zayne couldn’t look away.

Everytime he pushed inside her, her hips jolted. Her breath caught. Her thighs clenched.

And fuck—the heat of her, the way she tightened around him like she knew he belonged there—it made his cock twitch so violently he nearly gasped.

He pressed his chest harder into her back, mouth at her ear.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Let me feel all of you.”

Her answer was a broken maon—

half-swallowed.

Pleading.

He slid his hand higher, fingers curling again—deeper this time.

Her knees buckled.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he whispered, his voice shredded at the edges. “So wet for me. So fucking tight.”

She whimpered when he twisted his wrist—just right—pressing against the spot that made her body jerk forward like he’d struck a chord.

His other hand moved to her breast, cupping it roughly. Thumb dragging across the peak until it responded—until it peaked against the lace.

She cried out—sharp, breathless, shattering.

He groaned, deep in his chest.

A sound that trembled out of him like pressure escaping a crack in stone.

His cock throbbed—hot, slick, restrained.

He was soaked—leaking for her, so hard he could feel every beat of his pulse in the shaft.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he growled into her hair. “I’ve been hard since you sent that first fucking picture.”

His breath hitched. “There hasn’t been a second since that I could think straight. Could barely see straight.”

She arched.

Her legs trembled.

“You close?” he asked,

voice a rasp,

teeth grazing her shoulder.

“Yeah? You’re gonna come just from my fingers, aren’t you?”

She nodded—desperate, trying to grind back against his hand, chasing the edge he held just out of reach.

He smirked—dark, reverent, ruined.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured. “Taking it so well. Fucking dripping for me.”

He pinched her nipple—a tug, just enough.

She nearly collapsed.

“I’m gonna eat this pussy after,” he whispered, the words so low they barely existed.

“When you’re shaking…when you’re overstimmed—face down, ass up—I’m gonna spread you open with my tongue and keep going until you’re crying.”

Her whole body locked.

He pushed deeper, twisting his fingers just right—once.

She wailed.

The sound split from her chest—

cut off and strangled at the throat.

“Not yet,” he hissed, his breath shaking against her skin.

“You don’t come yet. You wait.”

She moaned—high, needy, broken.

But she obeyed.

He leaned into her fully, panting against her neck, his cock throbbing—painful now, slick inside his soaked boxers.

He was losing it.

Every inch of him flushed and trembling, the pressure unbearable. His own arousal smeared hot against the inside of his slacks.

He was going to snap.

He knew it.

If she clenched around him again, he’d come untouched.

But he didn’t stop.

Not yet.

because he needed her to break first.

She was breaking apart.

Every muscle in her back tensed beneath his chest, her breath reduced to shattering whimpers.

He felt her thighs twitch around his hand—desperate. Aching. Lost.

Her cunt clenched around his fingers, tight, greedy, rhythmic—each pulse a plea.

Zayne could barely stand.

He was seconds from coming—without friction. Without mercy. Just from the sound of her falling apart on his hand.

Still, he didn’t let her come.

Not yet.

Not until she earned it.

“You gonna fall apart for me, baby?” he rasped into her hair, his voice nothing but heat and grit. “Gonna soak my fucking hand?”

She whimpered, nodded—

hips rocking helplessly back into his hand.

“You want it so bad, don’t you?” His fingers curled deep and slow.

She cried out—louder this time.

“Feel that?” he growled. “That’s how deep I’m gonna fuck you. I’m not gonna stop. You’ll be shaking, crying, begging me to slow down—and I won’t. Not until I feel you come all over my cock—just like this.”

She gasped, legs threatening to give.

His palm never stopped—fingers stroking through the slick obscene heat of her, pressure building perfectly.

“You gonna cream for me, sweetheart?” he groaned, voice breaking against her ear. “Right here in the elevator, huh?”

His hand flexed.

His breath stuttered.

“You want to be my filthy little mess?”

She nodded—frantic, wild, one hand lifting from the wall to claw at his wrist.

Begging, wordless.

Zayne closed his eyes.

Her body was vibrating with the force of her need.

He kissed her neck—once.

A vow sealed in skin.

Then he whispered it,

low and final,

the only benediction she needed.

“Come for me.”

The words were still on his tongue when it happened.

PING.

The sound sliced through the moment like a scalpel.

He froze.

So did she.

The elevator doors began to open behind them—

bright light, footsteps, motion, reality.

Her body clenched—tighter than before—but still held,

suspended on the edge.

Zayne didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The world had just walked in on his damnation.

And she—

trembling, soaked, panting—

was still waiting for his permission.

#zayne lads #doctor zayne #zayne love and deepspace #lads zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace #lnds zayne #lads #zayne smut #zayne fanfic #zayne fanfiction #smut writing #smut fanfiction #smut

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internetdaddy98 · 2 months ago

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The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 18

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist]

Content Warning: medical procedures; mutual pining; jealousy: angst

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You hadn’t slept in.

The plan was to sleep in—an ambitious, luxurious kind of rest that normal people took on their days off. But you’d been up since just past five, watching the light creep in through your living room window with a mug of half-warm tea in your hands and your knees tucked to your chest.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Your favorite playlist was playing low through your phone speaker—jazz instrumentals that usually helped your brain slow down after a hard shift. Today, it just made the silence feel louder.

You’d been thinking about that conversation between Robby and Dana all morning, replaying the moment you’d overheard it outside the lounge room. The words weren't even meant for you, but they had landed like a punch to the gut anyway.

You tried to shrug it off. Tried to reason with yourself. He had a right to keep his boundaries. A right to protect his heart. But something about the way he’d said it—so final, like it wasn’t even worth the risk—cut deeper than you expected.

Maybe you were foolish for even hoping.

You looked down at your phone. No messages.

Robby usually texts on your days off. But now, the absence of his name on your screen felt... heavier than it should have.

You padded barefoot to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared blankly at the contents—half a takeout container, a lemon, and almond milk. You grabbed the milk, poured it into a bowl of cereal, and took it back to the couch, curling into the corner.

You hadn’t realized how much you’d let him in. Slowly, over time. Through fast scans and trauma huddles. Through caffeine jokes and quiet debriefs after difficult cases. You’d started to believe that the way he looked at you—focused, soft around the edges—meant something more.

Maybe it still did.

But if he was already pulling away before anything began… what was left to protect?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robby leaned against the nurses’ station, flipping through labs with his brow furrowed.

It had been an unusually light morning in the ER, but he was agitated in a way he couldn’t quite pin down. Not because of patient load, or the lingering smell of antiseptic, or even the two residents arguing over a splint technique. No—his nerves were keyed up for a different reason.

You weren’t here.

You were off today, and it shouldn’t have mattered. You got days off. Life went on. But something about the shift without your presence felt… hollow. A beat missing in the rhythm of the department.

He told himself he just missed your clinical precision. Your ability to take charge without ego. Your dark sense of humor.

But it was more than that.

He found himself glancing toward your usual chair at the station, then away, annoyed with himself. His hand lingered too long at the locker room door this morning, half expecting to find you inside when he knew you weren’t scheduled to come in. When Dana had handed him coffee earlier, he’d mumbled a distracted thank-you and kept his eyes on the floor.

You’d been quieter lately. Less quick with the comebacks. Still professional, still sharp—but something had shifted.

He wasn’t sure if it had happened during the surgical nightmare last week or the night Whittaker kept following you around like a lost puppy. He’d noticed it then—how you hadn’t even realized the med student was practically glowing every time you complimented him.

You never noticed when people were looking at you like that.

But Robby noticed.

He rubbed a hand along his jaw, forcing himself to focus. He was halfway through a consult note when Dana dropped into the seat beside him with a folder in her lap.

“She’s off today,” Dana said casually.

He didn’t look up. “I know.”

Dana leaned in. “She seemed a little... off the other day.”

He finally glanced up. “Did she say something?”

“Nope. But you did.”

Robby paused. “What are you talking about?”

Dana arched her brow. “Your ‘it’s not worth screwing up the dynamic’ line.”

He exhaled through his nose. “It’s true.”

“Sure,” Dana said, nonchalant. “Just funny timing, that’s all.”

Robby didn’t respond.

“Look, Robby,” Dana said, gentler this time, “you’ve got walls. I get it. So does she. But don’t act like this thing between you two doesn’t exist just because it’s inconvenient.”

Robby stood, tablet in hand. “She’s my student.”

“She’s also the woman you love.”

He walked off before he could say something he’d regret.

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You took a walk through the park, letting the sun hit your skin, trying to melt the tightness in your chest.

You passed joggers and moms with strollers, dogs tugging on leashes. The world felt bright and functional while you felt like a half-charged phone—operational, but drained.

Your mind wandered, uninvited, to Robby again.

You wondered what he was doing. If he was thinking about you. If he regretted saying what he said.

“No matter how much tension there is, it’s not worth screwing up the dynamic”

It echoed too loud in your head.

You sat on a bench near the duck pond, phone in your lap. Still no messages.

Maybe this was the boundary. The line you weren’t supposed to cross. Maybe this was the quiet space between almost and never.

You should have known better.

You always did.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time the last trauma had been transferred upstairs, Robby found himself staring blankly at the flickering vending machine down the hall.

He wasn’t hungry.

His locker sat open behind him, jacket slung over the bench. His hands still smelled faintly like antiseptic, the smell that always clung even after three washes. Usually, it grounded him. But tonight, it made him feel… off-balance.

He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over his recent messages.

Still nothing from you.

Not that you owed him anything. You were probably enjoying your day off — coffee with friends, laundry, a quiet book, something normal and soft and far from the blood and adrenaline of this place.

But the silence gnawed at him.

You usually texted, even on days off. Something small — a meme that had to be explained, a patient story too absurd not to share.

But today? Radio silence.

Maybe he was imagining it. Projecting. Making something out of nothing.

Except it didn’t feel like nothing.

He scrolled up to your last conversation. Three days ago. You’d sent him a blurry photo of a coffee cup with the caption:

“Guess which genius poured salt into the sugar canister again.”

He’d replied with a laughing emoji and something snarky about intern hazing. That was it.

He hesitated… then typed out a message.

“Hey. Just checking in. Everything okay?”

His thumb hovered over send.

He deleted it.

It felt stupid. Too vulnerable. Too obvious.

Instead, he set the phone down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, scrubbing a hand through his hair. The echo of Dana’s words followed him again like a ghost.

“Don’t act like this thing between you two doesn’t exist just because it’s inconvenient.”

But it wasn’t about convenience. Not really.

He’d dated coworkers before. He had dated Collins a long time ago and it had ended as soon as it started.

And then you had shown up — bright-eyed, fast-thinking, unapologetically direct — and somewhere in between intubating patients and trading jabs over charting software, you’d slipped right under his skin.

He hadn’t meant to let you in.

But he had.

And now he’d pushed you away before anything could even begin. Just a few words, spoken to Dana — spoken like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.

But you did.

That’s what scared him the most.

He picked up the phone again, more frustrated with himself than anything else. This time, he opened your contact card and just stared at your name.

He could text you. He could ask how you were. Blame the silence on something harmless. Say he was worried. Say he missed you.

But what if you didn’t respond?

Worse—what if you did, but differently than before? More distant. More careful.

He’d know then. That something between you had shifted. And he wasn’t sure he was ready to feel that confirmation settle in his bones.

He closed the messaging app without typing anything and leaned back, exhaling through his nose. The worst part wasn’t that he’d messed it up.

It was the fear that you’d already started letting go.

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cece693 · 20 days ago

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So, you know how Will continues therapy with Hannibal after he gets out of the BSCI (or however you spell it) . Well, I always wanted Will to be more angry, see more of his violent emotions towards Hannibal rather than falling further for him. So, that's where this idea came to mind: male reader seeking an apology while showing Hannibal he isn't some pawn on his chest board. Hope you enjoy!

SAY YOU'RE SORRY AND MEAN IT

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: honestly the male reader can be a stand in for will, reader wanting for hannibal to admit his mistakes and say sorry, infidelity, angst, confrontation, hurt, getting back together

The cuffs clicked shut on Hannibal’s wrists with a sound as neat and deliberate as one of his harpsichord chords. Police and FBI Agents surrounded your home, yet in the roar of voices, his eyes sought yours, maroon fastening on you like a blood knot. “I want you to know exactly where I am.,” he said while the orderlies wrestled him toward the armored van, every syllable tempered to carry across the distance. “And where you can find me.”

You didn’t answer. You let the van doors swallow him and told yourself the hollow that yawned inside your ribs was nothing but cauterized nerves.

It would heal.

It had to heal.

But Hannibal had made sure you’d remember the wound. Everything was a performance, another calculated step, another move in the intricate waltz he'd forced you to dance. Even in surrender, even as chains locked around his wrists and pulled him away from you, he still held power. He still sought control.

You felt the ache of fury pulse behind your eyes as the police dispersed, the blue and red lights stuttering against your walls until the driveway was empty. You closed the door, locking the deadbolt as if it might bar Hannibal’s ghost from entering your sanctuary.

Hours later, sleep still escaped you. Hannibal had always loved metaphors—he’d once whispered, with fingers pressed gently against your throat, how you orbited him like the moon orbits the Earth. A barycenter he’d called himself, amused, the very center of your gravity. You’d laughed at the time, thinking it merely charming vanity, but now you saw it for what it truly was: a calculated truth.

But gravity could be manipulated. It could be broken.

If Hannibal believed that you’d forgive him eventually, that you’d obediently fall back into his orbit, he was gravely mistaken. Perhaps once, you might have knelt willingly at the altar of his manipulations, but now your heart was sharpened by betrayal, your veins hardened by abandonment and indifference.

He’d shattered you, after all.

Sent you to be scrutinized like a lab rat under Chilton's ruse of psychiatry, placed behind bars that weren’t even of your own making. He watched you break down, watched the trust drain from your eyes as easily as he might pour wine at dinner, and never apologized. Even when evidence 'coincidentally' surfaced that proved your innocence, Hannibal didn't see anything wrong with your suffering. To him, your torment had been merely another step, another note in the grand symphony he'd composed. And now, even his surrender seemed nothing more than another manipulation—another seduction, carefully arranged to lure you back into his arms.

Not again.

If Hannibal wanted you so badly, he'd have to feel your absence. He would taste the bitterness you’d choked down night after sleepless night, imagining him tangled in Alana's sheets while you wasted away beneath Chilton’s 'care'. He would know precisely how it felt to have a piece of himself sliced away without warning.

So you found someone else—someone faceless, meaningless, an instrument of your revenge. You lost yourself in the embrace of a stranger, each touch clinical, devoid of warmth or tenderness. It was an ugly mirror of Hannibal’s own betrayal, a reflection of cruelty. But the sensation of vindictive triumph running through your veins, acidic and scorching, made it worth every agonizing second.

You purposefully prompted your one-night stand to leave marks on you, high where even the most innocent movement might reveal your misdeed. They bit down with careless eagerness, bruises blooming in violet and wine-dark crescents along your throat and collarbone. Each mark was deliberate, clinical in its intent—a quiet act of violence Hannibal would easily decipher.

The day after your forgettable sex, you dressed carefully in a shirt with one button open, so the most innocent movement would reveal your misdeed. Hannibal's sense of smell was phenomenal, so even after you bathed, you were certain the scent of another still clung to you like a whisper he couldn’t ignore.

When you arrived at the Baltimore State Hospital, Hannibal was already waiting, standing with his hands behind his back, and an unreadable half-smile ghosting along his lips. “You came."

“Of course,” you replied easily, stopping in front of the barrier, facing him with practiced nonchalance. “It was you who invited me here, after all.”

His gaze sharpened subtly, tracking every delicate shift in your posture, every hesitant pause. The collar of your shirt slipped slightly, and you noted the faint twitch of his mouth, the careful narrowing of his eyes. Hannibal missed nothing. “Did you sleep well last night?” he inquired mildly, voice smooth, controlled.

You shrugged lightly. “About as well as one might expect." You didn't need to say more. Hannibal inhaled, tiny, almost imperceptible, before his pupils shrank into pinpoints.

Citrus. Sweat not your own. The alkaline tang of latex.

Composure never faltered, but you felt it: a cello string stretched one tremor past tuning. You gave him your blandest smile and let the silence imply everything.

At last he spoke, voice dipped in lacquer. “You have taken comfort. I am pleased you feel safe enough to do so.”

The glass did not hide the way Hannibal's body stood straighter, the way his chest puffed up similarly to the way it did before he delivered death to his victim. Hannibal was obviously enraged by your actions, and the barrier was the only separator between you and him.

“Oh.” You feigned a subtle touch of surprise, fingers brushing the tender spots absently. “These? It’s nothing serious.”

He raised a delicate eyebrow, skepticism elegantly concealed beneath curiosity. “It appears somewhat deliberate for an accident.”

Your smile was faint, carefully innocent. “I suppose it depends on one’s definition of accident.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal agreed softly, his voice dipping into a dangerous purr. “You’ve always been careful. Rarely do you indulge recklessness without purpose.”

“Maybe I’m finally breaking bad habits.”

He leaned forward subtly, assessing you with calculated calmness. “Is that what you’d call it?”

“Call it whatever you want,” you replied smoothly, careful not to grant him any concrete answer. “I prefer to think of it as rebalancing.”

His gaze fixed upon the visible bruises once more. Something dark flickered briefly behind his calm exterior, like clouds moving swiftly behind a moonlit sky. “Rebalancing implies equilibrium. You seem to prefer discord.”

“You should recognize your own technique,” you shot back softly. “I’ve learned from the best.”

His eyes narrowed subtly. You could almost hear the soft click of his jaw tightening. “Be cautious,” he warned gently, as if offering you sincere counsel, “One should never wield a weapon they don’t fully understand.”

“Who says I don’t understand?” you murmured. You leaned slightly closer to the glass, letting the marks fully register in his view. His reaction was subtle yet thrilling—a nearly imperceptible flare of his nostrils, the dangerous flexing of his fingers. “You taught me all about collateral damage.”

His voice cooled further, tempered now by thinly veiled irritation. “Intentional wounds have a habit of festering. Be careful that your attempts at retribution don’t infect you more deeply.”

“Careful?” You repeated mockingly. “That was never your concern before.”

For a moment his eyes met yours fully—raw, unmasked beneath all the silk-stitched civility. “You misunderstand. My concern has always been for you—even when you fail to see it.”

“You don’t have concern, Hannibal. You have motives.” You eased a step back, deliberately casual, letting disdain drag each movement like a velvet curtain. “It must be troubling—not knowing exactly what, or whom, has touched your pawns since you last set the board.”

His nostrils flared—the faintest fracture in composure. “Is that why you came? To flaunt an anonymous scent under the glass?” he asked, voice soft as a scalpel.

“I came to remind you I’m no man’s exhibit.” Your pulse hammered, but you held his stare. “While I rotted behind Chilton’s mirrored walls—while you paraded Alana to those pigs—my name bled beneath headlines that should’ve read HANNIBAL LECTER. You framed me, you fêted her, and you dare speak of concern?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, neither smile nor sneer. “I did not ‘fête’ Alana,” he murmured. “I performed grief in the only language she understood—physical comfort. She was an instrument, nothing more.”

“Then what was I?” Your voice cracked despite yourself. “A rehearsal?”

“A proof.” He advanced a half-pace. “The universe protests perfection; I needed to be certain you could endure its noise.”

“By throwing me into solitary and letting Chilton pick apart my mind? That isn’t endurance, Hannibal—it’s vivisection.”

“You survived,” he said, as if that settled everything.

“And you've never apologized. You make tactical dinners,” you snapped, “tactical friends, tactical lovers. I was supposed to be different.”

Something inside him shivered. “You are,” he said, and the honesty in it almost hurt worse. “Which is why the idea of another man’s fingerprints on your skin—”

“Frightens you?” You cut in. “Good. I hope it corrodes you.”

Before Hannibal could reply, you turned sharply, leaving him behind without the mercy of closure. His gaze burned hot against your spine, even through glass and stone and locked doors.

THREE WEEKS LATER

You told no one about the visit—not your new therapist, not Jack Crawford’s parade of well-meaning agents, certainly not the stranger who'd pressed you against a club wall just to prove you could still be wanted by someone who didn’t spell affection in arterial fonts. You changed apartments, dyed your hair two shades darker/lighter, and began answering to the middle name on your passport. It felt like peeling off skin that had grown over a knife.

Sometimes you managed whole daylight hours without thinking of him. Nights were harder; Hannibal filled the dark the way ink floods a cracked glass.

Then the headline crawled across every screen in America: LECTER ESCAPES DURING RIOT—TWO GUARDS DEAD

You didn’t bother packing—everything you owned still reeked of his gravity—but you did swap apartments again, a building whose only charm was anonymity and an exterior fire escape wide enough to bolt from. It wasn't a question whether Hannibal would come for you, it was when he would appear on your doorstep. Days passed, with the anticipation killing you, yet you knew better. Hannibal never chased on a calendar—he hunted on a pulse.

You were prepared for his appearance, hiding weapons all over your apartment, yet Hannibal coincidentally came when you had just stepped from a late shower, towel slung at your hips. The bedside lamp flickered once, twice, then extinguished—filament severed with surgical precision. Your pulse jack-hammered.

“Power outages are inconvenient,” Hannibal’s voice floated from the darkness, “but darkness clarifies intent.”

Adrenaline spiked so fast your vision sprinkled stars. “Get out,” you rasped, fumbling for the drawer where you kept a pocket knife—empty. The realization stung; he’d already breached every precaution. You wheeled—but he was already in front of you, so close the heat of his body coaxed goosebumps from your damp skin. A knife—your knife—glittered between his fingers before disappearing back into his sleeve like a stage prop.

“Careless,” he murmured, breath feathering your cheek. “Never hide weapons in predictable places.”

You slammed your palm into his chest, shoving with everything fury could lend; he let the momentum carry him half a step, then caught your wrist and spun you, pinning your back to his torso. The towel loosened. You cursed, struggling, but his grip found the fine ridge of your collarbone—pressing just shy of pain.

“Hannibal, I swear—”

“You’ve sworn enough, darling.” His voice vibrated inside your bones. “Letting another’s hands pattern your skin—was that the oath you chose instead?”

“You slept with Alana while I rotted.” You drove an elbow into his ribs; pain rippled up your arm as solid muscle refused to give. “One nameless hookup doesn’t begin to—”

“It begins,” he snarled, wrenching you around to face him, “with a scent I did not curate. Synthetic musk, cheap whiskey, latex—” He inhaled at your throat, pupils dilating. “Pollution.”

Jealousy flickered hot behind his eyes—animal, wounded. You swung again; this time your fist connected with cheekbone. Skin split. Blood welled crimson along the ridge. Hannibal’s head snapped sideways, and for a breath the room hung silent except for your ragged breathing.

“You’re angry that I slept with someone else, Hannibal, but that’s actually terror, isn’t it? Terror that I might heal where you branded.”

Blood trickled down the sharp plane of Hannibal’s cheek, sliding to the corner of his mouth like a crimson punctuation. He tasted it—reflex, predator confirming the flavor of his own injury—then fixed you with an unblinking stare. The jealousy you’d stoked blazed into something older and colder: the terror of losing a possession he’d mistaken for immutable.

“You call it a brand,” he said, voice stripped of velvet, “but it is a covenant. And you broke it first.”

His right hand moved—a blur more felt than seen. The backhand caught your jaw, force calibrated to stun without shatter. Pain bloomed white-hot; your knees buckled. The towel’s knot slipped, cotton whispering to the floorboards while he crowded forward, shoes nudging the fallen fabric aside like shed skin.

“Look at you,” Hannibal murmured, fingers pressing the fresh welt at your cheekbone as if verifying his own signature. “Uncovered, unclaimed. Did they see you like this? Did they taste the places that were mine?”

“Maybe I let them,” you spat, vision swimming. “Maybe they left no room for ghosts.”

A growl caught in his throat—nothing polite about it. He grabbed a fistful of your damp hair, tugging until your throat arched. Steam still clung to your skin; goosebumps raced beneath the sudden chill of the room.

“Then I will excise the ghost,” he vowed, mouth brushing the pulse hammering in your neck. Teeth scraped—hard enough to promise bruises, soft enough to make you shiver instead of flinch.

You twisted, driving your elbow into his ribs. He grunted but held on; the clash of bodies drove you both against the dresser. A photo frame toppled and shattered at your feet—splinters glittering like ruined constellations. “You want a covenant?” you hissed, seizing his collar to yank him level. “Bleed for it.”

Hannibal’s answering smile was feral. He surged, momentum pinning you flat to the dresser top. A drawer bit into the small of your back; shattered glass bit your calf. You barely felt it over the wildfire of adrenaline.

He kissed you then—savage, claiming—tongue sweeping the blood from your split lip as if reclaiming stolen territory. You bit back, copper flooding both mouths. His grip tightened, one hand sliding down to palm the curve of your hip, fingertips digging crescents you’d feel for days.

Skin met skin: Hannibal's chest, warm and solid beneath the ruined shirt; your water-beaded torso slick beneath exploring palms. He lifted you effortlessly, turning, dropping you to the mattress where earlier rage had scattered sheets like storm debris. You landed on your back, hair fanning, breath punched out.

“Apologize,” you demanded, half-hoarse. “For Alana, for Chilton, for grinding my life to marrow because it amused you.”

Hannibal knelt between your knees, blood and moonlight painting his face. For a heartbeat he seemed carved from grief. “I am sorry,” he said, voice ragged as torn silk. “Sorry that worship felt like vivisection, that I mistook your endurance for consent, that I gambled your sanity for the symmetry of my design.”

Words alone weren’t enough; he seemed to know it. He bowed over the bruise flowering on your jaw, pressing his lips there—tender, contrite—and then lower, mapping every old scar and fresh abrasion with reverent mouth and blood-warm hands. Where jealousy had struck, apology now lingered, patient, unhurried, until your breath turned to shattered glassless sobs.

Lamplight returned sometime before dawn, revealing the room wrecked—sheets torn, headboard cracked, walls streaked where one or both of you had slammed. You lay half-on his chest, sweat-cooled, muscles singing protest while Hannibal’s fingers combed your hair in slow, penitent passes.

“You’ll have to run again,” you said into the hush. “They’ll trace you here.”

“Let them,” he murmured. “We’ll be gone.”

We. The word coiled around your heart like barbed wire and silk. You propped up on one elbow, studied the man who had ruined and remade you in equal measure. “I haven’t decided if I’m leaving with you, or turning you in.”

“I know.” He touched your swollen lip, feather-light. “But you haven’t asked me to leave.” And you remained silent because he was right. Even if you knew that Hannibal Lecter would always be equal parts sanctuary and snare.

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bloodlines-if · 23 days ago

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CH INTRO: DR. ARDEN

"Good you're alive. That'll be $300. Cash only."

AGE: 37

HEIGHT: Male: 5'10" (ca. 177cm)| Female: 5'7" (ca. 170cm)

ETHNICITY: ???

BLOODLINE: Manitou

OCCUPATION: Underground Doctor

TROPE: Grumpy healer, slow burn dislike to neutral to tolerance to love, "I don’t do attachments", morally grey protector, (possible) grumpy x grumpy, mutual healing

Pale skin. Darker soul. Piercing grey eyes that assess damage—both physical and moral—with surgical precision. They've seen too much, stitched too many wounds, buried too many patients to waste time on pleasantries. No one knows their real name. Everyone just calls them Arden. Doctor to those smart enough to show respect.

Black hair falls in messy waves around sharp, angular features. Male Arden tries to keep it somewhat controlled (and failing miserably), even when exhausted. Female Arden has given up entirely and just keeps her hair most of the time in some kind of bun, wild strands framing a face that's forgotten how to smile genuinely.

They move through their clinic like death itself: efficient, inevitable, and completely without mercy for stupidity. Lean frame draped in pristine white lab coats that they regularly clean because of the blood and chaos. Underneath they wear dark or blue shirts with a tie or turtlenecks and fitted pants.

Arden's hands tell stories their mouth won't. Scars wind up their hands and arms, disappearing beneath sleeves that never roll up in public. Black nail polish chips away like their patience with Sordia's endless parade of violence. Male Arden maintains surgical sterility in everything. Tools, workspace, emotional distance. Female Arden operates in controlled chaos, knowing exactly where every instrument lies in the disaster of her domain.

They patch up gang members and cops with equal disdain. Stitch closed knife wounds and bullet holes without asking which side pulled the trigger. Blood is blood. Pain is pain. Politics are irrelevant when you're bleeding out on their table. But their billing? That tells a different story. Rich folks and gang members/leaders pay full price. Broken people, poor kids, the truly desperate? Treatment comes free, though they'll grumble about it.

Also word is they can speak with the dead. Manitou bloodline services for those desperate enough to pay. They're as blunt about spiritual consultations as they are about medical ones. Death doesn't make people less stupid, apparently. But they’ll take the extra cash anyway.

The underground doctor who saves lives not because they care about people(?), but because death offends their professional pride.

The clinic is neutral ground. They don't take sides. Don't make friends. Don't ask names. Just patch you up and send you back to whatever hell you crawled out of.

Good luck getting them to care about anything beyond keeping you breathing.

#ch:arden #my art #bloodlines if #interactive fiction #character art

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gardenladysworld · 6 months ago

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Starbound hearts

Status: I'm working on it

Pairings: Neteyam x human!f!reader

Aged up characters!

Genre/Warnings: fluff, slow burn, oblivious characters, light angst, hurt/comfort, pining

Summary: In the breathtaking, untamed beauty of Pandora, two souls from different worlds find themselves drawn together against all odds. Neteyam, the dutiful future olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya clan, is bound by the expectations of his people and the traditions of his ancestors. She, a human scientist with a love for Pandora’s wonders, sees herself as an outsider, unworthy of the connection she craves.

Part 2: To dream

Part 3: To gift

The next day, the hum of machines filled the air in the human outpost as you moved around the lab, your hands deftly sorting through a tray of instruments. Norm and Max were nearby, engaged in a lively discussion over some readings on a monitor, leaving you to handle the task at hand. You didn’t mind. You liked the quiet focus of working here, even if the tools and machinery sometimes felt alien even to you.

The door to the outpost opened with a faint hiss, but you barely looked up, assuming it was one of the other humans returning from the field. However, the soft, familiar scent of the forest that followed made you pause. You turned just in time to see Neteyam ducking through the doorway, his tall frame bending slightly to accommodate the lower ceiling.

“Neteyam?” you asked, surprised but delighted. “What are you doing here?”

He straightened and gave you a soft smile, his golden eyes warm as they locked onto yours. “I wanted to see you,” he said simply, his voice low and steady. “And I brought you something.”

Your curiosity piqued, you set down the tray and walked over to him. He was holding something behind his back, his movements careful and deliberate. “What is it?” you asked, a small grin tugging at your lips.

Neteyam hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering to the humans at the monitors before returning to you. Slowly, he revealed what he’d been hiding—a delicate, handwoven bracelet made from thin strips of vibrant Pandoran vines, adorned with tiny, luminescent beads that glowed softly in the dim light of the lab. It was simple but beautiful, the kind of craftsmanship that spoke of care and attention.

“For you,” he said, his voice almost shy as he held it out to you. “I made it last night.”

You stared at the bracelet, your heart fluttering at the thought of him spending time creating something just for you. “Neteyam… it’s beautiful,” you said, your voice soft. “Thank you.”

Carefully, you took the bracelet from his hands, slipping it onto your wrist. It fit perfectly, the beads shimmering faintly against your skin. You held your arm up to admire it, a bright smile spreading across your face. “I love it,” you said, looking back at him. “Really, I do.”

Neteyam’s smile widened, his tail flicking slightly behind him in what you recognized as a sign of his pleasure. “I’m glad,” he said, his voice full of quiet satisfaction.

You gestured toward the workspace behind you. “I still have a bit of work to do here, but if you want, you can stay.”

He nodded, his eyes brightening. “I would like that.”

As you returned to your station, Neteyam settled himself on the floor behind you, his long legs crossed as he leaned back against the wall. He watched you intently, his golden gaze tracking every movement you made as you resumed sorting tools and entering data into a nearby console. To him, the lab was a strange and cluttered place, filled with odd human devices and artificial smells, but he didn’t mind it as long as you were there.

You worked quietly, occasionally humming to yourself or muttering under your breath as you focused. Neteyam found himself utterly entranced by the way your hands moved, quick and precise, even as you interacted with tools that seemed far too clunky for your delicate fingers. You were so different from him, from his world, yet everything about you felt so natural, so right.

She’s amazing, he thought, his gaze softening as he watched you tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The glow of the screens illuminated your face, highlighting your eyes and the soft curve of your lips. He could sit here forever, he realized, content just to watch you work.

At one point, you glanced back at him, catching his eye. “Are you sure you’re comfortable down there?” you asked with a teasing smile.

Neteyam chuckled softly, his voice a low rumble. “I’m fine. You should keep working. I like watching you.”

Your cheeks flushed slightly, and you turned back to your work, trying to hide your smile. “Suit yourself,” you said lightly, though your heart fluttered at his words.

For the next hour, the two of you settled into a quiet rhythm—you working, him watching. Occasionally, you’d explain something to him, holding up a tool or pointing at a readout, and he would nod thoughtfully, his interest in your world genuine. Though the lab was small and cramped compared to the open expanse of the forest, it felt warm and safe with him there, his steady presence a comforting anchor.

When you finally finished, you turned to him, stretching your arms above your head with a sigh. “All done,” you said, smiling as you looked down at him. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

Neteyam stood, towering over you as he smiled softly. “It was my pleasure,” he said, his voice warm. His eyes flicked briefly to the bracelet on your wrist, and his smile deepened. “I’m glad you like the gift.”

You held up your wrist, letting the beads catch the light. “I love it,” you said firmly. “And I’ll wear it every day.”

His chest swelled with pride at your words, and he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm in an almost hesitant gesture. “Good,” he said quietly. “It suits you.”

For a moment, the two of you stood there, the hum of the lab fading into the background as your eyes met. And in that moment, Neteyam knew that no matter how different your worlds were, he would always find his way to you.

Part 4: To think

#neteyam x reader #avatar twow #avatar 2022 #avatar the way of water #james cameron avatar #neteyam x you #neteyam x human reader #neteyam sully #neteyam

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whumppuppeteer · 24 days ago

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Maylancholy day 27: Forced into silence

Tag: @may-lancholy

This fic contains: body horror(mouth), needles, defiant whumpee(not for long :3)

Whumpee stared down Whumper. They had to stay calm, even as leather restraints held them tight to the bed and Whumper wheeled out a cart of surgical instruments.

"I don't care what you do, I won't tell you shit." If nothing else, they would keep everyone else safe.

"So you've proven."Whumper agreed in an annoyed tone. "It seems you don't value the privilege of speech."

Whumper grabbed something from the cart.

A needle and thread.

"If you should discard that privilege so readily, then I shall grant you an easy way to do so."

Tears ran down Whumpee's face as their attempts to scream were blocked.

Caretaker made their way into the darkened lab. Whumpee had to be here.

A soft whimpering caught their ears. That-that couldn't be Whumpee, right?

They followed the sound to a dark room near the back.

"Whumpee, is that you? Please talk to me."

The whimpering only grew in intensity. Caretaker turned on the light.

There was whumpee, curled in the corner, and as they lifted their head, Caretaker saw the precise, weave of stitches that kept their mouth shut.

#whump #maylancholy #maylancholy 2025 #have to do catch up again bc i was busy yesterday #whumpee #whumper #caretaker #maylancholyday27

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curiousquill1 · 8 months ago

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VJ Instruments Plethysmometer: Streamlining Lab Processes with Precision

"The quest for precision has always been the driving force of scientific progress." In volumetric analysis and fluid displacement measurements, the VJ Instruments Plethysmometer represents the remarkable innovation that is changing the current face of lab daily operations.

Understanding Modern Plethysmometry

The precision and reliability of measurement instruments determine the laboratory's efficiency. The Plethysmometer VJ Instruments is the epitome of a breakthrough in volumetric analysis technology, making it the real test-tube success tool for researchers and lab technicians to achieve accurate measurements while working effectively.

Key Areas Under Investigation

Pharmaceutical development and research

Testing of medical devices

Study of materials science

Analyzing biological samples

Quality control measures

Putting Great Design into Functionality

The VJ Instruments Plethysmometer shows excellent engineering, addressing many common laboratory issues. Its compact design optimizes bench space without sacrificing functionality or accessibility.

Design Feat Features:

Ergonomic control panel with intuitive interface

High-resolution digital display

Spill-resistant housing

Quick-release sample chamber

Vibration-dampening feet

The modular design guarantees quick maintenance and easy cleaning, minimizing downtime between measurements. This attention to practical details reflects a deep understanding of lab workflows and the need for uninterrupted operation.

Accuracy That Moves Forward

In terms of measurement, the VJ Instruments Plethysmometer sets a new standard for precision:

±0.1% measurement accuracy across the entire sample size range

Real-time temperature compensation

Automatic calibration verification

Digital data logging with timestamp capabilities

Export functionality in various file formats

These features ensure that researchers can trust their results while spending less time verifying measurements, leading to faster and more accurate lab experiments.

Overcoming Common Laboratory Challenges

Laboratories face several challenges that the VJ Instruments Plethysmometer tackles head-on:

Time Management:

30-second cycle of measurement for any sample

Batch processing capabilities

Automated cleaning cycles

Data Quality:

Built-in error detection

Sample tracking system

Automated measurement recording

Resource Optimization:

Minimal sample preparation required

Lower reagent consumption

Energy-saving due to efficiency

Investment That Pays Dividends

Investing in a VJ Instruments Plethysmometer is more than just acquiring equipment; it's an investment in efficiency and accuracy that yields real returns:

Financial Benefits:

Reduced labor costs with automation

Less sample waste

Reduced maintenance needs

Extended calibration intervals

Operational Benefits:

Improved throughput

Increased reliability of measurements

Enhanced documentation compliance

Simplified training requirements

Support to Your Success

VJ Instruments backs up its plethysmometer with robust support:

Initial assistance with setup and calibration

Staff training programs

Technical support hotline

Scheduled software updates

Preventive maintenance services

Model 1400 VJ Instruments Plethysmometer: Find Your Perfect Solution

When choosing lab equipment, consider whether the VJ Instruments Plethysmometer fits your needs:

Top Questions You Should Ask:

What sample sizes do you typically handle?

How important is measurement speed to your processes?

How crucial is high accuracy to your procedures?

How will automatic data collection transform your documentation process?

Typically, the answers to these questions highlight why the VJ Instruments Plethysmometer becomes the top choice for labs focused on efficiency and accuracy.

Future Outlook

The progress in laboratory equipment demands more advanced yet user-friendly tools. The VJ Instruments Plethysmometer strikes the ideal balance between cutting-edge technology and practical use, making it a valuable asset for any forward-thinking laboratory.

Enhance your lab's capabilities—get in touch with VJ Instruments to discover how their plethysmometer can revolutionize your measurements and ignite a new level of precision and efficiency in your research.

#Plethysmometer #VJ Instruments #Lab Equipment #Lab Processes #Precision Tools #Scientific Instruments #Research Tools #Lab Efficiency #Medical Devices #Data Accuracy #Innovation In Lab #Biomedical Research

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reality-detective · 6 months ago

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RED ALERT!! Military Forces Launch Global Raids: Trafficking Hubs, Vatican Ritual Chambers, Human Farms, and Elite DNA Experiments EXPOSED as World Leaders Panic!

The silent war is no longer silent. As of today, military operations worldwide have escalated, targeting the clandestine empires of global elites. These precision strikes aim to dismantle trafficking networks and secret facilities enslaving humanity for centuries.

Global Bunker Network Exposed

Insiders reveal an extensive underground network, with bunkers linking major cities and military bases, funded by covert taxpayer money. Recent operations in the Swiss Alps uncovered a complex with trafficking chambers and cloning labs, where seized evidence pointed to discussions on global depopulation and AI enslavement plans.

In Colorado, Denver International Airport's hidden bunkers have finally been confirmed, serving as hubs for elite evacuations and trafficking. Soldiers unearthed encrypted files and advanced holographic communication technologies used by elites to remain undetected globally.

Antarctica's Dark Secrets

Military raids in Antarctica are unearthing alien technologies and stasis chambers with non-human entities, revealing their centuries-long influence over global events. These discoveries signal the retreat of these beings as their control systems are systematically dismantled.

South America: Breaking the Chains

Elite units in Brazil and Colombia are disrupting cartel-connected trafficking rings, freeing thousands. Evidence links financial elites and politicians to these heinous crimes, using human lives as currency.

Europe: Vatican's Downfall

Covert operations within Vatican City have exposed vaults filled with ancient manuscripts and evidence of long-standing satanic rituals. Seized documents suggest a deep connection between the Vatican and global power structures, instrumental in maintaining human oppression.

Targeting the Global Financial Network

As physical networks are dismantled, the focus shifts to the financial systems supporting these atrocities. Quantum Financial System operatives are freezing assets linked to the cabal, preparing for a major shift to a transparent and equitable financial system.

The Final Showdown

These liberating acts by military forces are dismantling the very foundations of a dark regime that has long oppressed humanity. With each raid, more of our hidden shackles are revealed and destroyed.

Prepare for the Final Battle

The revelations from these operations are just the beginning. As the truth emerges, the world will confront the reality of a hidden war against humanity's freedom. The final battle has begun, and the cabal's reign is nearing its end.

EVERYTHING Else... Is a Distraction 🤔

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sharkwidow · 2 months ago

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Revelations | Tony Stark x reader!

Summary: Since you were born on the same day as Tony Stark—May 29th—you’ve always shared a unique connection with him. Years later, as Avengers, best friends, and souls who deeply understand each other, you both discover that the feelings you’ve kept hidden are finally ready to come to light.

Content Warning:Anxiety, insomnia, panic attacks, emotional wounds, references to kidnapping and Afghanistan (MCU), emotional content.

Word Count: Approximately 2,103 words

Note: Inspired by a request from @kk03sworld , thanks for the idea!

Ever since you were born on the same day as Tony Stark—May 29th—there was always something special between the two of you. Despite the age difference, you shared a unique spark that made you inseparable. You were always Tony’s best friend, the one person who was there at every stage of his life, even before he became Iron Man. Your friendship wasn’t just marked by compatible personalities but by a similar way of thinking and being: both of you were incredibly intelligent, with an insatiable curiosity about the world. In your case, though, your talents went far beyond technology and science.

Unlike Tony, who immersed himself in the world of engineering and physics, you found your refuge in art and music. Your drawing skills were flawless—you could sketch any detail with impressive precision, capturing the essence of everything you saw. But your musical ability was just as incredible. You could play any instrument, but guitars—especially electric ones—were your favorite. Your world was a perfect blend of logic and creativity, of brilliant ideas and artistic expression.

"You know, I think we should try something different with this design," Tony said, studying the sketch you’d made for a new armor idea he was developing. He couldn’t help but show you his projects, knowing your opinions were as sharp as his.

"The thing is, you’re forgetting the form, Stark. It’s great, but it needs a curve here…" you replied as you adjusted some details on the design, then looked directly at him.

Tony chuckled under his breath.

"You always have something to add! There’s no beating you."

It was in moments like these that he looked at you like you were the only person who truly understood him—even when the world only saw him as the genius billionaire philanthropist.

Your relationship with Tony went far beyond friendship. You’d been by his side during his party days, his Playboy era, when chaos was a daily part of his life. But you were also there during much darker times, when everything changed. You remember the time you and James “Rhodey” Rhodes went with him to Afghanistan. What was supposed to be a routine mission turned into the moment that would change Tony’s life forever.

You were there, in that cave, helping Yinsen and Tony as they worked on the first Arc Reactor. That was the turning point. That place, that moment, was where Tony Stark became Iron Man. While Tony fought to survive, you used your medical skills to keep him alive. Even though fear and anxiety consumed you, you never let him see it. You were there, fighting beside him, just like always.

After Tony returned, everything changed. The armor, the tech breakthroughs, and the fame weren’t the only things different about him. Over the years, you started realizing what you felt for him—and that maybe, just maybe, he felt the same about you.

As time passed, through missions and your responsibilities as an Avenger, your bond only grew stronger. But you also knew Tony wasn’t perfect. He was a complicated man. Though he appeared to have everything under control, inside he wrestled with much deeper things. Insomnia, anxiety, and panic attacks plagued him, and on the many sleepless nights, you sat by his side in silence, never pointing it out. You understood, because you struggled with the same shadows.

One night, after a particularly tough mission, the two of you stayed at Avengers Tower. Tony was in the lab, working on a new version of the armor, while you sat on the couch playing the guitar, letting the notes soothe your restless mind.

Tony entered the room without looking at you, completely absorbed in thought.

"Did you know there’s no one like you?" he said abruptly, his voice low and sincere. "Sometimes I wonder how you’ve stayed by my side all this time."

You looked up at him, set the guitar aside, and walked over to where he stood. Despite his strong, confident exterior—the one everyone else saw—you knew the real Tony, the one who hid behind the Iron Man shell.

"Tony…" you said softly, a sigh escaping your lips. "I’ve always been here, but sometimes I wonder if you really see me—if you see what’s beyond all of this."

"Of course I see you. You’re my best friend… You’ve always been more than that."

The air grew thick. Your hearts beat in sync, but neither of you dared to take the next step—until he did.

"You know, I think I’m tired of hiding how I feel," he said, stepping closer.

You stayed silent, surprised, but when his eyes met yours, you instantly knew what he meant. Without another thought, you leaned in, your lips meeting his, finally freeing everything you’d both kept buried for so long. It was your first kiss, yet it felt like time stopped—as if the universe had conspired for this moment, for the two of you to finally realize what you’d been searching for all along.

"I can’t believe it took us this long," Tony whispered between kisses.

"Neither can I," you replied, your smile glowing from within.

After that kiss, everything changed. From that moment on, there were no more doubts between you. What you had was no longer just a friendship—it became something deeper, something essential. You both knew life wouldn’t be easy. Missions, battles, and whatever the world threw at you would always be difficult. But now, at least, you knew you could face it together.

"So, how about we stop doing things halfway?" Tony said with a playful smile as he looked at you.

"Definitely, Stark," you replied, still savoring the sweet memory of his kiss.

And that’s when you both finally understood: you’d known what you had from the very first moment you met. But now, at last, love was out in the open—with no more fear of hiding it. And together, you and Tony Stark would face whatever the future held, with the love and protection you’d always been ready to give him.

#tony stark x reader #marvel x you #marvel masterlist #marvel x reader #marvel moodboard #tony stark x you #tony stark x y/n #tony stark imagine

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redfilledfantasies · 1 month ago

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First Sight (Chapter 1 of 7)

The elevator doors parted with a soft chime, and Dr. Carmella Hill stepped into the hushed domain of her Manhattan cardiology clinic. Her short brown hair with perfectly trimmed bangs framed her face with geometric precision, not a strand out of place despite the morning wind.

Her designer prescription glasses caught the light as she surveyed her territory, the kingdom of clean lines and medical excellence she had built through years of obsessive dedication. Her shoulders squared beneath the pristine white lab coat, its crisp edges a stark contrast to the troubled thoughts that had followed her from home. Six floors above the frenetic energy of Midtown, the clinic was a sanctuary of order.

Morning light streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the reception area where her staff would arrive in precisely forty-two minutes. Carmella preferred these solitary moments before the day began in earnest, when she could lose herself in the ceremony of preparation without watchful eyes or needless conversation.

Her heels clicked against the polished floor, each step an echo of purpose. She unlocked her office door with practiced efficiency, the lock yielding with a satisfying click. Inside, the space was a testament to her exacting standards—diploma and certifications arranged in perfect alignment on the walls, medical journals stacked at right angles on the glass desk, not a single item out of place.

She placed her leather bag in the same spot she did every morning, the corner of the desk nearest the window, its placement a ritual as important as any surgical procedure. From it, she withdrew her personal stethoscope, the weight of it familiar in her hands. It was the latest model, more expensive than necessary, but Carmella demanded excellence in all things, especially those that touched her patients.

The instrument gleamed under the overhead lights as she polished it with a microfiber cloth, her movements deliberate and reverent. Her fingers lingered on the chest piece, tracing its perfect circumference with an attention that transcended mere professional care.

She felt a flutter in her abdomen, a quickening of her pulse that had nothing to do with the morning's exertion and everything to do with what this instrument allowed her to hear—the most intimate rhythm of life itself.

She placed the stethoscope around her neck, adjusting it with unusual deliberation. The cool metal settled against her skin, and she closed her eyes briefly, savoring the sensation. When she opened them again, her reflection in the small desk mirror caught her attention, and she paused to study herself.

The woman who stared back was the picture of professional composure—high cheekbones accentuated by the angles of her glasses, lips pressed into a disciplined line. But beneath the clinical detachment, she recognized the telltale signs of her private fascination: the slight dilation of her pupils, the faint flush along her collarbanes.

Carmella shrugged off her lab coat and hung it temporarily, taking a moment to assess her physical form in the full-length mirror on the back of her door. Years of rigorous dedication to fitness had sculpted her body into something extraordinary. Her silk blouse clung to her large breasts, their perfect roundness defying gravity with the help of an expensive, architectural bra. The tailored slacks sat low on her hips, revealing the ridges of her enviable six-pack abs when she turned to the side.

She flexed slightly, watching the definition of her muscular thighs press against the fine fabric. The body was a machine, she reminded herself. Her own was simply better maintained than most. Still, she couldn't help but feel a flicker of pride at the exceptional vessel she had crafted through unrelenting discipline.

She donned her lab coat again, the white garment settling over her curves with professional neutrality, though it did little to conceal the remarkable physicality beneath. One by one, she checked each examination room, arranging instruments with obsessive precision. Blood pressure cuffs were coiled with mathematical exactness, cotton swabs aligned in perfect rows, vials organized by size and purpose.

In the central examination room, she paused, her attention caught by the gleaming array of cardiac monitoring equipment. Her fingers skimmed across the surface of the ECG machine, the metal cool against her skin. Her practice had the most advanced technology available, allowing her to capture every nuance of the heart's electrical activity, to see on screen what she could hear through her stethoscope.

She moved to her desk and pulled the day's patient files, spreading them before her in a fan of medical histories and heart conditions. Each folder was color-coded, the contents arranged according to her exacting specifications. She reviewed them methodically, committing key details to memory, noting the two new referrals and their symptoms with particular interest.

The first was a thirty-four-year-old woman with complaints of occasional palpitations during exercise. Carmella studied the preliminary notes, her mind already constructing a sequence of tests to isolate the cause. Her fingers traced the lines of the intake form, lingering on the patient's age and described symptoms. She anticipated the examination with a sharpness that was both professional and something more—an interest that went beyond clinical curiosity.

She returned the stethoscope to her neck, adjusting it once more with precise attention. The weight of it was reassuring, a connection to the rhythm she would soon hear, measure, analyze. She ran her fingertips along the tubing, the sensation triggering a memory of yesterday's examination—the cadence of a particular heartbeat that had stayed with her, replaying in her mind as she had lain awake last night.

The clinic remained silent around her as she completed her preparations. She set out the day's schedule, checked the calibration of the blood pressure monitor, and made one final adjustment to the arrangement of instruments on the examination tray. Each action was performed with meticulous attention, her body moving through the space with the confidence of absolute ownership.

Finally, she stood before the mirror once more, checking her appearance with critical eyes. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and straightened the lapels of her lab coat. The stethoscope hung precisely centered, the silver chest piece catching the light. Her hand rose to it, fingers closing around the metal in a gesture that was almost protective.

Carmella drew a deep breath, tasting the antiseptic cleanness of the air. She was ready for the day, her professional armor intact, her personal fascinations safely concealed beneath layers of clinical expertise. She glanced at her watch—seven minutes until her receptionist would arrive, twenty-three until the first patient.

The day would unfold with the precision she demanded, each heartbeat she listened to cataloged and analyzed with scientific detachment. But beneath the sterile surface of her professionalism, beneath the controlled rhythm of her own heartbeat, ran a current of something unruly and demanding—a fascination with the pulse of life that transcended medical interest and veered into territory more complex, more consuming.

The stethoscope rested against her chest, a constant reminder of the sound she sought, the rhythm that obsessed her. Her fingers brushed against it once more, an unconscious gesture of anticipation, before she turned to her desk to await the arrival of her staff and the day's first heartbeat.

The examination room was a testament to minimalist luxury, all clean lines and subdued tones. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline—a vista that patients often found distracting enough to momentarily forget their cardiac concerns.

Carmella appreciated this effect; a relaxed patient yielded more accurate readings. She arranged the instruments on the silver tray with methodical precision, each item placed at the exact angle she preferred, the metal surfaces gleaming under the recessed lighting. The scent of antiseptic hung in the air, sharp and clean, a counterpoint to the faint trace of the patient's perfume that had entered the room before her.

Ms. Chen sat on the edge of the examination table, her silk blouse unbuttoned just enough to allow access for the stethoscope. Early thirties, Carmella estimated, with the lean physique of someone who exercised regularly but not obsessively. Her dark hair fell in an elegant bob that framed an oval face with high cheekbones.

The referral note mentioned occasional heart palpitations during her morning runs, nothing that seemed particularly concerning on paper, but Carmella never dismissed cardiac symptoms, no matter how minor. "So you've been experiencing these palpitations for about three weeks?" Carmella kept her voice professionally neutral as she reviewed the intake form, her eyes scanning the notes with practiced efficiency.

"Yes, usually about ten minutes into my run." Ms. Chen's voice was melodic, with the slight rasp of someone who enjoyed the occasional cigarette despite knowing better. "It's probably nothing, but my GP thought I should see a specialist."

"Palpitations are always worth investigating," Carmella replied, setting down the chart. She moved to the sink and washed her hands with meticulous attention, counting silently as she always did—twenty seconds exactly, no more, no less.

"Even if they turn out to be benign, which is often the case." She dried her hands on a paper towel and turned back to Ms. Chen, her professional mask firmly in place. "I'm going to take your vitals first, then listen to your heart in various positions to see if we can identify any irregularities."

The preliminary checks proceeded with clinical precision. Blood pressure: 118/76. Pulse: 72 beats per minute, regular. Oxygen saturation: 99%. All textbook normal. Carmella noted each value in the chart, her handwriting as precise as her methodology. "Now I'll need to listen to your heart," she said, reaching for the stethoscope that hung around her neck.

Her fingers closed around the chest piece, the metal warming beneath her touch. A subtle flutter stirred in her stomach, a physical anticipation she acknowledged and then attempted to suppress. This was a medical procedure, nothing more. "Could you unbutton your blouse a bit further, please? I need access to several listening points."

Ms. Chen complied without hesitation, the silk parting to reveal a lace-trimmed camisole beneath. Carmella kept her gaze clinical, focused on the anatomical landmarks that would guide her examination, not on the swell of the woman's breasts or the delicate hollow of her throat where a pulse visibly fluttered.

"This might be a bit cold," she warned, a standard phrase that fell from her lips automatically as she placed the stethoscope's disc against Ms. Chen's chest, just to the right of her sternum.

The first heart sound filled Carmella's ears—a clean, strong "lub" followed by the softer "dub" of the closing valves. The rhythm was like a well-conducted orchestra, each beat precise and distinct. Carmella felt her own pulse quicken in response, a pavlovian reaction to the intimate sound. She closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself to focus entirely on the auditory input.

Ms. Chen's heartbeat was remarkably clear, unusually so. Each component of the cardiac cycle resonated with crystal clarity through the stethoscope's earpieces. Carmella detected no murmurs, no extra sounds, just the pure, perfect rhythm of a healthy heart pushing blood through its chambers with textbook efficiency. She moved the stethoscope incrementally, tracking across the chest to the next auscultation point.

Ms. Chen's skin was warm beneath the cold metal disc, the contrast sending a nearly imperceptible shiver through Carmella's fingers. She noted the patient's even breathing, the slight rise and fall of her chest beneath the stethoscope, a counterpoint to the heart's rhythm.

"Deep breath in, please," Carmella instructed, her voice betraying none of the inappropriate fascination building within her. As Ms. Chen inhaled, her heart rate increased slightly, accelerating in response to the expanded lung capacity. Carmella listened intently, caught in the peculiar intimacy of the moment—privy to the most internal rhythm of another human being, a sound that the woman herself could never hear with such clarity.

Carmella's pupils dilated behind her designer glasses, the clinical part of her brain registering this physiological response even as she continued the examination. Her own breathing had subtly shifted, synchronizing with the patient's unconsciously. The examination room, with its panoramic view and pristine surfaces, seemed to recede, leaving only the connection between her ears and the pulsing heart beneath her hand.

She lingered longer than strictly necessary at the mitral area, telling herself she was being thorough, searching for any hint of a murmur or irregularity. In truth, she was savoring the sound, storing it in her memory like a collector acquiring a particularly fine specimen. Each heartbeat resonated through her, sparking an interest that was far from professional.

"Now I'll need you to lie back," she said, her voice steady despite the inappropriate warmth spreading through her core. "I want to listen with you in a supine position." As Ms. Chen reclined on the examination table, Carmella repositioned the stethoscope, pressing it perhaps a fraction more firmly than required against the soft skin.

The change in position altered the heart sounds slightly, bringing the S3 into clearer focus—that subtle, low-frequency extra sound that followed the main "lub-dub" in some patients. Not a pathological finding in a young, fit woman like Ms. Chen, but its presence added another layer of complexity to the cardiac symphony that now filled Carmella's consciousness.

Time seemed to stretch as she listened, her professional detachment slipping further with each beat. Her hand rested on the examination table beside Ms. Chen's shoulder, and she noticed with distant alarm that her fingers trembled slightly. She curled them into a loose fist, concealing the evidence of her unprofessional response.

"Everything sounds normal so far," she managed, her voice clinical despite the heat that had crept up her neck to flush her cheeks. She hoped the patient would attribute any redness to the room's temperature. "But I'd like to check one more position. Could you turn onto your left side, please?"

Ms. Chen complied, her movements causing a momentary interruption in the cardiac soundtrack. Carmella waited, stethoscope poised, for the woman to settle. When she placed the disc back against skin, the heart sounds were at their most audible, the left lateral position bringing the organ closest to the chest wall.

The beat filled her ears, strong and insistent, and Carmella closed her eyes again, fully absorbed in the forbidden pleasure of listening. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a perilous moment, she feared the patient might notice her inappropriate reaction. But Ms. Chen lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, perfectly unaware of the storm brewing within her cardiologist.

With tremendous effort, Carmella pulled herself back from the brink of complete unprofessionalism. She removed the stethoscope, letting it hang once more around her neck, the chest piece still warm from contact with Ms. Chen's skin.

"You can sit up now," she said, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. "I don't hear any abnormalities, which is excellent news." Ms. Chen rebuttoned her blouse, her movements unhurried and graceful. "So the palpitations aren't serious?"

"They're likely benign, possibly related to mild exercise-induced tachycardia," Carmella replied, falling back on medical terminology like a shield. "But I'd like to run an ECG to be certain, and perhaps have you wear a Holter monitor for twenty-four hours to catch any irregularities that might occur during your next run."

Her hands trembled slightly as she made notes in the patient's chart. The pen skittered across the page, leaving marks that were less precise than her usual immaculate script. She pressed down harder, forcing control, but her fingers remained unsteady—betrayers to the last.

"The nurse will set you up with the ECG in a moment," she said, not quite meeting Ms. Chen's eyes. "And we'll schedule the Holter monitor fitting at reception." Ms. Chen nodded, seemingly oblivious to her doctor's internal turmoil. "Thank you, Dr. Hill. Everyone says you're the best, and I can see why."

The compliment cut through Carmella like a blade of ice. If only her patient knew the unprofessional thoughts that had accompanied her examination, the way the sound of her heartbeat would echo in Carmella's mind long after she left the clinic.

The shame of it mingled with the lingering arousal, creating a toxic cocktail of emotion that threatened to crack her professional veneer. "Just doing my job," she replied, the platitude tasting stale on her tongue. She stood, clipboard clutched to her chest like armor. "The nurse will be right in."

She exited the room with measured steps, her outward composure a masterpiece of control, betrayed only by the slight tremor in her hands and the memory of a heartbeat that continued to pulse through her consciousness with inappropriate persistence. Carmella closed her office door with a soft click and leaned against it, finally allowing her composure to fracture in the privacy of her sanctuary.

The stethoscope hung heavy around her neck, still warm from contact with Ms. Chen's skin, the memory of the heartbeat pulsing through her consciousness with merciless clarity. Her own heart raced with inappropriate excitement, its rhythm a mockery of the professional demeanor she had struggled to maintain during the examination.

Her hands, steady enough during medical school surgeries and countless cardiac emergencies, now trembled with the force of her desire, and she felt a flush of shame spread beneath her skin like a fever. She crossed to her desk on unsteady legs, grateful for the solidity of the leather chair that caught her as her knees weakened.

The morning sun still streamed through the windows, the city sprawling below her in its indifferent enormity, but Carmella was blind to everything except the echo of that perfect rhythm in her mind. Her fingers found the stethoscope, lifting it from around her neck with a reverence that bordered on worship.

The metal chest piece retained a whisper of warmth, and she closed her eyes as she held it, replaying the sound that had filled her ears moments ago. The cadence of Ms. Chen's heartbeat—strong, regular, with that subtle S3 presence—had been exquisite, a symphony of life force that resonated through Carmella with nearly unbearable intensity.

She pressed the chest piece to her own sternum, seeking the counterpoint of her racing heart, the comparison between her irregular, desire-quickened pulse and the memory of the patient's perfect rhythm. Her heartbeat sounded shallow and frantic through the instrument, a testament to the unprofessional arousal that now consumed her.

"Control yourself," she whispered, the words sharp in the silence of her office. But even as she issued the command, her mind betrayed her, reconstructing the examination in vivid detail—the warmth of Ms. Chen's skin, the slight rise and fall of her chest with each breath, the way the heart's rhythm had changed subtly when she'd shifted position.

Carmella set the stethoscope on the desk, forcing her hands away from the instrument that had become both her professional tool and the conduit for her most private obsession. She'd chosen cardiology with genuine passion for the science, fascinated by the heart's mechanical perfection, its tireless commitment to sustaining life. When had that academic interest evolved into something so personal, so consuming?

Perhaps it had started during her residency, when a particularly striking patient's heartbeat had caught her attention, its rhythm unusually clear and compelling. Or maybe the seeds had been planted earlier, in the anatomy lab when she'd first held a preserved heart in her hands, marveling at the vessel that contained humanity's most potent metaphor for emotion.

Regardless of its origins, the fascination had grown over the years, intensifying until the sound of a heartbeat—particularly a female heartbeat, with its higher pitch and faster baseline rhythm—could send her spiraling into this state of inappropriate arousal. The professional detachment she maintained with steel discipline was her only defense against the tide of her fixation.

Carmella's cheeks burned as she acknowledged the physical signs of her arousal—the heightened sensitivity of her skin, the tightness in her chest, the unmistakable throb of desire between her legs. Her body's response was as clear as any diagnostic reading on her medical equipment, and it filled her with a tangled knot of shame and excitement.

She was a respected cardiologist, a specialist who had published in prestigious journals and lectured at international conferences. Her professional reputation was impeccable, built on years of dedicated study and practice. Yet beneath the perfect exterior lurked this fascination that threatened to undermine everything she had worked for.

What would her colleagues think if they knew? What would her patients feel if they discovered that their doctor listened to their hearts with more than clinical interest? The potential for scandal was enormous, a career-ending possibility that she couldn't afford to ignore.

Yet the intensity of her response was undeniable, a physiological fact as real as any cardiac condition she diagnosed. Her fingers trembled as she reached for a glass of water, trying to cool the heat that had spread through her body. The liquid did little to extinguish the fire that Ms. Chen's heartbeat had ignited.

Carmella forced herself to breathe deeply, employing the same techniques she recommended to anxious patients. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow, controlled, deliberate. The rhythm of her own breathing became a focus point, a way to anchor herself in the storm of her desires.

She justified her interest with scientific rationale—wasn't the heart the most fascinating organ in the human body? Its ceaseless rhythm, its complex electrical pathways, its crucial role in sustaining life made it worthy of devoted study. Her fascination was merely an extension of her professional dedication, a heightened appreciation for the subject of her expertise.

But the scientific explanation rang hollow, even to her own ears. What she felt when listening to a heart like Ms. Chen's transcended academic interest. It was visceral, primal, and undeniably sexual—an inappropriate response that she struggled to reconcile with her professional identity.

The stethoscope caught the light as it lay on her desk, a silver beacon that both represented her medical authority and embodied her deepest temptation. Carmella stared at it, caught in the contradiction of her feelings—pride in her expertise mingled with shame over her secret arousal.

She squared her shoulders, determination hardening her resolve. This fascination may have a hold on her, but she wouldn't allow it to compromise her professional standards. The line between appreciation and exploitation was clear, and she would never cross it. Her patients deserved a doctor who put their care above all else, regardless of her private struggles.

Rising from her chair, Carmella moved to the small bathroom adjoining her office. She splashed cold water on her face, the shock of it helping to clear her mind. In the mirror, her reflection showed the evidence of her inner turmoil—dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, a brightness in her eyes that spoke of unresolved tension.

She dried her face with methodical care, then reapplied her subtle makeup with practiced precision. Each stroke of the lipstick, each touch of the powder brush was an act of reconstruction, rebuilding the façade that had momentarily cracked.

Her lab coat hung on the back of the door, and she straightened it meticulously, adjusting the lapels until they fell in perfect symmetry. She would not allow her private obsession to undermine the professionalism she had spent a lifetime cultivating.

The stethoscope waited on her desk, and she approached it with newfound determination. She picked it up, wiped it thoroughly with an alcohol swab, eradicating any trace of warmth or memory. When she placed it around her neck once more, it was as a medical instrument only, its purpose reclaimed from the realm of inappropriate fascination.

Carmella checked her appearance one final time in the small mirror on her desk. The woman who looked back at her was the consummate professional—composed, authoritative, in complete control. No one looking at her would see the turmoil that still simmered beneath the surface, the echo of a heartbeat that continued to haunt her thoughts. She straightened her spine, adjusted her glasses, and reached for the intercom.

"Please send in the next patient," she said, her voice steady and confident, betraying none of the conflict that raged within her. The professional mask was firmly back in place, the perfect image of medical expertise restored.

But as she waited for the door to open, her fingers unconsciously brushed against the stethoscope at her chest, a fleeting touch that acknowledged the truth she could never fully escape—that beneath the pristine white coat and years of training beat a heart as susceptible to inappropriate desire as any she had ever examined.

#cardiophile #female heart #cardiophile thoughts #stethoscope #heartbeat kink #cardiology #heartbeat #dr. carmella hill #red filled fantasies

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fuliginnous · 4 months ago

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The Yin and Yang of Engineering: Jinx/Viktor

Chap. 1: Tinkering with the absurd.

The scent of scorching metal and candle wax lingered in the air, mingling with the residual ozone of active Hextech. The laboratory existing as an ecosystem of its own — a microcosm of calculated order, in which every movement was rigorously orchestrated, every instrument meticulously placed, every breath synchronized to the steady hum of interconnected machinery. The crisp scratch of graphite against parchment, the measured clink of tools — the usual praxis. Something, however, had already begun to disrupt its equilibrium.

Viktor sensed the disturbance before he saw it. A minute displacement in the air pressure, a fractional shift in the ambient acoustics; the subtlest irregularity. Then, the faintest creak from above.

He let his fingers continue their measured course along the Hextech circuitry before him, grip steady, focus ostensibly unscathed. A test, in part—to see how long the anomaly would linger before announcing itself.

He had already detected the pair of pendulous blue braids dangling into his peripheral vision; had already cataloged mass, velocity, and descent trajectories should the anomaly, as anomalies often do, spiral into a paroxysm of unpredictability.

"You look very ugly from this angle, y'know?" came the snickering, upside-down voice. The words were laced with a gummy, lopsided grin.

Viktor let out a stolid, measured exhale, slowly tipping his head up. “And you resemble a bat.” he replied evenly, tone as measured as his calibrations.

The statement elicited a gnarly laugh from Jinx, who was suspended from an overhead beam. Her entire body was folded into an improbable pose, legs hooked over the steel girder as though gravity were merely a suggestion.

The neon glow of Zaun’s skyline bled in through the lab windows, casting fragmented light over the contours of her rounded features, the faint smudge of soot dusting her jawline, the subtle asymmetry of her pupils—one slightly more dilated than the other. A tell, perhaps.

Viktor merely adjusted a stabilizer. “Should I begin to question how you got up there?”

Jinx twisted midair with a surprising economy of movement. The vertebral rotation was precise, controlled—almost acrobatic.

Then, without warning, she let go. Viktor tensed, a reflexive tightening of his grip on the edge of the workbench. The poor scientist had already begun to map trajectories, force differentials, probabilities of injury, only for the jinx to land in a perfect crouch, one hand brushing the floor for balance before springing up with the fluidity of a creature built for unpredictability.

Jinx twirled once, for no discernible reason other than self-amusement, then flopped onto one of his worktables, her limbs sprawling on the surface with careless abandon.

“So, Doc?” Jinx drawled, tilting her head toward the intricate lattice of Hextech components strewn before him. “whatcha cooking up in that fancy contraption of yours?”

"A minor enhancement,” he answered, gesturing at the faintly pulsating gemstone embedded in the device. “One that may stabilize Hextech output during large power draws. We—” he hesitated, momentarily considering whether to lump himself in with Piltover’s more refined approach "—some of us forget how violent these energies can be when not properly harnessed.”

“Violent energies, violent minds,” she mused, referring to his earlier statement, while patting down the dust on her patchwork trousers. “Nothing a little disorder can't fix.”

“Entropy requires boundaries,” Viktor corrected, keeping his voice gentle despite the admonition. “A container. Else it consumes itself and everything around it.”

"Alright, philosopher," she snickered, "so, what you're telling me is 'no boom'?"

“Absolutely not. No utility whatsoever in explosions."

Jinx's ebullient expression dropped to a saturnine one. “Boring,” she huffed, scrunching her nose. “why are you like this?”

“Functionality,” Viktor returned evenly, “is not contingent on spectacle.”

“Roger that.” she sneered. Jinx twisted at the waist, swinging gently like a pendulum.

She peered at him through the electric haze, turning a small metal sphere over in her hand—one of her bombs, he surmised, judging by the labyrinth of tiny, improvised coils etched along its surface. It was disarmingly compact, unpolished, but brimming with haphazard brilliance. There was artistry in its asymmetry, like a half-remembered blueprint from a dream.

She pressed the sphere into his palm. “Try to make this stable now, yeah?” her tone brimming with the same sardonic twang she always carried. Yet beneath that, a flicker of sincerity: an invitation to test the boundaries she had set.

Viktor’s metal brace squeaked softly as he shifted his weight, accepting the device with steady composure, analyzing the craft with composed fascination. “I am usually up for a challenge,” he replied, a faint thread of wry humor lacing his tone. “However… I must insist you not hang from my rafters again without warning. The structural integrity—”

“Yeah, yeah," she immediately interrupted him, snorting, "... deal."

Viktor set the bomb gently on the worktable and glanced at her. In the silent seconds that followed, there was no condescending tut-tut of a Piltover academic, no sanctimonious lecture of what she could have done better. Merely an unspoken accord that if they could each appreciate the other’s mania—and keep its calamitous potential in check—there was something worth building there.

He adjusted a delicate filament, the faintest suggestion of amusement sparking behind his amber eyes. “You mistake methodology for rigidity,” he randomly mused, glancing sidelong at Jinx.

Her nose wrinkled again, waiting for him to elaborate.

He rolled his wrist as he set a filament connector. “A scientist does not calculate every step merely to banish unpredictability. Calculation is comprehension—to understand a system so deeply that you know precisely where to push and when to pull. Not to prevent chaos,” he added, letting the final phrase hang, “but to direct it.”

Her lids flickered in hesitant acknowledgment; skepticism warred with fascination in her mismatched gaze. “So what you’re saying,” she pressed, “is that you do like messing with things, you quaint, boring guy.”

A soft hum escaped Viktor’s throat, ignoring the insults. “The core of invention is not the mere desire for control, but curiosity,” he continued. “The difference,” he said mildly, “is that I prefer my experiments remain intact by the end of it.”

She slid off the table and prowled around the lab, trailing her fingers over metal and wire, rifling through blueprints.

Jinx moved like she thought in tangents: erratic. Nonlinear. Pausing here, skipping entire sections there, only to circle back if something caught her eye again, in what one could call a stochastic, staccato fashion.

Viktor, wisely, did not intervene. He had long since learned that when it came to Jinx, indirect engagement was often a more effective deterrent than forbiddance.

Eventually, she plopped herself down at a workbench—one cluttered with Viktor and Jayce’s shared diagrams—scrunching them aside with a careless sweep of her forearm. Surprisingly, she took pains not to knock them to the floor or tear them. An almost incongruous note of consideration from someone so prone to what Viktor could only describe as deliberate rascality.

Jinx stretched until a series of pops echoed through the quiet workshop, then rummaged in her satchel. Out came the neon-splashed paraphernalia she called her toolkit: coil springs, nuts and bolts of questionable origin, and—of course—her beloved spray cans in garish, candy-colored hues. The stark contrast against Viktor’s methodical array of polished metal components was almost comical.

Yet neither commented on it. Viktor, engrossed in refining a fractal array for stabilizing Hextech surges, offered only the occasional sideward glance. Jinx, with her usual lack of ceremony, fished out a crude welding torch and got to work assembling... something. If the shape seemed headed toward destructive potential, Viktor refrained from remark—he had long discovered that sharing space with her was a delicate dance better navigated by trusting in her ad-hoc, if not entirely safe, sense of boundaries.

Hours passed in near silence. In place of conversation was the rhythmic hum of the lab, the hiss of flux as Viktor soldered circuit boards, the faint crackle of Jinx’s blowtorch. Occasionally, Jinx broke the hush with a sudden whoop or guttural holler, purely to see Viktor jump at the unexpected noise. Each time, she dissolved into snickering laughter. He responded with measured exasperation, arching one brow but saying nothing. Even so, a trace of bemusement flickered across his features, as though he found her antics strangely disarming.

Eventually, the overhead lamps dimmed, a subtle reminder that the hour was growing late. Viktor powered down his apparatus with a final flip of a switch. Jinx, yawning in an exaggerated manner, began stowing her things in a scuffed leather pouch. "Think 'm headin' out now. Night night."

"Night."

The woman had already crept back up with the grace of a nimble rat, scaling the ceiling pipes, her long electric blue braids once more dangling upon Viktor's forehead as he scarcely managed to push them aside. She then made her way to the same improbable entryway through which she had crashed into the lab, quietly humming an off-key tune before vanishing into the sooty shadows beyond.

Viktor, by contrast, had continued his work undisturbed, denying himself even the basic luxury of sleep. When his eyelids finally began to grow heavy and he awoke from a brief micro-slumber, elbows unceremoniously propped on the workbench, he caught, in a dazed haze, the blurred image of a bizarre object with distinct animalistic contours, stationed before him as though it were unnervingly staring at him.

Instinctively, he flinched, covering his head as if to brace himself for the expected detonation which, surprisingly, never came.

The odd bitzer remained still, with no sign of malevolent nature, glimmering quietly under the workshop’s neon gloom — a squat, mechanical monkey-like figure sporting metallic plating with a grotesque smile and an odd coil in its belly.

Viktor raised a brow as he took note of the small sprig attached to its left hand, that held the monkey's weight into an erect position while seemingly mimicking the scientist's own ligneous cane. His attention was then captured by the bright yellow post-it affixed to the metallic ape with a messy bit of tape, scribbled in a deliberately sloppy handwriting:

“name's cookie... he looks like you. yuo can keep it :o)

– J”

Beneath it, a wonky smiley face scrawled in lurid neon ink, as asymmetrical as its creator’s grin.

It elicited a smile from him, who examined it as it rested upon his palm. Albeit a bit rough in its form, the artefact appeared to be crafted with a certain intent, perhaps even care. He pressed a button to test the mechanism, still half-expecting an explosive cacophony. The monkey’s tiny arms flailed in a spasmodic dance, beginning to tremble as if preceding detonation, only to splutter out a few confetti which landed on his ivory jacket. Viktor shook his head, his expression softening to one of amusement.

He let his index carefully trail over its metal plating, before placing it on his workbench beside the half-finished stabilizer, the neon-paint smudges glaring against the refined Hextech casing. For all the incongruity, there was something undeniably… charming about it. Perhaps endearing even. He'd later hang it up in a corner of the lab, a testament to the newfound, improbable synergy.

For the first time since Jayce's abandonment of the lab in pursuit of his councilor duties, Viktor perceived a vague sense of vacancy following the disappearance of Jinx and her shenaningans, which alongside his exhaustion finally prompted him to call it a day and go home, an unfortunately rare occurrence for the inventor.

In truth, this measured respect and fascination had begun well before Jinx’s impromptu acrobatics in Viktor’s laboratory — it had taken root, ironically, in moments where they’d never even met face-to-face.

Viktor recalled being urgently presented with the disarrayed collection of fuliginous, hazardous mechanical constructs—agglomerations of metallic scraps, remnants of gunpowder cartridges, and nearly comical embellishments of dubious taste, alarmingly rumored to have derived from Silco's inner circle.

"The configuration is... rough, though there certainly is a certain knowledge of engineering, if not mere intuition." Viktor mused, carefully examining the device's labyrinthine wiring and ingeniously modified spark fuses of the complex apparatus beneath him.

"Would they be capable of figuring Hextech out?" Jayce wondered aloud, his steps resonating an anxious rhythm across the chamber's floor.

"Eh," Viktor hummed pensively, "I wouldn't exclude it. The possibility does exist."

"With a complete lack of the theoretical basis? No, no. Years of research and tests only for some... sick, delinquent mind to comprehend and emulate so effortlessly? No chance." he quickly retorted, the firm incredulity in his voice coming across as an attempt at self-regulation rather than genuine conviction. "This is merely a... well-thought attempt at scare tactics. To intimidate us into allowing independency."

"The absence of formal theory, or proper equipment, only serves to underscore the inventive potential of such mechanical artistry." Viktor countered, "If only such acumen could be channeled towards something more... constructive." he then mused, lithe fingers delicately twiddling with the disassembled filaments beneath him.

"Potential? Viktor, this is sheer madness. These are seeds of entropy threatening to contaminate the flourishing utopia that is Piltover. I can not tolerate nor allow this, and may be obliged to..." he paused, simultaneously recalling Medarda's words and anticipating the partner's disapproval, "take countermeasures."

The statement did, in fact, earn a mild glare from Viktor, who was intently scanning the device's subversive wiring.

"If I recall correctly, weren't Hexgems, too, violently volatile in their raw form?" Viktor extended his arm, the servos in his brace whirring faintly as he aligned the titanium-tipped cutters with the wire he had deduced to be the linchpin of the circuitry,

"Volatility is often the embyron of great potential," he continued, finally neutralizing the bomb, "the only requirement being the correct catalyst to refine and stabilize its essence."

#arcane #viktor arcane #jinx arcane #viktor x jinx #jinx x viktor #jinxtor #rarepair #there are so many parallelisms..#two sides of the same coin #perhaps #they are both insane engineers #from zaun #gasp!

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