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bratzkoo · 10 months ago

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yours, always and forever | jeonghan

Author: bratzkoo | beta read by: @spnyin Pairing: perfumer! jeonghan x estrange wife! reader Genre: fluff, angst Rating: PG-15 Word count: 5.9k Warnings/note: went on a shopping trip with my mom and i cried when i smelled rose kabuki by dior. Happy National Boyfriend's Day to our boyfriend, Jeonghan.

summary: Perfumer Yoon Jeonghan took the Perfume industry by storm with his intriguing perfume names that seems to be inspired by one specific person which makes the industry question, who is he even naming his creations after? Only Y/N, Jeonghan’s estrange wife knows the answer.

taglist (hit me up if you wanna be added): @escoupseu , @yanabaaaaaaarysheva , @spnyin , @sousydive , @gyuguys , @gyubakeries

requests are open, but you can just say hi! | masterlist

The soft glow of the setting sun painted the New York skyline in hues of gold and pink, a stark contrast to the sleek, modern interior of the penthouse apartment where Yoon Jeonghan stood, gazing out at the city he'd conquered. In his hand, a delicate crystal glass held a swirl of amber liquid, its aroma mingling with the lingering scents that always clung to him—a symphony of olfactory notes that had become his signature.

Jeonghan took a sip of his drink, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. His eyes, dark and intense, reflected the city lights beginning to twinkle in the twilight. At thirty-two, he was at the pinnacle of his career, a prodigy in the world of perfumery, and the toast of the fashion and beauty industries. For the third year in a row, the title of Perfumer of the Year sat comfortably on his shoulders, a crown he wore with a mixture of pride and nonchalance that only added to his allure.

The gentle ping of his phone drew his attention away from the view. Another congratulatory message, no doubt. They had been pouring in all day, ever since the announcement of his latest triumph. Jeonghan ignored it, choosing instead to walk over to his workspace—a sprawling, custom-designed lab that took up nearly half of his living area.

Here, amidst the orderly chaos of beakers, pipettes, and countless vials of essences and extracts, was where the magic happened. This was where he crafted the scents that had taken the world by storm, perfumes that didn't just smell divine but told stories, evoked memories, and stirred emotions in ways that left critics and consumers alike in awe.

Jeonghan's fingers trailed over the labels of his latest collection, a small smile playing on his lips as he read each name aloud:

"You, in the Garden."

"You, in Greece."

"You, in the Club Holding Your Favorite Drink."

"You, in New York."

Each name was a whisper of the past, a fragment of a story that the public could only guess at. And guess they did. Entire forums were dedicated to deciphering the meaning behind Jeonghan's enigmatic perfume names. Who was this mysterious 'you'? A lover? A muse? A figment of the perfumer's vivid imagination?

Speculation ran rampant. Some theorized it was a marketing ploy, a clever way to personalize each scent for the wearer. Others believed Jeonghan was leaving breadcrumbs, telling his own story through these olfactory chapters. The more romantic souls insisted it was an ode to a lost love, each perfume a memory crystallized in scent.

If only they knew.

Jeonghan's smile faded as he picked up the bottle of "You, in New York." The weight of it in his hand felt heavier than it should, laden with memories he both cherished and tried to forget. He uncapped it, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply.

Notes of crisp apple and bergamot gave way to a heart of rose and jasmine, grounded by a base of sandalwood and vanilla. But beneath these carefully orchestrated notes lay something else, something only he could detect—the ghost of her perfume, the one she wore on that last night.

Across the city, in a modest but charming brownstone in Brooklyn, Y/N sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by discarded wrapping paper and birthday cards. The celebration had been small but joyful, a gathering of the close friends who had become her support system over the past few years. As the night wound down and the last guest departed, she found herself alone with her thoughts and the pile of gifts yet to be properly examined.

One box in particular caught her eye. It was elegant, wrapped in matte black paper with a single silver ribbon. There was no card, no indication of who it was from. Curiosity piqued, Y/N carefully untied the ribbon and peeled back the paper.

Her breath caught in her throat as she revealed the contents. Nestled in a bed of black satin was a bottle she recognized all too well, even though she had never held it before. The clean lines of the glass, the minimalist label with its distinctive handwritten font—it was unmistakably one of Jeonghan's creations.

With trembling hands, Y/N lifted the bottle. "You, in New York," she read aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. A humorless laugh escaped her lips. How fitting, how cruelly ironic that of all his perfumes, this would be the one to find its way to her.

New York. The city where dreams came true and hearts were broken. The city where, five years ago, she had celebrated her last birthday with Jeonghan. It had been magical—a surprise weekend getaway, a whirlwind of Broadway shows, candlelit dinners, and long walks through Central Park. It was the last time she remembered feeling truly, incandescently happy.

It was also the weekend that marked the beginning of the end.

Y/N uncapped the bottle, hesitating for just a moment before bringing it to her nose. The scent hit her like a wave, transporting her instantly back to that weekend. She could almost feel the crisp autumn air on her skin, hear the bustling streets, see Jeonghan's smile as he pulled her close on top of the Empire State Building.

Unbidden, tears began to fall, leaving glistening trails down her cheeks. Five years. Five years since she had spoken to him, seen him, been in the same room as him. And yet, with one carefully crafted scent, he could still reach across that divide and touch her very soul.

They weren't divorced—the paperwork sat untouched in a drawer in her study, a task neither of them seemed able to bring themselves to complete. But they might as well have been strangers for all the communication that passed between them. Estranged was the word the media used when they bothered to mention her at all. Jeonghan's mysterious wife, who had disappeared from the public eye as swiftly and suddenly as Jeonghan had risen to fame.

Y/N set the bottle on her nightstand, unable to put it away but unwilling to hold it any longer. She reached for her phone, scrolling through the countless birthday messages until she found the one she was looking for. It was from her best friend, Mina:

"Hey birthday girl! Hope you loved all your gifts. That last one... the perfume. I hope it wasn't too much. When I saw it, I just thought... well, maybe it was time. You can't run from the past forever, Y/N. Call me if you need to talk. Love you!"

So it had been Mina. Y/N wasn't sure whether to thank her friend or curse her for this unexpected trip down memory lane. She fell back onto her pillows, staring at the ceiling as her mind raced.

Did Jeonghan know his perfume had found its way to her? Did he still think of her when he created these scents? Was she the 'you' in every bottle, or had someone else taken her place in his heart and his art?

Questions she had buried for years bubbled to the surface, demanding attention. Y/N closed her eyes, willing sleep to come and provide a temporary escape. But the scent of "You, in New York" lingered in the air, a persistent reminder of all that had been and all that was lost.

Meanwhile, in his penthouse, Jeonghan had moved from his lab to his home office. The wall opposite his desk was covered in framed magazine covers and articles, a testament to his meteoric rise in the industry. His eyes, however, were fixed on a single frame tucked away in the corner of his desk. It was turned face down, but he knew every detail of the photograph it held—him and Y/N, laughing and in love, on their wedding day.

He reached for it, hesitating for a moment before picking it up and turning it over. They looked so young, so full of hope and dreams. Jeonghan traced the outline of Y/N's face with his finger, wondering not for the first time where she was, what she was doing, if she ever thought of him.

A notification on his computer screen drew his attention. It was an email from his publicist, marked urgent:

"Jeonghan,

The press is buzzing about your win and the launch of 'You, in New York.' Vogue wants an exclusive interview, and they're particularly interested in the inspiration behind your perfume names. I've held them off so far, but we need to give them something. The mysterious artist angle only works for so long.

Also, there's been some renewed interest in your personal life. A few gossip blogs have dug up old photos of you and Y/N. Nothing scandalous, but we should be prepared for questions.

Let me know how you want to handle this.

- Somin"

Jeonghan leaned back in his chair, a frown creasing his brow. He had known this day would come eventually. The perfume industry thrived on stories, on the personalities behind the scents. He had managed to maintain an air of mystery for years, letting his creations speak for themselves. But now, with his continued success and the increasingly personal nature of his perfume names, the world wanted more.

How could he possibly explain the truth? That each perfume was a love letter, a memory, a piece of his heart poured into a bottle? That 'You, in the Garden' was born from lazy Sunday mornings spent in their tiny apartment's rooftop garden, Y/N's laughter mingling with the scent of herbs and flowers? That 'You, in Greece' captured the essence of their honeymoon, sun-kissed skin and salty air and the intoxicating feeling of being young and in love?

And 'You, in New York'... Jeonghan's gaze drifted back to the photograph. Their last happy moment, preserved in glass and scent. He had poured every ounce of his skill into that perfume, trying to capture not just the smells of the city, but the feeling of that weekend—the joy, the love, and the bittersweet edge of what was to come.

He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Y/N's contact. He hadn't deleted it, couldn't bring himself to erase that last tangible connection. But he hadn't used it either, not in five long years. What would he even say?

"I'm sorry"?

"I miss you"?

"Every scent I create is a desperate attempt to hold onto the memory of us"?

Jeonghan set the phone down, leaving the call unmade. Instead, he turned back to his computer and began to type a response to his publicist:

"Somin,

Set up the Vogue interview. I'll give them the story they want.

As for my personal life, it remains personal. No comments on old photos or relationships.

- Jeonghan"

He hit send before he could second-guess himself. It was time to give the public a peek behind the curtain, to feed the curiosity that had been building for years. He would craft a story, something romantic and mysterious enough to satisfy the masses without revealing the raw, painful truth.

After all, isn't that what he did best? Create beautiful illusions, capture feelings in a bottle, tell stories through scent? This would just be another performance, another carefully constructed facade.

But as Jeonghan stood to pour himself another drink, his eyes fell once more on the photograph of him and Y/N. For a moment, the mask slipped, and a look of profound sadness crossed his face. All the success, all the accolades, all the adoration from fans around the world—none of it filled the Y/N-shaped hole in his heart.

In the quiet of his luxurious apartment, surrounded by the fruits of his success, Yoon Jeonghan—three-time Perfumer of the Year, creator of the most sought-after fragrances in the world—had never felt more alone.

As the night deepened, two souls on opposite sides of the city lay awake, each haunted by memories and might-have-beens. The scent of "You, in New York" lingered in the air, a fragrant bridge across the chasm that separated them. Neither knew that this birthday, this perfume, this moment of remembrance, was about to set in motion a chain of events that would force them to confront their past and decide their future.

The sleek, modernist interior of Vogue's New York office buzzed with nervous energy as staff scurried about, making last-minute preparations. Today was no ordinary day—they were about to interview Yoon Jeonghan, the enigmatic perfumer who had captivated the fashion world with his mysterious creations.

Jeonghan sat in the makeup chair, his eyes closed as the artist applied a light touch of powder to his already flawless skin. He exuded an aura of calm, but beneath the surface, his mind raced. This interview was a calculated risk, a chance to satisfy the public's curiosity while maintaining the mystique that had become his trademark.

"Mr. Yoon, we're ready for you," a young assistant called, clipboard clutched to her chest.

Jeonghan opened his eyes, meeting his reflection in the mirror. He adjusted his tie—a deep, midnight blue that brought out the intensity of his gaze—and stood. With a deep breath, he stepped into the lion's den.

The interviewer, a sharp-eyed woman named Clara, greeted him with a professional smile. "Mr. Yoon, thank you for joining us. Shall we begin?"

As the cameras rolled, Clara launched into her questions, starting with the safe and expected before gradually probing deeper.

"Your latest fragrance, 'You, in New York,' has taken the world by storm," Clara said, leaning forward slightly. "Can you tell us about the inspiration behind it?"

Jeonghan's lips curved into a small smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "New York is a city of dreams and memories," he began, his voice smooth and measured. "I wanted to capture the essence of a perfect moment in time—the crisp air of a fall evening, the excitement of possibility, the bittersweet beauty of a fleeting experience."

"And the 'you' in the title?" Clara pressed. "Your fragrances all seem to be addressing someone specific. Is there a story there?"

For a fraction of a second, Jeonghan's composure slipped. A flicker of something—pain? longing?—crossed his face before the mask slid back into place. "The 'you' is everyone and no one," he said carefully. "It's the wearer of the perfume, the object of desire, the memory of a love lost or yet to be found. I believe that the most personal stories are often the most universal."

As the interview continued, Jeonghan wove a tale of inspiration drawn from travels, fleeting encounters, and imagined romances. It was a beautiful story, crafted as carefully as his perfumes. But those who knew him best might have noticed the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers occasionally twitched as if reaching for something—or someone—just out of grasp.

---

The publication of the Vogue interview sent shockwaves through the fashion and beauty world. Social media exploded with theories and interpretations of Jeonghan's words. Fan forums dissected every sentence, looking for hidden meanings and clues about the mysterious muse behind his creations.

@ScentObsessed tweeted: "OMG, did you catch how his voice changed when talking about 'You, in New York'? There's definitely a real story there! #YoonJeonghan #PerfumeMystery"

A popular beauty vlogger released a 20-minute video analyzing Jeonghan's body language during the interview, claiming to have spotted at least five instances where he seemed to be holding back tears.

Even serious fashion critics couldn't resist speculating. A piece in WWD posed the question: "Is Yoon Jeonghan's entire oeuvre an olfactory autobiography? The clues hidden in his fragrances."

---

Across the city, Y/N sat at her kitchen table, a cup of coffee growing cold beside her as she stared at her laptop screen. The Vogue article was open, Jeonghan's face looking back at her from a series of artfully shot photographs.

She had promised herself she wouldn't read it. Had sworn she was past all this, that she had moved on. But curiosity—and perhaps something deeper, something she wasn't ready to name—had gotten the better of her.

Now, as she read his carefully crafted words, Y/N felt a complex mix of emotions churning inside her. Anger at the half-truths, sadness at the memories his words evoked, and a traitorous flutter of her heart at the moments where she could see through his facade to the man she once knew so well.

A knock at the door startled her out of her reverie. Y/N closed the laptop quickly, as if hiding evidence of a crime, before going to answer.

"Ms. Y/N?" A woman with a press badge stood in the hallway, notepad in hand. "I'm Mia from Style Weekly. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about Yoon Jeonghan's latest interview."

Y/N felt the blood drain from her face. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about," she said, moving to close the door.

The reporter's foot blocked the doorway. "Please, just a moment. Your connection to Mr. Yoon is a matter of public record. Surely you must have some insight into the inspirations behind his work?"

"No comment," Y/N managed, her voice strangled. She pushed the door closed with more force, hearing the reporter's muffled protests from the other side.

Leaning against the door, Y/N slid to the floor, her heart pounding. It was happening again. The life she had carefully rebuilt, separate from Jeonghan and his world of glitz and glamour, was threatening to crumble around her.

---

In his penthouse, Jeonghan paced back and forth, phone pressed to his ear. "Somin, I thought we agreed to keep my personal life out of this," he said, frustration evident in his voice.

His publicist's calm tones came through the speaker. "Jeonghan, we did our best, but you have to understand. The public is hungry for this. Your story, the mystery—it's what sells. The interview was a huge success."

"At what cost?" Jeonghan muttered, more to himself than to Somin.

After ending the call, he walked to his workspace, surrounded by the tools of his trade. His fingers trailed over the bottles of his creations, lingering on "You, in New York."

For a moment, he allowed himself to remember—truly remember, not the sanitized version he had presented to the world. He saw Y/N's smile as they watched the sunset from the Top of the Rock, felt the warmth of her hand in his as they strolled through Central Park.

Almost without conscious thought, his hand reached for his phone. Y/N's contact information stared back at him, unchanged after all these years. His thumb hovered over the call button.

A war raged inside him. The desire to hear her voice, to explain, to apologize, warred with the fear of rejection, of reopening old wounds.

In the end, he set the phone down, the call unmade. But the desire, the need, lingered.

---

"Y/N, have you seen this?" Mina's voice came through the phone, excitement evident. "Jeonghan's Vogue interview. Girl, he's talking about you."

Y/N sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Mina, please. You know I don't want to hear about—"

"No, listen," Mina interrupted. "He talks about a moment in New York, watching the sunset from a rooftop garden. That was you two, wasn't it? On your last birthday together?"

Y/N's breath caught. She remembered that evening with painful clarity—the golden light, the gentle breeze, the feeling that everything was perfect. It was mere days before it all fell apart.

"It doesn't matter," Y/N said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Honey," Mina said gently, "I think it does. He's been telling your story all along, in every bottle. Maybe... maybe it's time to tell yours."

After hanging up, Y/N found herself once again staring at the bottle of "You, in New York." She uncapped it, letting the scent envelop her. In that moment, she allowed herself to truly feel everything she had been suppressing for years.

The realization hit her like a wave: Jeonghan hadn't forgotten. Every perfume, every story, was a message in a bottle, cast out into the world in hopes that someday, somehow, it would reach her.

---

The charity gala was in full swing, the cream of New York society mingling amidst the glittering decor of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Jeonghan moved through the crowd, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, the perfect image of the successful artist.

He was in the middle of a conversation with a fashion designer when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he found himself face to face with an old friend—one he shared with Y/N.

"Jeonghan," the friend said, a strange mix of emotions playing across their face. "It's been too long."

As they talked, catching up on the years that had passed, Jeonghan found himself hungry for any scrap of information about Y/N. He tried to be subtle, but his old friend saw right through him.

"She's doing well, Jeonghan," they said softly. "She's strong. But... I think she misses you too."

The words hit Jeonghan like a physical blow. He excused himself, making his way to a quiet corner of the museum. His carefully constructed world felt like it was shifting beneath his feet.

Across the city, Y/N was experiencing a similar upheaval. A mutual friend had let slip that Jeonghan had asked about her, that he still kept a photo of them on his desk.

As the night wore on, both Jeonghan and Y/N found themselves standing at a crossroads. The walls they had built, the distance they had maintained, suddenly seemed more like obstacles than protection.

Unbeknownst to each other, they both reached for their phones at nearly the same moment. Fingers hovering over screens, hearts pounding, they stood on the precipice of a decision that could change everything.

In the air, the faint scent of "You, in New York" lingered, a reminder of what was lost and what, perhaps, could still be found.

The stage was set. The next move was theirs.

The Autumn chill nipped at Y/N's skin as she stood outside the small café, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets. Her eyes darted nervously up and down the street, searching for a familiar face she hadn't seen in years. Her heart raced, a mix of anticipation and fear coursing through her veins.

She almost jumped when her phone buzzed. A text from Jeonghan: "I'm here."

Y/N's breath caught in her throat as she spotted him rounding the corner. Jeonghan looked much the same as she remembered, yet somehow different. His hair was styled differently, and he carried himself with a weariness that hadn't been there before. But his eyes—those eyes that had once looked at her with such love—were as intense as ever.

Their gazes locked, and for a moment, the busy New York street faded away. It was just the two of them, standing on opposite sides of a chasm five years in the making.

Jeonghan reached her first, stopping a few feet away. "Y/N," he said, his voice a mix of relief and uncertainty.

"Jeonghan," she replied, surprised at how steady her own voice sounded.

An awkward silence fell between them, years of unspoken words and suppressed emotions creating an almost tangible barrier.

"Should we..." Jeonghan gestured towards the café, and Y/N nodded, grateful for the suggestion.

Inside, they found a quiet corner booth. The warm, coffee-scented air was a stark contrast to the tension between them. They ordered—an Americano for him, a latte for her, just like old times—and then faced each other across the small table.

"You look well," Jeonghan said, his fingers fidgeting with a sugar packet.

Y/N managed a small smile. "So do you. I... I've seen your interviews. Congratulations on all your success."

Jeonghan's face tightened almost imperceptibly. "Thank you. I hear you're doing well too. Teaching, right?"

She nodded. "Yeah, literature at NYU. It's... it's good."

Another silence fell, heavier this time. Y/N took a sip of her latte, using the moment to gather her thoughts.

"Why did you want to meet, Jeonghan?" she finally asked, setting her cup down perhaps a bit too forcefully.

Jeonghan looked up, meeting her gaze directly for the first time since they sat down. "I... I missed you, Y/N. Every day for five years, I've missed you."

The raw honesty in his voice caught Y/N off guard. She felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes and blinked them back furiously.

"You missed me?" she repeated, a hint of bitterness creeping into her tone. "You're the one who left, Jeonghan. You chose your career over us."

Jeonghan flinched as if he'd been slapped. "I know," he said softly. "And I've regretted it every day since."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, familiar bottle. Y/N's breath hitched as she recognized it—"You, in New York."

"Every scent, every name," Jeonghan continued, his voice thick with emotion, "they were all for you. About you. My way of holding onto what we had, what I threw away."

Y/N stared at the bottle, memories flooding back. The laughter, the love, the pain—it all came rushing back in a dizzying whirl.

"I thought I was protecting you," Jeonghan said. "The pressure, the spotlight—it was destroying us. I thought... I thought if I let you go, you could have a normal life. Be happy."

"That wasn't your choice to make," Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You should have talked to me. We could have figured it out together."

Jeonghan nodded, running a hand through his hair in a gesture so familiar it made Y/N's heart ache. "I know that now. God, Y/N, I know. I was young and stupid and scared. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I was just a coward."

Y/N felt the walls she'd built around her heart begin to crumble. She reached out, almost unconsciously, and took the perfume bottle from Jeonghan's hand. As she did, their fingers brushed, sending a jolt of electricity through both of them.

"I tried to hate you," Y/N admitted, her thumb tracing the label of the bottle. "I tried so hard to forget, to move on. But then I'd catch a whiff of one of your perfumes, or see your face on a magazine cover, and it all came flooding back."

Jeonghan leaned forward, his eyes pleading. "I know I have no right to ask this, but... is there any chance? For us? I'm not the same man I was five years ago. I've learned, I've grown. And I know now that nothing—no amount of success or fame—means anything without you."

Y/N closed her eyes, feeling tears slip down her cheeks. When she opened them again, she saw that Jeonghan's eyes were also wet.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "You hurt me, Jeonghan. Deeply. That's not something that can be fixed with a conversation and some pretty words."

Jeonghan nodded, his face falling. But before he could speak, Y/N continued.

"But... I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss you too. That I didn't still love you, despite everything."

Hope bloomed in Jeonghan's eyes. "So... what does that mean?"

Y/N took a deep breath. "It means... it means maybe we can try. Slowly. No grand gestures, no rushing back into things. We need to relearn each other, rebuild trust. Can you do that?"

Jeonghan reached across the table, gently taking Y/N's hand in his. The familiar warmth of his touch sent a shiver down her spine.

"Y/N, I would wait a lifetime if that's what it took. We'll go as slow as you need. I just... I just want a chance to make things right."

For the first time since they sat down, Y/N felt a genuine smile tugging at her lips. "Okay," she said softly. "Let's try."

The gentle spring breeze carried the scent of cherry blossoms through Central Park, where Jeonghan and Y/N walked hand in hand, their steps slow and purposeful. Two years had passed since that fateful night when they both reached for their phones, finally bridging the gap that had separated them for so long.

"I still can't believe we're here," Y/N said, squeezing Jeonghan's hand. "Sometimes I think I'll wake up and find it was all a dream."

Jeonghan brought her hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on her knuckles. "If it's a dream, then I never want to wake up," he replied, his eyes shining with emotion.

They found a quiet bench overlooking the lake, the same spot where they had sat years ago, planning their future together. Now, older and wiser, they sat again, the weight of their shared history and renewed love settling comfortably between them.

"The launch is tomorrow," Jeonghan said, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "Are you ready?"

Y/N took a deep breath, nodding. "As ready as I'll ever be. It's still surreal, you know? Being back in this world, but on my own terms this time."

The past two years had been a whirlwind of rediscovery and healing. After their reconnection, Jeonghan and Y/N had taken things slowly, rebuilding trust and relearning each other. Y/N had been adamant about maintaining her independence, refusing to be swallowed up by Jeonghan's world as she had been before.

To everyone's surprise—including her own—Y/N had discovered a talent for perfumery. What had started as curious questions about Jeonghan's process had evolved into a genuine passion. Under his guidance, she had begun to create her own scents, her natural intuition complementing Jeonghan's technical expertise.

And now, tomorrow, they would launch their first collaborative perfume.

"I have something for you," Jeonghan said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small, elegant bottle, its contents shimmering in the afternoon sun.

Y/N gasped, recognizing the prototype they had been working on. "Is this...?"

Jeonghan nodded, a smile playing on his lips. "The final version. I wanted you to be the first to see it—to smell it."

With trembling hands, Y/N took the bottle. The label read "Essence of Us" in Jeonghan's distinctive handwriting. Below it, in smaller letters: "By Jeonghan & Y/N."

She uncapped the bottle, bringing it to her nose. The scent enveloped her immediately—bright citrus notes of bergamot and lemon, giving way to a heart of rose and jasmine, grounded by warm sandalwood and a hint of vanilla. But there was something more, something uniquely them—a note that spoke of long nights of conversation, of laughter shared over coffee, of gentle kisses and whispered promises.

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes. "It's perfect," she whispered.

Jeonghan wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. "It's us," he said simply. "All of us. The good, the bad, the journey we've taken."

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, Jeonghan and Y/N sat in comfortable silence, the scent of their creation lingering in the air around them.

The launch event for "Essence of Us" was the talk of the fashion world. Held in the same New York hotel where Jeonghan and Y/N had celebrated her last birthday before their separation, it was a poignant reminder of how far they had come.

Cameras flashed as Jeonghan and Y/N stepped onto the red carpet, a united front. Y/N, dressed in a flowing gown that shimmered like liquid silver, looked every inch the confident co-creator, a far cry from the woman who had once hidden in Jeonghan's shadow.

Inside, the room was transformed into a sensory wonderland. Different stations represented the various notes of the perfume, allowing guests to experience each element individually before sampling the final product.

As the crowd mingled and the excitement built, Jeonghan clinked a glass, calling for attention. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to the stage where he and Y/N stood.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," Jeonghan began, his voice carrying easily through the room. "This launch is special for many reasons, but none more so than the fact that it represents not just a new scent, but a new chapter."

He turned to Y/N, love evident in his gaze. "For years, my perfumes told the story of what I had lost. They were messages in bottles, cast out into the world in the hope that someday, they might find their way back to the one who inspired them."

Y/N stepped forward, taking Jeonghan's hand. "And I heard those messages," she continued, her voice strong and clear. "Even when I tried not to listen, even when I thought that chapter of my life was closed forever. They called to me, reminding me of a love that never truly faded."

Together, they unveiled the perfume—an elegant bottle that seemed to capture the light, refracting it into a thousand tiny rainbows.

"'Essence of Us' is more than just a perfume," Jeonghan said. "It's a testament to the power of love, of forgiveness, of second chances. It's the scent of two people who lost their way, only to find that all paths led back to each other."

Y/N nodded, adding, "It's also a new beginning. A declaration that our story isn't just about the past, but about the future we choose to create together."

As the crowd applauded and the first samples of "Essence of Us" were distributed, Jeonghan and Y/N shared a private smile. They had poured their hearts into this creation, distilling years of love, loss, and rediscovery into a single, perfect scent.

Months later, as "Essence of Us" continued to top bestseller lists and garner critical acclaim, Jeonghan and Y/N found themselves back in their favorite spot in Central Park. The trees were ablaze with autumn colors, a crisp breeze carrying the promise of winter.

"I've been thinking," Jeonghan said, his tone casual but his eyes betraying a hint of nervousness. "About the future. About us."

Y/N looked at him curiously. "Oh? And what have you been thinking?"

Jeonghan took a deep breath, reaching into his pocket. "I've been thinking that maybe it's time for a new scent. Something... permanent."

He pulled out a small velvet box, opening it to reveal a stunning ring. The design was unique—a delicate gold band that twisted into the shape of an infinity symbol, set with tiny diamonds that caught the light like drops of perfume.

"Y/N," Jeonghan said, his voice thick with emotion, "will you marry me? Again? For real this time, for always?"

Tears sprang to Y/N's eyes as she nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. As Jeonghan slipped the ring onto her finger, she finally found her voice. "Yes," she whispered. "Forever and always."

They sealed the promise with a kiss, the scent of "Essence of Us" mingling with the crisp autumn air. As they broke apart, both laughing and crying, Jeonghan's eyes lit up with that familiar spark of inspiration.

"I think I know what our next perfume will be called," he said, grinning.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips. "Oh? Do tell."

Jeonghan pulled her close, whispering in her ear: "You, Forever and Always."

And as they walked hand in hand through the park, already discussing notes and accords for their new creation, both Jeonghan and Y/N knew that this—their love, their passion, their shared creativity—was the most intoxicating scent of all.

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muzansfangs · 1 year ago

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Black Russian with muzan?

The scientist and his experiment.

Starring: Muzan Kibutsuji x f!reader;

Format: one-shot;

Warnings: nsfw, spanking, power imbalance, blood and gore, violence, mention to death and death threats, mention to cannibalism, body horror, abusive language, hair pulling, creampie, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, demon!reader, orgasm denial, language, degradation, sub!reader, dom!muzan, testing onto underlings;

Plot: Experimenting in his laboratory, Muzan had tried once again to come up with a way to finally withstand the sunlight. Not keen to test the potion on himself, he had summoned you, one of the new Upper Moons who had joined the higher ranks. Teasing him about the most likely negative outcome of his experiment, you ended up smashing the cruet containing the potion and you both inhaled the exhalation generated by the liquid. If you both were pissed off a minute before the accident, why were you now growling and tearing your clothes off of your bodies?

Drink chosen: BLACK RUSSIAN (spanking, hair pulling, orgasm denial, vaginal sex, creampie);

MASTERLIST FOR THE EVENT | RULES FOR THE EVENT

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

“Not a day can pass without you craving my presence, huh?” you sassily gloated, head dangling from the edge of the canopied bed of the infamous Kibutsuji Muzan to stare at his back, flexing underneath the silken fabric of his shirt with each movement he made. If you were a lower rank he would have most likely already killed you.

He never truly enjoyed your presence, only restraining from getting rid of you for your loyalty and lethality. You were not the strongest Upper Moon at his service, yet you were the only one who solely searched for the Slayers and consumed them to the bone. Your diet was remarkably satisfying for him. Pillars, new recruits, you never paid attention to their rank. When they died, their flesh tasted the same.

“Silence” Muzan flatly muttered, pouring some greenish substance into a still empty cruet. Sadly, he had summoned you for testing his new experiment and had no interest in striking up a conversation with you. Let alone actually enjoying your company.

Then again, you could not actually believe he was completely unaffected by your charm. Brows knitting together in indignation, you scoffed and rolled off of the bed. Your kimono had slided down your shoulders, cleavage on full display for a wandering eye to admire, but still Muzan blatantly ignored you. He deemed you something between a slimy worm and pretty much an annoying fly, to be correct. A slave to his whims, at best, a pawn in his scheme to conquer the sun and expand his reign of terror to the daylight.

Walking up to him, you slammed your hands onto his desk, paying no attention to the papers you were creasing, as your head tilted to the side to scrutinize the way his hands flipped the pages of his diary, or how he carefully grasped a pipette to mix up multicolored substances “Shush me again and I won’t drink up your shitty potion. Or shall I refer to it as your new failed attempt to imitate the skills of that doctor you regrettably murdered, huh?” you asserted, fed up with his attitude.

This bastard should have been glad you worked so hard to purge Japan from his natural born enemies. You even went to the extent of setting fire to the wisteria you ran into through your journeys. However, it was not enough with him. It was never enough.

Muzan’s irritation grew exponentially at your words, jaw clenching in unbridled rage at the mention of his incapacity to find the blue spider lily and improve the medicine his doctor had given him so many centuries ago. You should have been grateful he had even bothered turning you into a demon, welcoming you in his kingdom, sharing his blood with you, donating incommensurable power and eternal beauty. Still, ungratefully, there you were, daring to mock him for his unsuccess in upgrading a stupid medication. He was a man of intellect, he only lacked a mere ingredient to perfect that effing brew.

“Useless brat, wash your mouth, when you talk about me. — he hissed through gritted teeth, the nails in his right hand sharpening under your now wary gaze — Will you ever understand how insignificant to me you are and how privileged you have been for having stumbled on my path?” he bitterly stated, snapping his diary close with a dull thud and tossing it across the room in sheer wrath.

His fangs had protruded from his gums, shiny, pointy and deadly. The veins rooting on his face and his pupils reduced to two slits were your last warning. You tried to dodge his attack, but the dark blood dripping down the floor from your face, as your skin slowly regenerated, were events happening in a fraction of time not even your demonic eye had registered. The pain though was there, the wince burning your throat the proof he had already struck you, before you could react.

A slash straight on your cheek, deep cuts left by his claws still bleeding up led you to clasp your hand pathetically over the wounds, as if you could stop the flow. You cussed, fury glinting in your eyes, your subservient nature leaving space to an unprecedented thirst for revenge nothing could quench. You knew beating him was impossible. Lacking the skills was the least of your problems. Why? Because how could you defeat someone who could read your mind?

You growled, fangs on full display, before your good eye darted from his face to the desk. Fetching a blow directly at him would have never worked, but not even Lord Kibutsuji could prevent glass from shattering, or ink to restore on the paper.

The moment he understood your aim was not directed at him, he did not hesitate to wrap his hand around your throat. The air was sucked out of your lungs, feet leaving the ground, kicking at the air, as you glared in defiance at him. Maybe he thought he could physically stop you, but your blood demon technique worked without you touching the elements you wanted to destroy.

“Don’t you dare” he snarled at your face, his nails digging onto your smooth flesh drawing crescent bloody moons, tinging your white kimono in a crimson shade of red.

“Respectfully, f-fuck you” you choked out, smiling like a mad woman as you snapped your fingers and the very potion he had just ultimated exploded into a million splinters under his incredulous eyes. The sound of the glass shattering was the sign of your victory. You were probably going to die, your immortal life coming to an end by the very hands of the man who had gifted you that second chance of living like a supernatural being.

But you smiled, you never stopped smiling, not even as your forehead was smashed down against the edge of the desk. You laughed instead, an hysterical but genuine laughter that made Muzan’s blood boil as he tangled his fingers through your hair and strained your neck back to meet your eyes. Pain was long forgotten in that very moment. Every fiber of your body screamed to you that you had reached a level of freedom from him no one had ever been able to reach.

“You are a degenerate worm not deserving of existing. The sight of you makes me vomit” he deadpanned, forcing you back on your feet roughly and tightening the grip on your hair, as he watched the puddle of the liquid spilled sizzling onto the carpet underneath his feet, liquifying it. He had failed then. He had wasted his time once again. Two weeks spent in mixing together ingredients, studying new a formula, only to be reminded of the thruth you had shouted at his face: he could not match the skill of that damned doctor.

He never lost his composure, not even when he punished his underlings. But you had truly amazed him with your stupid antics and a kink for self-destructing choices. He had made up his mind. You could not live another day. You had to die, now. It would have not been enough to calm him down but it was going to be extremely satisfying anyway. He wanted to be covered in your blood, only to forget your name when he would have washed himself.

But no, he needed you to suffer. What a way to go down it would have been, if he devoured you?

“I was right, you’re too dumb to comprehend chemistry” you spluttered out, your vision finally restored albeit you were still bleeding out on the parquet.

The moment he heard the sound of you voice again, he pinned your head down onto what remained of his potion, disgust in his gaze as he watched you whimper out in pain as the liquid burned your skin. It was corrosive, your flesh on fire as he forced you to practically wipe the carpet with your cheek. The sadism in his action dripped hatred, while tears brimmed up in your eyes. You clawed at the carpet, disperately attempting to set yourself free, but Muzan had other plans for you. Kneeling down next to your writhing frame, he grinned, lifting your head up to examine the resault of his assault. Your cheek was deeply damaged, but you would have surely been able to regenerate it.

“Tell me, Y/N, would you rather have me consume you to the bone, or reduce you to nothing by biting chunks off of your body? Tell me, you stupid bitch” he chimed, your mouth going dry as you inhaled sharply, eyelids closing to avoid looking him in the eye.

Muzan clicked his tongue, impressed by your sudden silence. He leaned even closer, taking a whiff of the disturbing smell of that potion that had scarred your face. His lips curled into a crooked smile, his eyes watching intently the way you sobbed and your skin gradually restored its former smoothness. Your head was spinning at this point, breath uneven, whilst Muzan pushed you down onto the carpet once again. He had all the intent of beginning to devour you, his mouth salivating as he leaned down closer to you.

He barely had the time to pierce your jugular, though, that he felt his pants tighten uncomfortably. A boner in the middle of a hunt. This was not exactly what he had anticipated, just like the sweat beading his forehead and his heart pumping the blood faster in his veins. This was primal arousal, a need setting his body on fire as he pulled his bloodied mouth away from your neck. Your whine, pained, was strained with something else. Muzan saw the way you were writhing underneath him, chest heaving, as you pressed your thighs together.

Your dilated pupils, the way droplets of sweat were running down the valley of your breasts causing his cock to twitch into his undergarments. You were just as aroused as he was, thrashing onto the carpet in agony. He could smell your hormones, he could see the way you were looking at him questioningly. You were on fire.

“What the Hell have you done to me?” you blurted out, gripping the collar of his shirt so harshly it ended up being torn.

Muzan refused to believe this was the effect caused by his potion, but it was the only valid explanation to this. He bristled, swatting your hand away and growling at your face like an animal “Oh, believe him, I wanted to kill you, not to fuck you. — he snarled, grasping your jaw roughly and leaning his face down to let his lips hover over yours hazardously — Now, however, I have no other choice but to rut into someone. The question is: do you want to be that someone and be satisfied, or do you wish for me to end your misery in a more brutal and permanent way?” he hissed, watching the way you stared daggers at him.

You had a choice, that much was true. You did not want to die, you still had plenty of things to do before dying. The possibility to be eradicated from the world was not alluring anymore. Your clit throbbing between your legs, craving attention, some kind of friction, made you agree with him. You gritted your teeth, legs spread to let him accomodate between them.

“So be it” you stated, watching him fidget with his hands to unbuckle the belt keeping his trousers up.

It was not something you two could control. The fire coiling on your lower abdomen matched the pulsing desire in Muzan’s briefs. Gentleness, care were far away from them. The moment he had gotten rid of his clothes, he was already disrobing you of yours.

You thought it was going to be a regular intercourse, something to look back at with a weird sense of disgust and the thrill of the rush, but it turned out to be much more than that. Flipping you over your stomach, Muzan gripped your hair with one hand to force you to arch your spine. The bulbous tip of his cock dragging up and down your slippery heat to collect your juices.

“If you think I am merciful enough to grant you the sight of my face, you’re even more of a goose than I deemed you to be” he rasped out, your scalp stinging, as he yanked you back against his chest.

You whined, mouth ajar, as you felt him enter you. The friction was surprisingly smooth and pleasurable, your spongy walls sucking him in perfectly, whilst he grunted from behind you “Honored! You should feel honored I’m f-fucking you” he mocked you, hips driving into yours quickly, smacking your skin with a ferocity you had never experienced before.

You moaned out, unable to look back at his face, but capable to speak up again “I should’ve let you fuck your fist. How would it have felt, huh? Instead— fuck, instead, there you are, nestled into me and moaning like a pig to the slaughter… H-How low the Demon King has fallen” you taunted him nack, regretting your impudent display of courage instantly.

The smack on your rear felt like incandescent iron on your flesh, his cock rubbing insistently through your walls causing you to babble out incoherent words you could not repeat. Muzan was furious, his desire to ruin you and humiliate you blinding him as he felt you clamping down onto his length tightly. No, you did not deserve to reach your orgasm, but he did.

The sudden feeling of emptiness within you felt like a cold shower, as you gasped and tried to whip your head around to meet his gaze “What—”.

The audacity, the direspect you continued to show him could not proceed any further. He could not bear the sight of you for any longer.

Your protests falling deaf to his ears, as he pumped his shaft with one hand, lolling his head back in ecstasy as he felt his orgasm wash over him as a violent wave. The feeling of his seed dripping down over the curve of ass, warm, sticky, was the last thing you felt before you heard the biwa’s melody echo through the room and you fell naked and alone into a black-pitch forest.

Underserving of an answer. Underserving of a goodbye. You were nothing for him.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hi, there! Well, guys, what can I say? Muzan is a walking red flag. Let’s be real, albeit I love studying his character and personality, he would very much do all of the atrocities you’ve read in my fic. I do not condone any of this and I never will, therefore I will keep on depicting him more human in my modern au’s and pretend he is a good person. Stay the fuck away from people like him, hons❤️

Writing is fun, but he is a monster.

Until next,

x o x o

TAGS: @mrskokushibo @doumadono

#kibutsuji muzan x reader #muzan x reader #muzan smut #demon slayer smut #kny smut #demon slayer x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #muzan kibutsuji x reader #demon slayer fanfic #muzan x you #muzan x y/n #muzan kibutsuji

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truecolorssims · 4 months ago

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In the lab posepack

Very excited to release these poses, which are near and dear to my heart! They're some general poses for use in a chemical or biological laboratory for one sim or two. This pack includes 7 solo poses and 9 duo poses. These poses require my pipette accessory and several pieces of lab furniture from some great sets linked below.

Download here

These poses need the pipette accessory by me that can be found here.

For the microscope poses, place teleporter in the center of the lab table with the microscope on top. Both lab table and microscope can be found here in this set by severinka.

For the pipette poses, place teleporter in the center of any of the lab benches in the lab set by @soloriya that can be found here. Both sims require the pipette accessory.

What you need: Andrew's Poseplayer, Teleport Any Sim

Consider tagging me on my Instagram if you use these.

Let me know if you have any issue with these poses!

@ts4-poses

#sims 4 #ts4 #ts4 simblr #sims 4 poses #ts4 poses #ts4 screenshots

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chirpy-poppy · 9 months ago

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Our Pin

When Darkwick allows you to choose one of the houses to join, how will they convince you?

Inspired by this ask/post.

Frostheim “Wait,” Jin grunts at you as you approach the door, done with his errands for the day. He tosses something at you which you barely manage to catch. When you do, you recognize the deep blue pin. “You’d be set for life with the connections you make here. Choose wisely.” Jin is a man of few words, but you’d hear most of Frostheim’s pitch from Kaito who basically begs you to join them. Lucas would come with a few logical points about why you should choose Frostheim, and Tohma would keep you so busy with tasks, you wouldn’t be able to visit other houses during your decision period.

Vagastrom “It’ll be pretty cool if we lived a little closer together, Senpai. I’ll cook for you every day.” Sho is the only one who’d want you at Vagastrom. Alan gives you a stern warning not to do something so dangerous. Leo’s existence alone convinces you to stay far away.

JabberwockThey use their fluffy animals to their full advantage. Haru takes you on a Cappybus tour to see all the cutest animals while Towa engulfs you in the most fragrant flowers. Ren might actually beg you to join them too since you are actually willing to do the chores. Towa gives you such a puppy look while Haru discreetly pins the orange brooch onto your lapel. Peekaboo lets out the saddest “Booo” when you leave for the day. How can you ever refuse them?

SinostraRomeo had given Taiga a lecture on their objective just before you were scheduled to meet them, so the captain actually remembers who you are when you walk in. “Hello, Kitten,” he purrs as you come in with some documents. He somehow gets you strapped into his torture chair and is about to stab the brooch into your jacket when Romeo bursts in. “You’re supposed to convince her, not force her!” “Why? It’s so much easier this way.” Taiga spins his revolver before placing it on your temple. Ritsu steps in at this moment to quote some law that no one is really paying attention to. Taiga and Romeo get into such an argument that no one notices you slipping away and running for your life.

Hotarubi The three invite you over for tea. At the end of it, Subaru presents you with the amethyst brooch in an intricately carved wooden box. “We would love it if you would join Hotarubi, PC. Of course, we want you to make the decision you believe is best for you, but you should know you are always welcomed and appreciated here.” As Haku walks you home, he purposefully takes a scenic route through Hotarubi. He’d gently pitch his own house but reminds you they are here for you no matter what decision you make.

ObscuaryWas unfortunately not one of the options available to you. Rui is quite relieved though. He isn’t sure how he can live constantly worried about touching something as weak as a human. He also knows he could never live with himself if something happened to you, and the risk of it increases so much more if you stayed in his dorm. Lyca is completely bummed though. He thought he had a chance to finally have a friend at the dorm. He does not understand why you can’t stay at Obscuary since he’s here and he’s human too. Ed thinks it’s a shame, but he is sure you’d visit often still.

Mortkranken“Humph! You should feel honored to even be considered joining Mortkranken,” Yuri gloats, dangling the brooch in front of you. “He desperately wants you to join,” Jiro deadpans. “Jiro! Can you shut it! I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you did since you are a very interesting subject.” Yuri’s blush isn’t fooling anyone as he shoves the teal accessory into your hands. Despite his shyness, he still keeps you around for another three hours helping him pipette. As you get ready to leave, he calls your name. “Consider it. You… You aren’t repulsive, at least.”

A/N: Thank you to those who sent in prompts. I'm sorry if I don't get to yours, but I will only be writing those that spark an idea. I don't want to write something bleh just to fulfill an ask. Thank you for your submission though!

#ask #tokyo debunker #rui mizuki #jin kamurai #lyca colt #tokyo debunker fic #yuri isami #alan mido #edward hart #fluff #darkwick

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geesecanon · 11 days ago

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Excitation Point

read on ao3 Rating: Explicit Type: One-shot, PWP Words: 6,362 Tags: Ford Pines/(gender neutral) Reader; Masturbation; Panty Kink; Panty Raid; Ford being an opportunistic perv (what else is new) Summary: ""Technically, you're supposed to be under there for fifteen minutes." He actually feels a little apologetic on that front. "Fifteen minutes?!" "You're... also supposed to shed any clothes," he continues, less sorry about that particular idea. "But I think you're probably fine." "'Probably?'" you repeat incredulously. "What do you mean, 'probably?'" "I mean..." He rocks back on his heels a little. "It might be prudent?"

One would think that, after thirty-odd years of traipsing the multiverse, Ford would hardly consider anything a curveball. He has seen his surfeit of oddities, and then some — he always makes sure to be prepared to the teeth, ready for whatever life throws at him. He’s resourceful, he’s savvy, he’s incisive. It’s served him extremely well in just about every endeavor he has ever set out on, and he prides himself in it.

And now, a majority of his days on land look like this: in his laboratory, with you, working separately and in reveric silence and companionship, unassuming and routine and ordinary. Surely, at this point in his life, nothing could phase him.

More fool him.

“Ugh! Gross!”

The sharp and sudden exclamation startles Ford out of his concentration, where he is doing delicate work with a pipette. Immediately catapulted into panic, his internal warning sirens start blaring. He spins around get his eyes on you. “What?!”

“I got gooped,” you complain, with no degree of urgency. You wipe a gloved hand over the lower half of your face, under the large safety goggles you are sporting, then flick your wrist a few times to get something off of it. The something is viscous and green and has splattered all over your front, across the borrowed lab coat you are wearing, and even on your clothes, where they are vulnerable in the gap. “It’s like I’m on Nickelodeon.”

Your cavalier attitude notwithstanding, the sight rouses Ford and he leaps into action. He crosses the lab in a handful of brisk strides, hardly bothering to stop and think what the stuff might be. Already wearing his own pair of gloves, he grips you by the shoulders and begins forcing you to walk backwards.

You sputter a wordless objection to being manhandled, but are forced to comply with his direction as his baseline strength overpowers yours.

Once he has you exactly where he wants you, Ford steps back, reaches out to grasp the handle of the chain dangling from the ceiling, and yanks.

You literally shriek as the water from the safety shower cascades over you. But, even through your clearly bewildered state, you must grasp what the situation is. Despite your obvious protest, you stay put under the steady stream of water pattering on the linoleum, looking up at the blue shower head above you huffily.

Arms crossed tightly across your chest against the chill, rivulets streak down your safety goggles as you snap your head back down to address him. “What the hell?!”

Lab safety is no joke, at least when it comes to you, so he doesn’t bother apologizing for his actions. Instead, Ford asks, insistently, “What happened?”

You huff and only cross your arms tighter, shoulders hunched up to your ears. “Found the excitation point for ectoplasm,” you explain flatly. The safety shower does its assigned job and is slowly washing the green substance off you, diluting it so it slowly swirls down the drain at your feet. You are steadily becoming more and more soaked, and you wring your hands together, washing them to get off any excess goo. Then, you wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to rid your face of the stuff.

The alarm in him pops like a soap bubble; ectoplasm is relatively harmless and is hardly toxic. Mollified, Ford raises his eyebrows expectantly.

You only take notice when he continues not to speak. “Somewhere in the negative eighty to negative ninety millivolt range,” you tell him. You scrub at your safety goggles next, but only succeed in making everything streakier. By now, the ectoplasm seems to be wiped from your bare skin. “It’s hyperpolarized as all hell. Can I come out now?”

Even with the benign nature of the stuff, he still shakes his head. “Technically, you’re supposed to be under there for fifteen minutes.” He actually feels a little apologetic on this front.

“Fifteen minutes?!”

“You’re… also supposed to shed any clothes,” he continues, less sorry about that particular idea. “But I think you’re probably fine.”

“‘Probably?’” you repeat incredulously. “What do you mean, ‘probably?’”

“I mean…” He rocks back on his heels a little. “It might be prudent?”

“I hate you,” you announce with an entirely flippant kind of conviction, back to trying to wash anything that might be lingering on your face. The press of your hands contorts your whatever expression you are trying to make. “So fucking much right now.”

He shrugs, knowing it to be untrue. Still, he sympathizes with your dour attitude, and the sudden and soggy turn of your, otherwise entirely ordinary, day.

You are still patiently, yet miserably, standing under the steady spray, back to crossing your arms. Even with half your face obscured, he can see the resigned expression there. But, you are staying put. Ford has the inane compulsion to give you a gold star for your behavior.

“Am I really supposed to strip in this thing?” you ask, sounding shy about the idea.

His mouth becomes a desert, and he has to actively wet his tongue to respond. While the idea is appealing, the last thing he needs right now is to think about you, naked, in his lab; he has a hard enough time concentrating with you, clothed, in his lab.

“Like I said,” he finally manages, hoping the quiet chorus of water on linoleum drowns out how his voice wavers, as he tries not to stare too heavily. “You’re probably fine. It looks like the lab coat got the brunt of it.”

You nod, then begin slipping the thing off your shoulders, one arm at a time.

Ford’s heart feels like it stops, but thankfully, blessedly, you stop there, dropping it in a drenched pile next to the drain. Your clothes underneath are just as wet, clinging to you in ways that should not be incriminating but still make him swallow thickly. You pull the hem of your shirt slightly away from you to peer down at it, trying to assess for goop-related damage.

“But… maybe not all of it,” you say, dejected.

Before he can truly realize the implications of what he is saying, Ford tells you, “Then you’ll need to change. Anything the ectoplasm touched qualifies as a biohazard.” Technically…

“Ugh.”

“Even washed, the chances of it having seeped into the fabric are…”

“Ugh.” Whatever look you try to give him is obscured by the haze of the lab goggles. “I get it.”

It definitely crosses the line of professionalism he has worked so hard to maintain over these past few weeks — hell, it probably pole vaults the thing entirely — but he offers, “I’ll lend you some.”

The idea makes him hot around the collar, but it’s not like you have any other option; at the most, he could offer to root around the kids’ room to see if they left any articles of clothing behind, as if any of that would fit you…

The expression shifts, and you look taken aback by his offer. “Oh. Okay.” Then, you venture, “… Can I also get a real shower? Maybe with water above lukewarm?”

Chuckling, he nods. “That can be arranged.”

This soothes over any of your ire, and you visibly relax.

Aiming to occupy you while the minutes pass, Ford asks, “Did the numbers line up with your estimation for the subthreshold membrane oscillation?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, and it is hard to tell past the safety goggles but he gets the impression you are rolling your eyes. Still, there is a small smile on your face. “Go ahead and check my math. You know how bad I am at it.”

He shrugs, thoroughly satisfied that you won’t move until the time limit is up, and turns on a heel to approach your work station. It really does look like you took the brunt of the goo-related explosion, as there are only a few small puddles on the stuff on the floor. He easily sidesteps them and starts looking amongst your notes for said math.

Belatedly, he replies, “You’ve gotten better.”

“Low hurdle,” you say sardonically.

“Let me review this now,” he says, spotting the handful of pages your equations are scrawled on.

“Yeah,” you say. “Reassure me that this,” you motion up and down to your person, “wasn’t all for waste.”

Your designated fifteen watery minutes pass excruciatingly slow, as Ford sits at his desk and begins his audit. Every so often, you call out to ask, “Time?” and he responds in turn, always glancing over his shoulder to make sure you still haven’t moved.

He pretends to check your work but in truth, his brain is too caught up in a licentious fantasy of you wandering his lab, completely naked while you shoot him a series of coy looks to test his resolve. Or, maybe just in the lab coat? Both options are equally enticing…

The fact of the matter is, Ford has come to accept these little mental asides. Since you have become a regular part of his working day, they now haunt his waking hours as much as his dreams, and every day begets a new challenge. While he is a man of reason and rationality, he still has an unfortunate compulsive streak, and you have unintentionally put his self-control to the test. More than once have you startled him out of a daydream, leaving him unguarded and almost saying something wildly incriminating.

You seem completely unaware of any of his struggles. By now, you two have established a loose but sturdy routine: you arrive in the morning; he lets you into the lab via remote access; you completely forgo any empty pleasantries to instead ask whatever questions you came up with overnight; and finally, you smile at him with an infectious kind of warmth and say, cheerily, “To work?”

He practically has a Pavlovian response to the phrase now. Even thinking it makes his chest ache with fondness.

Nothing in your behavior indicates that you have suddenly developed telepathic powers, making you able to see just how frequent his increasingly debauched fantasies about you are.

Small blessings.

“Time?” you call.

He checks his watch. “Your minutes are up.”

You whoop! under your breath, and the chain squeaks as you yank it, shutting off the spray of water.

Ford pushes away from his desk to stand, turning to see you back at your work station and shedding the safety goggles, revealing the imprint they have left around your eyes.

When you catch him looking, you ask, “Do you have a towel, or something?”

“Hmm?” He draws himself back into reality where you are not, in fact, only wearing the lab coat, but are instead wearing everything but the lab coat, and actively forming a small puddle under your feet. “Oh, yes. Hold on.”

Once he pulls a towel from a cabinet and hands it off, you wrap it around your shoulders like a cape, noticeably shivering in the brisk temperature of the lab. “Is fifteen minutes really the standard, or were you just being a dick?” Now fully visible, there is a shine to your eyes that indicates you’re joking.

If he wanted to be a dick, he would have insisted you strip fully. “Last I checked, it was the OSHA standard.”

You shrug. “Safety third, right?”

“Only you say that,” he responds, more xeric than intended.

Another shrug. “Normal shower time?” you prompt. “I’m freezing down here.”

He nods, hoping his face is nowhere near as red as it feels. “Right, normal shower. C’mon.”

The elevator ride up is awkwardly silent, and you only look slightly surprised when you bypass the first floor completely to take it all the way up to his room. Still, it is mercifully quick, and Ford squeezes through the doors the second they begin to open.

“The bathroom’s back there,” he says, voice a little too gruff, as he makes a beeline for his dresser to find a suitable change of clothes.

You putter out much more hesitantly, but don’t bypass him for the bathroom. When he realizes this, he glances over his shoulder nervously, he sees you standing in the center of his room, head swiveling from side-to-side.

“… What?” he asks, feeling self-conscious as you blatantly peer at everything.

“This is your room?” you ask curiously.

Although it may seem obvious, Ford realizes you have no frame of reference: he has no legitimate reason to ever bring you up here. You have, occasionally, gone topside in the rest of the house, usually for grabbing some kind of snack out of their kitchen or to use the bathroom. But, you’ve never been past the first floor.

“Yes…?” he answers.

“It’s so… normal.”

His room has the bare essentials: a bed large enough for himself, a modest dresser, a mirror on the back of the door, some overflowing bookshelves, a handful of trinkets. It is a place he hardly spends time in, cutting his waking hours between field research, the lab, or his study — he has never felt the need to decorate it, because no one else was ever going to see it. When he and Stanley had built this house, all that had mattered was the mattress was comfortable and that he had an en suite.

The only true indulgence is the large, stained glass window that sits above his bed, casting the room with a few patches of colorful light.

Ford clears his throat, and your attention snaps back to him, looking like you have been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

“Sorry,” you laugh awkwardly. “Um. Is there something wrong with the guest bathroom?”

No. “Shower’s broken,” Ford lies in an admirably strong tone.

You accept the answer with a one-shouldered shrug, then step past him to enter the bathroom. To his chagrin, the door clicks shut behind you. A few moments later, he hears the squeak of the handle as the shower turns on.

It takes him another minute of rifling but he eventually comes up with an appropriate, if not mismatched, outfit for you to change into: a chronically underused button-up shirt and an extra pair of sweatpants whose existence he had forgotten about until putting eyes on them.

Swallowing, Ford raps his knuckles on the door and calls out your name.

“Yeah?”

“Can I — I have — there’s clothes,” he stammers. “I have clothes. The change of clothes. Can I come in?”

“Yeah!” you call. “Door’s unlocked.”

True to your word, the handle turns easily under his hand.

The room has already begun to steam up, and even with the translucent shower curtain obscuring you, he still averts his eyes as he places his clothes on the bathroom sink. You have left the towel atop the closed toilet seat and your pile of used clothes are in a heap next to the shower tub.

But his self-control is threadbare and another part of it snaps as he risks a glance.

Which is a bad idea. Even your silhouette through the curtain as you go through the motions of lathering yourself is somehow obscenely erotic.

“Thanks,” you say, not halting your movements as you presumably work the soap over your arms, over your shoulders, across your chest…

Is it hot in here or is it just him?

“I’ll be outside,” Ford strangles out, already halfway out the door before he does something he’ll regret. “If you need anything.”

He stands outside the bathroom door like some stalwart guard against some invisible, peeping threat. In truth, the only threat of you being spied upon is from him, but he is already so appalled by his previous indulgent look that he takes the position up as some kind of penance.

Soon thereafter, the door opens behind him; with a steadying breath, he turns to face you.

His clothes practically swallow you whole. You work to roll up the cuffs of a sleeve once, twice, a third time, before giving up and pushing it past your elbow with a slightly agitated huff. You have kept the top few buttons of the shirt dangerously undone, teasing a hint of your chest, and Ford finds his eyes naturally drawn to the exposed patch of skin as you go about bunching the other sleeve as well.

For practical reasons, he keeps his lab cold and you have complained about it more than once, with varying degrees of seriousness — but they are complaints nonetheless. He picked this specific pair of clothing to give you as much coverage as possible while keeping in mind that there might be another ectoplasm-related accident. They had seemed like a practical and innocent choice, but now that he realizes he had bypassed the opportunity to put you in any of his clothes…

Satisfied once you cuff the pants several times as well, to not trip over the hem, you glance back up to him with a refreshed and warm smile. “Thanks,” you say, much more relaxed than earlier. “What should I do with my biohazard-y clothes?”

“I’ll handle them,” he tells you. “They’ll need to be properly disposed of.”

You nod, finding it reasonable. He practically jumps to attention when you say, “To work, then?”

A few minutes later, Ford re-enters the bathroom with a biohazard bag and a freshly-steeled resolve. Steam still lingers, condensation dewing on the mirror, and he immediately goes for the pile of clothes on his floor.

This is fine. This is perfectly fine, he tells himself as he begins stuffing the soggy clothes into the red plastic bag. This will continue to be a perfectly standard and boringly ordinary day, all he needs to do is keep himself in check while watching you wander around his lab, in his clothes, probably also smelling of him since using his body wash, and —

Ford stops all the useless posturing when he spots, separated from the rest of the clothes, that you have left your underwear here.

He idles for far too long, staring at it, his mind hitting the equivalent of a dial tone. He idles for far, far too long. A million different thoughts fire off in his head, all varying levels of depraved, and he wonders if he can —

Ford snatches it, and everything else, in his arms and heads back downstairs before he can get much further on that thought.

Then, he is left standing in front of the incinerator in the back corner of the lab, your articles of clothing still clutched in his hands.

“I can’t believe you have an incinerator,” you comment idly from across the lab. “Actually, I take that back. I completely believe it.”

“Decontamination procedures are no joke,” he replies automatically, over his shoulder. When he opens the door, he is buffeted with the yawning heat. He hardly gives a second thought to tossing your shirt and pants inside, hoping the momentum will take him the rest of the way, but regrettably, he hesitates once he gets to your underwear.

Ford swallows thickly, staring down at the piece of fabric in his hands. It is a practical thing, cotton by the feel of it and slightly damp from your first bout of showering. The elastic of the waistband is worn slightly, and there is nothing special about it; just a standard set of underclothes. The fabric is even pilling slightly, and…

And he abruptly realizes that you are, currently, in this very moment, standing around in his laboratory without any underwear on.

The room is suddenly much, much warmer than before, for reasons that are not incinerator-related.

Typically, and perhaps ideally, this would be a classic shoulder-a-devil-and-angel situation. If he turns and raises the topic, you’ll know that he went through your (literal) dirty laundry. In practicality, he could give them back, but then you’d still know he went through your (literal) dirty laundry. He could burn them with the rest of your clothes, to end the matter entirely. He, in fact, should burn them with the rest of your clothes.

That thought is fleeting and weightless.

There is something deeply askew within him; Ford is not so obtuse to not know this about himself. Now that he actually has the time to focus on things other than dire survival and bitter revenge, like some tacky protagonist, he has become startlingly aware of his own personal desires. Like his fantasies, he acknowledges and lives with them, trying never to linger too long.

The rub is that he also has no baseline for what constitutes as normal in any scenario now, and by proxy, everything is laced with some degree of shame.

His internal compass has also experienced some polar magnetic shifts, because not only has he come to accept this shame, but he sometimes revels in it. It is a self-perpetuating cycle that he has yet to break free of.

But the impulse he has in this moment to smell the damn thing in his hands is a whole new level of depravity, even for him.

Still, he lifts it to his face.

Ford barely gets a whiff of the concentration of your scent leftover from being between your thighs, before you are asking, sounding perplexed, “Ford? You okay?”

In a split second, blindingly panicked decision, he stuffs your underwear into one of the front pockets of his pants before you can see what he was doing. “Yes,” he replies, hoping the distance means you don’t hear how his voice wavers. “I’m fine. Completely fine.”

When he glances over his shoulder, petrified at what he might see, you just shrug it off and return to your work.

He crosses the room to his desk and waits for you to fully turn your back before opening the first drawer he finds and shoving your underwear inside it.

You don’t even turn when it closes at an incriminating volume.

The next few hours pass torturously.

Ford can hardly keep his eyes off you — this is, admittedly, nothing new. He has always found your idiosyncratic methods entertaining to watch. You drag an unused whiteboard over and start scribbling on it, connecting dots between various points like a private eye in a network only you can see. You are so absorbed in your own work that you don’t seem to take notice that Ford has halted his own completely.

He’ll catch up later.

If the sight of you in his clothes isn’t intoxicating enough, his mind gleefully shuffles through possibilities this presents. What he gave you is clearly oversized — could he vie to put you in something else? Maybe one of his sweaters? He still has those absurd green shorts from his college days — how good would your ass look in those? Or, maybe just a normal tee-shirt. He owns a few. Some have even shrunk in the wash…

The thoughts slowly become more sordid and debased: every time he catches a peek of skin, he thinks about getting you out of the clothes. He thinks about posturing that he needs to examine you for possible contamination — thoroughly. Extremely thoroughly. Bare enough that he can make diagrams.

After the impulsive onus to steal your underwear, he just can’t find himself to care to rein in his wandering imagination. All he thinks about is your underwear sitting in his desk drawer, the brief smell he got of it, the fact that only a single layer of clothing is what is keeping him from it, currently…

“Okay,” you say abruptly, turning away from the whiteboard and capping the marker. “I’m calling it.”

It startles him right out of the daydream of the various ways he can get his face between your thighs. “What are you calling?”

You roll your eyes a little. “I’m calling it a day. My brain is shot and my math is getting twisted because of it.”

He concedes with a slight nod of his head. “Fair.” As if he is getting any kind of work done while you are here.

You nod back resolutely and go about packing your things, having to tug the waistband of his sweatpants higher on your hips at least twice, pulling the drawstring taut. Once everything is in order, you sling your bag over your shoulder and approach his desk, looking at him expectantly.

With a dawning horror, Ford realizes two things in quick succession: one, this is the part where he ritualistically walks you to the door; two, he has been sitting at his desk to cover the fact he has been half-hard most of the day.

His entire perception of the world narrows in on this exact moment.

He brusquely clears his throat. “Right.” As he stands, he snatches a random clipboard from his desk and, not unlike a teenager, conveniently holds it in front of him as he walks towards the door.

Thankfully, you don’t seem to realize anything is amiss; you cross the lab with him while keeping a respectable distance and stop in front of the exit.

“Thanks again for making sure I didn’t, uh…” Your eyebrows furrow, as you look up at him with a perplexed gaze. “What does ectoplasm do when in contact with human skin, exactly?”

The answer is, at most, an unpleasant tingle and maybe a small rash, but nothing more. Realizing he needs to justify literally burning your clothes, he replies, “Nothing good.”

You rock your head back and forth minutely, weighing his response. “Well, thanks anyway. I’ll get these washed tonight and return them tomorrow, yeah?” You pluck at the collar of his borrowed and still dangerously unbuttoned shirt. It draws his eyes back to the dip of your exposed collarbone.

Ford barely stops himself from blurting, You don’t have to do that, in some kind of perverted attempt to start a collection of things that smell like you. “No rush,” he says instead, appalled when he hears how the edge of his voice is actively fraying as the seconds pass. He shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortably.

You nod, either not hearing it or not acknowledging it. “Cool. And, uh, did you get to look over my math yet? For the subthreshold oscillation.”

Ah, yes, the exact thing he has been ignoring all afternoon. “I’ll review tonight and give them back tomorrow,” he promises, perhaps falsely. He is starting to get an inkling of what his evening is going to look like, and it is nothing good.

“Great. See you tomorrow, then.” You flash him a warm and unassuming smile, eyes crinkling, then pull the door open and embark up the stairs.

Before the exit door even closes, Ford is booking it to his desk.

With a few mouse clicks, he brings up one of the security cameras aimed at the front yard, watching as you climb into your vehicle. He waits with bated breath for you to leave, not quite sure what he is about to indulge in but knowing it is nothing he wants you in proximity to. But then… you just sit there. In the driver’s seat. Not leaving.

It is difficult to tell exactly from the angle of the camera, but he thinks he sees you lift the collar of his shirt and turn your face into it.

The moment hardly lasts long enough for him to give it much thought; soon thereafter, you throw your vehicle into gear and trundle across the front yard, then out of sight down the dirt road.

Ford is fumbling with the drawer handle and snatching your underwear from inside it before he even puts conscious thought to the action.

Immediately, he presses it against his nose and over his mouth and breathes in greedily. Even hours later, the lingering scent is strong and musky, laced with the lingering stench of sweat from being between your thighs all day, all the while still smelling so distinctly of you that it makes him a little lightheaded.

Or maybe that is just all the blood swiftly exiting his brain and towards his dick.

With another slow inhale, his eyes fall closed of their own accord and his imagination picks up the slack in the theater of his mind.

Ford imagines you perched at the edge of his desk, legs spread, while he kneels on the floor with his face between your thighs as he finally, finally gets his mouth on you. Although he has no evidence to the fact, it’s his fantasy and in it, he buries his nose in the thick tuft of coarse pubic hair at the apex, fully engulfing himself in your scent and it is most potent while he lavishes you, reveling in the taste.

Already half-hard and desperate for attention, his cock twitches in his pants and he shifts in his chair to try and get more comfortable as he palms himself. This is all undeniably self-indulgent but he has been thinking about variations on this theme all day — it is hardly his fault that his self-control has unravelled by proxy.

He imagines one of your hands in his hair, using the tight grip as leverage to move him just as you want him, while your other hand grips at the edge of the desk for balance, skin pulled taut over your knuckles.

“Oh, shit,” you moan, thighs twitching, hitching one leg up to rest your foot over his shoulder and dig a heel into his back, giving him better access. The feeling is overwhelming and intoxicating and he never wants to leave it. “Fuck — fuck, you’re doing so well, yes, oh, fuck, yes-!”

Even alone, his groan is soft and low-pitched, naturally guarded. He pants hotly, mouth open, the fabric damping on the small patch that falls across his tongue with each sharp inhale.

The need coursing through him spikes abruptly and suddenly he is fumbling to undo his belt, metal jangling. He yanks it through the belt loops so fast it practically snaps in the air, and drops it to the floor with a sharp sound. He has to use both hands to pop the button and get his zipper down, hands shaking a little, then lifts his hips to shove his pants down his thighs just enough to free his erection from its confines.

Having not let go of your underwear the entire time, the frantic series of actions bring it close to his cock, which is full and curving towards his stomach proudly. Free from anyone’s scrutiny, Ford ogles at the sight, jaw still hanging open.

Never did he think he would end up in this kind of scenario but, at least in the present moment, he is hardly complaining. He hasn’t been this blatantly aroused since that time you asked whether perturbation theory could be used to quantify a deviation from an approximate solvable problem.

He had jerked off just after you left the lab that time, too.

Experimentally, he wraps the hand still holding your underwear around his cock. This time, his groan is much louder as the softness of the fabric engulfs him. Gentle in his movements to mind any friction, Ford begins moving his hand with slow and measured pumps, twisting at the head just the way he likes.

Returning to his mind, he now has you pulled to the edge of his bed, once again kneeling on the floor with his face buried between your thighs as you moan unabashedly. Saliva dribbles down his chin as he works you with his mouth with a singular purpose, both his hands clutching your hips to keep you right where he wants you.

Even in fantasy, or maybe because of it, it does not take long for you to notice the slight bounce of the mattress as he humps the bed in small movements.

You make a breathless chastising noise, using your hold of his hair to lift him off you. “Ford,” you admonish, the heat of your gaze branding him. “Did I say you could get off?”

Congruent with the fantasy, he tortuously manages to stop the movement of his hand. Still grasping himself at the base tightly, breathing much heavier, his hips make small, traitorous thrusts beyond his control, trying to chase the pleasure from a moment ago.

“No,” he confesses. In the present, his mouth forms the word without the sound ever leaving his mouth.

“So desperate,” you croon, trailing your hand down his face with a light touch, down his cheek, until you are pressing your thumb against the plush of his spit-slick lower lip. You press in farther, minutely, so the pad is resting against his bottom teeth, the tip of his tongue. “That you’d hump anything, like an animal, so desperate that you’d…”

Without conscious input, his mind morphs the fantasy: now, you are standing over him with your hands on your hips, glaring down with blatant disgust, a wicked twist of an expression he has never seen on you. You had forgotten something in the lab and had returned to grab it, only to catch him in this exact position, doing this exact act.

“… so desperate that you’d fuck anything, huh?” you finish saying, with an uncharacteristic sneer.

A pathetic noise that probably classifies as a whimper escapes him, eyes squeezing shut against the indistinguishable mix of humiliation and arousal that burns through him. It is hardly an escape; behind his eyes, he is unable to look away while you scrutinize him, with his hand still on his throbbing cock, too caught up in the undercurrent of gratification to stop what he is doing, even in fantasy.

“I’m sorry.” He chokes it out as a whisper. “I’m sorry, I don’t, I shouldn’t have…”

You watch him for another moment, eyes flickering between the desperation on his face and how he is still squeezing himself, trying to keep his hips still.

“… Well,” you finally say, crossing your arms and leaning back against the edge of the desk. “Go on.”

Ford makes a confused, choked-off noise.

“You wanna jerk off?” you ask, looking at him with expectantly raised brows. “Then go ahead. Don’t let me stop you.”

This time, he moans loudly and murmurs, shakily, “Okay. Okay.” With the permission fictionally granted, he starts moving his hand again, with small, tentative strokes.

Every part of his body feels like it is overheating, despite the chilly temperature of the lab. Some sweat starts to bead at his forehead. Ford has seen you disappointed before — at results, at sources, at your own work — so it is not hard to imagine that downturned, borderline bored expression being leveled at him as he works himself with jerky, uneven movements, chest heaving.

When the friction starts to become a little too overwhelming, Ford switches hands, using his free one to smear the pre-cum dribbling down his tip as he fists himself again; without the buffer of your underwear, he can feel just how hot and heavy he is. Everything feels ten times more sensitive than it has ever been, and his whole lower half rocks up for a second when he rubs his thumb over the head of his cock.

Still clutched in his other hand, he presses the crotch of the fabric to his nose again, inhaling deeply. The fabric is warm now and its scent has a much muskier undercurrent before; he half-realizes it must be his own smell. Although the mix is intoxicating, it is not hard to identify your own scent again, over it all, and his hand speeds up involuntarily.

His mind rapidly cycles through the rolodex of fantasies he keeps as he gets closer to the edge, trying to keep a rhythm as his hips flex up and off the chair. He has you bent over his desk, you’re riding him in his chair, you’re on your sides while he fucks you from behind, he’s making notes while you lay, naked, on the examination table, he drives into you up against a tree in the woods, you are pinning him to the bed as you use his cock for your own pleasure, inescapable and unyielding and shit, shit, he’s so close, he’s going to —

Ford cums hard and with a pitiful moan, long and desperate and deafening in his own ears in the otherwise silent lab; the noise lasts until his lungs have run out of air and he has to take in a gasping breath before he gets more lightheaded. His hips snap forward in an off-rhythm to his hand while his heels squeak against the linoleum, both legs shooting out and his entire body shaking with the intensity of his climax. The ecstasy borderlines on unbearable as the wave of it overtakes him completely, so much so that his mind actually goes blank, just existing in sheer bliss for a few moments.

When he finally comes to, Ford is breathing heavily and still pressing your underwear against his nose. He blinks his eyes open, slowly returning to reality. There is some cum dribbling down his fingers, caught in his frantic motions, but most of it has unfortunately landed on his desk. Some has even splattered across the notes he has out, the ones he is meant to be reviewing. Your notes.

Right. He had promised you feedback on those. By tomorrow.

With a reluctant sigh, he tucks himself back into his pants and, deciding there is no possible branch of the multiverse where he returns your underwear, uses it to clean the spend off his desk. Still, he fists them tightly, not quite ready to let go of this hedonistic piece of you. Something repugnant is starting to rise in him, but he can’t quite find it in himself to be truly ashamed of his actions.

As he stares down at your notes, only half-seeing them, he hears you in his mind, brightly asking, To work?

“Yes,” he mutters to himself, pulling up closer to the desk. He will have to rewrite your work, claiming to have spilled coffee on it, and you’ll be none the wiser.

Probably.

Hopefully.

The shame and its accompanying perverted satisfaction threatens to crest over him and derail the rest of his evening, and in a desperate bid to keep his mind off it, Ford says aloud, to no one: “To work.”

#ford pines x reader #stanford pines x reader #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #ford pines #stanford pines #x reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #writing.txt #i have no real commentary on this one except i had a fun time writing it lol #i feel like i blinked and then there was suddenly 6k words in a word doc #anyways :3 #enjoy!

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inquisimer · 7 months ago

Note

Happy Friday!! 💚👀

How about: the last thing i want is to see you get hurt. Featuring Arlow and Viago?

thank you for the prompt!! it hit really well, which is to say that it got much longer than I intended 😂 but here we go, from the requisite "Viago routinely poisons Rook de Riva" bit to Angst and Feels and Crow Politics 🤌

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 2035 words | @dadrunkwriting - da4 spoilers

Not for the first time, Arlow hesitated outside Viago’s study door. She knew he was within, but her stomach churned with worry and anticipation. She was happy, unbelievably happy, and he had the power to crush that with a single look.

She unclenched her fist and stared down at the ring. Dragon bone, inlaid on a band of intertwined nevarrite and obsidian. Black and purple and gold—the colors of the Crows. But she had always been a Crow; this represented something so much more.

“I can hear you thinking out there. Come in, or go away—do not linger. It’s rude.”

It was so typical, so normal in a way that things had not been for a very long time, it almost erased Arlow’s concerns. Her fingers closed, hiding the ring from view, and she pushed the door open.

Viago had a spread of vials on his desk, and a tray for checking antidotes in the middle of the array. Emil was curled around his shoulders; his tongue flicked out at Arlow in greeting as she shut the door at her back.

“Hello Emil,” she said dryly. “Viago.”

“Come here.” He beckoned her forward with one hand; the other held a pipette filled with a murky brown-green solution. “Perfect timing. I need to test this.”

Arlow eyed the mixture warily. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d laid her up for days with one of his concoctions. But her constitution was better now, and so was his estimation of what was and wasn’t ready to test. Plus, if he knocked her out and the ring fell loose, she wouldn’t have to explain.

She propped herself on the free corner of his desk and opened her mouth. Viago dropped three precise dots of the solution on her tongue and waited, watching expectantly.

“Oh,” she choked, hand coming up to her throat. “That burns.”

Viago quickly scribbled a few notes in his journal. He set the pipette down and cupped her jaw, prying her eyelids back and turning her face toward the torchlight. He hummed, nodding to himself and making a few more quick notes. Arlow’s fist pressed hard against the polished wood of his desk, but the pressure did little for her—the poison might have burned her throat, but it was numbing her extremities now. It hurt, knowing she couldn’t roll her eyes to tell Viago to hurry up with the antidote.

She focused on her breathing. Despite her joking, she didn’t actually want to pass out in Viago’s study—she’d never hear the end of it.

“Okay, now this.” Viago drew a few drops of a yellowish liquid into a fresh pipette—if she had more control of her facial muscles, Arlow would have eyed it warily. It would not be the first time he fed her piss under this guise. But at the moment, she cared more about regaining her faculties, and she didn’t have the control to close her mouth, anyway.

She couldn’t tell how much he dropped onto her tongue, only that when enough of it hit, her nerves started buzzing like an angry beehive. He followed it with a spritz of something clear and vaguely acidic, then handed her a glass of water. She tossed it back, swished, and spit into the bucket on the edge of his desk.

“Well?”

Arlow flexed her fingers, running her tongue around the still-tingling inside of her mouth. “Assuming you wanted instantaneous numbing, I’d say it needs work. Not that I’d be precise or anything, but I definitely would have been able to haphazardly stab someone for at least the half minute you had me sitting here.

And as they both knew, half a minute was more than enough time to kill someone. Viago pursed his lips, nodding and muttering under his breath as he made more notes. “Good, good. Did you need something?”

“Yeah, um.” Arlow licked her lips, letting him think she was still recovering from the poison’s effects. It wouldn’t alter his results that much. But in truth, the sweat on her palms and the shake in her voice had nothing to do with what he’d given her. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was an adult and this was a choice she was allowed to make. Whatever Viago decided, no matter how much it hurt, would be on him. “I have to tell you something. And also ask a question.”

Her deliberately evasive phrasing drew his shaper attention as he corked one of his vials and set it aside. He folded his arms and raised a brow at her. “Out with it, then.”

Right. She uncurled her fingers and the torchlight caught fetchingly in the metal edges of the band, danced tantalizingly off the angular face of the stone. Viago froze, and she knew he had stopped breathing.

“That is a Dellamorte ring,” he said after a moment. Arlow’s throat constricted; it was both easier, and not, that he recognized it. “The Dellamorte ring, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not.”

“Why do you have it?”

“Lucanis gave it to me,” Arlow said. “When he asked me to marry him.”

Emil’s tongue flicked out in a hiss; it was the only sound. Arlow pinched the ring between her fingers and held it up. It really was beautiful, and there was strength in both that, and the promise it represented. Barely breathing, she slipped it onto her finger and clenched her fist. “I said yes.”

She forced herself to look directly at Viago as she said it. Not defiance—determination, and respect. Her heart cared about what he thought, but as a Crow she owed her Talon at least this much, and she respected that.

“Of course he did,” Viago finally said. Arlow didn’t visibly relax, but her gut unclenched; he didn’t sound angry. “And of course you did. Mierda.”

His brow furrowed as he studied her, silent, and Arlow deeply regretted not doing this when Teia was around. Teia, at least, always knew what to say, and just said it, right away. And she could read Viago better than anyone—Arlow might suspect what the working of his jaw, or his fingers twitching in their gloves meant, but Teia would know for sure. And would say it, even if Viago wouldn’t.

But this was more than a matter of her personal relationship. Because of who Lucanis was, because of who they were, as Crows, this was a matter of politics. And Teia, dear as she was, was the Talon of another House. This was between Arlow and Viago.

“Are you sure?” Viago’s voice cracked, and he covered for it by stepping forward and taking her hand. His gloves were thick enough that she felt no warmth through the leather; she simply watched as he swiped his thumb over the ring. “I know you have been happy. I know he makes you happy. But he is the First Talon. Tying yourself to him in this way will have consequences. Lethal consequences, if you aren’t careful—and I think we both know you’ve struggled with that in the past.”

Arlow couldn’t help but laugh, soft and melancholy. It was so fitting, and she didn’t even cringe when Viago’s concern sharpened into a glare at her amusement.

“I am sure,” she said, curling her fingers around his and squeezing just once before letting go. “More sure than I’ve been of anything in a long time.”

Viago nodded slowly. “Very well. I—well. I suspect you would do what you wished, regardless of my thoughts. As you always have. I simply do not wish to see you hurt.”

A warmth bled through Arlow and the corners of her mouth ticked up in a slight smile. “It’s just a formality, Viago. If anyone plans to leverage me against Lucanis, they will do it whether I wear his ring or not. And if Lucanis hurts me, he will cut off his own hand before you ever get to him.”

“Good.” Viago huffed. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “You had a question, as well?”

“I rather thought you would ask it for me.” Arlow bit her lip. “I—well. It’s the matter of Houses, and which one I’ll belong to when this is done.”

Viago’s fingers clenched on the edge of the desk. Around his shoulders, Emil hissed, slithering around his neck in a reaction the distress Viago was holding back. Wordlessly, he removed the snake from his collar and deposited him back in his tank. He stayed there, staring down at the fire rune, back turned to the desk, and to Arlow. “That isn’t a question.”

“Cazza, Viago, do you need me to spell it out for you?”

“Yes!” he snapped, whirling around. “If you are asking permission to leave my House for his, then I would hope you have the decency to say it to my face.”

Okay. So maybe she did need to spell it out for him.

“That’s not what I’m asking,” she said softly. She slipped off the desk and walked to his side. “When you made me a de Riva, you saved my life. You made my life. And you made it one worth living. My heart belongs to that history as much as it does to Lucanis, and I am not so quick to cast it aside.” She took a deep breath. “But—there is only one way in which I truly stay a de Riva, and also marry Lucanis.”

Viago’s lips had parted with surprise as she spoke, an unknowable emotion shining in his eyes. Now, he pursed them, as she led him to the question she was actually asking.

“You want me to give you to him,” her murmured. Arlow nodded.

“But I know what that means,” she added hastily. “I know that it is not a choice, or a promise to be made lightly. If I thought for even a moment that it would be a detriment to our house, I would never ask. But—I do not think it will mean anything that you would not already do.”

She swallowed. “But if you’re not willing… I understand. And I will accept your decision, either way.”

“Well, that would be a first,” Viago snorted. He clasped her by the shoulders, and Arlow was surprised by how clear and certain his gaze seemed. She’d never known Viago to make a decision so swiftly. Usually, there were days of agonizing, debating, considering the angles. But not this time. “Arlow. Pajarito, you think I would let you get away? It was my hand that lifted you into this House, and it was my name that you wore out to change the world. And when I gave it to you—“ he swallowed, throat bobbing awkwardly. Arlow covered his hands with her own, eyes shining. It was the most words she’d ever heard Viago string together at once outside of a lecture and she thought she might be able to live on this forever.

“When I gave it to you, I didn’t know, but I was giving it a life beyond poisons, and scheming, and grief. I would not force it on you now, but de Riva is yours as long as you wish to wear it. And though he is hardly worthy, and it is dangerous, if you are asking, then yes. I will find a pair of gloves suitable to give you to him.”

Arlow threw her arms around his neck, lifting herself up onto tip toes, not caring that he was stiff under her for just a bit too long before he wrapped his arms around her torso and buried his face in her hair.

“Thank you,” she said against his chest. “I—thank you. Thank you.”

Viago drew back, his smile genuine, but worried. “Of course,” he said, even though they both knew no such assurance had ever been real. “Have you told Teia?”

Arlow shook her head, and to her surprise Viago threw back his head and laughed. Then he gestured to the door, grinning a bit too smugly for Arlow’s taste.

“Come,” he said. “I want to see her face when she finds out you told me first.”

#my writing #da4 #dragon age #dragon age fanfic #viago de riva #rook de riva #viago & rook #oc: arlow de riva #rookanis #rook x lucanis #arlow x lucanis #arlow & viago #dadwc #veilguard spoilers #not pictured: teia VERY put out that arlow told viago first #but also flipping over the hidden wedding planning board that she's been working on for months

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clawsdevour · 11 months ago

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silky skin

wc: 1.0k content warning: post-time skip, established relationship, bokuto x reader, fluff, not proofread

note: doing skincare on bokuto would be so cute (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

໒‧₊˚ ⋅

Lounging on the soft cushions in the living room couch as the light from the TV shines on you. You hear the door creak, and a tall and bros silhouette walk out while you see the steam from the hot shower he took wind out. Bokuto had just finished showering to see you beaming at him with a face mask on while he walked towards you.

“Ooh is that a face mask?? Can I try one?” He’s ruffling his damp hair with a dry towel. His eyes are lit up, taking this as an opportunity to just relax and unwind with you before his next training schedule gets posted.

“Yeah, do you want me to do my whole skincare routine on you?” If he wanted to do the face mask, he might as well get the whole spa treatment while he’s at it. Bokuto’s lowering himself on the couch next to you as he mumbles out an excited Mhm!

While he’s resting on the plush cushions, you walked out to get the essential skincare products for his already perfect skin. He just washed his face in the shower so.. He’d probably just need a toner and maybe a simple serum. After the face mask he could also use some lotion to lock in more moisture after.. There were also new products you haven’t tried yet and wanted to test on him, but you weren’t for sure what his skin type was yet.

Stepping back towards the living room with a little tray of the toner bottle and class container that carries the serum inside, you set them down next to your boyfriend before taking the sheet mask out for a little walk. Bringing it to the kitchen to chill in the fridge while you got his skin all nice and prepped for the mask.

“I think I have everything. Scooch over so you can lay ur head on my lap, Koutaro.” On the couch, his damp grey and black hair all sprawled out on your thighs while you brush it off his shining face. His hands are resting softly on his stomach as he’s looking up at you with a subtle grin spread on his lips.

“So first is toner.. It’s perfect for everyday skin care. If you want to borrow this one I’ll give you it since this one is for all skin types,” unscrewing the cap open and shaking the clear liquid onto the palm of your hand. Rubbing your hands together before you softly pressed your wet hands onto the surface of his face.

“T’smells good, like expensive good hehe..” Bokuto’s content with just the first step of his newly built skincare routine. Just having your hands on him makes him almost the happiest man in the world. When you took your presence off of him, his eyes pried open as he saw you grab a little glass container that you opened.

“Ooh, what is that?” His big hands tenderly take the bottle from your reach to which you let him out of curiosity. He’s toying around with the little silicone pipette, trying to read the label and understand what the words have to do with taking care of your skin.

“..contains hyalur–hyaluronic acid. Babe what are you putting on my face?? Is this really okay for skin..?” His gold eyes shift up from the bottom to peer at you in a slightly shocked face, trying to understand how you know all these chemistry terms that come with taking care of the body’s largest organ. The acid part might’ve threw him off..

“Yes it is. It’s good for keeping your skin nice and hydrated, I use this almost like everyday Bokuto… you seen me put this on!” talking back at him with a slight pout on your lips. His fingers twist it open where his eyes widens seeing how thick and gooey the clear liquid is.

“Gimme that.” Snatching pipette lid from his grasp, Bokuto’s still holding onto the container that contained all of the serum in his other hand. His gaze lingered as you squeezed out a drop or two onto your fingers, putting the cap back into the little glass jar to which he screwed back on before returning back into his resting position.

His eyes laid back down as you’re rubbing the serum up all over his silky baby-like skin. Tapping in to lock in all the moisture, he can’t help but have a beaming look crawl on his face.

“M’kayy time for the face mask..” shuffling his damp head off your lap to go in the kitchen. Bokuto’s heavy eyes watch you step and grab the chilled mask from the fridge and return back to your seat.

“This might be kind of cold but it’s better when it’s cold okay?” squeezing his squishy cheek to get his attention despite the sleepiness starting to kick in. He responded with a simple nod as his lashes fluttered open into the light.

Tearing open the top of the thin package, your fingers reached in to pull out the soaked and chilly face sheet. You smack it onto his forehead to which he jolts at the freezing touch.

“WOAH! That’s like COLD COLD!!” That really brought him back from his unconsciousness. You can’t help but giggle at how silly your boyfriend can be while you’re unfolding the compressed mask.

“Close your eyes for me reallyyy quick..” lining up the chin part to his, laying the mask onto his skin slowly till it reached his forehead. Adjusting the sheet to mold to his facial features for a better result.

“Okay now we just gotta wait for a good maybe.. Like twenty minutes-ish before we take it off.” Grabbing all the trash before you head off to throw it away. Bokuto’s head is pushing down on your lap, as his rising arms grab your attention. His hands are at your face that peered right down to his.

“We’re matching now!” Bokuto’s content golden eyes smiled as he gives you a gentle peck.

masterlist here

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu time skip #haikyuu fluff #bokuto fluff #bokuto imagine #hq bokuto #bokuto x reader #haikyuu bokuto #bokuto koutarou #bokuto koutaro x reader #bokuto koutaro #bokuto scenario #koutaro bokuto #hq x you #fukurodani

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glassfullofsass · 3 months ago

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look I usually dont give a shit about accuracy in my shows because 1) im truly not an expert even in the fields I have worked in and 2) its fucking fiction HOWEVER Doctor Odyssey is fucking SENDING me with their miniature lab set up and she's not using a fucking pipette tip? There's no fucking tip? There's no goddamned tip on that fucking pipette? What the FCUK

#Doctor Odyssey #Apparently im gonna be a bitch about microbiology accuracy now

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a-killer-obsession · 1 year ago

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Whoops, you got hit by a bus, and now you're in the world of One Piece. But not everything is quite as you remember it...

General Tags: afab reader, she/her reader pronouns, isekai, monsterfucker reader, vampire!kid, werewolf!killer, wyrm!heat, minotaur!wire, everyone has a human form, smut heavy, unhealthy relationships, dubious consent, serious violence, spoilers for Wano arc, starts pre-timeskip. There will be a lot of more intense kinks, please check AO3 for all current tags.

Chapter 2 - To The Brig With Ye

Step 1: Get Heat on your side.

WC: 4.5k

Masterlist | AO3 | Chapter 1

You were surprised to wake up at all when you came to, in what you assumed was some sort of infirmary. The room tilted back and forth slightly, so you assumed you must still be on the ship at the very least. Your eyes fluttered open, finding a face suddenly far too close to your own.

“AHH!” you and Heat both shouted at once, the blue haired man scurrying backwards.

“Heat, for fucks sake I told you not to hover in her face like that!” A feminine voice scolded. You groaned as you tried to sit up, seeing a blue haired woman, her hair wild with spikes that looked like horns, a small set of round glasses, and a black dress bearing some sort of stylized cross. House. She was using a pipette to drip some sort of dark red liquid onto your exposed wound, which looked and felt nowhere near as bad as you thought it would, considering how deep the knife had gone. Your confusion was explained away as the red droplets hit your skin and you watched the flesh begin to sew itself closed, but it only brought up more questions in its place. You'd never seen something like that in One Piece, but then again this world was vast and strange, and people did always seem to heal fast here.

“Sorry, one more minute,” House spoke to you, drawing up more crimson into the pipette and dripping it onto the wound, the last sliver of open wound mending itself closed. “Okay, all done.”

“Uh thanks, House right?” You asked her, running your hand over the healed flesh, not even feeling a scar. It was like nothing had happened at all, save for the rouge red drips of whatever she'd used that remained on your skin before she hurriedly wiped it away with a damp cloth.

“Um, yes,” she replied unsurely, looking to Heat for clarity as she removed her latex gloves and threw them in a nearby bin. She'd seen the entire exchange on the deck, nobody had told you her name, and yet you somehow knew it. House didn't have a bounty poster, as the doctor of the Kid Pirates she hardly ever left the ship, so while it was understandable that you knew who the big four were, there shouldn't have been anyway you knew her name. “I'm gonna go let the captain know she's awake,” she addressed Heat, a distinct nervous tone to her voice, before scurrying out of the room, leaving you alone with the tall man, who shifted his weight between his feet awkwardly.

“What's your name?” He asked shyly.

“[Y/n],” you smiled.

“[Y/n]...” he repeated to himself, a slight blush to his cheeks, “Did you mean what you said?”

“What bit?” You rubbed your eyes with the palm of your hand, trying to piece together what had happened between getting hit by a bus and getting stabbed. “Oh, the sex dream stuff? Absolutely, baby” you winked at him, making him blush even more.

“No!” He choked on his breath, hands waving in defence, “I meant- the isekai bit!!”

“Ohhhhhh,” you blinked slowly, “I mean it's my best explanation for what happened. I'm like ninety-nine percent sure I got hit by a bus, and now I'm here. This whole world is supposed to be fictional, if this is just a dream then I shouldn't have been able to feel pain, but I certainly fucking felt it”

“And that's why you knew House's name?” He asked, stepping a little closer to the edge of the bed.

“Oh, it didn't even occur to me that I shouldn't know it,” you hummed, taking a moment to properly observe the room you were in now. It was darkly decorated in blacks and forest greens, the occasional violet pop of colour, none of the usual sterile whites and creams you'd expect of an infirmary, with two oversized beds (likely meant for larger crewmates), one of which you were currently laying in. Each bed had a side table, a table on wheels that fit over the bed, and a small plain chair for visitors. The whole room was almost a semi circle, save for the section missing on one side where you could see a door, likely to a bathroom. The opposite corner along the flat wall held cabinets and a counter, probably filled with medical supplies, with a small desk in front of it, a chair either side likely for doctor and patient. The beds were also along the flat wall, with a door to your left and another door in the centre of the curved wall in front of you, a small, green velvet couch to its left. The anime and manga had never shown the internals of the ship, but the curved walls and round portholes along them made you wonder if you were inside the forecastle, just behind the large dinosaur skull that acted as a figurehead for the ship. Your eyes came back to Heat, who stood next to your bed, waiting expectantly for an answer. “Yeah I mean, she's not really a well known character, but I guess you could say I'm a big Kid Pirates fan, so I remember a few more obscure characters.”

“From… a manga, you said, right?”

“Yeah. You're familiar with the isekai trope?” you didn't feel like explaining that it was an anime too, you weren't even sure if this world had cartoons.

“I am,” he mused, “and I guess weirder things have happened in this world. But we're gonna need proof, and I don't know how I'm gonna convince Kid”

You thought on that for a moment, “I think I can provide proof,” you mused, “has the crew been to Sabaody yet?”

“No, we're close though,” he told you hesitantly, not sure how much information he should reveal while he not so subtly eyed your body; you'd all but forgotten you were naked. You probably should have covered yourself up but it felt like a bit of a too little, too late situation. The whole crew had probably seen your tits at this point, not that it bothered you much. It wouldn't hurt to placate him either, it would be good to know at least one person on the crew had a fondness for you when it came to convincing Kid to keep you alive. If things really went tits up here you could always try your luck with the Straw Hats, but given the timing that would be difficult, you would have to stay on Sabaody for two years before you could try and join them. Maybe Shakky would let you stay with her in the meantime. Your preference though was to stay with the Kid Pirates, your favourite One Piece crew, and usually the subject of your sexy dreams and explicit fanfiction searches.

Heavy footsteps outside caught both of your attentions, Heat taking a few steps back to stand at a more respectful distance as the infirmary door flew open. Unsurprisingly, Kid stomped in, followed by Killer, and Wire, who shut the door behind him. Kid stood at the end of your bed, looking at you discerningly, an angry scowl on his face.

“Talk,” he said plainly.

“Boss, I think I can explain,” Heat told him, “what she said about isekai, I don't think she's from this world”

“The fuck is ‘isekai’” he growled, billowing his cape up so he could sit on the couch without catching it underneath him. Killer and Wire stood at either side of him like guard dogs, unsure of your capabilities, weary given the fact you'd appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the sea without a devil fruit power to get you here. There was no way of telling what powers you had or how you might suddenly use them.

“It's a trope, in manga,” Heat tried to explain, “the protagonist is sent to another world. Usually they die and get reincarnated, or some sort of god sends them there, to a usually fantasy world. I think that's what happened here, she claims she knows us because we're fiction in her world, and that she appeared here after she died in her world. Its a classic isekai premise.”

“Bullshit, she knows us from our bounty posters,” Kid huffed, unconvinced by Heats explanation.

“She knew House's name,” Heat replied. There was a pregnant silence as Kid considered that, his eyes flicking between you and Heat.

“Okay, so she's… from another world. If I chose to believe that,” Kid grumbled, “and she knows us because what? We're a comic book or some shit? They got comic books about the great Eustass ‘Captain’ Kid over there?”

“Well… they're not really about you per say,” you replied delicately, knowing the truth would piss him off.

“Then who the fuck could they be about?” Kid puffed up his chest, “why would they write about anyone other than the future King of Pirates?”

“They're uh… about Monkey D. Luffy…” you replied quietly. “Not that you're not also a very popular character!” You quickly added.

“STRAW HAT?” Kid roared, spooking you as he suddenly stood, “fucking STRAW HAT gets a comic book? Nah, fuck that, put this lying bitch in the brig.”

“Wait! Wait!” You quickly shouted, climbing further up the bed to avoid Killer's reaching hands, “I can prove it! I can tell you what'll happen when you get to Sabaody!”

“Sabaody is weeks out,” Kid huffed, “I ain't waitin’ for your lyin’ ass to be proven wrong so you can sit around in the meantime and find an opening to kill one of us. Devil fruit or no, you were obviously sent here to stop the best competition for finding the One Piece”

“Really? You think someone sent me here naked? Slammed me against the mast, no weapons, no devil fruit, no fighting skills, to kill you?” You rolled your eyes, “I can give you other proof, I can”

“Then fucking give me your proof, mouse,” Kid growled, the bed creaking as he leaned over you, his hands either side of your body. He probably wanted to intimidate you with his large form, but really it only served to make you a little horny.

“Killer wears purple lipstick,” you hurriedly shouted, the first thing that popped into your head as you searched for information only they should know. The room went silent before Kid suddenly wrapped a hand around your throat. He squeezed it threateningly, then he threw you back with a frustrated growl, letting you go as he moved to leave the room. He gave Killer a knowing look before turning back to Heat.

“Chain her in the brig,” Kid hissed, “I don't know where she learned that but I don't fucking trust her. Put her in iron too, there must be some trick, witch or some shit”

There was a flurry of movement as you were again left alone with Heat, Killer sparing you an unreadable look before slamming the infirmary door, clearly angry. You didn't like that you had to expose him like that, even if everyone in the room likely already knew that information, but it was him or you, and you had to act in self defence. Not that it'd helped in the end though either, as Heat apologetically dragged you off the bed and clamped your arms behind your back, wrapping one large hand around both of your small wrists at once to secure you as he led you out of the room.

Eyes followed you silently as you were led across the deck, still naked as the day you were born, revealing you had in fact been in the forecastle. Heat took you directly across to the rear of the ship, opening a door and leading you through a galley. The short view you got of the galley revealed a long room, with a serving window and counter on the left that peeked through to a moderately sized industrial looking kitchen. On the right was some sort of stage at the very end of the room, short stairs on either side leading up to the platform that currently held a long table surrounded by six chairs, a small liquor bar behind it. On the main floor between you and the stage were five long tables, a bench style seat along either side. The walls were decorated in band posters, bounty posters, photos of the crew together, newspaper clippings and all manner of souvenirs pinned to the walls, covering them in what spoke of a crew that acted more like a family, with many happy memories together all memorialised along the dining hall walls.

Heat led you to a staircase at the left of the room, following you down into a hall that was noticeably colder than above, likely due to being particularly below sea level. There was a short hall that split into two longer ones, they looked as though they made a loop around a center set of rooms, the walls lined with doors, no doubt bedrooms and storage rooms. He didn't lead you down either of the long halls, instead taking you to the end of the short one where a steep staircase, practically a ladder, led even further down to the hull of the ship. Heat gave you a little shove forward and you took the hint with a sigh, at least thankful that he'd let go of your wrists now so you could climb down.

You waited patiently at the bottom of the ladder beside a closed door as Heat climbed down after you. He fiddled with a set of keys that hung from his belt, unlocking the door and opening it, beckoning you to pass through. Inside was a series of cells, four in total, with iron bars at their fronts, each with a set of bare bunk beds with thin, stained mattresses, and a metal bucket in the corner, likely in lieu of a toilet. Unexpectedly, each cell was also trimmed in what looked like some sort of ancient symbols written along the floors and walls, a dark rusty colour that made you wonder if they were written in blood. The writing looked like something straight out of a dark fantasy show, with the occasional recognizable pentagram or latin in neat cursive letters. The doors to all four cells were open, seemingly unoccupied, and Heat gestured for you to enter the second, which sat directly across from a small desk, decorated only with a plain wooden chair and simple lamp.

You stood inside the cell, shivering as the air was considerably colder now that you were well under sea level, chilled by the cold ocean around you. The walls and floors offered no warmth, plated in what appeared to be stone, seastone perhaps. The wall behind the desk was lined with hooks holding multiple sets of cuffs in different styles. Heat selected a set of iron cuffs, with only three links between each wrist, and you sighed as you willingly held your hands out for him. There was no point fighting it, and forcing Heat to subdue you would only go against your plans to bring him to your side.

“Sorry about this,” he said softly as he closed the cuffs around your wrists. His hands were so warm against yours, reminding you of your current frigid situation.

“Can I have a blanket or something?” you pleaded, giving him your best puppy dog eyes.

“I.. I don't know if I'm allowed,” Heat replied, a tint of sadness to his voice.

“Maybe we can trade?” You offered, “I.. I only have my body, but maybe I can give you something in return for a blanket?” Was whoring yourself out a good idea? Probably not, given the circumstances, but you'd freeze to death down here if you didn't at least try. Besides, its not like you didn't want to fuck Heat. At this point you didn't have high hopes for surviving this world, but if you got laid with one of your favs then maybe it'd be at least a tiny bit redeemable.

“A trade?” He raised a brow, “like what?”

“What do you want?” You asked him, using your best sultry voice, experimentally pressing a hand to his chest and running it down slowly, pleasantly surprised when he didn't shy away from you. He shivered at the touch, your skin bare against his as your hand reached the bottom of his corset.

“Fuck, okay,” he growled, looking back at the door to the brig to check he had shut it, “on your knees, for a blanket”

“Yes sir,” you purred, perhaps a little too eager for Heat's dick. You would have traded a blowjob for a corn chip, if you were being honest with yourself. You fell to your knees slowly, trailing your fingertips down his midriff till they caught on the belt of his baggy pants. Raised on your knees, you could barely reach the flesh of his abdomen with your mouth as you hooked your fingers in the metal loops on his belt and used it as leverage to lower his pants, pressing your lips to the newly exposed flesh. He made a sharp exhale as your tongue came out to run over the V that led to his cock, pulling his pants down teasingly slowly and looking up at him with sultry eyes as his hand buried in your hair. Finally his pants lowered enough to expose his cock, long and girthy even at half mast, slightly more bulbous at the end with a set of three piercings along the underside, another at the tip, and a base of blue public hair, slightly darker than the hair on his head. He shivered as the cool air touched his exposed cock, quickly overruled by a groan as you took it in your bound hands and pumped the base, promptly becoming erect from your firm, warm touch.

“You have no idea how badly I've wanted to do this,” you purred, pressing your tongue to the tip, playing with the piercing and rolling your tongue over the fat head of his dick. He groaned as you took the end in your mouth, only taking a third of him as you began to bob your head, stroking the rest with your hand as you slowly adjusted and took a little more with each movement.

“Oh fuck, that's good,” Heat groaned, his hold on your hair tightening as you slowly worked towards taking all of his impressive length into your eager mouth, drool starting to drip down your chin as you focused on not gagging, breathing through your nose to suppress your natural urges. Your eyes watered as he started to hit the back of your throat, his hips making small thrusts in time with your movements, trying his best to hold back from just grabbing your skull and face fucking you. He'd been pent up for a while now, with a long stint between islands with working women, and a distinct lack of women in the meantime who were willing to risk their safety to sleep with the tall, stitched up man. By all accounts he looked terrifying to most women, so your willingness to get on your knees was certainly a nice surprise, seemingly having no issue with the way he looked. He felt bad at first for taking advantage of you, but the way you kept eye contact and hollowed your cheeks around his cock told him you wanted this, that the blanket was just an excuse to get in his pants. Really he should be the one feeling used, but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything but euphoric with the divine way your mouth was working his cock.

You paused as your nose hit his pubes, your now idle hands coming up to play with his balls, gagging a little as you swallowed around his cock. “Ohhhh fuck,” Heat groaned, looking down at you with his dick fully burried in your hot wet mouth. “Look at you, taking it like a proper slut, you like that huh? Like having my cock down your throat?”

You pulled off his cock with a pop as your thighs rubbed together in a desperate need for friction, you wouldn't be surprised if you were dripping on the floor at this point from how wet you were. “I'd like it better in my cunt,” you replied, stroking him with both hands, hoping above all that he'd take the bait and fuck you silly.

“Yeah? And what would you want to trade for that, huh?” He growled, wondering what game you were playing to be so willing, questioning whether this really was just a trick.

“One of your blankets,” you purred, running your tongue up the underside of his cock and feeling the piercings roll against it. “I want one that smells like you”

“Why are you so obsessed with me?” Heat replied, genuinely taken aback by your answer. He'd never known a woman to want him that bad, let alone just want something that smelt like him. It was making him feel sparks of something unfamiliar, possessiveness perhaps, fondness definitely.

“Because you're sweet, and you're sexy, you're one of my favourites,” you shrugged, “are you gonna fuck me or not? The stone is hurting my knees and my cunt is fucking dripping”

“Fuck,” Heat huffed, pulling you by your hair to stand and crashing his mouth against yours, groaning as he found you more than willing to return his affections. He walked you backwards until your body was flush with the cell wall, nipping at your bottom lip before he pulled away and spun you to face the wall. You arched your back and stuck your butt out for him, your tits squished against the stone as Heat admired your round ass. He gave it a playful spank, making you whine, before he grabbed handfuls of your ass cheeks and pulled them apart to admire your soaked pussy. “Fuck, you weren't lying, you're really fucking wet”

Unable to resist a taste, he knelt behind you and buried his face in your center, motorboating your cunt, your slick coating his face. He groaned against your pussy as his tongue zeroed in on your clit, making you moan and push back against him. His hands held your ass firmly, squeezing it to keep you in place as he sucked and lapped at your clit, before standing back up, running his tongue over your entrance and asshole as he moved.

“So fucking wet for me, so sweet too,” he groaned, taking his cock in his hand and lining it up with your needy entrance, your hips wiggling as you whined pleadingly. “Hold still, fuck,” you only managed to still for a moment before he pressed in, bullying his tip inside you and stretching your underprepared cunt wide. “Ah fuck, so tight,” he grunted as he slid inside you, bringing one hand to your mouth to clamp over it and muffle your sounds as you began to scream at the stretch.

His fingers slid into your mouth and you sucked them greedily, moaning around them as he bottomed out inside you. “Good girl, fuck, good little slut,” he groaned, giving you only a moment to adjust before he was dragging back out again, leaving only his tip inside you as he slammed back in. His fingers left your mouth so he could hold your hips firmly, fucking you hard and fast with the intention of making you both cum quickly before anyone caught you in the act, his cock heavy against your g-spot and stimulating it deliciously with every hard thrust he made. Your palms were flat against the wall, holding you steady as your body took the brunt of each impact, breasts grazing on the stone wall and drool transfering to the cool surface as Heat fucked you mercilessly.

He pulled you a little away from the wall, your tits now bouncing with every thrust as they hung freely until Heat reached underneath you and grabbed them, pulling you up and holding you with your back flush to his chest, one hand groping your tits still while the other wrapped around your throat, slowly travelling upwards till his fingers were buried in your mouth again, muffling your moans against the wet slapping of his body against yours. His teeth grazed your neck, wishing he could sink his fangs into you as they grew in his mouth, canines extending unbeknownst to you and running over your skin, knowing if he made a mark he would be caught. He was having trouble keeping in control of himself as you sucked on his fingers and your pussy fluttered around his cock, gummy walls clamping down around him as your eyes rolled back and you came on his cock without warning. A creamy ring formed around his base as he kept fucking you hard, chasing his own high now and trying to figure out where would be appropriate to cum.

“Get on your knees again,” he ordered, pulling his fingers from your mouth and withdrawing his throbbing cock from your cunt. You dropped to your knees willingly, opening your mouth invitingly for him with your tongue stuck out. He considered just jerking himself off over your face, painting your pretty fucked out expression with his cum, but worried about your inability to clean yourself off down here, so instead he shoved his cock down your throat, holding your hair with both hands as he began to use you rougher than he intended. You moaned around him at the surprising treatment, eyes streaming with unintentional tears as his cock gagged you with every hard thrust, until he finally stilled with his shaft balls deep in your mouth and you felt the hot cum pouring down your throat, his hands pulling your hair while he grunted. You shivered at the feeling, almost cumming again from it, playing with your oversensitive clit as he unloaded in your mouth. He pulled away slowly, the last drops of cum spilling against your tongue as you licked the tip. He slapped your cheek with his softening cock, giving you an appreciative grin as he slid his finger into your still open mouth and played with your tongue.

“I hope Kid decides not to kill you,” he mused as he helped you to your feet, pinning you against the wall again, his hand running up your thigh and hip till it came to rest at your waist. “Would be a real shame to waste a good set of holes like that”

“Tell him to come try me himself, maybe that'll convince him,” you suggested, “unless you wanna keep me all to yourself”

“Mm, tempting,” he mused, running a thumb over your bottom lip, “I don't mind sharing though, besides, I doubt I could keep you to myself even if I wanted to if one of the others decided they wanted a turn. Maybe we'll make you our ship whore”

“I'm not opposed to that,” you purred. Heat made a huff and started stepping away.

“Fuck, you really are a Kid Pirate fan huh?” He laughed, “I'll get you your blanket, but be a good girl and behave yourself until I can convince Kid to let you go”

“I'll be on my best, naughtiest behaviour,” you winked, shivering a little now that you didn't have his warm body to keep you heated. He frowned as he watched you shiver, realising how much you really did need the blanket.

“I'll find you some clothes too,” he said softly before turning to leave, disappearing before you even had a chance to respond.

[Next Chapter]

Like my stuff? Consider buying me a ko-fi

Taglist: @chershire23 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @nocturnalrorobin @eyes-ofhell @hellcatsworld @miyomoko-sora @loserbee14 @tzimiscequeen-blog @lansy-4

#one piece fanfiction #one piece smut #one piece x reader #kid pirates #kid pirates x reader #killer x reader #heat x reader #killer one piece #massacre soldier killer #heat one piece #kid one piece #eustass captain kidd #kid x reader #eustass kid x reader #wire x reader #wire one piece #monsterfucker #monsterfucker smut #monster au

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five-rivers · 1 year ago

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Prompt: Danny’s birth was an accident.

A lab accident, to be precise.

The problem with researching something as esoteric as ghosts was that you had to source all your own materials. If you wanted to know how high ectoplasm concentrations affected human cells, you either had to buy from ethically dubious medical supply companies or use your own.

Maddie used her own. Or Jack's. They worked together, and he was fine with it, so it was essentially the same thing, ethically, if not biologically.

Either way, they kept a whole variety of tissue samples, sourced from themselves. Cheek swabs, bone marrow samples, skin, hair, a tooth Jack had to get pulled, blood, serum and whole, a couple biopsies from different organs, spinal fluid, sperm, a collection of egg cells.

If they were going to market their inventions as family friendly and safe, they needed to know it wasn't going to render anyone sterile. They had Jazz already, and one child was quite enough, but other people might want more. Or assurances it wasn't going to mutate their children, before or after birth. Although in Maddie's opinion, that was quite ridiculous. Ectoradiation was quite different from electromagnetic radiation, or alpha radiation, or other traditional types.

So, that was what Maddie was researching now. Eggs and sperm. She wasn't about to do anything fertilized, of course. Too many ethical problems. But she would put a different concentration of ectoplasm in each test tube for one set, then duplicate those concentrations for the second set, then set up some eggs in one set of vessels, and a sample of sperm in the other, then run them for the same amount of time. Fourteen with eggs, fourteen with sperm. A bit of an odd number, but that's what happened in independent labs. Test tubes broke, and then if you wanted to control your experiments, and keep everything the same, you had to do things in odd numbers. Or buy new test tubes. But the more time you spent shopping, the less time you spent experimenting.

She started with the eggs. One by one, putting them into the the test tubes. One... two... three... four... bottom of the column... five... six... seven... eight... bottom of the column... nine... ten... eleven... twel--

"Maddie! I'm taking Jazz out to see you know who for you know what!"

"Dad!" said Jazz, her two-year-old voice squeaky with outrage. "I know we're going to the doctor!"

"Oh, right!" she called back. "That was today, thanks you for remembering, hun!" Usually, she was the one of them to remember important dates, but Jack was really on top of things for Jazz. It was nice.

"No problem, Mads! Good luck with the mutation experiment!"

"Thanks!" She turned back to the rack of test tubes. Now, where was she? She'd just finished that row... She had sorted them by row, hadn't she? Of course she had. So, she should start with the sperm. Right

She picked up the pipette and started from the top of the column. One.. two... three... four... She kept going, until she hit fourteen, and still had two test tubes left.

Well. That wasn't good. She must have-- Had she overlapped? Or had she just not finished filling the egg test tubes? If the latter, she could just put the last two eggs in the last two test tubes. And label them a little more carefully. She rearranged her worktable and peered into the container she'd carried the thawed eggs over in.

One. One unopened egg.

Hands shaking slightly, Maddie counted back to the thirteenth test tube. The one with the second-highest concentration of ectoplasm. The one that she had almost certainly put both an egg cell and sperm into. She pulled it out of the rack and set it in an empty one, then sat and stared.

This was a serious mistake.

Oh, she knew she could just dump it out in the sink or in the biological waste box, or any number of other things. Even moving at their fastest, sperm took a while to get into an egg. It might not have gotten there yet. And even if it had... Few people would consider a single cell a human being. But... Maddie had been raised Irish Catholic. She couldn't...

She sighed. Before she got carried away, she needed to check to see if it had even... taken, she supposed she should call it. If there was any life there. The ectoplasm could very well have acted as an inhibitor.

She licked her lips and reached for a microscope. First, find out what had happened, then talk to Jack, and then... then they would decide what to do. Together.

#admittedly some garbage science #danny phantom #ask #answer #prompt #prompt work #prompt fill

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maclediumzeyheri · 1 month ago

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How I Draw: PART 2

I’m currently a poor college student battling through final exams — and as if that wasn’t enough, one evil professor is making us undergrads write a full research paper on top of it all. So yes, it’s been a rather painful time... which sadly means I haven’t been able to draw much lately. But! Once June is over, I’ll finally be free! I’m hoping to dive back into drawing a lot more then.

Anyway, thank you so much for all the love on my last art post. It’s honestly been years since I wrote a post like that, so it was a pretty fun experience for me too! Today, I thought I’d continue the series — this time diving into the highlights of my process: coloring and post-editing!

…So, in my last post, I covered everything up to laying down the base colors. Now, it’s time to add some shadows!

When adding shadows, I only use Multiply layers. I usually pick low-saturation colors for this step, pretty much the same way I do when laying down the base colors. If needed, I’ll also use a watercolor edge effect.

To be honest, there’s really nothing too special about my process. After all, I’m not someone who’s formally trained in art. So no fancy, elaborate techniques here when it comes to adding shadows! (As for considering the direction of light… well, I sometimes try to think about it when adjusting the overall colors later on. But most of the time, I don’t bother too much — and this particular piece is one of those cases.) I simply go by instinct and paint the areas where shadows feel right.

Anyway, that’s how I go about coloring the clothes as well.

There was a little something special when it came to coloring the gloves. To give them a slightly transparent look, I added a light layer of green.

Once I’m done adding all the shadows, I move on to adjusting the line colors. Well, anything looks better than plain black lines, after all.

So at this point, this is what the piece looks like. Now, let’s move on and make it even prettier.

Use Ctrl+A and Ctrl+C to copy the entire coloring layer. Then, paste it and apply a blur effect to the copied layer (this is a feature available in SAI 2).

Now, copy the blurred layer as well. Set Blurred Layer 1 to Multiply, and Blurred Layer 2 to Overlay.

Then, adjust the opacity of these layers to your liking. This creates an effect where the image looks slightly soft, yet the colors become more vivid at the same time. It’s a technique often used to give artwork a bit of a retro vibe.

Next, use the Multiply and Overlay layers to adjust the overall color tone. With Multiply, you can create a darker, moodier atmosphere across the whole piece. And with Overlay, you can tweak the color tones to get the look you want.

(That’s right — just changing the color on the Overlay layer can completely change the color tones of the piece.)

For the finer details, keep using Overlay, Multiply, and Screen layers to refine the look.

-If you want to brighten certain areas, use a Screen layer. -If you want to adjust colors or add light and atmosphere, go with an Overlay layer(The image above is an example of this). -And if you want to deepen the shadows, a Multiply layer is your friend.

After that, I do some additional color adjustments in PaintShop Pro(If you have Photoshop, that would actually be an even better tool for this step).

In my case, since I was planning to lower the saturation later on, I intentionally boosted the saturation a bit during this stage. And don’t forget — before moving on to the next step, it’s a good idea to add an overall paper texture to the piece(Of course, this is a built-in feature in SAI).

From here, I use Corel Painter’s Thick Paint feature to add visible brushstrokes. The process of picking colors with the pipette tool and painting over them takes quite a long time.

In my experience, if you carefully paint with the smallest brush size (1.0), it gives the piece a texture that feels almost like embroidery. On the other hand, if you use a slightly larger brush and paint more loosely, it ends up looking more like an oil painting.

And if you duplicate the layer where you used the Thick Paint brush, you can get some really fun effects during the editing process.

Then, it’s really a matter of lowering the saturation, adding layer effects where needed, and repeating this process until you’re happy with the result. As I always say — I don’t have any strict rules for this part. It’s all based on personal satisfaction. For this particular piece, I went through even more steps (and a lot more second-guessing!) than usual.

And that’s it — the piece is finished! Thank you so much for reading all the way through.

As I was writing this, I realized that a lot of my process is based on instinct, so this post might not have been all that helpful in a step-by-step sense. But if there’s any part you’d like me to explain in more detail, please feel free to ask anytime!

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downwiththemutantnjnjaturtles · 2 years ago

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Donatello's First Love—Splinter's Talk

mostly bayverse, could be 2003 if you squint hard enough. did it a little different with this one compared to the others :0 word count: 1.6k

Spanning his messy corner of the Lair, Donnie's many monitors mounted to the wall were alight with a blue glow. The same few camera feeds rotated between the locations outside of their home and other places, monitoring, and allowing surveillance to take a backseat in his mind while he worked. At his desk, he gently squeezed a pipette into the mouth of a breaker, waiting for the reaction he was looking for to occur.

"Interesting," he mumbled to himself, "I wonder what happens if I were to supercool the mixture."

He placed the substance in a tray and prepared another batch, this time, much more concentrated. There wasn't much to do around the house besides experiment with the materials he'd salvaged. That was fine; he enjoyed the process, and filling notebooks—and his walls—to the brim with chemical equations, notes and mathematics that hardly anyone but he could read.

Careful with his large fingers to not drop the pipette, he sucked a few drops up from the test tube, going in to add to the mixture. He squinted, almost there. And then the startling alarm pinged on the screen next to him, making him jump and squirt the chemical on his work surface. He quickly wiped up and looked over at the computer. "'Motion detected: [y/n]'s apartment complex'," the screen read, switching camera feeds to one of the multiple tiny cameras he had set up. He only put cameras where he thought it mattered; he was paranoid about an ambush, and even more so at her place than theirs, now that she was coming and going from the Lair. The likelihood of their enemies finding out her association with them was about a fifty-seven percent chance, fifty percent too much for Donnie.

He scanned the monitor for signs of anything suspicious, but it turned out to be only a friend dropping by with a key to put a package inside, with [y/n]'s permission.

"Oh," he muttered, suddenly feeling silly. He made sure the person left her apartment—and locked it back—before quickly switching the feed. That was his one secret nobody had managed to catch him out on yet. Even so, he felt slick and a little guilty for spying. But, justifiably, they needed to know if she ever was in danger! He dismissed the notification and rotated the feeds manually. "Whoops. Sorry, [y/n]...yeah, I'll just switch that back."

He shuffled around to resume his work titrating. Except Splinter stood curiously behind the desk, eyes trained close on the monitors, and then Donnie. Donnie flinched—Splinter usually didn't come in or near his lab. In fact, none of his family normally bothered him when he had his nose in his work, because none of them understood it. Not even Leo bothered to try to get the details. The details went over their heads.

"So, Donatello, what is it you are working on?"

"Oh, Master Splinter," Donnie greeted him, glancing back to make sure the monitor was no longer on the door to her apartment. He picked up the pipette and test tube he'd knocked over before, "What is it?"

"Refer back to my last question," Splinter replied. He leaned calmly against his cane and looked all around the cluttered lab. Notes taped, tacked, even glued to walls. A whiteboard full of impossible equations, various pieces of technology in disrepair he'd picked up from trash and things going to recycling. Quite the mess, but Donnie knew where everything was. Splinter cocked his head slightly. "What disorganization," he commented.

"Disorganized to you," Donnie corrected with a smile, "but I can find anything I'm looking for—it's actually 'unorganized', implies that it never was organized. The definition of 'disorganized' suggests that something once was organized but now isn't, but I never once had this place in order," he rambled.

"Donatello," Splinter interrupted. Once his son got talking, it was hard to stop him. He just had to interject to get a word in. "What is it you are doing? You have been very unfocused lately. This is strange for you."

"Unfocused" was an understatement. With a mind already running miles per minute, he was getting caught up in his own head. Getting his work station back to a functional state, he set up his tube tray, answering, "Titrating these and writing out their chemical equations. The brain's like a muscle, gotta exercise it and stay sharp," he said. And with all that sharpness, he was only half-suspicious as to why Splinter was suddenly interested in what he was doing.

Splinter nodded. "Then I must not have seen miss [y/n]'s apartment complex on your screen. Carry on."

Donnie froze, watching Splinter out of the corner of his hazel eyes. His stomach dropped. So, it was one secret—they weren't going to understand, he was just as protective of their home, too! What if she couldn't call the police, or even them in time if someone broke in? Her apartment wasn't in a good area, Donatello already didn't like that. What if someone grabbed her? He couldn't put his mind at ease without knowing.

"I—well, this was a recent development, you see," Donatello stuttered, fidgeting with the purple wraps around his hands. He realized then how weird it all looked and panicked. He'd never meant for it to go this far; his cautionary measures just kept escalating more and more with his feelings for her. "I swear, it's just outside of her place! I would never put a camera in her apartment, that would be creepy, and way overstepping," he explained. "I told her I'd always look out for her and that she can count on me."

"Oh, I suppose it's no problem, then, since she gave you such consent," Splinter said, looking away momentarily to scratch his chin. His eyes snapped back over to his anxious son and popped a hairy brow up as he knocked the end of his cane on the floor to grab his attention further. "Is that right, Donatello?"

He wanted to go into his shell. I'm busted, this is not good. "Don't tell her! So, I, um…I didn't exactly…" The thought trailed off. He didn't need to finish that sentence for both of them to know.

"Precisely my point. Now that we have made that clear, would you like to tell me what this is really about?"

"No! I mean, I will, since you're asking, but—agh, I swear, I'm not a creep," he said. "I just wanted to make sure she'd be okay. That's it."

Splinter crossed behind his desk, slipping an arm around his son's shell. Donnie wanted to pull away. "Come with me. Let's take a walk."

He led them out of the Lair into the tunnels outside their home. They could loop around easily and end up back at the Lair, and Splinter knew Donnie was going to resist talking if the others could be around to hear. Sometimes, you must play on other people's terms, he thought, listening to the quiet drip echo as they ambled through the sewer. He figured it was time to do a little damage control, although he normally pledged not to interfere with his sons and them making their mistakes. However, he didn't want to see Donatello make a potentially hazardous one to himself.

"Now, you must understand, my son, you cannot know everything at once," Splinter said, avoiding an accusatory tone. "You have a brilliant mind, but you certainly don't tend to see the obvious."

"What do you mean, master?" Donnie questioned. The "obvious" being under any other circumstances, his actions would definitely be seen as "creepy". The notion flew right under his radar as something to worry about, as their circumstances were anything but normal.

"Of course, you are a young man, you want to watch out for the one you love," Splinter pointed out. Donnie cringed, even though he hasn't made much of an attempt to hide that fact. He was excited to explore something new, why should he have hidden thos feelings? He didn't shout them to the world. But it was well-known among their family that he'd beaten his brothers to the punch when it came to her, and no going for it was an unwritten but understood boundary. Still, this wasn't a conversation he was prepared for have tonight; his mind was still back at his lab.

"About everyone but Michelangelo has noticed you've been retreating to your lab more often recently." He chuckled. "And your antics around her are obvious, again. Loosen your grip a little. You are annoying your brothers vying for her attention."

Donnie felt a rush of embarrassment come over him. Yes, he was showy—expressive, maybe too quick to whisk her away to demonstrate his new inventions, the stuff he'd discovered. Donnie knew he could hyperfixate on and obsess over things; she was on his mind more than not. As for annoying his brother, he wasn't the strongest, but he was the smartest. He was much more eager with his staff and putting his siblings back in their lane when she was around. The electric component on his weapon came in handy for quick corrections, and goofing around.

Through all of that, he remembered having a moment of clarity when she was inspecting his computer setup one night and the camera almost flickered to hers, to which he scrambled to shut it off. Conveniently, he brushed that aside.

Donnie lifted his goggles, rubbing his face sheepishly. "I guess you're right," he admitted.

"The things you do for love," Splinter shook his head. "Be sure you do not push her away by accident. You are fortunate I had the mind to come talk to you about this before you made a mistake and a fool of yourself. Consider it a fair warning," he said as he looked over at his son, who waited quietly for him to continue, "to not overstep."

"I understand, loud and clear."

Splinter nodded in agreement, "Good. I trust you will take this advice well. You have a good heart and good intentions, Donatello, do not be clouded by your mind. Your brain is not your only quality."

"Thanks, master Splinter. I'll let up on it," Donnie relented with a small smile. He was still uncomfortable, feeling a bit dumb. He always was so caught up on making predictions, keeping everything running smoothly and safely that he didn't always consider how that worked for other people. Just because it made sense to him, didn't mean it made sense to them. Note that for later, Donatello, he reminded himself. He turned around to head back to the Lair.

Splinter stopped to take in a little sunlight from the grate above his head, stopping Donnie in his tracks. "Oh, and Donatello," he called.

"Yeah?"

Splinter assumed parental status, and Donnie knew that scolding tone all too well. "Tell her about it, or turn that damned camera off."

~wooOoOOOoooOooOooo partitionnnnnnn~

Side rant: I actually hate it when people portray Donnie (except for 2012 iterations) as shy and unconfident. He is literally the opposite in 2003 and Bayverse. Donatello is not "a little baby uwu" and I'm tired of people making him look so meek 😭

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt donatello x reader #tmnt donatello #tmnt donnie #donatello x reader #donatello #master splinter #tmnt fanfic #tmnt 2016 #tmnt 2014 #tmnt bayverse #tmnt x reader #tmnt 2003

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