#quimichi

"Seirai Island," he explained, watching you intently. "I remembered you mentioned wanting to study the paralyzing properties of Inazuman flora. But Paimon almost touched it and her hand went numb for an hour." "Oh, you poor thing," you said, though you were already reaching for your specialized lead-lined gloves. You looked at Aether, a playful, glint crossing your features. "And here I thought you only brought me flowers because you liked seeing me blush."

​Aether’s face went a dusty rose color, his gaze dropping to your lips before he looked away. "I... I brought it for science. Obviously." "Help me stabilize it," you commanded gently, your tone shifting into 'Medic Mode.' "I need to extract the stamen without letting the vapor escape. If that gas hits the open air, we'll both be unconscious before we can hit the floor." ​You guided his hands, placing them over yours on the lid of the canister. The contact was electric—and not just because of the flower. Your skin felt cool against his calloused palms.

​"Steady..." you whispered. You were so close that your hair brushed against his shoulder. Aether held his breath, not because of the toxin, but because he was terrified that if he moved, he’d break the spell of being this close to you. With a soft snip, you withdrew the glowing stamen. "Got it."

As you moved to seal the blue neutralizing solution, a stray spark of Electro energy—a remnant from the Seirai Island soil—snapped against the rim of the glass jar. The vibration caused a tiny, overlooked pocket of concentrated pollen to puff upward in a fine, shimmering violet cloud. Aether, standing closest to the bench to help you clear the equipment, took a sharp breath in surprise. ​"Aether, wait—!" you gasped, reaching out to pull him back, but it was too late. He inhaled the sweet, cloying scent of the crushed stamen.

​For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, the glass jar he was holding slipped from his fingers, thudding onto the wooden table. Aether’s hand flew to his throat, his golden eyes widening, the pupils blowing wide until the amber was nearly swallowed by black. ​ ​"Aether?" You dropped your tools, stepping around the bench to reach him. Your medical instincts kicked in, your hands hovering over his chest. "Talk to me. Can you breathe? Is your heart racing?" He didn't answer. His breathing became shallow and jagged. A deep, flush crept up his neck, staining his cheeks a dark, feverish crimson. When he finally looked at you, the usual hero’s restraint was gone, replaced by a raw, hazy intensity that made your breath hitch. "Y/n," he rasped. His voice was an octave lower, vibrating with a hunger that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

"It’s an aphrodisiac," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. You knew this specific strain; it didn't just cloud the mind, it stripped away inhibitions and amplified the deepest, most buried desires. "I—I have a cooling tincture in the back. Just stay still, I’ll get it—" You turned to rush to the apothecary cabinet, but a firm, hot hand caught your wrist.

​Aether pulled you back, not with force, but with a desperate kind of gravity. You stumbled slightly, landing against his chest. His skin was radiating heat, and the scent of him—wind, starlight, and now that heady, floral musk—swirled around you. "Don't go," he murmured, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. His eyes were fixed on your lips, his gaze tracking the curve of your cupid's bow with agonizing slowness. "Please. Just... stay." You were the medic. You knew he wasn't himself—or rather, he was too much himself. But as you looked up into his clouded eyes, your own gaze softened. You were far too sweet to leave him suffering, but you were also human, and you had loved him in silence for so long.

​"Aether, you're not thinking straight," you breathed, your fingers trembling as they touched his burning cheeks. You meant to be firm, but it came out as a gentle caress.

​"I've never thought more clearly," he groaned, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. "I see you... I always see you. But right now... I can't stop wanting you." The slow burn of the last few months suddenly felt like a wildfire. You could feel the heat of his body through your clothes, the way his heart mirrored the frantic rhythm of your own. "You'll regret this tomorrow," you whispered, though you didn't pull away. You were smart enough to know this was an opportunity, but too kind to take advantage of his state. "I'll regret it more if I don't do this," he countered, his voice a low, desperate plea.

As the violet pollen settled into Aether’s lungs, the transformation was jarring. The stoic, polite Traveler vanished, replaced by something raw, needy, and utterly consumed. ​Aether let out a low, jagged groan that sounded more like a growl. His grip on your wrists tightened, pinning them against the edge of the wooden workbench behind you. You felt the bite of the wood against your lower back, but you were far more focused on the furnace-like heat radiating from his body.

​"Y/n," he rasped, his voice cracking with a desperate, hungry edge. His golden eyes were dark, blown out with lust, and they dropped immediately to your chest, watching the way your breath came in short, frantic hitches. "God, you smell so good. Like sugar and... and medicine. I can't—I can't breathe."

​"Aether, listen to me," you managed, your voice trembling. "It’s the toxin. It’s forcing your heart rate up, it’s—" "It's making me want to ruin you," he interrupted, his voice dropping to a filthy, low rumble.

​He lunged forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath was scorching against your skin. He didn't just kiss you; he nuzzled and nipped at your pulse point like a starved animal, his movements clumsy and frantic. You felt the unmistakable, rock-hard ridge of his desire pressing firmly against your thigh, thick and insistent even through the layers of his traveling gear.

​He was whimpering now—a high, needy sound in the back of his throat that made your stomach flip. He pulled one of your hands from the bench and guided it down, pressing your palm directly over the straining fabric of his trousers. "Feel it," he choked out, his forehead grinding against yours. "Feel what you’re doing to me. It hurts, Y/n. It hurts so fucking much. Please. Help me. You’re the medic... help me."

​He was acting like a pup in heat, rubbing himself against your hand, his hips twitching with a rhythmic, desperate need. The vulgarity of it—the way the "Hero of Teyvat" was reduced to a begging, hard, swearing mess at your feet—sent a surge of forbidden heat through your own veins. "Aether, you're being... very bad," you whispered, that teasing part of you fluttering to life even amidst the chaos. Your fingers instinctively curled around him, feeling the twitch of his length beneath your touch. He let out a choked sob of relief, his head falling back as his eyes rolled into his head. "More. Please, more. I want to taste those lips until they’re swollen. I want to mark every inch of this glass skin until you only belong to me. Fuck, Y/n... give me everything." He looked at you then, pleading and feral, his hand reaching for the hem of your skirt with a trembling, impatient jerk. The bench groaned under your weight as Aether shoved himself between your thighs, his hands hiking up your skirt with a frantic, trembling lack of grace. He was whimpering now, a raw, pathetic sound that vibrated against your skin as he buried his face in your chest. The "Hero of Teyvat" was gone; in his place was a starving animal, reduced to a hard, twitching mess by the violet dust and his own repressed hunger for you. "Y/n, fuck," he growled into your skin, his teeth grazing your collarbone. "You’re so soft. Too soft. I’m going to bruise you, I know it, and I can't even make myself care." He grabbed your hand again, forcing your fingers to wrap tighter around the thick, pulsing length straining against his trousers. He let out a choked, ragged breath, his hips bucking upward into your palm with a mindless, rhythmic desperation.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice cracking. When you met those hazy, gold-rimmed eyes, you saw the sheer, vulgar need written there. "I’ve wanted this since the first day I saw you at that fountain. I’ve stayed awake dreaming of how you’d taste. And now... I’m losing my mind. Help me. Please." He wasn't just asking for medicine anymore. He was begging for you to ruin him. He started fumbling with his own belt, his fingers clumsy and shaking so badly he couldn't get the buckle undone. He let out a frustrated, sob-like sound, his forehead thumping against your shoulder. "I can't—I can't get it open. Y/n, do it. Touch me. Get this off me before I rip it."

You leaned back against the workbench. Even as your heart hammered against your ribs, that teasing streak of yours couldn't help but flare up. You watched him struggle, his face flushed a deep, feverish crimson, his pupils so blown they looked like black ink. "You’re being so impatient, Aether," you whispered, your voice a gentle, melodic contrast to his vulgar panting. You reached down, your fingers finally brushing his trembling hands away from the leather. "A good patient stays still for their doctor." "I’m not a patient," he rasped, his breath hot and smelling of the sweet toxin. He watched with predatory intensity as you slowly, agonizingly, began to undo his fastenings.

"I’m a fucking wreck. I’m hard as stone and it’s all your fault for being so goddamn beautiful." As the fabric finally gave way, he let out a sharp, hissing breath. He was leaking, the tip of his desire slicking the cloth, and as you finally freed him, he surged forward. He didn't enter you—you weren't there yet—but he ground his bare, hot length against your thigh, a low, guttural moan ripping from his throat.

"More," he whimpered, his hands gripping your hips so hard they’d surely leave marks. "Y/n, please... I’m going to come just from you looking at me like that. Touch it."

Your fingers finally closed around him. He was burning—searing hot and pulsing with a frantic, rhythmic life of his own. The second your cool palm slid over his slick, engorged head, Aether’s entire body racked with a violent shudder. "Fuck," he hissed, his head snapping back, his throat corded with tension.

The aphrodisiac had stripped away his gentleness, leaving behind a raw hunger that made him growl. He didn't just let you touch him; he reached down and clamped his hand over yours, his knuckles white as he forced your hand to move with a punishing, vulgar speed. "Harder, fuck-," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly scrape that vibrated in your chest. "Don't be so goddamn gentle. Grip me like you mean it. I want to feel every inch of your skin rubbing me raw."

He wasn't begging anymore. He surged forward, his large hands sliding from your wrists to your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the workbench. He slammed you back down, spreading your thighs wide with his knees and pinning you against the wood until you were looking up at him, breathless and flushed. "Look at how you're shaking," he growled, his golden eyes dark with a cruel, lustful triumph. "The little medic... you like seeing me like this, don't you? You like knowing you’ve turned me into a fucking animal."

He leaned down, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your shoulder, marking your glass-like skin with a possessive bite. You let out a sharp gasp, your fingers curling tighter around his length, and the sensation sent him over the edge. He began to thrust his hips forward into your hand, a rhythmic, wet slapping sound echoing through the quiet clinic.

"You're so tight... your hand is so fucking soft," he groaned, his breath coming in jagged, vulgar hitches. He was leaking heavily now, the clear fluid coating your fingers as he pumped himself against your palm. "I'm going to ruin this dress. I’m going to paint you in my seed and make you wear it while you brew your little potions." He was close—dangerously close. His movements became more frantic, his thrusts more violent as he ground his crotch against the junction of your thighs. He grabbed your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat, his thumb pressing hard against your lower lip, pulling it down to reveal your teeth. "Keep going," he rasped, his hips bucking with a mind of their own. "Don't you dare stop. I want to feel you squeeze the life out of me. Y/n... fuck, I'm going to—!" His eyes rolled back, his body turning rigid as stone as he prepared to snap.

ALBEDO

"Here," you say, holding out a glass rod coated in a reactive paste you’ve just mixed. "Touch this to the base of the stem. If it turns amber, the venom is protein-based. If it stays clear, it’s a mineral-heavy salt." As Albedo reaches for the rod, his fingers brush against yours. It’s a brief contact, but in the freezing chill of Dragonspine, the warmth of your skin feels like a lightning strike. He pauses, his breath hitching just slightly. You don't pull away immediately; instead, you give him one of those helpful smiles that makes him wonder if you have any idea what you’re doing to his pulse.

​"Your hands are cold, Albedo," you murmur, your medicinal concern masking the fact that your heart is hammering against your ribs. "Once we finish this test, I’m making you put on your gloves. No arguments." "I wouldn't dream of arguing with the best medic in Mondstadt," he replies softly. He looks down at the plant, but his mind is entirely on the way your thumb is still resting against the back of his hand. He wants to catch your hand in his, to tell you that he’s been sketching your profile in the margins of his research notes for weeks. But the words stay locked behind his teeth, replaced by the safety of scientific inquiry.

​The rod touches the plant. The paste doesn't turn amber or stay clear. Instead, it turns a deep, romantic crimson. You both blink, momentarily distracted from the tension. "Crimson?" you whisper, leaning in closer until your hair brushes his shoulder. "That’s... that’s not a standard reaction for a toxin. That indicates a high concentration of pheromonal stimulants mixed with a paralytic."

​"A plant that lures you in with a scent, then freezes you in place," Albedo concludes. He turns his head to look at you, realizing just how close your faces are. "It seems this specimen is quite dangerous, Y/n. It uses the illusion of warmth and attraction to trap its prey."

​You meet his gaze, your heart in your throat. For a second, the mask slips, and you give him a look that is purely, vulnerably longing. "Is that so? Good thing we have each other to keep us grounded, then." You pull back first, teasing him as you pat his hand playfully.

"Now, gloves. Or I'll be forced to report your lack of safety protocols to Jean." Albedo watches you move across the tent, a silent sigh escaping him. He knows he’s already trapped—not by the plant, but by the girl who knows exactly how to heal him and exactly how to make him lose his mind. The crimson reaction should have been the final warning, but Albedo’s scientific curiosity is a relentless master. As he leans in to pluck a single, pulsing petal with his tweezers for a microscopic slide, the translucent skin of the plant ruptures.

A cloud of fine, shimmering indigo dust puffs upward, caught in the updraft of the heater. "Albedo, wait—!" Your warning comes a second too late. He inhales sharply, startled by your sudden shout. The powder vanishes into his lungs, and for a heartbeat, everything is silent.

The shift is instantaneous. Albedo’s pale skin flushes a deep, burning rose, starting at his throat and climbing to the tips of his ears. His pupils dilate until his teal eyes are nearly swallowed by black. "Y/n..." his voice is an octave lower, strained, as if he's speaking through a physical weight. He stumbles back, his hand gripping the edge of the alchemy table so hard the wood creaks. He knows his own anatomy; he can feel the chemical cascade—the surge of dopamine, the dilation of blood vessels, and the sudden, thrumming heat centering low in his abdomen. The "aphrodisiac" tag you’d diagnosed was an understatement. This was a biological command.

Albedo is a man who prides himself on being the master of his own vessel. He views his body as a tool for his mind, yet right now, the tool is rebelling. Beneath his heavy alchemist’s trousers, the friction of the fabric becomes an exquisite torture. He is painfully, undeniably hard, a fact that he tries to mask by turning his hip away from you, his knuckles white as he anchors himself to the table. "Stay... back," he grits out, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches.

You, being the ever-helpful medic, instinctively move toward him, your hands reaching out to check his pulse. "Albedo, let me help. I have a neutralizing tincture in my bag, I just need to—" "No." The word is a raw growl. He watches you approach, and his treacherous mind—fueled by the toxin—starts overlaying images. Everything about you is suddenly a weapon aimed at his self-control.

He closes his eyes, jaw locked so tight his teeth ache. He's fighting a war on two fronts: the physical ache that demands he reach out and pull you flush against him, and the intellectual horror that he might lose his composure in front of the woman he secretly adores.

"It's a... vasodilation response," he wheezes, trying to rationalize it, trying to turn the horniness into a lab report. "Increased heart rate... 140 beats per minute... core temperature rising..."

You step closer, undeterred by his coldness because you know it’s a defense. You’re too nice to leave him suffering, but as you reach for his forehead to check for a fever, your fingers brush his damp skin. Albedo lets out a sound that is half-groan, half-sob. He flinches away from your touch as if burned, his breath hitching as he fights the urge to grab your wrist and press your palm against the heat of his groin.

"Y/n, I am... not myself," he manages, his eyes snapping open. They are dark, predatory, and filled with a longing he’s spent months hiding. He’s shaking now, the sheer effort of staying upright and not touching you causing a fine sheen of sweat to break out over his body. "Please. The tincture. Quickly. Before I... before I do something we both regret."

You see the way his gaze drops to your mouth and then snaps back up to your eyes, a desperate, silent plea for you to save him from his own desire.

As you bend over your medical satchel, the fabric of your trousers stretching taut, the last thread of Albedo’s legendary composure snaps like dry kindling. The sound of his boots clicking against the stone floor is sudden and predatory. Before you can even wrap your fingers around the cool glass of the tincture, a heavy, trembling heat slams into your back.

Albedo doesn't just lean on you; he pins you against the alchemy table with the full weight of his body. His hands, usually so delicate with a paintbrush, catch your wrists and shove them flat against the wood, pinning you in a bent-over position. A low, guttural growl vibrates against your ear—a sound so far removed from the polite Chief Alchemist that it makes your Dendro Vision flicker.

"I told you... to stay back," he rasps, his voice thick and ruined by lust. He’s no longer fighting the physical reality of his condition. You feel the hard, unrelenting length of him pressing firmly into the cleft of your backside, a rhythmic, demanding pressure that tells you exactly how much he’s been holding back.

He doesn't wait for your permission. He grinds his hips into you, a slow, vulgar roll that forces a small gasp from your throat. The friction is intense, the layers of clothing between you doing nothing to hide the sheer scale of his arousal. "Look at you," he mutters, his breath hot and smelling of the bitter mountain air and something musky and male. "Always so sweet. Always so helpful. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve watched you walk away and imagined exactly this? Imagined breaking that saintly patience of yours?"

He lets go of one wrist only to grab your chin, forcing your head back so you have to look at him. His eyes are dark, blown wide with a chemical-induced madness, his jaw set in a hard line. "You want to help me, Y/n? You want to be a good little medic?" He grinds into you again, harder this time, a filthy, wet sound escaping his throat as he finds the perfect angle against your ass. "Then stop looking for the medicine. The tincture won't fix this. Only you can fix this." He leans down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, right where your pulse is jumping like a trapped bird.

"I'm going to ruin that helpful reputation of yours," he whispers, his voice a dirty promise. "I'm going to make you forget every herb and every toxin until the only thing you can remember is the way I feel inside you. You’ve been teasing me for months with those 'sneaky' little smiles... well, you have my full attention now."

He shifts his weight, his hand sliding down from your chin to grip your hip, his fingers digging into your skin with a bruising intensity as he prepares to hike up your clothes.

The heavy silence of the laboratory is replaced by the frantic, wet sound of friction and Albedo’s ragged breathing. He doesn't give you a chance to recover. With a strength born of Alchemical precision and chemical desperation, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your trousers, shucking them down just far enough to expose the curves he’s spent months pretending not to notice.

The cold air of Dragonspine hits your skin for a split second before his searing body heat replaces it. He doesn't use any finesse; he’s too far gone. He guides his aching, twitching length to your entrance, and with a low, possessive growl, he drives himself home in one deep, unforgiving thrust. "Ah—! Y/n..." He gasps your name like a prayer and a curse, his forehead dropping against your shoulder blade as he begins a brutal, rhythmic pace. Even as his hips slam into you with a primal force, his mind is still firing—a terrifying blend of the lover and the scientist. He’s babbling now, his voice a frantic whisper against your ear.

"The... the absorption rate is phenomenal," he pants, his hands bruising your hips as he pulls you back against every thrust. "The alkaloids... they’re bypassesing the blood-brain barrier... stimulating the amygdala. I can feel... the vasocongestion in my—God, Y/n, you’re so tight. You’re the most perfect specimen I’ve ever... ever touched." He’s lost in the data of you. Every time he bottoms out against you, he lets out a shuddering breath, his words tripping over each other.

"Your dermal temperature has risen by 2.5 degrees... the way your muscles are pulsing around me... it’s an involuntary reflex, isn't it? So helpful. Even your nervous system wants to take care of me." He lets out a sharp, vulgar laugh, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

"You’re so good, Y/n. Such a sweet, knowledgeable medic... do you know how many toxins I’ve studied? None of them... none of them compare to the way you taste." He shifts his grip, reaching around to tangle his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back so he can see the flush on your face.

"Look at the pupillary dilation," he mutters, staring into your eyes with a terrifying, horny intensity. "The sympathetic nervous system is in full revolt. You’re beautiful when you’re being ruined. I should have... I should have sampled you months ago. I was a fool to settle for tea and conversation when I could have had this... this glorious, visceral reaction."

His pace becomes frantic, the "slow burn" of your months-long pining flash-frying into a chaotic explosion. He’s no longer just testing the plant; he’s testing you.

"The paralytic element is... negligible," he wheezes, his thrusts becoming short, shallow, and incredibly fast as he nears his limit. "But the aphrodisiac... it’s 100\% effective. I love you. It’s a chemical certainty. I love the way you’re taking all of me. I love how... how filthy you’re letting me be. Y/n—! I've always loved you-" He lets out a final, strangled cry, his body locking up as he spills into you, his mind finally shutting down as the data points dissolve into pure, white-hot sensation.

AL-HAITHAM

The air in your personal lab was thick with the scent of damp earth and ozone. On the mahogany workbench sat a peculiar specimen from Tighnari—a "Shimmer-Cap" mushroom, its gills glowing with a faint, pulsing violet light. You were leaning over it, your Dendro Vision glowing softly as you pulsed energy into the fungi to see how it reacted to external stimuli.

"The alkaloid structure is fascinating," you murmured, mostly to yourself. "Tighnari warned me it’s a potent stimulant, but I haven't isolated the exact triggers yet." "Then perhaps you should stop staring at it and start documenting the reaction times," a deep, melodic voice vibrated behind you.

You didn't need to turn to know it was Alhaitham. He had a habit of 'happening' to be near your lab during his breaks. You smiled, feeling that familiar skip in your heart. "Always the critic. If you’re so impatient, Scribe, why don't you help me stabilize the spores?" Alhaitham stepped up beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. He looked down at the mushroom with a clinical gaze. "It seems over-pressurized. If you apply pressure to the stem, the spores should settle." "Careful, Haitham, it’s sensitive—" Too late. With his usual confidence, Alhaitham pressed a finger against the bulbous base. Instead of settling, the Shimmer-Cap let out a sharp pop. A cloud of fine, iridescent pink powder puffed directly into his face.

Alhaitham didn't even have time to sneeze. He inhaled sharply in surprise, drawing the powder deep into his lungs. For a second, he just stood there, blinking. Then, his pupils blown wide until the teal of his eyes was almost gone. A dark flush crept up his neck, clashing with the cool grey of his hair.

"Haitham?" You reached out, concerned, your hand hovering near his chest. "Are you alright? That was a concentrated dose of—" "I am... fine," he gritted out. His voice was an octave deeper, raspy and strained.

He suddenly stepped back, his movements uncharacteristically jerky. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, but it didn't hide the way his breathing had turned shallow and heavy. The "stimulant" Tighnari had mentioned wasn't for energy—it was a biological aphrodisiac of the highest caliber.

You watched him, your medical instincts kicking in even as your heart hammered against your ribs. You noticed the way his gaze kept dropping to your lips, then snapping back to the ceiling with agonizing effort.

"You're sweating," you noted softly, stepping closer. You reached for a damp cloth. "That powder mimics a high-intensity pheromone. It triggers a massive release of—" "I know what it triggers, Y/n," he snapped, though there was no heat in it, only desperation. He turned his body away from you, but you caught the unmistakable silhouette beneath his fitted trousers. The Scribe was, for the first time in his life, completely betrayed by his own biology.

He gripped the edge of your workbench so hard his knuckles turned white. He was a man of logic, a man who prided himself on self-control, yet every nerve ending in his body was screaming for the person standing right next to him. "Go... get the neutralizing agent," he ordered, his eyes squeezed shut. "Now."

You knew he was suffering, and you  wanted to run for the medicine immediately. But seeing the great, stoic Alhaitham so thoroughly unraveled... a little spark of mischief lit up in you. You didn't move toward the cabinet. Instead, you stepped into his space, your voice dropping to a gentle, teasing whisper. "The neutralizer takes ten minutes to brew, Haitham. Are you sure you can wait that long? You look so... uncomfortable."

You let your hand "accidentally" brush against his arm. He let out a low, guttural sound that was half-groan, half-growl."Y/n," he warned, his voice trembling with the effort of not grabbing you. "Don't... play with fire. Not when I'm this close to losing my mind."

Alhaitham’s knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of your workbench, the wood groaning under his strength. The Shimmer-Cap’s spores were a biological hijack; every breath he took felt like liquid fire settling in his gut and pooling heavily in his groin. You turned your back to him, humming softly as you began to grind dried starshrooms into a mortar. You knew exactly what was happening behind you. You could hear the ragged, uneven hitch of his breath and the rustle of his heavy capes as he shifted, trying—and failing—to hide the prominent, pulsing length straining against the fabric of his trousers. "It’ll just be a moment, Haitham," you said, your voice a sweet, clinical contrast to the thick tension in the room. You glanced over your shoulder, a playful glint in your eyes. "You look quite tense. Are you sure you don't need to sit down? Or perhaps... take something off?"

A low, vibrating growl left his throat—a sound far too animalistic for the Acting Grand Sage. "Don't," he rasped, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. "Don't push your luck, Y/n. I am trying to remain civil, but this... filth you've let spray into the air is making it very difficult not to pin you to this table and show you exactly how 'tense' I am."

He stepped closer, the heat radiating off his body hitting your back like a furnace. He didn't touch you yet, but you could feel the predatory focus of his gaze. The "Scribe" was gone; in his place was a man pushed to the absolute brink of his sanity. "You think you’re being clever, don’t you?" he muttered, leaning down until his lips were inches from your ear. His breath was hot, smelling faintly of the mint he chewed and the musk of aroused male. "Acting the sweet, helpful medic while you watch me suffer. You want to see me lose control? You want to see the Scribe reduced to a fucking animal?" He let out a sharp, pained hiss as his erection throbbed painfully against his clothes. He reached out, his large hand spanning the width of your waist, pulling you back flush against him. You felt it then—the hard, uncompromising heat of him pressed right into the curve of your ass.

"I've spent months pretending I don't want to bend you over this very desk," he growled, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh with bruising force. "And right now, that powder is telling me to stop pretending. If you don't give me that neutralizer in the next ten seconds, I’m going to rip those pretty clothes off your back and use you until neither of us can walk. Do you understand me?" His voice was stripped of all its academic polish, dripping with a raw hunger that made your knees weak. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that wasn't a kiss, but a claim. "Fucking move, Y/n," he groaned against your skin, his hips giving an involuntary, desperate twitch against you. "Before I decide I like the taste of the venom more than the cure."

The mortar and pestle clattered to the floor, forgotten, as you finally wilted under the sheer, suffocating weight of his desire. The teasing spark in your eyes vanished, replaced by a wide-eyed, breathless heat that mirrored his own. You didn't reach for the cure. Instead, you arched your back against him, a soft, broken whimper escaping your throat as you felt the sheer scale of his need pressing into your spine. "I... I don't want to move, Haitham," you whispered, your voice trembling. That was the final thread of his restraint snapped. With a low, guttural roar, Alhaitham’s hands were on you—not with his usual calculated precision, but with a raw, desperate violence. He spun you around, his fingers digging into your hips as he hoisted you onto the workbench, clearing the glass vials and botanical notes with one sweeping, reckless motion of his arm.

"Good," he growled, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he inhaled your scent, now mixed with the sweet, cloying musk of the Shimmer-Cap. "Because I’m going to ruin you for anyone else. You wanted to see me like this? You wanted the animal? You’ve fucking got him."

He didn't bother with finesse. His hands fumbled with his belt, his breathing coming in ragged, wet hitches until he finally freed himself. He was massive, dark-veined and pulsing with a frantic, agonizing heat. When he reached for your clothes, there was no gentleness left—just the sound of tearing fabric and the harsh friction of his palms against your skin.

He forced your legs wide, stepping between them and pinning your wrists to the wood over your head. He looked down at you, his eyes dark with a terrifying, dominant hunger that made your core ache and weep.

"Look at me, Y/n," he commanded, his voice a vulgar rasp. "Watch what you did to me." He didn't wait. He drove into you in one single, punishing thrust, his length stretching you to the absolute limit. You let out a choked scream, your back arching off the table as your body struggled to accommodate the sudden, overwhelming invasion. "So tight," he groaned, his head falling back as his teeth gritted together. "God, you’re fucking perfect. I’ve been dreaming of how this would feel—how wet you’d be for me."

He began to move, his pace frantic and heavy, each stroke hitting your cervix with a blunt, rhythmic force that turned your brain to mush. He wasn't the Scribe anymore; he was a force of nature, his sweat dripping onto your chest as he hammered into you. Every time his hips slammed against yours, the sound echoed in the quiet lab—a wet, slapping cadence of pure, unadulterated lust. "Tell me you want it," he hissed, leaning down to bite at your shoulder, his tongue tracing the mark he left. "Tell me you want me to fill you up until you can’t think of anything but my name."

You couldn't even form words, only high-pitched, needy cries as you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, begging for more of the delicious friction. The "medic" was gone, replaced by a woman completely undone by the man she’d secretly loved for months—now seeing him like this.

AYATO

You hummed to yourself, while grinding of your mortar and pestle. "You know, for someone who deals in the world’s most lethal substances, you look remarkably peaceful, Y/n." You didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The voice was like silk over steel—unmistakably Kamisato Ayato. You looked up, wiping a smudge of green paste from your cheek, and offered him that gentle, heart-melting smile that usually made the local guards trip over their own feet. "Lord Commissioner. To what do I owe the pleasure? I hope Thoma hasn't been bitten by another 'stray' forest lizard."

Ayato leaned against the doorframe, his posture poised but his eyes uncharacteristically soft. He had intended to stay for five minutes to discuss the budget for the Shuumatsuban’s medical supplies. That was forty minutes ago. "Thoma is fine," Ayato lied smoothly, stepping into your organized chaos. "I simply found my office becoming... stifling. I find the atmosphere here far more refreshing."

You tilted your head, "Refreshing? Ayato, I’m currently deconstructing a toxin that causes permanent paralysis. Most people would call this 'terrifying.'" "Then I suppose I am not most people," he countered, moving closer until he was standing just behind you. He watched your hands—steady, precise, and kind. He remembered the first time he saw you; you were kneeling in the mud outside Ritou, treating a wounded ronin who had tried to rob you. Instead of calling the authorities, you had patched him up and given him a bag of Mora for a meal. Ayato had fallen for you in that moment—a sudden, violent drop of the heart—but he was a man of shadows and politics. He didn't know how to handle something as pure as you. So, he became a frequent "visitor".

"You’re staring, My Lord," you teased, not looking up from your vial. "If you’re that interested in toxicology, I can give you a lecture. Though, I suspect you’re just hiding from your paperwork." Ayato chuckled, a genuine sound that rarely left these walls. "Am I that transparent? Or are you just getting better at reading me?" "I’m a medic," you said, finally turning to face him. You stepped into his personal space, reaching up. He froze, his breath catching, as your fingers brushed his collar to straighten a stray fold. "I’m trained to notice when someone’s heart rate is slightly elevated." His heart hammered against his ribs—not slightly, but frantically. He wondered if you could feel it through the fabric.

"You're a dangerous person, Y/n," Ayato murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "You heal the body, yet you seem perfectly content to leave my mind in shambles."You laughed, a soft, melodic sound, and stepped back to your workbench. "And you’re a flirt, Ayato. It’s a good thing I’m too nice to take you seriously."

His smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Too nice. He watched you go back to your plants, your Dendro energy weaving through the leaves to keep them fresh. He wanted to tell you that every visit was a calculated move to be near you. He wanted to ask if the way you lingered when handing him a cup of tea meant the same thing it meant to him. But for now, he would stay in the "stifling" lab, watching you work. "Perhaps," Ayato said, regaining his composure and picking up a neutralized stinger from your tray. "But one of these days, Y/n, you might find that even the kindest person can't ignore a persistent symptom forever." You glanced at him over your shoulder, a faint blush creeping up your neck. "Is that a threat, Commissioner?" "No," he whispered, his eyes fixed on yours. "A diagnosis."

But the atmosphere in the lab shifted from playful to predatory in the blink of an eye. Ayato had been reaching for a crystalline vial on your top shelf—something he thought was a mere sedative—but his sleeve caught the edge of a heavy ceramic jar. In his haste to catch it, his fingers crushed a delicate, amber-colored glass bulb. The glass shattered against his palm, and a concentrated, shimmering mist exploded between you. It wasn't a poison that killed the heart; it was one that set it on fire. "Ayato, don't breathe—" Too late. He inhaled sharply, the sweet, cloying scent hitting his lungs like a physical blow. This wasn't a standard apothecary's mix; it was a high-dose aphrodisiac you’d been deconstructing for a legal case, a substance designed to override the prefrontal cortex and reduce a person to their most primal instincts.

Ayato’s hand flew to the edge of the mahogany table, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the wood. His breath hitched, coming out in a jagged, shaky exhale that sounded more like a growl. "Lord Commissioner?" you asked, your voice trembling. You reached out to check his pulse, but he flinched away, his head hanging low as his shoulders shook. "Don't," he hissed. The word was strained, ripped from a throat that felt like it was swallowing hot coals. When he looked up, the calm, calculated eyes of the Commissioner were gone. His pupils were blown so wide they swallowed his irises, leaving only a dark, hungry void. "Get... back, Y/n." "I have the neutralizing salts, just stay—" "I said stay back!" he snarled. The vulgarity of the tone shocked you. Ayato didn't snarl; he negotiated. But the drug was stripping away the statesman, leaving behind a man who was suddenly, violently aware of the heat radiating from your body.

He tried to adjust his robes, but his hands were trembling too much. Underneath the expensive silk, his body was betraying him. He felt the blood rush south with a painful, throbbing intensity that made his vision swim. Every inch of his skin felt hypersensitive, screaming for a touch he knew he shouldn't ask for. "You're a medic," he rasped, his voice dropping into a guttural register. He leaned his forehead against the cool stone of your lab wall, his hips twitching involuntarily. "Tell me... does the heart usually feel like it’s trying to kick its way out of the chest? Or am I just that fucking desperate for you?"

The curse word felt heavy and wrong coming from him, dripping with a raw lust that made your own breath hitch. "Ayato, you're not thinking straight. It's the vapor, it—" "I know what it is," he interrupted, his voice a low vibrate. He turned his head just enough to look at you, his face flushed a deep, feverish red. He looked ruined. "I know it's the drug. But the drug didn't put these thoughts in my head, Y/n. It just stopped me from hiding them."

He let out a choked sound—half-laugh, half-moan—as he felt the slick friction of his clothes against his hardening length. He was a man of immense self-control, but this was a chemical siege.

"I’ve spent months... months... imagining what you’d look like pinned to this very table," he groaned, his eyes raking over you with a Filthy, unbridled intensity. "Watching those clever hands of yours do something other than grind herbs. And now... god, I can smell you. You smell like honey and it’s making me want to tear these fucking robes off."

He surged forward, closing the gap before you could react, pinning you between the workbench and his heaving chest. He didn't touch you with his hands—he kept them clenched at his sides in a final, agonizing act of will—but his heat rolled off him in waves. "If you don't use those salts in the next ten seconds," he breathed against the shell of your ear, his voice dark and dangerously wet, "I am going to forget I’m a gentleman. I am going to take you right here among your poisons, and I won't be gentle about it."

The air in the small lab was thick enough to choke on, saturated with the cloying, floral scent of the shattered bulb. Ayato’s chest was heaving, the fine silk of his doublet straining against the frantic movement of his lungs. He was pressed so close that you could feel the rigid, pulsing heat of his erection stabbing into your thigh through layers of fabric.

"Y/n," he groaned, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder. His voice had lost all its melodic polish; it was raw, jagged, and filthy. "Fuck, I can’t... I can't breathe without tasting you."

You reached for the jar of neutralizing salts on the table behind you, your fingers trembling so hard you knocked over a beaker. The glass clattered, but didn't break. The sound seemed to snap the last thread of his restraint.

His hand shot out, slamming onto the tabletop right next to your arm, pinning you in place. His other hand gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your hip with a bruising force that made you gasp.

"Don't reach for it," he growled into your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. "Don't you dare fix this yet. I want to feel this. I want to feel how much I want to ruin you." He shifted his weight, grinding his crotch hard against you. A low, guttural sound broke from the back of his throat—a desperate, needy noise that was completely stripped of his usual dignity. He was hard as a rock, and the rhythmic, clumsy way he pushed against you told you exactly how much the aphrodisiac had decimated his control.

"I've sat through so many meetings... staring at your mouth," he rasped, his breath hot and damp against your collarbone. "Thinking about how wet it would be. Thinking about how loud you'd scream if I stopped being so goddamn polite and just shoved my way inside you."

His hand moved from your waist, sliding down to cup your ass, squeezing tightly and pulling your pelvis flush against his. He let out a choked breath, his eyes fluttering shut as he felt the friction.

"You’re so soft," he muttered, his voice dropping into a dark, vulgar whisper. "And I’m so fucking hard it hurts. Look at me, Y/n. Look at what you’ve done to me." He pulled back just enough to force you to see him. His face was flushed, slick with a fine sheen of sweat, and his lips were parted and swollen. The high-and-mighty Commissioner was trembling like an addict, his gaze fixed on your mouth with a terrifying, singular hunger.

"If you don't use those salts right now," he breathed, his hand sliding toward the hem of your skirt, his fingers twitching with the urge to tear the fabric away, "I'm going to hike this up, shove you onto this table, and fuck you until neither of us can remember our own names. Is that what you want? Because I'm seconds away from losing the ability to care if you say no." "Ye-" The word had barely left your lips before Ayato’s composure shattered completely. He didn't wait, didn't hesitate; he let out a low, predatory growl and lunged, his mouth slamming against yours. It wasn’t a kiss—it was a claim. He tasted like the bitter amber of the toxin and a desperate, frantic hunger.

He swept his arm across the workbench, sending glass vials, mortars, and dried herbs crashing to the floor in a chaotic spray of shards and dust. He didn't care about the mess or the cost. He grabbed your thighs and hoisted you up, slamming your back onto the hard wood of the table.

"God, finally," he choked out, his voice a gravelly mess. He crowded between your legs, his heavy, rigid length slotting perfectly against your heat.

His hands were everywhere, frantic and rough. He fumbled with the fastening of his trousers, his breath hitching in jagged, pathetic gasps. "I’m going to stretch you so wide, Y/n. I’m going to fill you up until you're choking on me, pretty girl." He didn't bother with foreplay; the drug had his blood boiling at a lethal temperature. He hiked your skirt up to your waist, his eyes widening as he saw you were already damp for him. He let out a sharp, breathless laugh that sounded borderline insane.

"Look at you. Just as desperate as I am," he rasped, his fingers bruising as they gripped your hips to steady you. He positioned the broad, weeping head of his cock at your entrance, grinding downward in a slow, torturous circle. "You're so tight. I’m going to split you right in half." He pushed forward, burying the head of his length inside you with a forceful shove. He groaned, a long, loud, and entirely vulgar sound, his eyes rolling back into his head as your body squeezed him.

"Fuck... you feel like heaven," he hissed, his teeth bared. He didn't wait for you to adjust. He slammed home, burying his full, pulsing length into you in one deep, violent stroke that knocked the air out of your lungs. He began to move, his pace frantic and messy. He wasn't the elegant Commissioner anymore; he was a man possessed, his hips snapping forward with a rhythmic, wet thud against your backside. Every thrust was deep and unapologetic, his cock hitting your cervix with a blunt force that made your vision swim. "Scream for me," he commanded, his voice dripping with filth as he leaned down to bite at the sensitive skin of your shoulder. "Let the whole Commission hear how loud I'm fucking you. Let them know you're mine."

your match: nanami kento.

simple, heartfelt praise. sincere compliments and affectionate looks. pastel blue sky and cotton-candy clouds. neatly packed homemade lunch. small messages on sticky notes, left on the fridge or the kitchen counter. kissing a loved one goodbye before work. peace. talking for hours that feel like mere minutes. smell of home. hands; their warm, soft touch. someone's fingers running across your scalp after a long day. lipgloss. jazz noir. a signature perfume that you always associate with one person. cushions and blankets on a living room sofa. books on astronomy. jupiter. white shirts. kitchen walls soaked in memories. golden hour; specks of dust in the sunlight. kisses to the temple. 'do not disturb' mode.

a humanitarian is someone nanami could love — he could love you so well, just about enough to make your heart clench. it's so tender, it's so peaceful. nanami would admire you; the way you smile at those around you, the way you go out of your way to lend a helping hand. he relates; he would give his beating, bleeding heart to another in the palms of his hands, or at least bits and pieces of it along the way, raw and red. it makes him all the more understanding of your desire for peace, for he, too, shares it. your home is your sanctuary, organised and decorated to please your every pleasure and meet your every need. time is expensive — too expensive — and utterly fleeting, so he cherishes every moment spent by your side when your eyes are glued to the tv screen, when you're tasting the strawberry cheesecake he's made for you, or when you've grabbed a bite at the gas-station's parking lot.

you claim to maintain low standards, but darling, nanami's the best thing out there; the scowl on his face is nothing but a thin mask hiding a golden man. he is dedicated so you may never doubt his loyalty, and he is sincere so you may never doubt his honesty. surely, there is a tidbit of bluntness that graces his tongue every now and then; nanami points things out meticulously, but he always does so with a grand amount of empathy. you can count on him to push you forward towards betterment, rewarding you with a gentle caress to your back and something sweet to the tongue. he is there to stay, so you may not worry that he should slip through the gaps between your fingers.

nanami loves your voice; you may find his eyelids moving very slowly, his vision laced with a sense of contentment and affection as he listens to you talk. his ears pick up on every intonation, eyes on every twitch on your expression as your gaze glistens and shimmers. he may not hold onto his stomach as his lungs choke on laughter, but he appreciates your humour — he may roll his eyes at that one peculiar joke, but some make his day. nanami is a dreamer with you; whether you are fantasising of a weekend house in a secluded place or some faraway spot lightyears away from milky way, he imagines a variety of pictures with you. it's become a lovely pastime as of late, nanami would say.

but oh, spare some of your gentleness and loveliness for nanami, too. lay his head in your lap and tell him whatever you desire, so long he gets to hear you. sit in the silence with him on those foggy days or late at night — he doesn't need grandiose gestures to be assured of your affection towards him, just be there. listen to him when he explains the plot of a new book, and perhaps leave the catering to plants to him. he'll ask them to love you back.

other matches: fushiguro megumi ( w/ a job ).

thank you for reading!