#Laboratory Workstations

[labotronicsscientific]

Pathology Workstation

Labotronics pathology workstation features a microprocessor-controlled system for two users with high-power suction exhaust. It ensures hygiene with automatic flushing, odor removal, and UV and fluorescent lighting, while the built-in pulverizer prevents drainage blockage. Additionally, the inward-concave base cabinet provides comfortable seating during operation.

[spandanenterprises]

Experience the seamless fusion of style and functionality. Transform ordinary spaces into extraordinary work environments.

https://www.spandanindia.com/

[justatypicalwizard]

Silk dance | Jayce

Aracne Jayce x Zaun seamstress reader

Jayce and reader have history before the Arcane plot. This story follows the second season of Arcane but loosely.

A complimentary piece to my previous story Up and Under. I was asked whether I would make a part two to it. I will rather not but I got the idea that there may be a little bit more to unpack amidst the pages of the story.

,,So, how’s it going with the girl?” Rhythmic buzzing of energy filled the air in the laboratory with a lulling symphony played by tiny machines. In the near silence Jayce Talis scribbling in his notebook posed as the only off-key element as he switched between the messy pages and a cogwheel on his workstation. Sky’s voice ruptured the melody of focus.

Jayce looked up, his eyes wide and lips slightly agape, as if the woman in the room spoke another language, one he didn’t quite understand. Sky was not looking at him, rather wiping off an oily stain from the counter. Her movement was steady, up and down, up and down, like she calculated every step she took in life.

,,I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Of course Jayce knew what she meant. At times when he was alone the man beat himself over the fact that you were near him so often. He was aware how some might view this vicinity. On the other hand, he’s a grown man, he may do as he wishes and it’s only the shortsightedness of others that makes them full of prejudice. It’s not like every high-ranked man has to have an affair with a Zaunite woman working for him.

“She’s here often.” Up and down, up and down. The counter was already clean.

“You’re here often too.”

“I work here.”

“She’s also working.”

“How so?”

“I hired her. She’s a seamstress and a designer.”

“How many fittings does one need?”

“She’s somewhat of a visioner too, like me. You should never rush your work, Sky.”

“And because of that there is a need for nearly daily meetings?”

“Sky, are you suggesting something?” Jayce turned his full body towards the woman. She finally left the counter alone, dropping the cleaning cloth on its polished surface.

“I’m sorry sir, it was very inappropriate of me.” Her shoulders slouched and she was avoiding his gaze like fire. “I’m just worried. it’s either people whispering and spreading gossip or you going to the undercity. It’s dangerous.”

“If inventors cared about whispering and gossip, there would be no progress in the world.” Jayce turned back to the cogwheel, picking it up and spinning it around in his fingers, trying to convince himself that the whole conversation was about progress and not -

Sky whispered something in the lines of that’s not what I meant but both of them decided to let the topic evaporate. A moment of silence spread between them, pushing the two even further away. If Jayce wouldn’t be so hard in his head he might have felt Sky’s gaze on his back, her pleading, longing look. Yet, he didn’t, because that’s simply who Jayce Talis was - a master in avoiding what he didn’t want to face.

“I’ll take my leave.” Sky’s voice once again rifled through the steady silence that rose to discomfort. The energy buzzing in the air felt like tension. Jayce just wanted this to end, to get back into a good mood before -

“Is anyone here?” A new, third voice entered tonight's opera.

Bad timing sweetheart. Jayce thought to himself and froze upon realising how caringly he just called you in his head. Due to that he missed the bite that Sky put on her own, tightly knit, lips.

The man turned around finally, taking in the whole of the scene. It was a true comedy-drama. Sky’s face was a mixture of disbelief and irritation while your eyes were filled with sparkles, clutching the sewing supplies and admiring the scenery around you. Jayce was right when he said you two were somehow similar, the same buzzing inside your veins when you had an idea, the same eagerness and urgency to put your hands to work. The same, slightly, crazed look when focused and the same hope for a better future.

Despite how heartless it was for anyone who could look upon the situation from outside, at that moment Jayce simply couldn’t look away from your smiling face. And he smiled back. Sky was already gone, only a quiet creak of the doors reminding she was there in the first place.

,,Should I - um.'’ you weren't sure what to say, it felt like your presence interrupted. Jayce was quick to ease the misunderstanding.

,,It's nothing. Be my guest.” He gestured for a seat next to one of the spacious counters. Grabbing a cloth scattered near his cog he whipped his hands and started undoing the buttons keeping his shirtcuffs tight.

With a smile and a shrug you began to unpack your supplies. A yellow measuring tape, pins, very sharp scissors and a variation of fabrics Jayce allowed you to buy samples of. There weren't many restrictions when it came to quality nor price. You rarely had a chance to get ahold of so many exquisite materials.

,,So.” He started eying the roll of samples you placed along the counter.

,,So?’’’ You mimicked like a little parrot.

,,Which one do you recommend?” Jayce picked up the scraps, examining the small squares as if he knew what made one another different.

,,Oh, it depends on what you're looking for.” He was just about to ask you for details but your knowing smile kept him silent. With panience unlike him, the man listened as you opened up the world of textile for him. ,,From the ones I selected silk will present itself as the most luxurious. It's soft, shiny under light, liquid like in nature but also cold.” Jayce watched you thumb the material, handing it over to him. On the peripheries the square was indeed colder but in the centre, where you held it, the silk remembered your touch. He thought that you must be warm yourself. ,,Linen is less sparkly, more manly one could say, but it has a certain unruly feel to it if you ask me. It reminds me of nature.” Manly. Jayce liked how the word danced on your lips. ,,And of course cotton is a safe option, comfortable, trustworthy and good-looking. There are also different colours in the pallette -”

Your lips were producing a number of words, some about the tones that these different variants of white may bring forward from his skin, something about how he should consider the shirt in reference to other parts of the tuxedo, and some other things. It was a long day for Jayce, he felt the tiredness and stress weigh his shoulders down when he shimmied out of his current jacket and shirt, sitting on the stool in only his undershirt. It was hard for him to focus when it was so late in the evening, the stars popping in the night sky, his mind slowly shutting down from the all-day-long struggle, your hands roaming his forearms. If he wasn't a gentleman he would close his eyes and ask you for a massage. He laughed to himself absentmindedly.

,,What's so funny?” You asked, putting hands on your hips. ,,Don't tell me you're one of the people who say they don't see different shades.”

,,Oh no, no. I definitely see a lot of colours.” Like the red of your lips and the tint of your cheeks and the tone of your hair that I thought about last night.

It was improper of him, he only proved Sky's stereotypes further. Yet, was it criminal to feel a little something for a person that smiles at you so gracefully, someone that shares your ideas at heart, another being that makes you feel comfortable. It won't hurt anyone if Jayce daydreams a bit about anything different than hextech.

,,-chandeliers.” Your voice rang in his ears, reminding him that the object of his tricky attraction was standing in front of him.

,,Once more.” With a smile he erased your slight irritation.

,,You asked me which one I recommend. While I like cotton for its usefulness I believe a ball requires something more… sophisticated. Silk will look fantastic in the lights of the chandeliers.” You repeated, giving him the evils.

,,Silk it is then. Do you think it will suit me on the dancefloor?” Jayce stood up abruptly. ,,You said you're good at imagining designs, at mapping them in your head. Then come and tell me will it suit me on the dancefloor?” He raised his hands as if to waltz. Just a little bit of flirt won't kill anyone.

With a laugh you walked around him trying to portray the seams and shapes of the soon-to-be shirt.

“I can definitely see you in something enhancing the back, something simple, with details to be left shocking.”

,,Details such as…”

,,Such as an interesting collar and buttoning at the front. Something here.” You said and pointed at his chest.

,,Mhm''. He murmured, grasping your hands, tugging you delicately where he wanted you, as if you were dancing.

,,I ope you own any accessories because an outfit without them is as good as going out naked.”

,,Naked you say.”

You stopped your slow swirling and looked at each other. In that moment Jayce Talis wished that the ball never began, that he was stuck in this moment of preparation, that he had an excuse to ask you over, that he never had to think about all the things that put your worlds apart and made this impossible. In the morning he will look Sky in the eye and feel a ting of shame, he will walk past other residents of Piltover and turn a deaf ear to their whispering, he will push himself to the limit with his work. All of this will be his payment for the moment of weakness, for allowing himself to hold you in his arms and whisper into your ear sweet little nothings.

[tinydefector]

Human Effect - Scientific studies SMUT

Perceptor x Reader x Brainstorm

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: Valveplug, Smut, fingering, oral receiving for the reader.

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_____________________

 It's a few days later when the Ambassador walks into the laboratory, their skin is flushed and they look uncomfortable over the whole situation. "Perceptor, can you run some tests for me? I came into contact with one for the flowers Traxies has, he's finally opened up and I was chatting with him and he was showing some of the flowers he has, and I think I'm having an allergic reaction to it" they call out while moving closer as both Brainstorm and Perceptor watch them. 

"Christ I feel like I'm burning up and it's too hot in here" they huff out while climbing the stairs up onto the table. Preceptor's field immediately flared with concern as the ambassador entered the laboratory, their flushed complexion and strained voice instantly catching his attention. His cooling fans kicked into a low hum as he stepped forward, his optic scanning the ambassador with a practiced precision. As he presses a digit to their forehead. "An allergic reaction, you say?" Perceptor murmured, his tone calm but laced with urgency. He gestured toward a nearby diagnostic bench. "Please, take a seat here. We shall run the necessary tests to determine the extent of your reaction."

Brainstorm, on the other hand, was already leaning forward from his workstation, his optics narrowing as he observed their clearly distressed state. curiosity and unease, though a faint flicker of something else lingered just beneath his optics. "Burning up, huh?" the engineer remarked, his voice tinged with a hint of intrigue. Both mechs involuntarily stiffened, their sensory arrays picking up on the subtle but unmistakable spike in their hormone levels. The scent hit their olfactory sensors like a jolt.

Perceptor's vocalizer clicked faintly as he focused on maintaining his composure. "I must ask," he began, his tone measured, though his field betrayed a faint ripple of unease, "was this flower one of the specimens Traxies recently acquired? If so, it may possess properties we have yet to fully document. He tend to bring back a large variety of them from expedition" His servo hesitated briefly before gesturing toward the scanner. "I will need a sample of your blood to confirm the presence of any allergens or foreign compounds."

The ambassador nodded, their discomfort evident as they sank onto the diagnostic bench. " I didn't think much of it at first, but now I feel like my body’s on fire," they muttered, their voice strained as they pull at their collar trying to cool doen their body temperature. They glanced between the two mechs, their flustered expression deepening as they noticed the subtle hum of their cooling fans. "And why is it so damn hot in here?, I thought the laboratory was cold, Is it just me?"

Brainstorm makes an awkward static buzz, his optics darting toward Perceptor before quickly looking away. "Uh, nope, definitely not just you. I mean, it's warm here, but, uh..." He trailed off as he tried to focus on the readouts rather than the ambassador's flushed appearance. Perceptor shot Brainstorm a warning glance, his field rippling with a subtle reprimand towards the other scientist before he turned his attention back to the ambassador. "If the flower does indeed contain an unknown compound, it may be inducing a reaction within your system that requires immediate attention."

As Perceptor takes a quick blood sample, his optic flickered with faint unease. The scent in the air was undeniably affecting his systems, even as he fought to suppress the distracting signals flashing on his Hud. though a subtle warmth crept into the edges of his frame. Beside him, Brainstorm fidgeted, his cooling fans audibly kicking into a higher gear as he struggled to focus on the task at hand.

"Right," Brainstorm said, breaking the tense silence. "So, uh, if this is some kinda weird alien aphrodisiac thing because I can currently see every atom and molecule of their scent right now and my sensors are blaring with warnings and notifications." His optics darted back to the ambassador, his field pulsing with barely concealed apprehension. "Not that I’m saying that’s what’s happening or anything! Just, uh, covering all the bases." Preceptor's field flared with a sharp pulse of exasperation, though his voice remained calm. "Brainstorm, please refrain from such crash terms. The priority is ensuring the ambassador's safety, not indulging in baseless hypotheses."

The ambassador, still visibly flustered, let out a soft groan as they leaned back against the bench. "I don’t care what it is—just fix it. I feel like I’m gonna combust if this keeps up," they muttered, their voice tinged with desperation. Preceptor's optic softened slightly, his voice gentle with reassurance. "We will resolve this, ambassador. Rest assured, you are in capable hands."

As the scans begin, both mechs work in tense silence, their fields betraying their mutual determination to stay focused despite the distracting scent lingering in the air. It was clear that the situation was affecting them both, their systems struggling to suppress the reactions triggered by the ambassador's elevated hormone levels. 

As the two scientists work their optics flick back to the Ambassador to check on them, they are sprawled across one of the medical benches in the lab half their uniform discarded as they fan themself trying their best to lessen how hot they feel, the cold surface of the table helped. "Please tell me you guys have found something?" They ask eyes fluttering open to look at the two mechs, the Ambassador nearly whines at how cold Brainstorms servo feels against Their flustered skin when he comes over to check them.

Perceptor cleared his vocalizer with a faint click, his optic narrowing as he focused on the scanner's readouts. "We are making progress," he assured, though his voice carried a slight strain. "The compound from the flower appears to contain a potent pheromone-like substance, one that  our physiology is reacting to." Brainstorm’s servos twitched, his optics flickering with both concern and a barely concealed nervousness. "Yeah, uh, it’s kinda like an aphrodisiac, but cranked up to eleven, we don't have a cure for it" he added, his tone hovering somewhere between clinical and awkward. "It’s messing with your system pretty bad, huh?"

The ambassador let out a soft, frustrated groan, their head tipping back against the cold surface of the bench. "You think?" they muttered, their voice thick with discomfort as they fanned themselves with a loose sleeve. "I feel like I’m going to melt into this table. And whatever that flower did to me, it’s making everything feel a hundred times worse," they added, their gaze flickering toward Brainstorm as his servo brushed against their arm. A shiver ran through them at the coolness of his touch, and they let out a soft, involuntary whine. "God, your hands are freezing... Thank God."

Brainstorm froze for a moment, something between alarm and barely contained fascination flashes through his system. "Uh, yeah, well, y’know, mech servos are good for more than just tinkering," he said, trying for humor but failing to hide the nervous edge in his voice. Perceptor shot him a pointed glare, His voice softened slightly, his tone laced with a rare gentleness. "The cold surface will help mitigate your symptoms temporarily," he said, gesturing toward the bench. "However, until we can synthesize an antidote or at the very least, a suppressant we must ensure that you remain hydrated and as comfortable as possible."

The ambassador nodded faintly, though their breathing remained uneven, their flushed skin glistening faintly under the lab's artificial lights. "Comfortable, right," they murmured, their voice tinged with a mix of exasperation and helplessness. "I don’t think ‘comfortable’ is even possible right now."

" uh, Perce, how long do you think it’ll take to whip something up?" His voice trailed off as his optics flicked over the ambassador again, his field pulsing with barely concealed heat. "This doesn’t exactly look like something we can just wait out." Preceptor's optic narrowed as he focused on testing the blood samples with different chemicals in hopes of finding something that will dull the effects of the aphrodisiac, his servos working with practiced precision despite the distracting scent in the air. "If the compound's structure is as straightforward as it appears, I should be able to synthesize a suppressant within the next hour," he replied, his voice tight with concentration. His field pulsed with a subtle warmth, betraying his own struggle to maintain focus. "In the meantime, Brainstorm, ensure that the ambassador remains hydrated. Their elevated body temperature could lead to dehydration if left unchecked due to sweating."

Brainstorm blinked, his optics widening slightly as he processed the request. "R-right, hydration. Got it!" he stammered, quickly moving to retrieve a small bottle of water from the lab’s supplies. He returned to the ambassador’s side, his movements uncharacteristically cautious as he offered it to them. "Here, uh, drink this. It should help... a little, at least." The ambassador’s fingers brushed against Brainstorm’s digits as they took the water. "Thanks," the ambassador murmured, their voice soft and a little breathless as they took a sip. Their gaze lingered on Brainstorm for just a moment too long, and the mech’s optics flickered with a mixture of guilt and fascination.

  The Ambassador presses themself back into brainstorm servo trying to get as much of the cold metal surface pressed against their body. A soft moan seems to leave their lips as Brainstorm let's his digits trace over their skin. "Please, it's too hot, your servos feel nice, don't feel like I'm burning" they mutter softly to Brainstorm.

Preceptor's frame stiffening as the scene before him unfolded. His optic flickered toward Brainstorm, who stood frozen, his optics wide and glowing faintly brighter as the ambassador pressed closer to him. Brainstorm’s field spiked with an overwhelming mix of arousal and hesitation, his digits twitching as the ambassador guided his servo between their thighs. The scent of their hormones, now impossibly potent, flooded his olfactory sensors, sending his cooling systems into overdrive. "Uh, I—" he stammered, his vocalizer glitching slightly as his optics darted to Perceptor for guidance. But the scientist, for once, seemed just as flustered as he was.

"Ambassador," Perceptor began, his voice strained as he tried to maintain some semblance of professionalism, "This… this reaction is a result of the flower’s compound. Your judgment may be… impaired." His optic flickered down to where the ambassador clung to Brainstorm, their flushed skin pressed against the cool metal of his servo trying desperately to grind against it. “yea well it feels like my body is melting and this makes it not feel as ablazed” the ambassador manages to call back at him. 

"Not that I’m, uh, complaining or anything, but… are you sure this is what you want? I mean, you’re burning up, and—" He cut himself off with a sharp intake of air as the ambassador shifted, pressing closer.

Their voice, soft and pleading, sent a shiver through Brainstorm’s frame, his field pulsing with a heady mixture of arousal and concern. "Please, just help me " they murmured, their breath hitching as they guided his digits further as they fought with what's left of their clothings trying to get it off as quickly as possible. their flushed skin trembling at the coolness of his touch. "Stars, that feels amazing." They basically moan out. 

Brainstorm hesitated only a moment longer before his digits began to move, tracing slow, deliberate patterns against their skin. "Look, Perce, they’re asking for help," he murmured, his voice low and tinged with a heat that matched his field. "And if this is what helps them feel better, then who are we to argue?" The ambassador let out a soft moan, their head tipping back as Brainstorm’s digits pressed more firmly against them. Their hands clung to his arm, body trembling as they sought out every inch of cool metal they could reach. "I'm giving you both my consent, please just help me with this," they whispered, their voice thick with relief and desire. 

Finally, with a soft sigh of resignation, Perceptor stepped closer, "See, Perce? Teamwork," he said with a faint grin, though his voice trembled with the weight of his own desire. "We’ll have them feeling better in no time." His servos pull away making the Ambassador whine only for them to be replaced with Preceptor's. “Hush now” he hums while Brainstorm positions his faceplate between the ambassador’s thighs. They arches their back. The Ambassador’s breath hitched sharply, their back arching as Brainstorm's glossa dragged over their sensitive sex, his mouth enveloping them with agonizing slowness. His lips sealed around them, his movements slow as he studies and learns as he goes, savoring every reaction they give him. His digits traced a teasing path up their trembling thighs, the sharp edges of his servos sending shivers through their overstimulated body.

“Sweet Primus,” Brainstorm murmured against them, his voice muffled but laced with mischief and hunger. “You taste so good, Ambassador. I could do this all cycle.” He flicked his glossa over their most sensitive spot, eliciting a moan that made his optics brighten with delight. “Keep making those little sounds for me, won’t you? You sound divine like this.”

The Ambassador’s fingers clutched desperately at Preceptor's plating, their body writhing as the effects of the aphrodisiac heightened every sensation as Brainstorm's glossa teases them and works them into a state of bliss. Perceptor, ever the observer adjusted his grip on their waist to steady them, holding them open for Brainstorm and to make sure they don't hurt themself on any part of Brainstorm's helm. His digits moved with measured precision, gliding down their body in soothing strokes. 

The Ambassador whimpered, their head falling back against Preceptor's servo and arm plate as his cool touch sent a wave of relief through their flushed body. they gasped, and  buck against Brainstorm’s mouth, the dual sensations driving them closer to the edge.

Preceptor's optic softened, his digits brushing across their damp forehead. “You’re handling this remarkably well, considering the circumstances,” he murmured, his tone gentle as his digits pressed into a pressure point along their side. 

“Wasn't expecting to get fuckin Sex pollened by a flower” the ambassador states trying to make a joke out of the situation only to gasp and cry out as Brainstorm's glossa presses I to them. “Oh fuck, oh fuck!” They moan out, eyes fluttering closed. Brainstorm’s digits dug lightly into their thighs, holding them in place as he worked. “Brainstorm,” Perceptor chided lightly, though his own digits slid lower, tracing the curve of the Ambassador’s hip as he leaned closer to press his lips to their temple. “We’re here to help them, not overwhelm them.”

“Oh, I’m helping,” Brainstorm retorted with a grin, his glossa pressing firmly against their most sensitive spot before pulling back slightly. “Tell him, Ambassador. Tell Perce how good I’m making you feel.” Their hips jerked against Brainstorm’s mouth as their hands clutched at Preceptor's arms for support. “don't stop, please don’t stop,” they stammered, their words barely coherent as their body quaked between the two mechs. 

Brainstorm hummed in satisfaction, his mouth redoubling its efforts as his servos spread their thighs wider, giving him better access. The Ambassador’s trembling hands gripped the back of Brainstorm’s helm, their fingers tangling in the delicate grooves as they tried to pull him closer, desperate to feel more of the overwhelming pleasure he was giving them with each flick of his glossa. Their body shuddered uncontrollably beneath him, hips jerking in time with the teasing, deliberate movements of his glossa. Little mewls and whines spilled from their lips, each sound betraying just how much they were unraveling between the two mechs.

The Ambassador whimpered softly, pressing themselves closer to Preceptor's solid frame, their trembling body seeking refuge. “P-Perceptor…” they gasped, their voice breaking as their hips instinctively bucked against Brainstorm’s mouth. “It’s so much... I can’t—” “You can,” Perceptor interrupted softly, his tone a perfect mix of reassurance and command. tilting their head slightly so their flushed face was angled up toward him. “Focus on me. Breathe. We’ll take care of you.”

Brainstorm let out a low chuckle, “You’re doing so good,” he murmured, his voice dripping with praise and satisfaction. The Ambassador’s fingers tightened on Brainstorm’s helm, a strangled cry escaping their throat as his glossa drove harder into them teasing their most sensitive spot. Their eyes fluttered shut for a moment before snapping back open. “Oh God Brainstorm!” they cry out basically rutting against his mouth as they sob, before going limp in Preceptor's servos.  

When Brainstorm finally pulled away, his lips plate glistening and his expression smug with satisfaction, the Ambassador’s trembling form clung to Perceptor for support. Their chest heaved with uneven breaths, their flushed face pressed against the scientist's plating as they tried to steady themselves. But Preceptor's optic never left them. “You’re doing remarkably well,” Perceptor murmured, his voice as calm and soothing as ever, despite the slight static crackle betraying his own restraint. One servo rested lightly on their hip, grounding them, while the other shifted lower. 

The Ambassador whimpered softly, their body still quivering from Brainstorm’s ministrations, but they didn’t resist as Preceptor's digits ghosted between their thighs. The cold touch of his metal sent a sharp shiver through their overheated body, a stark contrast that made them inhale sharply. “Easy,” Perceptor murmured, his tone gentle as his digit dragged slowly between their thighs, his movements deliberate as he searched for what he was looking for. “I need you to stay relaxed. This will be much easier if you trust me.”

“You’re doing amazing, Ambassador. Just let him take care of you.” Brainstorm states as he presses a kiss to their thigh. Perceptor ignored Brainstorm’s commentary, his focus entirely on the Ambassador as his digit finally found what he was seeking. He paused, his optics flickering up to meet their tear-filled gaze. “There,” he said softly, almost to himself, as if confirming a calculation. “Now... this may feel a bit intense. Tell me if it’s too much.” With the utmost care, Perceptor pressed the tip of his digit against them, his movements painstakingly slow as he began to ease it inside. 

The Ambassador’s breath hitched, a choked sound escaping their lips as the coolness of his metal sent a wave of bliss crashing through their body. They nearly sobbed at the sensation, their hands clutching desperately at Preceptor's arm plate as their head tilted back. “P-Perceptor,” they gasped, their voice trembling as tears pricked at the corners of their eyes. “Shh,” he soothed, his free hand moving to cradle the back of their head as his digit pressed deeper, careful and deliberate. “You’re doing wonderfully. Just focus on your breathing. I’ll take care of the rest.” His tone was clinical yet impossibly tender, treating the Ambassador as if they were the most delicate thing in the universe.

Brainstorm let out a low hum of approval, his optics narrowing as he leaned closer to watch Preceptor's precise movements, watching the way his digit disappeared into the ambassador before reappearing. “See? I told you he’s good with his servos,” he quipped, though his voice was softer now, lacking its usual sharp edge. The Ambassador sobbed softly, their body trembling as Preceptor's digit moved inside them, the smooth, cold metal easing the unbearable heat that had consumed them. 

The Ambassador could only nod weakly, their body trembling with each deliberate stroke. “You’ve got them practically falling apart, Perce,” he said, his voice low and amused. The Ambassador’s cries grew softer, their body sagging against Perceptor as the overwhelming sensations began to blur into a haze of bliss. With each careful motion of his digit, the heat that had consumed them began to ebb away, replaced by a soothing coolness that left them trembling and utterly pliant in his arms.

“You’re doing so well,” Perceptor murmured, his voice soft and reassuring as his free servo stroked their back in slow, calming circles. “Just a little longer, and we’ll have you feeling like yourself again.” The Ambassador whimpered softly, their fingers clutching at Preceptor's plating as they nodded, their trust in both mechs absolute. needy whimpers escaped their lips. Preceptor's digit continued its slow, deliberate movements, each stroke carefully calculated. 

The Ambassador gasped sharply, their body jolting at the curl of Preceptor's digit; the sensation had them rocking back against Preceptor's servo. The Ambassador’s head tilted back, their eyes fluttering shut as their body arched instinctively toward the dual sensations. Preceptor's slow, precise movements inside them and Brainstorm’s teasing kisses along their thighs sent their mind spiraling, each touch feeding the fire that burned within them. “Brainstorm… Perceptor…” they whimpered. 

The Ambassador’s body tensed suddenly, their breath catching in their throat as the overwhelming sensations reached their peak. A broken cry escaped their lips, their back arching as the pleasure crashed over them in waves, leaving them trembling and writhing in the arms of the two mechs.

Perceptor was the first to react, his optics brightening as he registered the shift in their body. His digit stilled inside them, holding steady as he allowed the Ambassador to ride out the intense sensations without overwhelming them further. His free servo pressed gently against their lower back, supporting their quivering frame as he murmured soothingly, “There... that’s it, Ambassador.”

Brainstorm, on the other hand, was anything but restrained. A low, satisfied growl rumbled from his vocalizer as he watched the Ambassador tremble and cry out, their body convulsing with the intensity of their climax. “Primus,” he muttered, his optics flashing with a mixture of pride and arousal. “Look at you. You’re absolutely beautiful like this.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing over the Ambassador’s thigh as his hands gripped their hips, steadying them as their body shook. The Ambassador whimpered softly, their hands clutching weakly at Preceptor's plating as they rode out the last waves of their climax. Tears streaked their flushed face, their body utterly spent yet still trembling from the aftershocks. 

Perceptor carefully withdrew his digit from them, his movements slow and deliberate to avoid overstimulating their already sensitive body. He gently adjusted their position in his arms, cradling them against his frame as his servo moved to stroke their back in soothing circles. “You did exceptionally well,” he said softly, his voice filled with quiet pride. 

Brainstorm sat back slightly, his servos still resting on the Ambassador’s hips as he looked up at them with a wide grin. “That was more than remarkable, Perce. They were absolutely breathtaking.” The Ambassador let out a soft, breathless laugh, their body slumping against Preceptor's as the last remnants of their climax faded. “you two are fuckin fiends,” they murmured, their voice shaky but filled with gratitude. “Thank you...”

Preceptor's optics softened, his servo cupping the side of their face as he gazed down at them with quiet affection. “There’s no need to thank us,” he said, his tone gentle. “It was our privilege to assist you.” Brainstorm chuckled, his grin widening as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to the Ambassador’s temple. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Anytime you need us, you know where to find us.” He winked, his tone playful but sincere as he added, “And next time, maybe don't get yourself dosed up by an Aphrodisiac flower. Sounds good?” The Ambassador blushed deeply, their face burying itself in Preceptor's plating as they let out a soft laugh. 

____________

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[dungeonmapster]

A stone dais rises from the center of this room, the circular walls lined with rows of books, strange workstations, cabinets of arcane tools and chalkboards filled with sketched arithmetic and runic symbols as if the author's calculus borders on the profane. The floor is lined with gold or brass in a seven-pointed star, each pointing toward a stone archway. A study, a laboratory, a wizard's sanctum, it is all that and more. And yet the objects on the dais itself bear one unmistakable theme. A scrying pool, a crystal ball, a table laid out with fortune cards, and a seeing mirror - this place can only belong to one who is obsessed with knowledge, peeking into past, present, and future. But to what end?

Patreon

[biting-miguel-ohara]

omgie congrats on 300 followers!!!! could i perhaps get prompt #14 with miguel o'hara-? something fluffy please (ﾐ´ω`ﾐ)

- 🎀 anon

14. "You look cute wearing my clothes."

CW: fluff, clothes sharing, very mild miscommunication (?), kissing, gn!Reader

“Hey, Miguel.” You stroll into his laboratory, making yourself comfortable in a chair. You’re only here for a moment, on your way back home after a difficult mission.

He’d let you crash in his suite for a night, given how utterly exhausted you’d been. And given you a change of clothes after your spider-suit had been destroyed.

He was so nice. So perfect. It wasn’t any surprise you had a massive crush on him. There was no way it’d be reciprocated though. You were sure of it.

Miguel glances up. For a heart-stopping moment, his gaze wanders over your body. Then he smirks. “You look cute wearing my clothes.”

Your brain does an emergency reboot, leaving you staring at Miguel in bafflement. “What?”

He chuckles, low and smooth, leaving his workstation to move towards you. Even in his lab coat, he looks huge.

He reaches out with a clawed hand, gently titling up your head. Brushing his fingers along your cheek and smoothing his thumb over your bottom lip!

“I said,” he murmurs, “You look cute wearing my clothes.”

You just stare up at him, heart racing in your chest. He was— He just— Your poor crush has no chance against him.

You duck your head a little, suddenly bashful under his gaze. “Maybe… you should let me wear them more often, then…?”

You’re flirting with Miguel O’Hara! Well, technically, you’re flirting back, but you’re flirting with Miguel O’Hara. Only the handsomest, strongest, most deadly spider in the whole Spider Society.

He chuckles again and leans a little closer. “I’ll let you wear them as often as you like.” His thumb rubs along your lower lip again. “But I want something in return.”

Your heart sinks for a moment. Of course he wants something in return. You nod slowly, still gazing up at him. At his mesmerizing brown eyes. And gorgeous lips. “What… do you want?”

He quirks a brow in amusement, gently tugging on your lower lip. It takes you a moment to get it and your eyes widen when you do. “Oh! Oh! Yes! I accept! Or agree! Or whatever—“

He cuts you off with a soft press of his lips to yours. You melt into the kiss, lost in the plush feeling. It’s sending tingles down your spine, your heart pounding in your ears.

He pulls back and you chase after him. Catching him in another kiss. You can’t help it. Who would, really?

He’s smirking when he finally does pull away. “Took you long enough, little Spider.”

Your cheeks heat, but you ignore the bait. Instead, half breathless, you murmur, “Talk less, kiss more.”

He’s more than happy to oblige.

[wh1msic4lwasab1]

”Dear Assistant”

synopsis: you take up a job with the fatui, and you didn’t think being a doctors assistant meant being the doctors assistant.

tags: medical malpractice, dub-con, insertion, vulgar, explicit, sadist!Dottore

wrd cnt: 1.4k

a/n: lowkey not feeling like my best writing but i hope yall enjoy

You stood outside the unmarked door, clutching the letter that had brought you to this mysterious location. The Fatui's emblem adorned the top of the page, and the words "Confidential Assistant Position" were typed in bold font. You had applied for the job, hoping to use your skills to make a difference in the world of Teyvat. The pay was generous, and the benefits were unparalleled. But as you raised your hand to knock, a shiver ran down your spine. Something didn't feel right.

The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit corridor that seemed to stretch on forever. A figure in a white coat beckoned you forward, their face obscured by the shadows.

"Welcome. I am Doctor- ah, my apologies. You may call me Dottore. I've been expecting you."

You followed Dottore through the winding corridors, taking in the sights and sounds of the laboratory. Beakers bubbled, and strange machinery hummed in the background. The air was thick with the scent of chemicals and something else... something sweet and metallic.

As you entered the main laboratory, your eyes widened in awe. Rows of workstations stretched out before you, each one cluttered with equipment and strange devices. In the center of the room, a large, metal table dominated the space. Dottore gestured for you to approach.

"This is where the real work happens, my dear assistant. I've been working on a project of great importance, and I require someone with your...unique voluntary willingness."

You felt a flutter in your chest as Dottore's eyes locked onto yours. His gaze was piercing, and you couldn't help but feel like he was seeing right through you.

"What kind of project?" you asked "Ah, well…" Dottore said, his voice low and husky. "I'm working on a project that will change the course of human history. A project that will unlock the secrets of the human mind and grant us unimaginable power."

He gestured to a nearby workstation, where a strange device hummed and whirred. It looked like a cross between a medical scanner and a medieval torture rack.

"This is the Neuro-Resonance Amplifier," Dottore explained. "With this device, we can tap into the deepest desires and fears of the human mind. We can manipulate thoughts, emotions, and actions. We can create an army of mindless drones, loyal only to us."

You felt a shiver run down your spine as Dottore's eyes gleamed with excitement. This was getting out of hand, and you weren't sure if you wanted to be a part of it.

"But what about ethics?" you asked, trying to sound calm. "Isn't this a bit... extreme?"

Dottore chuckled, a cold, mirthless sound. "Ethics are for the weak. In this world, it's every man for himself."

He stepped closer, his eyes burning with intensity. "And I think you are too, y/n. I think you have a certain... spark within you. A spark that I can fan into a flame."

You felt a flutter in your chest as Dottore's words sent a shiver down your spine. You weren't sure what he meant, but you had a feeling that you were in over your head.

Suddenly, Dottore's expression changed, and he became all business. "Now, let's get down to work. We have a lot to cover, and I need your full attention."

He gestured to the metal table in the center of the room, and you felt a sense of trepidation. What did he have planned for you?

"Please" Dottore said, his voice dripping with darkness. "Take off your shirt and lay down on the table. We're going to begin your...consultation."

You felt a wave of fear wash over you as you realized that you were trapped with some crazy scientist. But you had to keep this job, somehow.

Hesitantly, you removed your top, and layed your head down slowly on the cushioned end of the table. Dottore had soon started taping small pieces of wire and metal to your arms and torso, two on each side of your temples as well.

“Now, you’re going to help me with the first stages of this, excited?” He joked, taking this whole human experiment thing way too casually.

You lay there, breathing heavily as you don’t know what to expect.

He finished setting a few things up on the computer, and you observed a chart on the projector infront of you; screencasting the computer with a plethora of scattered pieces of what seemed to be data alongside a key.

Without much warning, Dottore pulled you up by your waist, hoisting your body up and standing next to you and holding your face up to look at him.

You haven’t gotten a chance to clearly take a look at him before, but you observed each fragment of his face; his eyes pierced yours in a way that turns them into ice, frozen in place.

“I need you to remain calm, try to keep your limbs the same.” He said, before snapping on a pair of blue gloves and pressing pressure points along your back.

Every harsh breath you’d take at the pressure caused the chart to create a spike in data.

The lower he went, the more data appeared on the chart.

“Hmm… I see.” He mumbled.

He set his clipboard down, and pushed your body down. “Don’t yell too loud now, I’ve been getting far too many noise complaints from the others.”

You felt as if someone struck a strong left hook into your stomach, the worst possibilities reaching your brain.

The room’s lights dimmed, even brooding noises of flickering lights distract you from your thoughts.

You were on your back, chilly scales under your hips and barely clad skin. With a sudden pull, Dottore pulled your trousers off, throwing them away and spreading your legs apart as if you’d signed away your body to him.

“Ack—Fuck-What are you doing!?” You hissed, as you felt his hand grab hold of your face roughly

“This is for the research, sweetheart,” He mumbled, his deep voice coated in mania.

“Doctor- please...” You gasped, feeling him dig for something deep within you, your hand under his grip struggling to free itself.

“I need to be sure, until the data calms down I can’t trust it.” He said, the annoyance laced with concern felt like an aftertought, not fully registered until he panted, “You signed up for this. Now do the part.” He said moreso like a warning.

Apart of you wanted to scream, but another was screaming to find out more. You felt shameful of the heat growing within you, and even more ashamed that he could definitely tell.

“Let’s see what the data shows, shall we?” He said sternly, picking up a rod-like device that seemed to be a good forearms length.

“I-“ You began, finding a it in you to at least say something.

“Shh…” He interrupted, shutting you up.

He dragged your body back up so he could sit behind you, pulling your hair to one side so he could observe what his hands were doing inbetween your legs.

“Doctor please I don’t think this is-Shit, Oh fucking God-!” You moaned, feeling his gloved fingers rip off your panties and insert the device inside you.

“Oh my…you’re so wet it just slid right in. You like this don’t you? Fucking slut.” He’d say, before pushing it in and out of you at a faster pace each swipe, laughing against your ear as the chart turned into a mess; points of data appearing every second.

“Ahh- Doctor-! It hurts….” You yelled, feeling the cold metal fill you up, over and over again as he rammed it inside you from behind, holding your thigh apart with his large hand as he observed the chart furiously.

“Shut up.” He exclaimed, moving his hand to cover your mouth as he kept going.

“Shhh….It’ll feel good soon. Just keep quiet. Such a messy little thing.” He said, letting you lay your head on his shoulder as you melted into him, feeling your pussy tingle with warmth as you felt the knot in your stomach threaten to burst.

And him pinching your hard nipples was just what you needed, feeling small bursts of liquid shoot out of you, splattering over the metal table

Your legs began to shake as everything escaped you, practically soaking the table along with the sleeve of his lab coat.

He felt tears from your eyes soak his hand as it ran down your face, muffled moans and pleas escaping your mouth and into the cavern of his palm.

“Tch- fine”. He said, removing the object out of you and leaving it on the table as he went back to his chair, “Clean this up.”

whimsic4alwasab1 ™ - do not copy, translate, modify, or claim any of my work as your own.

[fictionally-driven]

Beneath the Surface - Mortefi's POV

Pairing: Mortefi x gn! reader Word count: 4066 words

Trigger warnings: Injury mention, stress, implied violence, anxiety, mention of medicines, injections.

Plot: (Y/N) risks everything to ensure the success of Mortefi's project, only to find themselves facing the consequences of their actions.

Author Note: This is our beloved researcher's POV of this fic

The laboratory buzzed with a constant hum, a symphony of machinery that Mortefi found both soothing and stimulating. The air was crisp with the scent of antiseptic —an atmosphere Mortefi insisted upon to maintain the sterile environment necessary for their work. Mortefi moved with purpose, his keen eyes observing the work around him. His laboratory was his sanctuary, a place where precision and intellect reigned supreme.

Across the room, (Y/N) worked diligently, carefully connecting wires in the complex weapon system they were developing. Mortefi admired their dedication and skill, appreciating the rare blend of competence and creativity they brought to the team. As (Y/N) reached for another wire, Mortefi’s voice escaped before he could stop himself.

"Careful with that connection," he said, his tone sharper than intended. "If you cross those wires, we might end up with a very expensive paperweight instead of a weapon."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Mortefi bit his tongue. Why did he say that? He knew (Y/N) was one of the best teammates he had ever worked with, seldom giving him any reason to lose his calm. Yet, habits were difficult to break. He saw how his words affected them, the way they swallowed hard and focused even more intently on the task at hand.

Mortefi sighed inwardly, his mind racing with reflections. He was aware of how demanding he could be, how his insistence on perfection sometimes bordered on harshness. But it was difficult to balance the high standards he set for himself with the expectations he placed on others. Despite this, (Y/N) had always risen to the challenge, their innovative thinking often leading to breakthroughs that even Mortefi hadn’t anticipated.

His thoughts drifted back to the early days of this project, when they had first conceptualized the weapon. (Y/N)’s suggestion to integrate a hybrid capacitor system had been a stroke of genius. Mortefi had been impressed, though he hadn’t shown it outwardly. Instead, he had simply incorporated their idea, making adjustments and improvements, as was his way. Mortefi’s eyes softened as he continued to watch (Y/N) work. He knew he owed much of their progress to their unwavering dedication. It wasn’t just their technical skills that made them invaluable; it was their ability to think outside the box, to see possibilities where others saw limitations.

“Why did you choose the 7V capacitor instead of the 10V?” he asked, attempting to moderate his tone, though it still carried a hint of challenge.

They looked up, meeting his gaze, doubt evident in their tone. "I... I thought it would optimize the energy efficiency for the smaller components,"

Mortefi raised an eyebrow, still not entirely convinced. “Efficiency at the cost of stability is a gamble. Rework it with the 10V and recalibrate. We can’t afford any mishaps in the field.”

After issuing the instruction, Mortefi turned and moved to his own workstation, grumbling to himself about scaring (Y/N) away. Every day, he feared that his demeanor would drive them away, as it had with many others before. He had never cared about it much, but with (Y/N), he didn’t want that to happen. He was trying to change, to be less harsh, but it often seemed to backfire, making him come off as even more severe.

Mortefi knew that other researchers were trying to recruit (Y/N) to their own projects. He’d overheard conversations in passing, hints of offers and promises of less demanding work environments. He often wondered why they chose to remain and work with him. Was it out of a sense of duty? Or did they genuinely see something in his vision that kept them motivated?

His eyes darted to (Y/N) as they continued to work on the weapon, noticing their furrowed brows and the intense focus on their face. Mortefi wanted to ease their mind, to offer some reassurance, but he didn’t know how. Speaking further, he feared, would only make things worse.

As he adjusted the settings on his own equipment, he couldn’t help but steal glances at (Y/N). Their dedication was unwavering, and he felt a surge of admiration for their resilience. Despite his often harsh exterior, Mortefi held a deep respect for them. He appreciated how they had embraced their shared vision and worked tirelessly to bring it to fruition.

Yet, here he was, struggling to bridge the gap between his demanding nature and the need to show appreciation. He sighed, feeling a familiar pang of frustration. He wanted to tell (Y/N) how much he valued their contributions; how crucial they were to the success of their work. But the words always seemed to get lost in translation, coming out as critiques instead of praise.

Mortefi’s thoughts were interrupted by the beeping of his monitor, signaling a successful calibration. He looked over at (Y/N) again, who was diligently reworking the connections as instructed. He saw the tension in their shoulders, the careful precision in their movements, and he felt a pang of regret. Mortefi’s fingers flew over the holographic interface, but his mind was elsewhere. He replayed the moment over and over in his head, wishing he could take back his harsh words. But he couldn’t.

He sighed, feeling the weight of his own expectations pressing down on him. He knew he was difficult to work with, that his standards were nearly impossible to meet. But he couldn’t afford to lower them. Not when the stakes were this high. Still, he didn’t want to push (Y/N) away. He needed their brilliance, their creativity. And, perhaps more than that, he needed their presence in his lab, their steadying influence on his often fiery temper.

Mortefi sighed again, a deep, weary sound that echoed in the quiet of his mind. He knew he had a long way to go, but for now, he would do what he did best: work tirelessly, driven by the hope that his actions would speak louder than his words.

-----

Mortefi sat in the dimly lit meeting room, his frustration simmering beneath the surface like molten lava in the heart of a volcano. The air was thick with tension, each word exchanged between the researchers feeling like a spark threatening to ignite the powder keg of his patience. He clenched his jaw, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the table, trying to rein in the tempest raging within him.

"We need to place sensors in the affected region," Mortefi insisted, his voice a low rumble that cut through the heated debate like a knife. "The data is crucial for the weapon's calibration."

"But it's too dangerous!" one of the senior researchers protested, their voice tinged with fear. "We can't risk our equipment or personnel in that corrosive water."

Mortefi's gaze hardened, his frustration boiling over like a cauldron on the brink of eruption. "Then we need to devise a solution, and quickly. Ideas?" he demanded, his tone brooking no argument.

“We could design a remote sensor deployment system,” a researcher suggested tentatively, their voice barely rising above a whisper. “Something that can be launched and retrieved without direct contact. But it would take a few more weeks at least to develop and test it.”

Mortefi's eyes narrowed, his mind racing as he weighed the risks and rewards of such a plan. "Yes, but how do we know it will not be affected by the corrosive water?" another researcher interjected, their skepticism echoing the doubts that gnawed at Mortefi's own thoughts.

His frustration threatened to consume him, a raging inferno threatening to consume everything in its path. "We have to find a solution," he growled, his voice tinged with desperation. "Delays are unacceptable."

But as the meeting continued without resolution, Mortefi's frustration reached its breaking point. With a curt nod, he stormed out of the room, his expression dark and stormy. Back in the confines of the lab, Mortefi's agitation simmered like a pot ready to boil over. Sparks danced at his fingertips, the small flames flickering with the promise of something far more dangerous. His movements were frenetic, his fingers flying over the holographic interfaces with a desperation born of necessity.

But beneath the facade of furious activity, Mortefi knew he was merely venting his frustration. The solution eluded him, slipping through his grasp like sand through an hourglass. The weight of responsibility pressed down on his shoulders like a leaden cloak, threatening to suffocate him with its burden.

As he worked, his mind raced, grappling with the enormity of the task before him. The Tacet Discords in the afflicted region posed a threat that could not be ignored. And yet, without the necessary data, calibrating the new weapon would be an exercise in futility. From the corner of his eyes, he noticed (Y/N)’s worried expression. Of course, they were worried. They’d worked so hard and now it seemed like it wasn’t going to be coming to fruition before it was too late.

As Mortefi's frustration surged like a rising tide, he couldn't help but feel the weight of responsibility bearing down on him with crushing force. The thought of letting (Y/N) down, of failing to deliver on the promise of their shared vision, gnawed at him like a relentless beast. As their supervisor, Mortefi felt a profound sense of duty towards (Y/N), a responsibility to nurture their talents and guide them towards success. But in this moment of setback, he couldn't shake the nagging doubt that he was falling short of that duty. Despite their tireless efforts, despite the countless hours they'd poured into their work, it seemed as though their efforts were being thwarted at every turn.

He was angry—at the situation, at the obstacles standing in their way, at himself for not being able to find a solution. But beneath the anger lurked a deep-seated sense of disappointment, a feeling of inadequacy that threatened to consume him whole.

He knew (Y/N) looked up to him, trusted him to lead them towards success. And yet, here he was, unable to provide the answers they so desperately sought.

But even as doubt gnawed at his resolve, Mortefi refused to succumb to despair. He couldn't afford to dwell on his shortcomings, not when there was still work to be done. With a weary sigh, he forced himself to push aside his doubts and refocus his energies on finding a solution.

-----

Days had passed since Mortefi's frustration reached its peak, yet the weight of his failure still hung heavy around him like a suffocating shroud. He buried himself in his work, seeking solace in the cool glow of the holographic interface as he delved deeper into the intricacies of the battlefield simulation. On the other end of a holographic call, General Jiyan's stoic visage flickered to life, the lines of responsibility etched deep into his features. Mortefi couldn't help but feel a pang of familiarity as the two men exchanged banter, their camaraderie a welcome respite from the turmoil that raged within.

But as the conversation turned to matters of strategy and optimization, Mortefi's focus sharpened, his mind racing through complex algorithms and theoretical frameworks. With practiced ease, Mortefi presented his analytical data to Jiyan, the holographic interface coming to life with a flurry of data points and statistical analyses. He outlined the intricacies of their weapon optimization, his voice a steady cadence amidst the whirlwind of information.

Impressed, Jiyan nodded approvingly, acknowledging Mortefi's expertise with a rare compliment. "Impressive work, Mortefi," Jiyan remarked, his voice betraying a hint of admiration. "You've truly outdone yourself this time."

"It's not just me," Mortefi admitted, his voice soft with sincerity. "My colleague, (Y/N), their analysis and insights have been instrumental in our progress."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Jiyan's lips, his gaze softening with understanding. "I've never seen you speak of someone so fondly before," he remarked, his tone laced with curiosity.

Mortefi's smile widened, a rare display of warmth amidst the cold confines of the lab. "They're brilliant," he confessed, his admiration for (Y/N) evident in his voice. "Their dedication and expertise have been invaluable to our efforts."

But as Mortefi spoke, his attention was drawn to the email notification blinking insistently in the corner of his screen. With a sense of foreboding settling over him like a shroud, Mortefi opened the message, his heart sinking as he read the contents within.

The color drained from Mortefi's face as he processed the contents of the email. (Y/N) had embarked on a dangerous mission to place the sensors in the heart of the Waveworn Phenomenon, risking their life for the sake of their project. The words blurred before his eyes, Mortefi's mind raced, his thoughts a whirlwind of fear and desperation as he grappled with the gravity of (Y/N)'s sacrifice.

"Mortefi?" Jiyan's voice cut through the haze of Mortefi's thoughts, his concern palpable even through the digital connection. But Mortefi's attention was elsewhere, his whole being consumed by the fear of what might be happening on the other side of the screen. A pit formed in Mortefi's stomach, a sense of dread settling over him like a suffocating shroud. He felt his whole body emitting hot, fiery sparks, his mind racing with a tumult of emotions.

"Mortefi!" Jiyan's voice rose in urgency, snapping Mortefi back to reality with a jolt. But even as he tried to focus on the general's words, Mortefi's mind was elsewhere, his thoughts consumed by the image of (Y/N) putting themselves in harm's way for the sake of their project.

"Is everything alright?" Jiyan continued, concern evident in his eyes.

But Mortefi could barely hear Jiyan over the roaring in his ears, his mind consumed with worry for (Y/N). He rambled about the situation to Jiyan, about the project and about (Y/N)’s email. “Jiyan, I am asking… no, I need you to send a set of Midnight Rangers to the area. Now.” he demanded; his voice tight with urgency. "We need to find (Y/N) before it's too late."

Jiyan's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing in determination. "I will dispatch the Rangers right away," he assured Mortefi, his voice steady and resolute. “But you need to calm down, Mortefi.”

Mortefi's chest heaved with each labored breath, his whole body trembling with fear and rage. "I can't just sit here and do nothing," he protested, his voice thick with emotion. “They’re out there doing this because I couldn’t come up with a timely solution!” His flames grew stronger as he spoke.

"Mortefi, listen to me," Jiyan's voice was firm, commanding Mortefi's attention once more. "I'll send a set of Midnight Rangers to the area immediately. We'll locate (Y/N) and ensure their safety."

But Mortefi's hands trembled, his whole body emitting hot, fiery sparks as the fear threatened to consume him whole. "You don't understand," he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking with emotion. "They're out there, risking everything for us. I can't... I can't lose them."

"We'll find them, Mortefi," Jiyan promised, his tone steady and reassuring. “But you’re currently at risk for overclocking. You're not helping anyone if you lose control."

Mortefi's breath caught in his throat, the weight of his own desperation pressing down on him like a vice. “You’re right.” He nodded. Jiyan was right and he had to be rational. But he wasn’t going to sit in his lab while (Y/N) was out there actively risking their life. “Keep me informed about any information you receive related to them.”

As he ended the call, Mortefi made a reckless decision himself. He couldn't stay behind. He had to see (Y/N), to make sure they were alright. He quickly began arming himself, his movements hurried but precise. His fingers flew over the equipment, securing weapons and tools. His pistols, meticulously crafted and fine-tuned, slipped into their holders with familiar ease. He grabbed additional gear—explosives, a portable scanner and grapple.

Despite his efforts to remain calm, Mortefi's flames flickered wildly, a reflection of his inner turmoil. He knew he was at major risk of overclocking, but he couldn't let that stop him. The thought of (Y/N) in danger was a tormenting presence in his mind, a relentless specter that refused to be ignored. Why was this affecting him so much? He knew Jiyan was a man of his word and would find (Y/N), yet Mortefi couldn't sit back.

He had to see them. He had to make sure they were alright.

As he set out towards the area where (Y/N) was currently at, his thoughts tormented him. What if it was already too late? What if the Tacet Discords had already attacked them? (Y/N) was not a fighter despite being a resonator. Would they be able to fend off the TDs? Why did they feel compelled to do this? Had he pushed them too hard, making them feel the need to risk their safety for this project?

The anguish gnawed at him, a relentless ache in his chest. Each step he took felt like a march through thick mud, his mind racing with possibilities and fears. He replayed every interaction with (Y/N), wondering if he had driven them to this with his harsh words and impossible standards. The pit in his stomach deepened, a black hole of dread that threatened to swallow him whole.

The landscape around him grew increasingly desolate as he approached the Waveworn Phenomenon, the air thick with tension. The sky was a murky gray, heavy with the promise of rain. The ground beneath his feet was rough and uneven. Mortefi's senses were on high alert, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of (Y/N) or the Tacet Discords.

He activated his portable scanner, the device emitting a series of beeps as it analyzed the surrounding area. The data streamed across the holographic display, but Mortefi's attention was split, his thoughts constantly drifting back to (Y/N). What if they had been injured or worse? The images in his mind were vivid and horrifying, each one more terrible than the last.

The area where (Y/N) had set off to seemed forever away, just out of his reach. Mortefi pushed himself to walk faster, his legs burning with the effort, but it wasn't enough. The weight of his fears pressed down on him, making each step feel heavier than the last.

His terminal beeped with a message from an unknown contact. Heart pounding, he opened the message to find it was from a Midnight Ranger. The Ranger, along with his team, had found (Y/N) and were headed toward an encampment nearby. The coordinates for the encampment flashed on his screen, and without hesitation, Mortefi set course for the location.

Relief washed over him, mingling with a fresh wave of anxiety. They had found (Y/N), but the message offered no details about their condition. Were they injured? Were they safe? Mortefi's heart hammered in his chest loudly. The journey to the encampment felt like an eternity. The rough terrain seemed to conspire against him, each step a struggle against the elements. His flames flickered and sparked, scales on his body seemed to expand by the hour. His breath came in ragged gasps, the flames at his fingertips flickering with anxiety.

As he neared the coordinates, the encampment came into view. It was a makeshift shelter, hastily assembled but sturdy enough to withstand the elements. Mortefi's heart pounded in his chest, his fear and anticipation mounting with each step. His eyes darted around, searching frantically for any sign of (Y/N). The tension in the air was palpable, every nerve in his body on high alert.

A Midnight Ranger approached him cautiously, recognizing the volatile state Mortefi was in. "Mortefi?" the Ranger called out gently, holding up a hand to stop him. "Please, you need to calm down. Sir, your flames are getting everywhere."

Mortefi barely registered the words, his eyes wild with desperation. "Where are they?" he demanded, his voice a raw edge of fear and anger. "Where's (Y/N)?"

The Ranger stepped closer, trying to project calm. "They're here, but you need to take care of yourself first. You're at risk of overclocking. If you lose control, you could hurt them."

A medic hurried over, a look of concern on their face. "Sir, you need to stabilize. Please, let us help you before you see (Y/N)."

Mortefi's flames flickered wildly, his body emitting intense heat. He knew the medic was right, but the thought of (Y/N) lying somewhere injured was tearing him apart. "I can't wait," he protested, his voice cracking. "I need to see them now."

The medic shook their head firmly. "If you go in like this, you could do more harm than good. Please, take these." They handed Mortefi a set of vials containing a cooling serum and weak sedative. "These will help you stabilize."

Reluctantly, Mortefi took the vials, his hands trembling. He injected the serum into his arm, feeling the cool liquid spread through his veins. The flames that had been flickering uncontrollably began to subside, the heat within him slowly dissipating. He followed the medic to a small, makeshift tent where he was instructed to sit.

"Good," the medic said, watching him closely. "Now, follow my instructions. Breathe slowly, in and out. Focus on the cooling sensation, let it calm you."

Mortefi obeyed, his breath coming in slow, measured gasps. His thoughts were still a chaotic storm of fear and guilt, but the physical symptoms of overclocking began to fade. The medic continued to monitor him, occasionally checking his vital signs and administering small doses of additional medicines as needed.

Once his flames were under control, the medic nodded in approval. "You're doing better," she said. "Now we can talk about (Y/N)."

Mortefi's heart clenched at the mention of their name. "How are they?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The medic's expression grew somber. "Their injuries are severe," she said. "Second-degree burns, lesions on different parts of their body, multiple lacerations, and severe exhaustion. It will take time for them to heal. When we found them, they were delirious from the pain and poison. They kept begging for it to be over, and they kept repeating your name until we sedated them."

Mortefi felt as if the ground had been pulled out from under him. The flames within him dimmed to a mere flicker, extinguished by the weight of his guilt and sorrow. He hung his head, his shoulders shaking with the effort to hold back tears. "This is my fault," he whispered. "I pushed them too hard. I drove them to this."

The medic placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "They’re stable now, but it will take time for them to heal. They are stronger than you think. We’ll shift them to the hospital in a few hours.”

He stood up; his legs shaky but determined. "I need to see them," he said quietly.

The medic led him to the back of the encampment where a makeshift infirmary had been set up. The sight of (Y/N) lying there, hooked up to various medical devices, made Mortefi's chest tighten. He approached slowly; his steps heavy with the weight of his guilt. (Y/N) looked so fragile, their body covered in bandages and their face pale.

Mortefi sank into a chair beside the bed, his heart aching with every beat. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I never meant for this to happen." He shook his head, the tears finally spilling over. "Of all the people," he choked out, "you were the last person I wanted to see hurt.”

As he sat there, holding their hand, Mortefi felt a sense of resolve settle over him. He would do whatever it took to help (Y/N) recover. And when they did, he would be honest about his feelings, about how much they meant to him. "I'm here," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "And I'm not going anywhere. When you wake up, we'll face this together. I'll make things right, I promise."

The encampment was quiet, the only sound the soft beeping of monitors and the gentle rustle of the wind outside. Mortefi sat by (Y/N)'s side, holding their hand as if it were a lifeline. The medic's words echoed in his mind; a reminder of the pain (Y/N) had endured. They had repeated his name, even in their delirium. Mortefi sat there, watching over (Y/N) as they slept, his mind a storm of emotions. He would make things right. He had to. Because losing (Y/N) was not an option. Not now, not ever.

Wuwa Masterlist

[tenderwatches]

“We will need to obtain shimmer soon, Jayce; we cannot delay,” he states, and Jayce nods. Time is their enemy now; Viktor can’t afford the danger of flirting with caution and delay of their work. “Of course. You said you might know someone down below who could help. If you tell me where to go—” he begins, but Viktor’s sharp head shake stops him short. “Absolutely not. I will go to him,” Viktor states with no uncertainty. Jayce blinks, shock rippling through him. “But, V… your breathing… Is that really the best?” “Jayce.” The warning in Viktor’s steely tone snaps Jayce’s mouth shut with an audible click. “I have lived in the Undercity most of my life. I know it; we do not need you wandering around getting into trouble.”

Chapter 20: Endure, my heart...

“Of course, I know you know it better. But with the Gray, is that wise?” Jayce tries, gentling his voice even as his mind floods with horrific visions—Viktor alone in some filthy alley, blood streaming down his face as merciless coughs wrack his frame, help impossibly distant. But Viktor’s gaze holds nothing but adamant resolve.

“Is venturing into the Undercity to make contact with a person I am less than pleased to encounter again to obtain a highly dangerous and illegal drug… wise?”

Jayce is almost finished packing away the last of Viktor’s books when tiny footsteps shuffle through the open door. “Ah, Jayce, I thought I might catch you here when I received Viktor’s note about no longer needing this space!” The professor’s eyes dart about, taking in the pristine lab and its practically empty state. As Heimerdinger surveys the space, it’s clear he recognises that Viktor has never truly needed the offered laboratory, yet he chooses not to comment. In his wake, the ever-present shadow of his poro (the Porofessor, as he calls it) scuttles past to snuffle at Jayce’s shoes, its little tongue lolling in greeting.

“Oh yes, he just… needed me to pick up the last of his things,” Jayce confirms, gesturing to the box of books at his elbow. Heimerdinger acknowledges this with a nod before moving to scoot out a chair three sizes too big from a nearby workstation. He scrambles up with a small hop and pins Jayce with an assessing stare that sends him straight back to feeling like a fresh-faced academy apprentice.

“Now, my boy, tell me. How is he?” He asks, fluffy eyebrows lifting over wide, empathetic blue eyes. The question catches Jayce unprepared, though perhaps it shouldn’t. News of Viktor’s collapse and hospital stay was bound to circulate among those who keep track of his partner. Jayce looks away, teeth sinking into his lip to stem the threat of worried words. If Viktor hadn’t bothered to tell the professor himself, he would likely disapprove of Jayce sharing too many details.

“It’s… been difficult, Professor. I’m certain Viktor could give you a clearer picture of what he’s facing, but… It’s a serious diagnosis.” His voice trails off lamely. Heimerdinger’s face softens as he studies Jayce, his moustache quivering with a sigh.

“I know, my boy. I’ve heard about the nature of his diagnosis. I’m more curious about how he’s handling it. I’m not so much of an old fool that I’m unaware he has few friends here. You and I might be two of the only people who truly understand how extraordinary that young man is,” he explains. Jayce’s hands curl into tight fists, an increasingly familiar frustration rising in his chest. The thought that one of the city’s brightest minds is dying while so few would even pause to mourn him makes him clench his jaw until it aches.

“Viktor is, as he always is, Professor: impossible to stop. He wants to… accomplish something before that’s no longer possible for him.” His mind drifts to the Hexcore, undulating in their makeshift garden of plants back at their laboratory. If their recent botanical trials succeed, that breakthrough might be within their grasp. Of course, they still need to obtain shimmer, as Viktor suggested, before any of that can come to be. For one mad moment, he considers blurting it all out to the professor, seeking wisdom like in days past. But he swallows the urge. Heimerdinger is a brilliant scientist and a good mentor, but he’s also overly cautious. Jayce has learnt to keep their work close when dealing with those who might interfere.

Heimerdinger’s tiny legs kick out, his shiny boots catching the light as his hands clasp over his rotund belly, thumbs twiddling in contemplation.

“You know, one might say Viktor has already contributed more than most scientists ever dream of in their lifetime. Those Hexgates of yours have changed everything in this city.” Jayce huffs out a bitter half—laugh, the sound catching raw in his throat as he grabs the remaining tomes from the shelves. He stuffs them into the box with enough force to make the worn spines creak in protest.

“Sure, we can see it that way, but the rest of Piltover are quick to forget how much he’s given them.” The words taste of bile and old regrets. Heimerdinger’s boots tap softly against the floor as he hops down, coming to stand at Jayce’s side. Those bright blue eyes peer up, searching Jayce’s face with careful scrutiny.

“What happened to Viktor after you made your complaint was wrong, Jayce; you and I both know it. But you’ve done what you could to correct it,” he offers, but Jayce drags his palm over his face, trying to press back his mounting frustration.

“This… isn’t about that, Professor.” His voice emerges controlled, each word measured despite the tension coiling in every muscle. “It’s not about my guilt, or even the fact that Viktor is dying; at least… that’s not the whole of it.”

His gaze sweeps the laboratory—the glittering windows, the pristine brass instruments. Every Piltover scientist’s dream: a space to focus on their work unhindered. But Jayce sees it now with unclouded eyes. The countertops housing the instruments tower too high for someone like Viktor, who often needs to sit while working. The space sprawls wide, but tables jut out at angles perfect for catching a crutch. Though the lab was granted to Viktor alone, nothing about it suggests he’s welcome at all.

“Did you know that Viktor’s name isn’t on our Hexgate blueprints?” He asks the question without thinking about it first, his untethered energy carrying over and setting him to pace the room. His eyes roam, unwilling to land on Heimerdinger, who still watches him with that penetrating gaze. The cabinets loom three times too large for Heimerdinger as well, Jayce notes. He has personally seen, however, that the professor’s own lab has lower tables and access to step stools and chairs all built precisely for yordle proportions. Who decides, Jayce wonders, who has earned their place enough to have a world that will accommodate them?

“It isn’t?” the professor questions in response.

“No!” Jayce’s hand slashes through the air in wild emphasis. “And I don’t know when it was removed, if it still exists in the official records within Hextech, or if it’s only in the early drafts.” He clasps his hands behind his back as he paces, irritation tremoring. “Viktor deserves more—he should have a legacy that is secure—one that can’t be erased or ignored. “

“Legacy isn’t everything, my boy—” Heimerdinger begins, but Jayce’s temper and frustration break free of him at the words.

“No, but to a dying man, it means leaving behind more than a grave.”

Heimerdinger’s shoulders slump a bit in response to his anger. The professor doesn’t turn to face him, but Jayce can hear the solemn note in his response. “I’ve buried a great deal of dear friends in my lifetime, Jayce; it isn’t their scientific contributions that are most mourned.”

The wisdom of ages resonates in those words—Heimerdinger speaks from watching not just individuals die but generations, the march of time an endless cycle of death and rebirth. Grief must work differently for him. Jayce has respected that wisdom, been frustrated by its limitations, and stood in awe of its perspective. What can one say to someone burdened with too much time rather than too little?

“It just… It isn’t fair!” In his exclamation, Jayce feels every bit the childish fool Heimerdinger must occasionally see him as. He forges forward anyway, angry and exhausted by trying to understand how a city like theirs, so invigorated by progress, can remain so wilfully blind to where it’s needed. “Everything he fought for and worked for—it deserves to be recognised.”

The professor turns back, his moustache drooping in a frown as he slowly makes his way closer. “Of course it does.” Agreement settles between them as he comes closer, peering at Jayce. “Viktor has always been a determined boy, one of the brightest minds I’ve encountered in my long years, and that’s rather an impressive compliment, I assure you.” A wry note colours his words, and Jayce can’t help the slight smile that tugs at his lips. He can picture a younger Viktor, even more brash and impossible, the sharpest mind in every room. The other academy scholars must have been at a loss with him. That must have been lonely, his mind whispers unbidden, and his smile falters as the thought settles like lead in his stomach. Pushing aside the ache of empathy for his partner’s younger self, Jayce focuses on Heimerdinger’s next words.

“Promise and potential are only the seeds of genius, of course. Viktor has always been determined to make them grow.” He’s moving again, taking a short series of steps forward that allow him to glance up at the windows overhead. The sunlight streaming through them illuminates the little shimmering gold threads that shoot through the yordle’s puffball of reddish—blond hair. Melancholy shadows his features, as if he too sees that younger Viktor—a boy full of hope and the burning desire to help.

“If there was ever someone who could carve a legacy out of nothing, it’s Viktor. Even in these final days, I know he can make a real difference, particularly with good friends at his side.” The words hang in the air, an invitation to find comfort in shared wisdom. But something in Jayce rebels, and not just because he refuses to accept the inevitability of Viktor’s demise. Something else keeps him from nodding along, as he might have years ago; a new fire ignites in his gut, raging against how even good men like the professor seem ready to accept that brilliant, kind, talented people like Viktor must slip through back doors into spaces that should welcome them with open arms.

“Why does he have to always fight so hard for it, Professor? For… scraps of what other people are handed?” He’s all but shouting now, shoving the box of Viktor’s books along the workstation. He plants himself in front of Heimerdinger, a stubborn object of defiance. “He’s dying. He’s in pain—he deserves to be able to rest. He shouldn’t have to race the clock like this.”

Composure slips through his fingers like sand as red bleeds into his vision—red like the blood streaming from Viktor’s nose, red like the evidence of collapse still staining his lab coat.

“He’s hardly the only one either; how many brilliant scholars are there now that are choking to death in the sumps below while we debate the cruelty of things that we helped to build?” His chest heaves with the kind of impassioned fire he hasn’t felt since screaming at the ethics committee. Heimerdinger absorbs it with the patience of someone who has weathered countless passionate scholars’ outbursts.

“As expected, you’re never short on difficult questions, Jayce,” he notes, approval warming his tone. He pauses, though, and seems to think on Jayce’s words. “I don’t know that I can answer that question for you. Why these things are the shape that they are and how we might go about changing that. Perhaps it’s a simple matter of time and dedication to create a future for the hopeful scholars of the Undercity.” His hand strokes thoughtfully through his moustache as he speaks.

“It’s not enough,” Jayce presses, passion still cascading through him like a waterfall released. For the first time since Viktor’s return, he has a chance to pour these ideas out to someone who might help him do something about them.

He fixes his stare on Heimerdinger—this man he’s admired most of his life, this genius who helped establish their city of knowledge and invention and hunger for the future. But people like Heimerdinger, like his own father, what good were their dreams of a better world when that world demanded you blind yourself to those barred from entering it?

“I’m sorry, but Professor, your life gives you wisdom, but it also steals perspective.” The accusation falls heavily between them. Heimerdinger tilts his head, arms still behind his back, watching Jayce’s face with a polite interest he likely doesn’t deserve. “People like us, like Viktor and me, we have to live in the now. This is the reality we’re given; we can only be products of our time. I can’t accept that this is the best that the City of Progress can do for its people.”

“Always hoping to change the world, aren’t you, my boy?” Heimerdinger responds, shaking his head gently as if he should have expected Jayce to launch into a speech about how the city needs sweeping social reform.

“I promised him.”

The words emerge small and fragile; anger and outrage burn away to reveal the raw wounds beneath. He’s watching the man he loves die. Even as they race to save him, the knowledge of his own powerlessness cuts like glass.

“I need him to see that our work will build a better future for the city, for all its people. He needs… I want him to have seen that… before he—” Tears threatening to spill, a crack in his voice. His humiliation burns hot; the last thing he needs is to break down before Professor Heimerdinger of all people.

The professor’s hand on his calf startles him; those large blue eyes brim with empathy. “You have, can, and will save lives with the work you two have established,” he assures, voice gentle. “You have forged a new future for this city, despite the hesitance of old—timers like me. Maybe the change you seek is already in motion. Now, perhaps the best you can do for Viktor is help him see his hand in that.” He pats Jayce’s calf in consolation. “Peace is the kindest thing he can have right now. I suspect you may be the only person who can give it to him.”

Jayce has to look away, swallowing past the thickness in his throat.

“Yes… of course… Thank you, Professor,” he manages, his voice remarkably steady. Gratitude fills him for the professor’s kindness, for the clear regard he holds for both him and Viktor. But that coil of stubborn refusal winds within him once more, even as he acquiesces.

“Of course, my boy, and tell Viktor I’d like to come by and see him when he’s feeling up to company.” Heimerdinger beckons the Porofessor to follow as he moves toward the open door. Pausing on the threshold, he turns to glance back. “Do take care of yourself as well. The city will always be a better place with the genius of someone like Jayce Talis in it.” A kind smile and wink punctuate his words as he turns to leave.

Jayce listens to Heimerdinger’s footfall fade before turning back to collect the box of books. He considers the professor’s parting words and can’t help but disagree. I wouldn’t be anything without him. Saving him is the best thing I can do for this city.

—·—

By the time Jayce approaches Viktor’s door, he’s so deep in thought that this is his first invitation since Viktor’s return hardly registers. He’s just beginning to rake through his memory of how they used to conduct themselves in these circumstances when Viktor’s door swings open.

“Ah, the delivery service has arrived,” Viktor snarks as he beckons Jayce through the threshold before moving inside, his crutch clicking against the small, tiled landing of his entryway.

Jayce huffs out a laugh and follows, momentarily stunned by the sight of Viktor moving about his own space. He looks softer like this, vest and tie absent, wearing only his brown pinstripe shirt. As Viktor settles onto his couch, Jayce notices the shirt is missing a silver button. The fabric gapes slightly at the centre, offering a glimpse of the tender pale white skin of Viktor’s stomach. This sight has Jayce’s pulse racing. He tears his gaze away rather than fixate and sets the box of books on Viktor’s coffee table.

He straightens up, still off-balance, and opts to study the surroundings instead of risking another glance at Viktor. His eyes drift curiously to the small kitchenette across from the sitting room. The countertops stand mostly bare save for a tin—which Jayce would bet his life contains bags of Viktor’s preferred cheap tea—and a small, chipped glass bowl housing sugar cubes that Viktor’s more likely to eat than add to anything.

A fond smile crosses his face as he notes these familiar signs of his partner’s life, tiny habits asserting themselves in the space. Viktor still has far too many throw pillows to be considered reasonable for his couch, and he can’t help but notice that more than half of them have made their way to the floor. It reminds him of Viktor’s old apartment before he left, though this one is brighter and larger. Yet something about the space feels bereft and lonely. With a sharp pang of sadness, he realises this space still carries the air of impermanence. It bears the mournful quality of a place one doesn’t intend to occupy for long. The rooms of a dying man. Ever practical, Viktor hasn’t hung a single picture; the only personal touches Jayce can spot in the sitting room are the throw pillows and a large, heavy knit blanket that he thinks he remembers from times before.

The signs of Viktor accepting his transience here twist something painful in Jayce’s chest. His conversation with Heimerdinger still rages in the back of his mind. He hears Viktor laugh softly behind him and turns to find himself being assessed with as much intensity as he has given to the rooms. “Would you like the grand tour, Jayce, or would you prefer to sit?” Viktor teases, and Jayce lets a chagrined smile play across his face.

“Sorry, I’m being nosy.”

Viktor shakes his head, regarding Jayce with a fondness that constricts his chest. “You? I’d never have guessed.” Jayce slumps down beside him, playfully jostling Viktor’s good leg with his own. Viktor’s smile lingers; he’s not wearing his oxygen today. Jayce is working on trusting that this means he doesn’t need it, but he can’t help listening for any hint of wheezing, any slight disruption in his breathing.

“Jayce, you must stop trying to see through my lungs every time we are in a room together.” Viktor cuts through his pretence of nonchalance, seeing straight to the knot of anxiety that’s made its home in his brain since Viktor’s collapse. His partner lifts a slender finger to brush a lock of Jayce’s dark hair from his eyes, and Jayce finds himself fighting the urge to catch that hand and press his lips to its soft palm. Instead, he offers another sheepish grin.

“Sorry, I’m on edge. Ran into Heimerdinger,” he explains, and Viktor’s face tips towards him slightly. His posture maintains its casual air, but Jayce catches the subtle tension that ripples through him at the professor’s name.

“And what did the good professor want from you?” The question remains airy despite Jayce’s certainty that Viktor fears he’s shared every secret of their research with Heimerdinger. He’d be more offended if the thought hadn’t crossed his own mind. He simply leans back into the pillows and lifts a hand to unbutton his vest.

“He sends his well wishes and asked if he could check up on you when you feel up to it,” Jayce explains, and Viktor tuts softly.

“Of course, he can come by anytime. I need people to stop acting as if I have entered a period of quiet contemplation. I’m only dying—everybody does it,” he complains. His boldness in facing the grim reality of his prognosis leaves Jayce struggling to catch up. He blinks once and lets out a bark of startled laughter. Viktor looks triumphant, pleased to have coaxed Jayce into sharing his gallows humour.

“I’d love to see his face if you sent him that in your invite,” Jayce shoots back, and Viktor’s answering laugh vibrates through the space between them as he settles back into the pillows next to Jayce. Their shoulders brush, and Jayce leans into the pressure where their bodies connect.

After a moment of weighty silence, Jayce ventures to ask, “Viktor, did… Heimerdinger ever help you while you were at the academy?”

“In what way?” Viktor’s voice carries an edge of hesitation, as if testing the ground beneath this line of questioning.

“Well… we were talking today about how far behind this city is in creating opportunities for everyone,” Jayce starts, now feeling wary as well. “I asked Heimerdinger why you had to work so much harder to get ahead. He didn’t have much of an answer, but… I mean, I know you were his assistant. He sponsored you at the academy; clearly, he thinks highly of you. It seems reasonable that he might have been someone you could turn to when you needed help.” The words tumble out, and Jayce prays he hasn’t stumbled onto some hidden landmine.

It occurs to him how little he’s reflected like this with Viktor, and he feels remarkably young and stupid doing it now. How could he love this man and never think about this? All their time together, and he’s never really bothered to consider the circumstances of his partner’s rise here—the profound solitude Viktor must have endured. He hopes his fumbling efforts now aren’t as foolish as they feel.

“Ah… well…” Viktor lifts a nervous hand, twisting a lock of hair around his finger in that familiar gesture of deep thought. “Heimerdinger was a mentor to me, yes. In a way, I suppose he looked out for me, supporting me when I had little chance of obtaining a patronage. But…” Discomfort radiates from him as he considers his next words. “I am keen to avoid anything that could give the impression of special treatment.” His eyes catch Jayce’s, and colour rises on his cheeks at the admission, so striking that Jayce’s mouth goes dry. “I am not in the habit of asking for help, as I am sure you’ve noticed.”

“Yeah… yeah, you could say I’m vaguely aware of that,” Jayce manages, his voice rough. “I like it when you ask me, though, V. You know that, right?” The question emerges soft, intimate. Every point of contact between their bodies burns with heightened awareness—thigh pressed to thigh, shoulders aligned, the heat of proximity making his skin prickle.

“Yes, Jayce, I know,” Viktor breathes. They speak in hushed tones now, faces turned toward each other. Viktor’s hand falls from his hair, and tension crackles in the fractional space that separates them as his hand finds the warm expanse of Jayce’s chest, slipping beneath parted fabric to rest over his thundering heart.

Jayce freezes, terrified that the slightest movement might shatter this crystalline moment suspended between them. He’s just gathering the courage to reach out in return when Viktor jerks away, seized by a fit of coughing that bends him double. Jayce’s hand finds Viktor’s back, sitting forward to soothe him. Each ridge of Viktor’s spine presses against his palm before giving way to the metal brackets of his brace. He rubs his hand back and forth until the coughing subsides.

Viktor’s breath tears into his lungs on a hard wheeze as he straightens. Though no blood marred his lips, frustration radiates from every taut line of his body.

“My oxygen is in the bedroom, Jayce. If you please,” he asks, voice quiet and rough with effort. Jayce launches to his feet so quickly he almost careens into the coffee table, muscles responding before thought can catch up.

“Right, be right back,” he manages, already moving toward what he assumes is Viktor’s bedroom door.

The room beyond stands as unadorned as the rest of Viktor’s quarters. His bed lies simple and unmade, a steamer trunk stationed at its foot. Against the far wall, a desk drowns in all manner of notes—clearly the most frequented corner of his home. Jayce stoops to check by the bedside when something familiar catches his eye.

A notebook rests in the far corner of the desk. With its cover embossed with the Talis crest, it is unmistakably one of his own. It’s worn soft around the edges—not recent, he notes. He flips open the cover, skimming over the date on the first page that marks the notebook as one from their early Hextech days. Under his signature there is a photograph he remembers with stark clarity. Viktor and he at the distinguished innovators competition, his arm slung around Viktor’s neck as he beams at the camera. Viktor’s eyes fixed on Jayce’s face instead, smile brilliant and unguarded. They both look achingly young. The realisation that Viktor kept this even during his exile below spreads warmth through Jayce’s chest. Another burst of coughing from the other room snaps him back to purpose. Finally spotting the oxygen tank by Viktor’s bed, he hurries to retrieve it.

Viktor murmurs thanks as he positions the cannula, the room falling quiet save for his measured breaths. Jayce channels his restless energy into movement, puttering about Viktor’s kitchen while those keen eyes track his progress. When he returns with steaming mugs, Viktor’s breathing has eased, though a new gravity has settled over him. He sips his tea contemplatively before setting it aside, giving Jayce an intent stare that makes his spine straighten in response.

“We will need to obtain shimmer soon, Jayce; we cannot delay,” he states, and Jayce nods. Time is their enemy now; Viktor can’t afford the danger of flirting with caution and delay of their work.

“Of course. You said you might know someone down below who could help. If you tell me where to go—” he begins, but Viktor’s sharp head shake stops him short.

“Absolutely not. I will go to him,” Viktor states with no uncertainty. Jayce blinks, shock rippling through him.

“But, V… your breathing… Is that really the best?”

“Jayce.” The warning in Viktor’s steely tone snaps Jayce’s mouth shut with an audible click. “I have lived in the Undercity most of my life. I know it; we do not need you wandering around getting into trouble.”

“Of course, I know you know it better. But with the Gray, is that wise?” Jayce tries, gentling his voice even as his mind floods with horrific visions—Viktor alone in some filthy alley, blood streaming down his face as merciless coughs wrack his frame, help impossibly distant. But Viktor’s gaze holds nothing but adamant resolve.

“Is venturing into the Undercity to make contact with a person I am less than pleased to encounter again to obtain a highly dangerous and illegal drug… wise?” Sarcasm drips from Viktor’s words like acid, burning through Jayce’s composure. Heat floods his face, the sting of Viktor’s derision burrowing deeper than usual.

“Viktor, that’s hardly helpful.” His own temper simmers beneath his skin, threatening to boil over. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do.” Viktor snaps upright, so suddenly he dislodges the cannula, a curse hissing through his teeth as he grapples with the brass nozzle. “I understand that you think I am not capable of making the trip without expiring on the bathysphere down,” he mutters coldly, metal clinking softly against metal as he fits the cannula back into place.

“Not what I said.” Jayce crosses his arms over his chest, feeling mulish in response to Viktor’s waspishness.

“No, but what you meant.” Acid still laces Viktor’s words as his eyes rake over Jayce’s defensive posture.

“Viktor…” A sigh escapes him as he pinches the bridge of his nose, the ghost of their earlier warmth slipping further away with each passing second. The threat of a headache pulses behind his eyes.

“Jayce, let me do this, please.” Viktor rises, crutch steadying him as he tucks the oxygen tank under his free arm. He moves to stand before Jayce, close enough that the air between them feels charged. “I don’t need you fighting me when I tell you I am capable of things.”

“I’m not fighting you because I think you’re incapable.” The words emerge, softened by pleading, Jayce’s anger dissolving beneath his desperate need for Viktor to understand. “I’m just… concerned,” he finishes, each syllable weighted with the effort of containing his temper. It isn’t helpful to get angry, and he knows it.

“And I appreciate your concern,” Viktor snaps, frustration radiating from him even as Jayce cools. “But this… whole… experience is difficult for me.” The admission bursts from him like something torn loose, his golden eyes burning into Jayce’s face with accusatory heat, as if Jayce had wrenched the words from his throat. “I can feel my body eroding, Jayce.” He turns to set the oxygen tank on the table, his movements precise and controlled as he adjusts his crutch. His glare pins Jayce like an errant child. “Let me at least have the grace of making the choices I’m still able to make without having to battle your good intentions.”

His arms fall to his sides, defences crumbling before Viktor’s rebuke. He’s ashamed of himself for falling into old habits again, so soon after he’s promised Viktor he’d do better. “I—of course, Viktor. I’m sorry.” His gaze drops to study the base of Viktor’s crutch, unable to bear the weight of his admonishment.

“Stop, that’s not—” Viktor breaks off with a sigh, and the shift in tone catches between them, like  air has been let out of both their rising tempers. His tone softens, and Jayce feels Viktor’s hand settle back against the centre of his chest, the weight of it anchoring them together. He lifts his gaze to meet Viktor’s golden eyes as his partner starts again. “I know it is kindly meant. Just…” There’s a note of apology there that makes something twist in Jayce’s chest. He shakes his head, the motion sharp and decisive.

“No, you’re right; you shouldn’t have to explain,” he responds, trying desperately to show that he has truly heard what Viktor has asked of him and that his apology is unnecessary and unwanted.

“Perhaps not.” Viktor’s fingers press into the muscle of Jayce’s chest, tracing a path up towards his tie and back down again with the same careful attention one might use to gentle a spooked horse. “But maybe I can have the grace to consider this isn’t easy for you either,” he offers, and Jayce’s lips curve into a small smile—it’s so quintessentially Viktor to extend consideration when he fears he’s been too harsh.

“You don’t need to coddle me either, Viktor,” Jayce assures him, reaching out to settle his own hand on Viktor’s shoulder.

“No, but perhaps I’d like to work on being… aware of what you might need from me in return.” The list of what he needs from Viktor is long and full of far too much better left unsaid for the time being. He forces himself to focus on the immediate concern, pushing back his brain’s supply of desperate suggestions.

“Then… can you at least tell me when I should expect you back? Is that fair?” The words come out soft and gentle, but the thought of waiting without knowing when to start worrying sends ice beneath his skin. “That way I’m not worrying you’re somewhere down there in need of help or… something,” he finishes, the words falling flat even to his own ears.

Viktor rolls his eyes at that, the motion carrying more fondness than irritation. “Ridiculous,” he mutters, more to himself than to Jayce, before continuing with a slight sigh. “But… fine.” His partner’s body language has softened, the earlier tension easing from his shoulders. The sight stirs something protective in him—a physical ache that spreads beneath his ribs.

“I anticipate returning in the afternoon, around lunchtime,” Viktor offers, voice pitched low and careful, a cautious olive branch. The words settle in Jayce’s stomach, not quite relief but something adjacent—a ballast for his anxiety. He nods.

“Okay. Just… be careful, V.”

Where Viktor’s hand rested moments before, Jayce still feels a bit of warmth that he wants to cling to. He lets out a slow breath to urge himself to let go with a reminder to himself: sometimes the best way to help is to simply trust.

[first chapter | previous chapter | next chapter on AO3]

AN: am i scheduling these ahead of time so i don't forget YES and are we super ahead on AO3 like posting chapter 38 ??? omg dang . tomorrow?? also yes. cheers to ppl who are reading the monster-sized chapters on tumblr tho like dang

[whohasfourthumbsand]

[[ Attachment Added; Untitled010.omnif ]]

[ The footage is grainy, despite being taken from Gray's personal PDA. Center-frame, Gray himself sits cross-legged on the workshop floor, his dominant arms wrapped protectively around a laptop-esque portable computer. Notably, the computer's screen is blank, projecting nothing but an inky black murk. Dim pin-pricks of light proclaim that it's still on, however, as does the artificial voice that echoes from its speakers. ]

G-R-A-E — "I am confident that the wall's structural integrity was not critically compromised."

[ In front of Gray lays a mess of clutter and debris. A few feet away, a blue tarp juts out from the rubble, marking where the original damage had been sustained. Gray's wheelchair sits a few feet further from that, one wheel still bent out of place from the impact. Past the remains of the wall stands that same pristine, sterile laboratory. Three hospital beds sit center-stage, shoulder-to-shoulder, thin blankets neatly folded. Gray's eyes linger there as he responds, lifting his hands from the laptop to sign where GRAE- and the viewer- can plainly see. ]

GRAY — "I don't know. I had a feeling it was going to fall, eventually. It didn't feel so much like a hole in the wall... it was more like..." [ Gray's hands pause in the air. He flexes and relaxes his fingers repeatedly, a stim he commonly uses to 'break' silence. ] GRAY — "It felt more like a wound? An oozing gash that someone wrapped up and forgot about. You let something fester for long enough, and eventually it—" [ With a wince, Gray tightens his fist. His claws dig into the soft silicone of his palm- until he brings his hands up to his chin, continuing his thought. ] GRAY — "-collapses."

G-R-A-E — "I suppose." [ A moment of earnest silence passes between the two. Gray's hands don't flex; They simply rest in the air, level with his stomach, ready to speak and yet unable to gather their words. ] [ The laboratory remains still. The beeping in the background subsists, though now clear in its distinct beat-per-minute. Gray's eyes wander towards the hospital beds and their adjacent heart-rate monitors. From this distance, the sound is fuzzy, and its origin almost non-descript- Only two of the beds have medical equipment at their sides, yet his attention flits between all three. Then, slowly, his eyes drift- leisurely returning to the central workstation, the desk, and the brightly-colored bouqet of flowers. ] G-R-A-E — "Fake." GRAY — "I know. I just can't stop looking at them. Something there feels... familiar." G-R-A-E — "The filament used, perhaps; Or, alternatively, the manufacturing. When we took a closer look, did you recognize their composition? Someone printed flowers with the very same model that you use to print replacement parts." G-R-A-E — "How poetic." GRAY — "That model doesn't produce color." G-R-A-E — "It doesn't, no." [ Another fleeting moment of silence. Gray stares directly ahead, considering the vibrant arrangement- until, slowly, one of his arms seem to move of its own volition. He reaches up and into his jacket's inner pocket, claws carefully selecting out his secret cargo. From his jacket, Gray produces one of Vissily's zero-gravity markers, the metal cylinder held aloft on his palm. He holds it level with the laptop's camera as though showing it to GRAE, though the NHP doesn't outwardly acknowledge this revelation. ]

GRAY — "The entire room is covered in doodles- not just the flowers. Look at the walls, or the top of the desk. Sure, someone tried to scrub them off, but-" G-R-A-E — "Your curiosity is getting ahead of you, Pilot." GRAY — "...Well, Vissily doesn't want to talk about it." G-R-A-E — "She has made her avoidant philosophy abundantly clear. He is the one that covered the wound. If you want answers, you will have to challenge your non-confrontational nature." GRAY — "I don't want answers-" GRAY — "I want my friend to be okay." [[ Close Attachment. ]]

[bnsni]

idk if I should make this au a series but here you go <3 (au explanation in the tags bc I don't want to spoil)

mouse-verse IMPASSIVITY is at an all time high. Prowl struggles to ignore the nudge against his ribs. A locked jaw, optics for slits are the best he's got under pressure. Even, better — bared dentas to deter trouble.

But there's something about Bumblebee — that punk is trying his patience, unfazed by the enforcer's abrasive demeanor. He's pushing it. Pushing it hard. Without even a glance, he's sure as Primus's aft a chesire grin is leeching from that face.

"And, what's the status?" His audials picked up on Optimus's voice, a blur of red and blue not too far in the laboratory from where he stood. Prowl straightens. Ah, professional. Be professional. He can't be seen behaving inappropriately.

Then, he hears your voice and loosens visibly.

"Neutral, sir. For now, at least. It'll come round eventually. But I'll try to stabilize it."

Prowl shifts, almost imperceptibly, on his pedes. The scout is now focused on a bubbling flask. A digit out, prodding the capped casing. Phosphorus, Prowl recognizes. Vanilla crystals blossomed at the bottom and explosively so. But he bites back a chastise — if the yellow bug is broken out of his curious stance, Prowl might not be able to grasp this chance to, well, have a look.

So, he tilts his helm and lets his optics skim, much the same as he does when he's scheming — a search for your figure amidst all the beams and laboratory apparatus of the room is discreet.

It was organized, clean. You fixed your workspace often. Adored organizing your paperwork in neat little bundles. He discerned some stacks under your desk with those pastel straps you always hoard from the nearest stationary shops.

That is the decorum, the attitude of a proper soldier. It is what he'd like to see in everyone's workstation. Clean and logically organized.

Once his optics caught your eyes, he swivels away. His doorwings piked up, much to his chagrin. A side periphery of a smile curling your mouth didn't help the flare of warmth prickling the back of his neck , running all the way up to his forehead. His frown becomes all the more apparent.

And, of course bumblebee notices.

"Can it." He grits out before he could say anything else.

Bumblebee just shrugs but the slag-eating grin is still there. "Didn't say I warned ya, buddy."

"Don't call me buddy." He says coldly. " I am not your buddy. I am your commanding officer and you will refer to me properly as such."

"Eugh, leave it for Ironhide to decide. I'm not here on a debate for ranks."He elbows his rib plates with a wag of his brows. "What I'm here for, though...." He trails off, and shimmies a crab dance to block his view.

Prowl grimaces and retaliates by looking above the horns of his head. "Enough. You're making a fool out of yourself." He bares out.

"Oooh. Someone's quite the looker, huh."

"And, you're about to gain a look of a lifetime, through physical means."

"Prowl suggested I seek your advice."

Both bots stiffen at the sound of pedes approaching. The Prime has his servos folded behind his back, hunching, and tilting his helm so he could regard your face. You trotted beside him, a hand shoved into the pocket of your labcoat and the other swiveling a pen.

"Oh, did he?" You stop before the enforcer.

The fat of your cheeks pulled into a smile.

"I did." Prowl clips. "You specialise in force fields — an expertise greatly suitable for that area of predicament."

Bumblebee adds "A great suitor for the other— hrrk!"

Prowl shoves an elbow against his ribs. The yellow bugs keels over, wheezing. Optimus raises an eyebrow. What he thinks of it is left unsaid as he turns to you.

"This won't be too demanding of me?"

"No, not at all." You wave placatingly. "I'm busy but this isn't' something of a problem I can't handle. I'll have the blueprints by dawn."

The Prime pats your shoulder, optics gentle as he heads for the sliding doors. "Have a good evening, mouse."

"You too, sir."

"And, you t—"

Prowl shoves the yellow bug outside, locking the laboratory pad with a few quick punch of his digits for good measure. When he's sure the two silhouettes are gone, he vents through clenched teeth and tries to conceal his irritation. Though, proven futile with how his doorwings twitch.

He's had enough, for today.

"Bothersome?" You mused.

"A work in paradise."

He swivels around and despite the smooth mask he's locked in, almost jumps at your close proximity.You're standing there, chin tilted up — he's already faltering, surprise shown through a quick flick of his doorwings.

"And, you say I'm not so discreet." You make a show of teetering on your toes.

He rolls his optics but complies nonetheless, lowering his helm but not his shoulders. He won't make it easy. No, not too low or you'll get a pass — he wants you to beg for it.

"Terrible." He chuffs. "Of all the soldiers I've assessed, you mouse, are the worst at discretion. Impulsivity seems to be a close friend, for you."

"But what does that make you, then?" Your lips, soft and pliable, are inches away from his chin.

He resist lowering his helm any further. But much to his dismay, Prowl slants his helm, counteracting his locked coding of not caving in.

"Reckless." He breathes out. "Worse than when Smokescreen toddled away with illicit high-grade."

A loose giggle bubbles from your lips, a sweet sound he shamelessly saved in his processors. Though, iritation paints his features when he recognizes the signs. You're deliberately stalling. Deliberately ignoring his advances. He bares his teeth, exasperated at the fact he has to spell it out.

"Kiss me."

"Oh?" You tilt away, a coy playful grin. "Why would I do that, officer when discretion is at play here?"

"Because we're behind closed doors. Because if you dont, you're disobeying a direct command from your superior. And because —" Agitation pulls at his face and digits pinched your chin, pulling you close."— i've missed you."

It's not often he's affectionate. You're always the one pulling the trigger first — but when he does it, you find it oddly endearing of how desperately he wants it.

"Kiss me." He says again.

And, that was enough for you to close the distance. Hands on his shoulder plates as you lean up to catch his lips. Instantly, he melts into your touch, servos gripping your waist.

[jenn2d2]

Danger of Mixing Household Poisons, Chapter 3

Summary: A young elf is surprised to find that an Antivan Crow has poisoned her master on the same night she has made her own attempt, to somewhat disastrous results. Set roughly 15 years before Veilguard. [origin vignettes for Carina "Rook" de Riva.]

Additional Talents: Viago asks Carina to recreate a difficult poison for a guest from another House, and she demonstrates more than just her ability to execute a difficult recipe correctly.

Read here below or on AO3.

Carina wasn't sure what she had expected when Viago said that he'd be giving her specialized lessons in his laboratory, but it certainly wasn't a dingy, cramped and cluttered closet just off of his office. The office itself was spacious, meticulously clean, and very neatly organized. The overall effect was to make a visitor feel like they were somehow ruining the space by being personally untidy. Nothing in Viago's behavior did anything to indicate this impression was incorrect.

"Are you prepared? Explain what I have asked," Viago sat on the other side of his desk, staring intently. Carina suppressed the urge to squirm, fidget, or blink too hard.

"Yes," she answered simply, tearing her eyes away from the small side room. "You want me to demonstrate how I made my jar of Magister's End."

"Yes," he replied simply, as the door to the office opened behind her. A Crow she didn't recognize entered, a tall slender elf with long, blonde hair, a severe nose, and just a few wrinkles around her eyes. She carried an ornate staff, topped with a purple crystal encased in silver feathers. Viago nodded to her, but didn't get up, and she took a seat in a chair behind his desk.

"Paoletta of House de Acutis has graciously agreed to observe today," and the woman nodded. Carina nodded in return. Viago gestured to the open door. "Take what you need and bring it to the table behind you. Your notes have been provided."

Carina blinked, but immediately understood the unspoken order. We have a guest. Do not waste her time and mine by asking questions you don't need the answers to right now. She burned with curiosity about the elven woman, but pushed it aside along with her nerves as she went to the closet and began to rifle through the various supplies.

The closet was cluttered, but once she started working through her mental list of what she needed, Carina could see that it was as neatly organized as the office itself. Possibly more so. No space was wasted where it could be used, and while ingredients, implements, and other supplies were intermixed, each one was located where it would be best to hand when executing complex formulas and steps. In a way, this room told her more about Viago than he had willingly divulged himself. This was the workstation of a man who had to develop his skill in borrowed, cramped spaces and whose system was finely honed by the restrictions that come with impermanence.

Several trips were needed to bring the ingredients and equipment to the small table, all under Viago's silent, calculating gaze. Carina was becoming accustomed to his intense evaluations, though this is the first time she had been allowed to choose her own ingredients. Their private lessons in poisons had so far been very strictly regulated, with ingredients, instructions, and equipment provided for her. In each, there was often something incorrect or that required adjustment, and Viago seemed genuinely pleased when she addressed each with a minimum of questions or mistakes.

"Proceed," Viago pointed as she finished setting up. "Narrate your work as much as you feel necessary."

As much as you feel necessary. What a thing to ask.

Carina talked briefly and directly about the ingredients she was including in the first part of the preparation. It was a straightforward combination of various compounds which formed an ugly, caustic paste when heated correctly. Viago asked a couple of questions about controlling for humidity and temperature, but she was able to give enough details to satisfy him without too much prodding.

"Once the initial step is complete, the mixture needs to set at that temperature for no more than five minutes," Carina explained, as she took her hands away from the gently steaming container. "While it is sitting, I measure and pour the next set of liquid ingredients."

"Why now?" Paoletta asked, her voice soft in comparison to Viago's usual clipped tones.

"Some of them begin to react to the air," she explained, pointing to two containers. "If they sit out too long, they won't be the right strength when mixed. If I take too long for the first part, they'd go bad, and I might have to do it again."

"And you may not always have more ingredients?" the woman gave her a slight smile of encouragement.

"Yes," Carina nodded. "They also have a fishy smell, which is noticeable after a while."

At her nod, Carina continued her preparation, mixing two different sets of liquids to set aside. One began to shed white flakes in the vial immediately, which was a good sign, but meant she needed to make sure the other was ready before the were combined.

"I need to make sure this one has the right energy," she explained, adding a pinch of lyrium carefully with a long spoon. Concentrating on the vial, she willed the dust to mix and swirl, and was rewarded with a slow circular motion as her fingers tingled. Lyrium dissolved into a blue-green glow as the contents swirled gently, giving off the faintest scent of ozone.

"I have to finish this last part quickly," she stated, looking to Viago, who gave the smallest of nods to continue. Carina knew she couldn't narrate the next parts, and ensure they happened as quickly as they needed to.

Holding the glowing vial just above the paste, she began to mix it with a pestle a dribble at a time. Once about half of the liquid was gone, and the paste had turned a virulent green, she switched to the other liquid, mixing slower but in larger quantities. The paste quickly became a slurry as she finished the vial, and she transferred the contents of the bowl to a larger beaker with a stirring rod already placed for ease of use. Swirling the contents vigorously, she added a steady stream of the remaining lyrium mixture, concentrating intensely on the color she needed to see.

As the last of it was incorporated, the beaker warmed, and a small flash of purple told her she had succeeded. Immediately withdrawing the stirring rod, she plunged it into a waiting beaker of sand where the glass began to lightly smoke and melt.

"Once it cools, the mixture needs to be sealed in a prepared clay container for at least a week," Carina gestured to a small clay jar she had lightly rubbed with wax earlier. "It should be at full potency."

"When should it be used?" Viago asked, settling back into his chair. Carina felt like he had relaxed slightly, but it was almost impossible to tell.

"Best application, or when does it go bad?" The glow had begun to fade as had the buzzing energy at the tips of her fingers.

"Both, but I am more interested in the latter."

"I've read it should be used within a year," Carina started, and noted the smallest twitch in Viago's eyebrow. "I think six months is safer, maybe as short as three. The color changes after a month, and it gets a lingering smell after two."

"And?"

"It will kill just about anyone, but a lot of things will do that. This is for targets with healing magic, who use magic, or who have quick access to potions or amulets," Carina explained. Paoletta seemed particularly interested in this part, leaning forward slightly in her chair. "The paralytic effect isn't really long, but should be enough to keep them from using magic until it is too late."

"Should."

"Yes," Carina sighed slightly at Viago's jab. "If mixed with some fruits, poisons, or anything that interrupts the the paralytic, it won't work predictably."

"Elaborate," Viago tilted his chin down slightly, his expression intense. She thought she caught just the barest spark of genuine interest in his eyes.

"Avoid anything that breaks down meat quickly. Strong vinegar, very sour citrus juices, that one big fruit that's dark orange on the inside—"

"Papaya," Viago supplied.

"Yes, papaya," Carina committed that name to memory. She had never been told what it was called, but had liked how it tasted. "Or pineapple, the spiky one. Poisons that contain those, or ingredients like them, but that may need testing. Any of those things may make the paralytic fail, or not work as well as it should."

"Yes, you and I are both unfortunately familiar with that side-effect," Viago sighed, and looked to his side where the observer sat behind him. "Paoletta, Do you have what you need?"

"I believe so," the woman gave Carina an intense, but not unkind stare for a moment. "You were correct on both points. She is impressive, and may not need the more extreme training resources at my disposal. I'll document the requirements, and will send them to your Talon. The old fool knows better than to question my judgment, even if he keeps interfering in yours."

A soft ping of glass told Carina the poison was ready, and she began the careful and delicate process of decanting it into the jar properly. It took enough concentration that she didn't hear too much of what the woman and Viago said to each other, but she did manage a brief bow as Paoletta said her goodbyes. Decanting complete, she tidied up the various implements and ingredients, making a small pile of the pieces that needed to be disposed of carefully. Done, she simply sat and waited while Viago read through the papers on his desk.

"Do you know why Paoletta was here today?" Viago asked plainly, looking up from his desk. He didn't bother to remove his reading glasses, but stared over the top of them clearly expecting a suitable answer.

"I do not know, but I suspect—"

"Yes," he waved irritably. "Your suspicions then? As long as they are justified."

"I suspect she is a mage," Carina started, noting the small twitch under Viago's eye. "And that she was here to determine how I was able to complete the poison, unaided. You had been surprised that I could make it on my own."

"And why is that?"

"Magic," her voice sounded small, even to her. It felt like saying it quietly might mean it wasn't true, or it didn't mean what it had to mean. Couldn't mean. A knot in her stomach twisted and fell.

"That is correct. Paoletta is a mage for the de Acutis family, and she confirmed what I had suspected," Viago sighed, looking back at his notes. "No one helped you with the poison and you used magic when you created it. You had to. Then, and now."

"When will I have to leave?" It came out as barely a whisper, the hot sting of tears beginning to blur her vision even as she tried to stop them.

"Why would you be going anywhere? Heir finally cleared you for—" Viago broke off his brusque reply as he looked up, his expression a teary blur of confusion or concern as he took his glasses off to look at her. Neither seemed right, but after she gave a hard blink, he was crouched in front of her, with his gloved hands resting lightly on her shoulders.

"You are not going anywhere, little bird," Viago said quietly, but with enough emphasis that Carina blinked hard a couple more times, traitor tears running down her cheeks. "House de Riva does not lock its mages up in circles unless they are a danger."

"But—"

"I didn't bring you here merely to abandon you to those fool Templars," Viago stated flatly, cutting off her reply. "I brought Paoletta to confirm that you can stay. If she is willing to teach you, are you willing to learn?"

Carina nodded, another objection dying on her lips as she saw the honest question in his face.

"Good. Our Talon needs to approve, but he's terrified of Paoletta," Viago's mouth quirked up in a slight smile. "With very good reason. The woman is incredibly deadly, and has little patience with fools."

Viago stood and handed her a handkerchief from somewhere in his leathers. She took it, examined it briefly which earned her a nod, and then started to clean her face.

"And before you ask one of your many questions, you will study magic in addition to your other lessons. It will not be easy," Viago said, walking back to sit behind his desk again. "Paoletta will find you a teacher, or she'll teach you herself. You will do what is required."

"Yes, Viago," Carina replied, placing the damp cloth on the table with the other equipment. Silence stretched out for a moment, while Viago picked up the papers he had been reading and settled back at his desk.

"Well?" Viago gestured to the door without looking up and Carina took the hint to leave.

She couldn't prove it, but she swore she heard a sigh of relief as she softly closed the door.

[spandanenterprises]

Elevate your workspace with ergonomic designs and exceptional quality. Discover a new level of office furniture excellence.

https://www.spandanindia.com/

[biotic-raptorian-angel]

The Value of Love

Moicy V-Day one off.

Angela woke early on Valentine’s Day, heart fluttering with anticipation. The corridors of Overwatch HQ were quiet at dawn, and she took advantage of that hush to put the final pieces of her plan into motion. She carried a modest box of decorations, cradling them like a precious secret as she made her way to Moira’s private laboratory.

The lab door slid open with a faint hiss. Angela flicked on a soft overhead light, illuminating the austere space. Where Moira’s usual presence lent an air of intensity, it felt strangely calm without her. Carefully, Angela arranged small, subtle decorations: a single red rose placed in a slender vase on the center workstation, a handful of colorfully wrapped chocolates near the microscope, and a handwritten note that read, 

You deserve every bit of love and more. —Angela.

Giddiness warmed Angela as she set it down. Valentine’s Day wasn’t about grand gestures for her—it was about sincerity. About seeing Moira, truly seeing her. The brilliant scientist, flawed and guarded, who so often buried herself in research, who rarely believed she merited the affection Angela so freely offered. Angela wanted to show her otherwise.

Satisfied with her preliminary touch, Angela slipped out of the lab and hurried to the main kitchen area. She’d spent days perfecting a recipe from a Swiss cookbook—a delicate pastry Moira had once admitted she enjoyed. By the time the rest of the base came to life, Angela was carefully frosting heart-shaped pastries, arranging them in a box lined with tissue paper. She felt a twinge of nerves. Moira wasn’t the type to fuss over sweets and sentimentality—but Angela believed that was all the more reason to offer it. To show her care through simple, heartfelt acts.

At midday, Moira finally emerged from her dorm, drawn inevitably to her lab. Angela watched from a short distance, half-hidden behind a supply crate in the corridor. She saw Moira stiffen for an instant upon seeing the rose on her workstation—eyes flickering with surprise, then curiosity. Her gaze darted to the note. And there it was, that tiny shift in Moira’s expression: an unguarded moment of tenderness that she seldom let anyone see.

Angela smiled, her heart flipping. She stepped forward, giving Moira space to read the note, allowing the moment to linger before revealing herself. When she finally approached, Moira was still standing there, the note in her hand.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Angela said softly, the pastry box tucked under her arm.

Moira glanced up, eyes full of guarded surprise. “This is… yours?”

Angela nodded, stepping closer. “Yes. I hope you don’t mind the decorations. I know you prefer a neat workspace, but I wanted to do something meaningful for you. Something small, to show you that you’re important.”

Moira gingerly set the note down, her expression poised between uncertainty and curiosity. “I’m not accustomed to… gestures like this.”

“That’s why I wanted to,” Angela replied, offering a gentle smile. “You deserve it. You deserve more than you think you do.”

Moira’s cheeks tinted with the faintest trace of pink. She cleared her throat, glancing at the rose. “It’s lovely. But you really didn’t have to go through so much trouble on my account.”

Angela shook her head. “To me, it’s not trouble at all. I know how dedicated you are—how you’re always pushing yourself. Sometimes, you forget to let yourself be cared for in return.”

She held out the pastry box. “I made these for you. Spitzbuben Biscuits, your favorite kind. Or so you mentioned, after a meeting with the board.”

Moira blinked, clearly startled by Angela’s memory. “I… yes, I recall that conversation.” She gingerly opened the box, peering down at the neatly frosted pastries. “They’re heart-shaped.”

Angela chuckled. “I know it might be on the nose for Valentine’s, but I couldn’t resist.”

For a moment, Moira simply stared at the offering. Then, after a steadying breath, she picked up one pastry, took a bite, and let out a quiet hum of satisfaction. The tension in her posture eased, even if just slightly.

Angela took the opportunity to slip one hand into Moira’s free one. “You give so much of yourself to science, to progress. But you’re allowed to enjoy the little things, too.”

Moira’s gaze flickered down to their intertwined fingers. She swallowed, the vulnerability in her eyes striking in its rarity. “I’ve never been comfortable with… open displays of affection,” she admitted. “I’ve tried to tell myself I don’t need them.”

“But you do,” Angela said softly, voice laced with gentle conviction. “Everyone does.” She gestured around the lab—at the rose, the chocolates, the pastry box. “I don’t want to embarrass you or force you into something uncomfortable. I just wanted you to know how deeply you’re valued. Not as a colleague, but as the person you are. As my person.”

Moira’s fingers tightened around Angela’s. A ghost of a smile played at her lips. “I don’t exactly have practice showing gratitude in… conventional ways.”

Angela laughed quietly, her cheeks warming. “I’m not expecting a serenade. I only want you to let yourself feel cherished. Even if it’s just for a moment, today.”

Moira’s glance flicked toward the note once more. She stepped back to the lab bench, set the pastry down, and picked up the small slip of paper, re-reading it. 

Angela deserves every ounce of love she can offer—I deserve it, too, Moira thought, the message slowly sinking in.

When she turned around, Angela could see a softness in Moira’s eyes, a kind of acceptance that wasn’t there before. “Thank you,” Moira said, her voice quiet but resolute. “For all of this. And… for caring enough to remind me of my own worth.”

Angela’s heart soared at those words. She gently pulled Moira into a tender embrace, careful not to overwhelm her. Moira tensed momentarily, then allowed her arms to slide around Angela’s waist, leaning into the warmth of the moment.

They stood that way for a while, the hum of the lab’s machinery the only sound in the background. When they finally pulled apart, Moira picked up another pastry, breaking off a piece to share with Angela.

“It’s sweet,” Moira remarked, taking a thoughtful bite.

Angela grinned, chewing happily. “Sugar can be good for the soul sometimes,” she teased. “Besides, I’ve got a hunch you’ll burn off any extra calories in the lab tonight.”

Moira rolled her eyes, but the faint blush remained on her cheeks. “Well, I certainly won’t feel guilty if I do.”

Angela chuckled. “That’s the spirit. Now, about the rest of Valentine’s Day—would you want to join me for dinner tonight? Nothing too fancy, unless you want it to be. Just… us?”

A glimmer of hesitation danced across Moira’s expression, but she found herself nodding. “That… would be nice,” she finally admitted, her tone far softer than her usual crisp professionalism.

Angela’s smile brightened. “Great. We’ll keep it simple and quiet, just how we like it.”

Moira lifted the rose from the vase, brushing its petals with a delicate touch. “Simple, yes. But no less meaningful.”

And in that unspoken agreement—where Moira let Angela’s care sink in, and Angela vowed to show Moira her worth, day by day—they found something profound beneath the surface. A Valentine’s Day that wasn’t about showiness, but about genuine devotion.

Later, they walked out of the lab together, hand in hand, leaving behind the sweet traces of pastries, roses, and whispered words that said everything: Moira deserved this love, and Angela was determined to show her just how boundless it could be.

[iobartach]

@alchemicalbalance asked; The Alchemist was stunned as he was trying to figure out where he was as this looked like some sort of lab?

He couldn't pinpoint it as his eyes scan the area to take in all that was here, he has to remain cautious just in case something or someone approaches.

As he was exploring and looking at the various things, he could hear the sounds of someone walking as he goes to hide, he finds a crevice to hide in as he slows both his breathing and heartbeat as he hopes that he wasn't found.

If ever there was a place to retreat to (and hide with), then his laboratory at the Society more than sufficed. A large, dimly lit, cavernous space, filled with half-completed projects and keepsakes from a former life. On one side, it wasn't unusual to see a goblin glider alongside a pair of metal wings, whilst in another part, through a set of doors that led to a room much larger than the one before it, resided evidence of glassware, lab instruments and notepads.

In all, the place gave an impression of being lived in, rather than visited as needed, and with a plethora of workstations and other, large sized furnishings present, it offered no shortage of alcoves and shadows to disappear into. Which, for undetected guests, provided a rare opportunity as, emerging from a shadowed corner, directly into the hidden intruder's line of sight, strode the Society's leader himself, all corded muscle beneath a maskless, digital neon garb, wearing an expression upon his face that was schooled into indifference.

Favouring a particular workstation, cluttered with the kind of strata that befitted a scientific mind, rather than a superhero, he stood with his shoulders slightly hunched, hands spread out along the length of the table at either side as he focused on something lying in its centre. Upon closer inspection, he appeared to be studying a series of notes, whilst a cloudy liquid sat in a test tube rack nearby.

Never one to part himself from his main commitments, however, lying next to his notes sat a datapad, with various different feeds open upon it, showing different areas of the building. At any point, per his own whims, he could pinch his fingers on a screen and turn it into hard light projection, for closer study. Seeing no need for that, however, he instead toiled away as usual, unsuspecting of unannounced company when a creak, that didn't quite sound like cooling vents contracting rang out.

As well as what could be best described as a startled gasp, emanating from a spot, just of to his left. And loudly enough that it caused Miguel to whirl on the spot, startled, but recovering quickly, fast enough to ask.

"Who's there?"

[blur-from-the-north]

September 2001. Oulu, Finland. Olympus Trip Junior, Fuji Superia 100 (?) film.

This is tolsun, a Sun-3 server that was in use at Department of Information Processing Science at University of Oulu. (TOL, or "Tietojenkäsittelyopin laitos", later "Tietojenkäsittelytieteen laitos", part of Faculty of Sciences). This server was the first ever Internet Relay Chat (IRC) server; the lead developer Jarkko Oikarinen worked there.

This was an exhibit of historic computer gear that was located at one of the corridors of University of Oulu campus, right next to the computer centre helpdesk and Unix laboratories (with Linux and SGI IRIX workstations). The display was removed when the computer centre moved (and much later the whole department moved to a new building). I regrettably don't know where these items are on display nowadays. Edit: Apparently on display in Vapriikki museum in Tampere.

(I originally posted a scan from positive to Wikimedia Commons under CC Attribution 2.5. This is a new scan from the negative.)