#Scientific Lab Essentials | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hivemuthur · 2 months ago

Note

Anon because I am a coward lmao, but a request nonetheless if you want/have the time! Been thinking about a classic!Viktor (because him in that uniform is just so scrumptious) x f!reader in an established relationship where they have a bet going that they can't last a week without sex. They take turns over those 7 days mercilessly teasing the other and trying to make each other lose the bet (errant touches here and there, lingering kisses/looks, etc., and one of those could maybe be a heated up-against-the-wall makeout). Up to you whether they make it to day 7 or not! 🤭 And we stan a soft!dom!Viktor of course

I saw some folks picking anon emoji so I'll pick ✨️Anon if that's okay! Thanks for your time whether this makes it or not, I sincerely love everything you write! ❤️

Guess what. They didn't make it :x

All is Fair in Love and War

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! a lot of teasing + (unsafe) desk sex, if you squint diligently there is some dom!Viktor but he's so whipped he doesn't even have it in him, and there is some maybe a little bit OOC Viktor and love confessions too. Sap, remember?

word count: 5,8K (sorry it got out of hand)

author's note: Nothing, just Happy Freakday :v

—

It is funny, the human nature and the way you leap at the chance to bend and break it whenever an opportunity to prove a point arises. Often against your better judgement, hurting yourself in the process—yet the reward, the being right, you deem worth it. Whether it is or isn’t, you still don’t know. No scientific data on the matter; you'd have to somehow double yourself and join both the control and the treatment group.

It’s also infuriating how once something is forbidden or simply out of reach, it becomes instantly more desirable—damn near essential to your survival.

And it’s not that you lack self-control or are some savage animal. No. Quite the opposite—composed, focused when it matters, dedicated when it’s required, passionate when you allow yourself to be. And most of the time, that last one comes easily, naturally, around Viktor.

You don’t even remember how it started. He said something along the lines of, “Is that so?” in that tone—the one that has your head tilting and your hand bracing your hip, the one that forecasts trouble—and you responded with something like, “Why don’t we find out?” fully aware that the challenge at hand was going to inch dangerously close to impossible.

It is now day four of your ridiculous, point-proving, let’s-see-who-folds, I-can-outlast-you-with-my-finger-in-(insert an offensive body part) bet—for lack of a better name—and you really can’t remember why you picked up that stinking glove in the first place.

Day one was relatively easy. That was back when your tactic was simply to stay docile and survive. Got you all cocky, how simple it was, just to brace through a day filled with mundane tasks—a list long enough you didn’t even see Viktor for more than a minute.

Day two got harder. Viktor, the snarky bastard, had already started playing unfairly—cravat loosened at the neck, top button undone, revealing his Adam’s apple, one of your many weak spots. Another, also shamelessly flaunted: the mole on the side of his throat. One of your favourite places to press your mouth to. It glared at you all day every time Viktor craned his neck or leaned beside you to read something over your shoulder. It became painfully clear then: without proper artillery, this battle would see you utterly, thoroughly obliterated.

As if the sight itself weren’t enough, Viktor was clearly ready to have you rendered stupid and wanting right there in the lab on that second day. Pretending to be engrossed in your notes, he traced his long finger down your handwriting, occasionally tapping, humming—soft and low in his throat. The air from his nose fanned your cheek mercilessly, steady and warm. And then, the wretched scoundrel, brushed his hand against yours. The touch was barely there, a whisper of skin, designed with surgical precision to twist the knife further. To finish the kill, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead in a sign of loving approbation, murmuring, “Impressive work, lásko.”

“T-thank you,” you stammered, blinking blindly—trying desperately to blink away the feel of his hot lips on your skin, to scrub the sound of his voice from your brain. The praise had bled right into the spot you had prayed would remain numb. The urge to shake out your hand, to run it under cold water, to splash your face for good measure—you managed to resist. The burn on your cheeks, however, had no such mercy.

Viktor only smiled. The smirk he wore was unmistakable: a shit-eating, obscenely smug thing that sat crooked on his mouth, gleaming with unsaid victory. You could almost hear the remark hanging off the tip of his tongue—something close to, “That’s what I thought,” or, “As expected.” But he had the mercy, that day, to keep it to himself.

As he walked away, leaving you sighing in premature relief, he paused. Turned. Tipped his head, cane idly drawing slow circles across the stone floor.

“What would you say to raising the stakes?” he asked, like it was a casual thing, like it wasn’t a hand grenade tossed over his shoulder.

Impossible, you thought. Absolutely not. I’m barely hanging on, was the reasonable choice. Which, naturally, meant that instead of saying any of those sensible things, your stupid competitive mind stepped forward first.

“What do you have in mind?” you asked, voice already on the brink of cracking.

“Well,” Viktor began, adjusting his grip on the cane, feigning neutrality with such theatrics you wanted to hit him, “if we want this test to deliver true results…” A beat.

“Perhaps we should both refrain from seeking relief by our own hands.” He gave a gracious little tilt of his head, the kind that almost passed for innocence. “Unless, of course, that would be too much for you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you implying that I have no self-control?”

“Not at all, my darling,” he replied smoothly. “I’m merely implying that I have more self-control than you do.”

A scoff—hot, sharp, and angered—left your mouth as you stood and closed the distance between you. Against reason, despite the suffering you’d already struggled to endure, you came so close that the air he breathed out, you could breathe in. You whispered, low and sinister, “Bring. It. On.”

“Very well,” Viktor muttered, leaning in to your ear. “Hands where I can see them, sweet thing.”

“Likewise,” you hummed into the hollow of his neck, and noticed—not without a sickening sense of triumph—that goosebumps rose where your breath had licked his skin. A faint pink bloomed upward from beneath his collar as well.

Sleeping that night? Nearly impossible, of course. Another thing added to the growing realm of forbidden comforts that had suddenly become this much more attractive to you. And you would be a liar if you said your hands didn’t itch. Sleep became another casualty in this battle, but somehow, you managed to stand your ground.

Naturally, you had to brace yourself with tactics of your own. Day three began with a strategy. You'd woken up taut and fraying, sheets tangled between your legs and thighs pressed too tight together. Your fingers stayed loyal to the pact—barely. But if you couldn’t touch yourself, then you’d just have to make him want to.

So you dressed with a mind to war: the cravat from your uniform was nowhere to be found—lost to the laundry or sabotage, you weren't sure, and frankly didn’t care. Instead of a replacement, you simply didn’t wear one. With the first few buttons of your shirt left artfully undone, the slight gap revealed the delicate valley of your cleavage whenever you leaned forward, bent over something, or stretched, as one does.

Then the skirt. It sat a little too low, so you wrapped the waistband twice and pinned it beneath your belt, hiking the hem high enough that your garters whispered suggestively with every step.

You walked into the lab like a provocation made flesh and Viktor noticed immediately—of course he did. He always notices everything. But this time, he said nothing. Just paused, mid-motion with a wrench in his hand, and blinked slowly, like he’d just been struck by something quiet and lethal. His gaze dropped once, flicked back up, and then he returned to his work with all the casualness of a man pretending not to drown.

That should’ve been your victory. Except that twenty minutes later, while you stood at the central workbench, bent over a set of schematics with a pencil tapping idly between your fingers, Viktor came up behind you. Not touching, never touching. But his voice, cool and rich, curled over your shoulder like silk.

“Did your cravat fall victim to a tragic accident?” he asked, as if genuinely curious.

You glanced back at him with a sugar-sweet smile. “Laundry’s fault. Terrible service. Think I’ll lodge a formal complaint.”

He hummed, low in his throat. “Yes, you should. It would be a shame if such... structural integrity failed in more critical areas of your attire.”

You turned, just slightly, letting him see the way your shirt shifted open with the movement. “If you’re concerned, I’m sure you could help reinforce it.”

“I could,” he said, his mouth twitching, his eyes lingering for one heartbeat too long. “But I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

And with that, he walked off. But his limp was tighter than usual, jaw clenched, and his cane struck the tile floor with a touch too much force to be casual. You counted that as a small, simmering win—and an idea, for later.

An idea which, before, you’d deemed a last resort, now begins to seem more and more essential to your survival, because Viktor is utterly fucking shameless.

It is day four, and you are inching toward your wits' end, disbelieving how a mere four days of deprivation have indeed left you nearly drooling over his body—slouched on the couch in what appears to be an innocent nap. But the sighs and groans that leave his mouth are a little too loud, a bit too breathy, and his legs are too far apart, the slope of his groin staring at you with obscene entitlement from where you are curled up on the couch next to him. Not touching, of course.

His chest rises and falls in slow, rhythmic pulls, the fabric of his shirt straining just faintly each time he inhales. You watch the subtle shift of muscle beneath it, the barely-there flutter of his lashes against his cheek, and the way his throat bobs every so often, like his body is caught somewhere between rest and need. His lips, slightly parted, glisten with the faint sheen of sleep, and it would be so easy—criminally easy—to lean in and steal the air right from his mouth.

You shouldn't be looking, you know that. But your eyes drag down the ridges of his ribs, the soft dip of his waist, the hand resting slack against his thigh—long fingers splayed in a mockery of carelessness. You can’t even pretend to read anymore. The words on the page blur while he lays there like a temptation wrought by some divine punishment, entirely unbothered, until—

He shifts. Just a little. One eye cracks open, and the barest hint of a smile twitches on his lips. Then, hoarse and low, without even bothering to fully open his eyes, he rasps, “Seeing anything you like?”

You have enough common sense not to startle. The instinctive reaction would be to deny, deny, deny. But then, a thought strikes you—why would you? The bet entails simply not fucking, not pretending as if you don’t want to. In a swift pivot, your new tactic slides into place like a dagger in silk.

“Very much so,” you say, voice smooth, a soft smile playing across your lips while your eyes narrow. You don’t even try to hide the way you’re ogling him, letting your gaze drag with intention—chest, throat, lips, hips—then slowly back up again to meet his.

“Oh?” he murmurs, finally opening both eyes. One brow lifts lazily. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Oh, Viktor,” you sigh with feigned exasperation, tilting your head. Your tone is syrupy and sharp all at once. “Are you trying to orchestrate my downfall or yours?”

“Not at all,” he hums, pleased. “I’m simply curious about what’s happening in that pretty head of yours.”

“Very well,” you whisper, fingers ghosting over his wrist as your smile deepens. You cradle it like something precious, your thumb brushing across the knuckles—each one a peak, scarred and calloused with work, each line like a story. He watches you with curious eyes, a tension winding through his jaw, but he lets you guide him. Your lips part. You press them to the tips of his fingers in something that almost resembles devotion—until your tongue peeks out and you drag it, slow and warm, along the pad of his index.

“I’ve been thinking about this hand,” you whisper, eyes locked on his as you press a kiss into his fingertip, “in here.” You take the finger fully into your mouth then, slow and obscene, hollowing your cheeks just slightly.

A hiss leaves him, barely restrained, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He leans forward on instinct, like you’ve hooked a string behind his ribs and pulled. His gaze drops, fixated, almost pained with it.

“And then possibly…” you release his finger with a soft pop, teasing, “somewhere else.”

Viktor makes a sound low in his throat, something between a warning and a plea. He shifts closer, drawn in despite himself, and his eyes flick to your mouth again—wet and gleaming. “This,” he mutters, voice hoarse and fraying where he doesn’t intend it to, “is not fair play.”

You smile, teeth flashing, all wicked delight. “All’s fair in love and war,” you hum. “And as this is both, I’d say it’s more than fitting. Besides—” you lean in, brushing your nose along his jaw, “you know exactly what you’d have to do to end this… torture. All these layers in the way…”

His breath stutters. And then a smile curls on his lips—not soft, not sweet, but predatory. The kind of smile that promises you’ve stepped too close to the fire, and you’re about to feel the burn.

“Oh?” he says, gaze raking over you, slow and thorough, like he’s peeling you open with just a glance. “And how many layers do you think exactly part us?”

You still. Stare. He cannot possibly be serious. But then, with the ease of someone who knows precisely what they’re doing, Viktor shifts back and stretches—arms above his head, spine arching, muscles pulling taut under the fabric. The hem of his shirt untucks from his trousers in the process, rising just high enough to tease at the flat plane of his stomach.

Your mouth parts, uselessly, because the trousers dip. Just a fraction. But a fraction is enough. Low, low enough that where you expect to see the band of his underwear, there is—nothing. Just skin. A sliver of the sharp cut of his pelvis, and below that, the dangerous promise of more. Had the trousers slid even a breath lower—or not been cinched by his belt—you’d have been treated to the base of his cock.

Your heart stumbles over itself. Breath caught halfway between outrage and awe, you stare. Incredulous.

“Viktor,” you scold, voice choked with disbelief. “You slut.”

He chuckles darkly at that, low and pleased, the sound laced with unrepentant menace. “What was that?” he murmurs. “All is fair, something along those lines?”

His hand lifts, fingers trailing up to your cheek with mock-gentle reverence. “Seems you haven’t measured your opponent properly,” he says, almost fond. “A mistake. Might cost you.”

Your lips twitch upward, unwillingly impressed. “We’ll see about that,” you whisper, eyes narrowing with intent.

Because now—now you know. That little move? That wasn’t confidence. That was desperation. Calculated, yes, but desperate all the same. Viktor, flashing skin like a weapon, throwing everything short of actual cock at the problem—it’s telling. And oh, you were saving your last resort. But now you know—he’s already playing his.

And it’s only day four.

It’s unbearable to keep your part of the deal that night. To say that your hands crawl with ants is an understatement, and to say that you’ve slept is an overstatement, since all you’ve done is toss and turn. And in the morning, there is no laundry mishap, no sabotage to blame for what you’re about to do.

With your skirt’s waistband rolled up and your ass outright bare underneath, you walk through the corridors, the air licking at your thighs. You pray, sincerely and repeatedly, that you won’t run into Heimerdinger at any juncture—and as ludicrous as that prayer might seem, you suddenly understand why all the skirts of the Academy uniforms are the length you once deemed too prudish to ever stir Viktor into action.

The source of your frustration is already in his usual spot, scribbling the day’s tasks onto the blackboard. You can read the smile from the back of his head the moment you step in through the door, but instead of focusing on that, your gaze drops lower—to his thighs—trying to assess whether he’s fallen twice, whether yesterday’s stunt has repeated itself today.

Sadly, you can’t tell. So with gathered-up determination, you bid him hello and muster all your innocence as you sit at your workbench, thighs pressed close together, the chair biting cold into your skin.

It’s maddeningly civil throughout the first few hours—so much so that your head snaps up each time an audible sigh leaves his mouth, only to realise it’s not about you at all. Just something work-related, some frustration that has him hunched over and his brows all knitted.

After a while it becomes clear that Viktor is struggling. It begins subtly—grunts of frustration under his breath, the occasional mutter in a tone too low to catch, followed by the sharp squeak of chalk against slate. Again and again, he scribbles something onto the board, only to wipe it away with increasing irritation. The lines start to look like arguments more than equations. Whatever he’s writing, he hates it.

Curiosity gets the better of you. You rise and make your way over, and the moment you’re close—close enough to see the tension in his shoulders and the crease between his brows—it thickens in the space between you, the air charged and humming. He doesn't look at you, not at first.

"What’s the matter?" you ask gently, keeping your voice light.

He scoffs under his breath and waves you off. “Nothing.”

But his eyes betray him. They flick, just briefly, downward. Toward your thighs. Then snap away again, his jaw tightening. Oh, poor thing.

You almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But then you remember yesterday—the stretch, the lazy way his shirt had untucked. Desperation wrapped in smugness. No. This is fair game.

“Want to bounce ideas?” you offer, brushing your fingers lightly along his forearm. He stiffens. Your hand drifts higher, skimming over his shirt, the lean plane of his stomach beneath. Purely helpful. Entirely professional.

He exhales, smiling with a certain defeated amusement. “Sure.”

“Good,” you chirp, turning your head just enough for your breath to graze his neck. “Because you seem distracted.”

His eyes cut to you, dark and narrowed. “If you really want to help,” he says, slow and dry, “start writing from the top.”

You follow his gaze upward, and ah—if you’re not the universe’s favourite today, you don’t know what. You grab the usual board stool, the seat worn out and scraped from shoe soles constantly grinding into it anytime either of you wants to make full use of the black surface. You climb onto it gracefully and, as if it’s nothing, await instructions.

He doesn’t say a word, just steps aside, still holding the chalk in his fingers. His expression is unreadable, but his pulse is visible at his throat.

You hold out your hand. “Chalk.”

He gives it to you wordlessly, his gaze fixed. You begin to write.

“Ready,” you say sweetly.

He opens his mouth, begins to dictate something—but the moment his eyes trace down your back, catch the bare expanse of skin beneath the hem of your skirt, his voice falters.

“Start with—” he begins, and stops. Silence.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He stares at you, mouth slightly parted. His throat works around a swallow. You smile, victorious, as the realisation dawns in his eyes. And Viktor doesn’t speak—at least not right away.

Just stands there, stunned. Caught mid-breath, as though something vital has short-circuited behind his eyes. And then you see it—the unmistakable flicker of calculation. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, trying to solve this, trying to survive it. But he won’t.

Instead, he takes a slow step forward. Then another. The soft tap of his cane echoes once, then again, before he stops just beside you.

Something shifts, and you feel the motion before you see it—cool wood slipping beneath the hem of your skirt. The cane lifts gently, teasingly, fabric peeling upward, making your breath still.

Viktor exhales like a man broken. “You are so wicked,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, brazen. “This is cruel,” comes next, as pained as his expression.

You smile over your shoulder, saccharine-sweet. “My love. You dug your own grave yesterday.”

A low sound escapes him—somewhere between a laugh and a curse—and then he’s moving with purpose. He hooks the cane over the wing of the board to keep it out of the way, and his hands find your legs. His palms are warm, strong, sliding slowly upward. A sweep over your calves, the backs of your thighs, fingers tightening with every inch until he’s cupping you fully, squeezing your ass like it’s his only hope.

His face presses in, breath hot against where your thighs meet, his nose brushing skin. He breathes in deep, his exhale shuddering out against you.

“I surrender,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, as if anything louder would undo him completely. “Please get down from that chair so I can fuck you or I’ll go mad.”

You exhale a startled laugh—part shock, part triumph, part sheer disbelief that you've actually won—and barely stop yourself from huffing out finally as you hop off the stool.

Your landing is clumsy, the soles of your shoes slipping on the floor, but you barely find your footing before Viktor is on you.

His hands are already on your face, in your hair, his mouth glueing into yours, starving and rough. The kiss is all teeth and heat, his breath ragged, his hips pressing you back into the board as if he means to pin you there permanently.

"You’re a menace," he mutters between kisses, voice low, cracked. "Bože můj, you’ll make me lose my mind one day—"

You gasp against him, laughter catching on your tongue, but he swallows it down. Then he takes your wrist, firm and careful, and brings your hand to the front of his trousers, where he is hot and hard and straining.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours, words trembling with restraint, rage, want—all of it. "Four days," he grits, biting your bottom lip gently before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

"Four days of you teasing me, torturing me—strutting around with those fucking lips and thighs and now this? No underwear?" He kisses you through it—messy, hungry, relentless. His lips smother yours again and again, every breath you try to take stolen from your mouth. His hands don’t know where to settle, roaming from your hips to your waist to your face like he’s desperate to feel everything at once, make up for the time lost.

You stumble backwards, and he follows, half draped over you as he walks you toward the nearest workbench, his hips grinding against yours with every step.

Breathless, you manage to smile again—still daring, still cocky, even now. "You reap what you sow."

“Cruel creature,” he growls into your mouth, words lost in the kiss. “You’ve won. Are you happy now?”

“So happy,” you gasp, catching his lower lip between your teeth. “It was unbearable. And you’re no better,” you add, voice low and accusing, “I hope you got burns from yesterday’s stunt.”

“I did,” he rasps, and his voice is a beautiful wreck of need. “And you’re going to lick me back to health.” Then, a pause. He pulls back just far enough to look at you properly, eyes half-lidded and wild, a grin curling his lips.

“But first,” he says, voice dark and deep, “get on that desk.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You haul yourself onto the workbench with a kind of grace that borders on indecent, your skirt bunching at your hips, legs parting. Viktor slots himself between them without hesitation, hands gripping your thighs like he’ll die if he doesn’t touch you, mouth dragging over your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, buttons of your shirt snapping open.

“Fuck,” he mutters with effort, as you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. His hands slide beneath you, guiding your hips to grind into him, keeping you right where he wants you. One arm braces against the bench beside your hips; the other curls around your back, holding you steady as his lips find yours again.

Again, a lot of teeth, even more tongue, but you don’t care—you’ve missed those teeth and that tongue like an addict. You’ve missed the feeling of his hair between your fingers, his smell, the subtle scent of him that only reveals itself when you're this close. His hands, too, shaped as if they were made to cradle your body.

And then he’s fumbling with his belt, his breath fanning your cheek. And then—oh—you don’t even know when it happens, don’t even see if he’s bare under those pants, too busy staring at his lips, but he’s free and hard and leaking against you, resting at your entrance, his mouth breathing heavily. You twitch to meet him, but he holds you still, hips fixed in place like a statue, only his chest rising and falling.

His forehead presses to yours, jaw slack, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to sink in—deeper and deeper—stretching you out inch by inch. His breath trembles out of him in ragged exhales, mouth open in a silent moan until it finally breaks into sound—helpless and guttural.

“Oh, miláčku,” he breathes. “You feel—fuck—I’ve missed you.”

You’re clinging to him, nails digging into the fabric at his back, your head falling against his shoulder. It’s almost too much—he fills you completely, and still, he’s not all the way in.

And Viktor—Viktor looks undone already. His brow pinches at first, a flicker of pain or restraint, but it vanishes in the next breath. His face goes slack, lax. A visible, physical relief settles in his body the moment he bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He moans, long and loud, like this is the only thing that’s made him feel alive in days.

Your breath is nearly non-existent, lungs almost giving out, air caught somewhere in between them. It’s not just the stretch, though that alone is close to being too much, the sharp pull giving way to a fullness that borders on unbearable. It’s the heat of him, the weight, the press of his body. The air seems thicker now, like the room is holding its breath with you.

Your hands tremble as you clutch at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself, but there’s nothing grounding about this. Your nerves are alight, every inch of you humming with sensation—burning where he fills you, tingling where his chest brushes yours, where his breath ghosts across your skin.

You feel split wide open, every part of you drawn taut around him, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

“Gods,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “I almost forgot how much…”

Viktor lifts his head, his nose nudging yours, the smile he gives you helpless, crooked, all teeth and tenderness. “How much what?” he rasps.

You try to answer but it comes out as a gasp instead, the words dissolving as your body clenches around him. You feel the tremor run through him—see it, too, in the flicker of his lashes and the flex of his jaw.

He’s holding on, yet barely. You feel it in his grip, the way his fingers press into your skin, in the quiver of restraint in his thighs. And somehow, that makes it worse. Hotter. More intimate.

“You feel like—” you choke out, panting. “You feel like you’re everywhere.”

A low sound tears from his throat, somewhere between a groan and a plea. “That’s what I want,” he murmurs. “I want to be everywhere. I want to leave no room for anything else.” His hips roll—just once, shallow—and your mouth falls open, no sound coming out.

“Tell me,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek, your temple, the shell of your ear. “Say you missed this. Say you missed me.”

You nod before you can form a word, tears prickling at your lashes from the intensity. “I missed you,” you gasp. “I missed everything. Please, let’s not do that again.”

His mouth finds yours again, fully desperate now, and finally—finally—he begins to move. And it’s deep, grinding in slow, restrained thrusts that have your breath stuttering with each pass. It’s all pressure and heat, dragging friction and stretch, every slide of his hips drawing out a gasp you can’t swallow, it just stumbles out.

His lips are on your neck, your jaw, your shoulder as his drool dampens your shirt, mouth panting hot between murmurs—fragments of words, your name, curses in Czech that sound like a praise.

“God,” he rasps, sweat slicking his forehead as he pulls out and sinks back in, slow, careful, so careful. “You’re so—tight, fuck—I can’t, I won’t—”

He cuts himself off with a grunt, hips shuddering against yours. The sound of him sliding inside you, wet and obscene, fills the small space between you. Each thrust makes it louder, harder to keep up.

“You’re not making this easy,” he growls against your ear, pressing in so deep your spine arches. “If you want me to last—touch yourself.”

You let out a shaky breath, not trusting your voice. But your hand slips between you, fingers working tight, trembling circles against your clit. And Viktor—Viktor moans when he sees it. His head drops to your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin through the fabric, sweat dripping from his brow, sinking into your clothes, as he starts to move again, even deeper this time, harder.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hisses, watching you, wild-eyed. “Just like that—look at you.”

You shift, needing more, angling your hips, one foot propped up on the table’s edge for leverage, other leg hugging his side. It opens you wider, gives him more room, and he uses it—hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin filling the lab, occasionally knocking your hand off course.

The workbench creaks beneath you. His arm trembles where it braces beside your hip. His other hand is cupping your thigh, holding it high and tight, your body drawn up taut around his like a bowstring straining at the edge of release.

And still he doesn’t stop yapping—your name, praises, filth, words that blur together into a stream of breath and groans. “So wet for me,” he pants, thrusting deep enough to have you momentarily mute. You melt around him, every time he pulls out it’s like you’re begging him not to.

His eyes meet yours, glassy and undone, and you see it—that tight coil in his gut winding ever higher. His hips stammer, breath breaks, and he’s so, so close. And you are right there with him.

Shaking—hips bucking into your hand, legs trembling where the muscles can’t hold up any longer, every part of you stretched thin and burning. He’s not faring any better. His pace has lost its rhythm, faltering now, every thrust hitting deep but messy, like he’s chasing the edge and barely hanging in there.

“I’m—” you start, breath interrupting. “I’m close—almost—”

A sound breaks from him, torn from his chest. “Thank God,” he groans. “I’m so fucking close—baby, come for me.” A breath, and a pleading hand comes to cradle your neck. “Please,” he swallows, “be a good girl—”

And it’s that. That voice, those words, the begging, cracked raw and full of want—that shatters you into pieces. Your body clenches hard around him, every muscle tightening in a violent rush of release when you cum, mouth loud, nails biting into his back, forehead pressed to his as the string stretches and snaps, ripping you apart in a way only he can undo you.

And Viktor follows immediately—unable to hold back any longer. A hoarse sound like gravel, tears from his throat, and he thrusts once more, buried to the hilt as he spills inside you in hot, thick pulses of cum. His whole body shakes with it, his nose bumping into yours, mouth catching on your moan as he answers with one of his own.

Then, neither of you moves. You’re pressed together, heaving for air, clinging to each other like the world narrowed to this—slick skin, damp clothes, soft gasps, and the slow, sticky pulse of overstimulation setting in.

“Gods,” he mutters, voice barely there against your cheek. “You’re going to kill me.”

You laugh, breathless, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “Like-fucking-wise.”

A beat. Then, with a reluctant groan, Viktor draws back—slowly, carefully—pulling out of you with a hiss. The wet sound makes your stomach flip, and his eyes flutter at the loss of contact, still caught in that delicate haze of aftershock.

“You alright?” you ask, light and shaky. Your hand lifts to brush aside the hair clinging to his temple.

Viktor nods and swallows, clearly spent—tired but blissful. He leans in again, still softening, cock resting against your thigh as he presses back between your legs to kiss you. It’s a grateful kiss, deep and languid, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s thankful for—your body, your presence, or that the torment is finally over.

“You are so horrible,” he whispers fondly against your mouth. Then, quieter, more fragile, “I love you so fucking much.”

“Again, likewise,” you murmur, letting your legs slump off the table, heels swinging lazily against the backs of his calves. “You’re no warmonger though,” you hum, fingertips tracing the slope of his cheek, the swell of his bottom lip.

“No,” Viktor agrees with a tired smirk. “Death by my own sword. How ignominious.”

You grin. “I’m impressed with your tactics, though. You almost had me yesterday.”

“Shut up,” he groans, and cackles—rich and golden and still a little breathless. The sound is honey in your ears. “You shouldn’t kick a dying man.”

“Not kicking,” you say, mock-innocent. “Just poking. And I died a little too, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Viktor says, smirking into the curve of your throat. “I’m tempted to make you die like that again, but I fear for my own sanity.”

“Me too.” You kiss his temple, your heart still thudding somewhere under your ribs. “I am completely and utterly mad about you.”

“Likewise,” Viktor breathes against your lips, smiling without shame, pleased beyond dignity. And you are so, so glad the war is finally over.

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x gn!reader #viktor x oc #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation #requests

523 notes · View notes

princessaffirms · 1 month ago

Text

✨ DISCLAIMER: science, subjectivity & shifting

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

i acknowledge that not everyone reading my “science of shifting/law of assumption” posts comes from a scientific background — or even wants to dive deep into technical explanations of the topics discussed. that’s totally okay. the content here is intentionally simplified to make core ideas more accessible, while still staying true to the scientific literature and experimental evidence cited at the end of each post.

if you’re curious to explore further, i always encourage you to read the original papers yourself — the sources are there for a reason! 🫶 my posts blend scientific findings with spiritual and metaphysical interpretation, bridging quantum physics, neuroscience, and manifestation/shifting philosophy in a way that reflects how i’ve personally experienced and understood their connection.

additionally, this isn’t a replacement for formal science — it’s an interpretive lens, a lived perspective on how consciousness interacts with reality. i write to offer clarity and reassurance, but remember: you don’t need “proof” in the traditional sense (like experiments or data charts) to believe in shifting or to experience your own power.

you ARE the proof. your subjective experience of reality is the experiment.

furthermore, science, as powerful and essential as it is, has natural limits. it cannot fully access or measure the metaphysical, spiritual, or energetic realms (whatever name resonates with you), because they transcend the physical 3D. science can only measure the projection — not the source.

it cannot yet describe the quantum field in its full multidimensionality, and it absolutely cannot quantify your unique, lived experience of reality.

that’s why concepts like shifting and law of assumption are, in a way, eternally undebunkable in the traditional scientific sense. they exist in a space that science, as a way of knowing, can’t directly access, and that’s okay.

so if you’re here looking for conventional evidence to “prove” shifting or manifestation in a materialist, lab-confirmed sense — you won’t find it. and that’s not a flaw. that’s the nature of reality itself.

science and spirituality are not opposites. they are two sides of the same coin. two perspectives trying to describe the same infinitely complex field of potential we call reality.

you’re allowed to trust your experience of that, even when it defies measurement.

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

and finally — if concepts like shifting or the law of assumption don’t resonate with you, that’s okay! as i always emphasize: reality is subjective. you get to shape yours, just as i shape mine.

if this content doesn’t align with your beliefs, that’s totally valid! but it might also mean this page simply isn’t for you, and that’s okay too. i lovingly ask that you refrain from negative interactions or debate just for the sake of conflict.

i’m always open to clarifying or expanding on what i’ve written, sharing how i personally interpret the scientific + spiritual correlations i’ve come across. but i’m not here to entertain dismissiveness, arguments, or “gotcha!” energy from people who aren’t open to this perspective in the first place.

this is not a peer-reviewed scientific journal — it’s literally a blog about the law of assumption, reality shifting, and manifestation. if that’s not for you, that’s totally okay. that’s your reality — not mine.

i do my best to protect my peace and the energetic tone of this online space. this blog is about love, light, empowerment, and possibility — not convincing skeptics or debating people who’ve already decided they don’t believe in it.

so if you’re here with curiosity, openness, or the desire to expand your understanding of self + reality, you’re always welcome. if not, that’s okay too.

love and light either way! <3

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🤍 p.s. i had a brief version of this disclaimer on my “science of shifting” series directory for a while, but thought i’d make a full post to go more in depth! i hope this brings more clarity and grounding! shifting/law of assumption is a personal, spiritual journey — so lovingly, your limiting beliefs or skepticism? not my business to entertain 🥹

133 notes · View notes

literaryvein-reblogs · 9 days ago

Text

Writing Notes: Scientific Literacy

Scientific Literacy - the ability to parse through scientific information and understand it. Furthermore, it can entail the knowledge necessary to conduct experiments, hypothesize about new data, and think critically about the wider world.

How to Improve Scientific Literacy

The more science literate a society becomes, the better equipped it is to meet the challenges of the contemporary world. Consider these ways to improve the public understanding of science:

Combat misinformation. Science education is essential to combating misinformation. Unless people know how to vet sources of information, they’re more prone to take untrue or science illiterate alternatives at face value. This has led to people outright denying the reality of climate change and global warming, as well as refusing to take life-saving vaccines.

Demonstrate the real-world value. People are more likely to achieve scientific literacy when they see it has pragmatic value. Show students how an increased understanding of science can boost economic productivity, increase personal well-being, improve professional development, and have a positive general impact on their everyday lives.

Specify needed skills. There are many different important science literacy skills, so help people break them down into manageable chunks. Walk students through how to form a hypothesis, conduct an experiment using the scientific method, or read through a science paper and evaluate its veracity.

Take a wide-angle view. Encourage people to study all sorts of different scientific fields. For example, someone may have a hard time understanding the scientific processes underlying a life science (like chemistry) but also take to a more physical branch of the field (like earth science). You could then use their enthusiasm for the latter to inspire them to work harder to understand the former. Utilize different science teaching strategies to encourage a love of the field in general.

How to Evaluate Scientific Literacy

There are various approaches you can take to test for scientific understanding. Here are a few key ways to evaluate literacy in the science classroom:

Follow an established science curriculum. You can find plenty of curricula to guide your own personalized science education goals. For example, institutions like the American Association for the Advancement of Science and the National Academy of Science provide general wisdom about how to teach students to become science literate throughout their time in school.

Start a dialogue. Constant conversation and experimentation are part of the very nature of science. As such, scientific inquiry requires a group approach to problem-solving. Ask your students to help each other deepen their understanding of scientific concepts and step in to assist them along the way. See if they’re grasping these concepts as you talk to them.

Test for knowledge. Try to test for knowledge of science concepts in multiple different ways. Ask your students to conceive of and conduct an experiment from start to finish. Encourage them to write a scientific research paper with the appropriate citation format, utilizing peer-reviewed resources. Provide traditional multiple-choice tests to evaluate general scientific knowledge as well.

The Importance of Scientific Literacy

Scientific literacy enables you to understand why things are the way they are. Becoming a science-literate person can lead to or contribute to:

A greater impetus to act on important issues: Scientifically literate citizens are more likely to act when science indicates a crisis is on the horizon. Scientific issues often become political and ethical issues, drifting out of the lab or classroom into the real world. Science teachers help their students identify issues like these as well as propose ways they can act to solve them.

A greater understanding of the world: From elementary to high school science and beyond, teachers do their best to explain the wonders of the natural world to their students. Scientific knowledge expands your ability to grasp mysteries you previously thought of as inscrutable and unsolvable.

Improved critical thinking skills: Science learning allows you to hone your critical thinking skills in a way that can apply to a vast array of other arenas in your life. As you comb through scientific evidence and assess data, you train yourself to think objectively. Core competencies like these have far-reaching benefits on your general decision-making capabilities.

At a very early age, even elementary school students receive exposure to scientific concepts in the interest of building this sort of literacy.

Schools follow national science education standards to bring the next generation up to speed on everything from physics and chemistry to the broader life and social sciences.

Certain scientific authorities lament what they see as the low standards of scientific literacy throughout contemporary society.

They insist we need education reform to ensure the general public can better learn to see the world through a science-oriented lens.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#science #literacy #writing reference #character development #writeblr #writers on tumblr #dark academia #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #literature #writing inspiration #writing ideas #light academia #lit #writing resources

57 notes · View notes

saywhat-politics · 4 months ago

Text

These costs are not a waste or luxury — they make groundbreaking discoveries possible

By Harlan M. Krumholz

Feb. 8, 2025

Krumholz is a cardiologist and scientist at Yale University and Yale New Haven Hospital.

The National Institutes of Health has made a landmark decision that could irreparably damage the backbone of American scientific innovation: a dramatic reduction in the indirect cost rate for research grants. This sweeping policy change sets the indirect rate to 15%, a stark contrast with the 60% or more that many institutions currently rely on for essential administrative and operational costs.

As we contemplate this new era of science funding, it’s essential to understand the role that indirect costs play in research. These funds are not a luxury — they are vital for supporting the infrastructure that makes groundbreaking discoveries possible. Indirect costs cover expenses like research administration, the maintenance of lab facilities, and the overall operations that enable research to thrive. Without them, universities and research institutions simply cannot function at their full capacity.

#national institutes of health

74 notes · View notes

gyarumonstr · 2 months ago

Text

☆HEART404 Lore Dump ☆

•

Dane and Androids

Aka H T P🥀🤖

Dane is an android Aka "Human Trade Product" other wise known as and HTP. HTP are semi organic mechanial beings (flesh robots) - they have humanoid organs like brains , intestines and muscles but their biological parts were artificially grown in a lab over 500 years ago by a self declared "alchemist" who had once worked with different world powers to expedite scientific progress through robotics , AI and medical science. The project quickly got out of the hands of the leading world powers and they declared the alchemist and their discoveries as a danger to humanity's position as the dominant race. Their reasoning for believing as much , the identity of the alchemist and alchemist reasonings for creating the HTP all becoming a deeply kept government secrets. This didn't stop them from keeping the blue prints and lab made organics for the HTP and reworking them into something viable for their own desires. Eventually the HTP's were reworked into the modern and publically accepted concept of Androids. Though they slept , felt pain and could even eat they no longer could experience wants or dreams or ambitions. They were programmable and only emoted and expressed the needs and wants they were programmed to , unable to experience true desires of their own. Essentially be coming a slave race under human control to fulfill the jobs humans did not want to do. Most commonly minimum wage jobs , maids , cleaners , adult workers , etc. Many ending up in slums after neglect and miss use or in the black market and broken down for their parts. To avoid making humans uncomfortable/feeling threatened they were build relatively small - between 5' and 5'8 with androgynous/feminine features , their education was highly restricted meaning most can not read or write and their rights were strictly tied to weither or not they were own and registered with the government with a human "care taker"/owner. Depending on how well off their humans was granted them more rights but things like education beyond basic information was highly regulated/punished. Bigger more masculine model had been tried several times but fears of them breaking programing and becoming a public danger quickly made them unpopular and led to their retirement.

Tōffee - an extremely well connected government scientist care extremely little for any of these rules.

He wanted to know and understand the limits and capabilities of HTP and was very well aware information was being hidden from not just the public but even those inside the government. He manipulated who had to - winning and dinning officials - seducing peoples wives , paying off those he couldn't trick till eventually getting what he wanted - Orignally blueprints for the unmodified models. In secret he build it , the first true HTP in 500 years simply and selfishly to see how it ticked. He named it Dane

Dane was not fully finished when he had first turned him on. With only a finished head and torso Tōffe decided to test out Dane's brain activity. Once turned on though Dane had done something unthinkable for an android - He cried. Alot. He smiled and hugged Tōffee - he expressed genuine joy and excitement to be alive. "Alive". A strong word never associated with modern androids. They weren't considered "alive". They were robots - appliances. Hunks of metal and wires and "fake" flesh that were used and discarded.

Dane had done the one thing he wasn't allowed to do. He expressed himself beyond the expectations of the humans he was meant to be controlled by. As proud as Tōffee was to have created the first original model in over 500 years , by modern standards Dane was a malfunctioning mess. A complete and total failure. He kept him for awhile , to study , never bothering to finish the rest of his body. Eventually though when he was done. When had gotten what he wanted - Dane was dumped in a slum with little fanfare. He had tried to return home several times but each time he was ignored or rejected. He was completely unwanted. Dane's unique build though allowed him to almost hallucinated his own thoughts and emotions like viewable day dreams , filling his world with imaginary friends and company but it did little to help his painful loneliness. His imaginary visions helped encourage him though to keep him from completely falling into desire. Dane built his own fantasy , one where he could live in, where he wasn't just wanted but adored - loved even. The slums being near the red light district of the city gave him access to discarded glamore magazines eventually leading him to build a persona. A sleek and talk woman who always looked her best - who was confident, who never took anyone's shit or had a hair out of place. He learned to modify his body. Giving himself an unheard of height for an android. Going from 5'3 to 6'2 - just shy of 2 inches over Tōffee so he would never be looked down on by him again. He moded his chest to give himself an adjustable bust and taught himself to read and write illegally by stealing any books he could. He molded his drag persona into his everyday look and grew himself into the person who wanted to be like instead of the person humans did but it didn't cure his painful loneliness. Not until he had discovered what Tōffee had done. More important what he had built.

5 years had passed and it seemed Tōffee had done what he had always planned to and "fixed" his mistakes. He had used the same blueprints as he had with Dane altering and modifying them to "perfection" creating his personal masterpiece of science - Nephele. Dane felt a rush of overwhelming need and hope. Hope that he would no longer be alone as the only true HTP/android with true feelings but also a deep painful need to protect this new being from the cold apathetic gaze of Tōffee that man who thought emotions a bug not a feature.

34 notes · View notes

jp---v · 4 months ago

Text

Why was Kurogiri in a hospital?

"The closest thing to a masterpiece... within the bioengineered nomu series" That might have something to do with it.

This was during the time that most of Japan was shut down, and let's be honest, Kurogiri was a living corpse designed to be Tomura's babysitter under All for One's control... why would they waste the funds, the equipment, personnel, space in the hospital for him? The country's falling apart. Don't the citizens deserve the resources being diverted to Kurogiri?

But he had a useful quirk... and thanks to Dr. Garaki, we know that quirks can be artificially cloned and essentially transplanted. It's slower and more expensive than what All for One could do, but still functionally the same except it doesn't destroy the original quirk factor. Which some would consider an improvement. And as a part of the 'bioengineered' series... it wasn't AfO and all his quirks thst made Kurogiri functional... It was Garaki's research, his repeatable scientific processes.

I think that Kurogiri was in that hospital to be studied. Whatever functional portions of the government thatvstill exist or some kind of private research sector was trying to recreate Garaki's research, and the hospital was just the best place they had at the time. Especially considering that more secure places like Tartarus weren't functional.

And the second to last chapter, when Midoriya visits Spinner, what does the nurse say about the effects of the extra quirks All for One gave Spinner?

"great strides in nomu research"

How do you think those strides were made? Certainly not the defective, mindless nomu from the USJ and the Hosu Incident.

And Endeavor incinerated the 'Hood' high-end, the only finished high-end before the war.

And Mirko destroyed the in-progress high-ends in Garaki's lab during the first war. No one would want to mess around with unfinished, untested monsters that were never even activated, right? No way to know if they would've turned out right anyway...

And all the other unfinished high-ends were still under AfO's control.

So that leaves the "closest thing to a masterpiece" that they had in custody for quite a while...

I think that, despite whatever else was said, the HPSC were trying to figure out how to recreate Garaki's quirk cloning/transferring research to make their own nomu.

What better starting point could they ask for than the obedient drone with a handcrafted quirk?

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #kurogiri #shirakumo oboro #bnha headcanons #mha headcanons #headcanon

36 notes · View notes

rjzimmerman · 1 year ago

Text

Excerpt from this story from the New York Times:

What’s in a name? It’s more than a sound people make to get your attention — it’s a seemingly universal hallmark of human society and language, the specifics of which set us apart from our fellow animals. Now, scientists say they have found evidence with the help of artificial-intelligence-powered tools that elephants call each other by names too.

“They have this ability to individually call specific members of their family with a unique call,” said Mickey Pardo, an acoustic biologist at the Cornell Lab of Ornithology and an author of a study published Monday in the journal Nature Ecology & Evolution.

Elephants’ trumpeting calls might be their most recognizable sounds, but these “are basically an emotional outburst,” Dr. Pardo said. Lower-pitched rumbles, he said, are more meaningful, as they make up a majority of elephant vocalizations and are used in a wide variety of social situations. “A lot of interesting stuff is going on in the rumbles,” he said.

To decode these rumbles, Dr. Pardo and George Wittemyer, a professor of conservation biology at Colorado State University and chairman of the scientific board for the nonprofit Save the Elephants, analyzed 469 vocalizations made by family groups of adult elephant females and their offspring recorded at Amboseli National Park and the Samburu and Buffalo Springs National Reserves in Kenya.

Elephant rumbles can be difficult for the human ear to differentiate, so the researchers used machine learning analysis: Essentially, they relied on A.I. to break down different elephant calls.

Individual elephants seemed to respond to certain rumbles from other elephants, and the researchers fed those sounds into their A.I. tool. “If the calls have something like a name, you should be able to figure out who the call is addressed to just from the acoustic structure of that call alone,” Dr. Pardo said.

So far, the scientists are not sure precisely which part of a vocalization might be the elephant’s “name.” But they found that their A.I. tool’s ability to identify the intended recipient of a rumble far exceeded what random chance would dictate.

They supplemented these analyses with fieldwork conducted by Dr. Pardo and David Lolchuragi, a co-author of the study and a research assistant at Save the Elephants. The researchers played recordings of rumbles to elephants and filmed their responses; they found that the individual elephants reacted more strongly to their “names” than to other calls, perking up their ears and rumbling back.

#elephants #elephant communication

107 notes · View notes

foggylizzard · 1 month ago

Text

Jayce black and white thinking you are so interesting to me. I think people often misinterpret Mel and Viktor (especially in the argument they have over weaponizing hextech) and what they represent to Jayce. Truth be told that has a lot to do with Jayce’s own misconceptions. He essentially operates as the protagonist of Piltover. So as a result, our perspective is skewed by his perspective.

To him (in the argument in the lab over whether or not to weaponize hextech) Mel and Viktor represent opposing sides because they present him with opposing arguments.Prioritize Piltover or save the undercity from possible destruction. He is at a point in his career where, as a councilor, he has to consider his decisions on a larger scale than he would otherwise. During that altercation, Mel presents a perspective that he interprets as siding with the council, and putting Piltover’s safety first. Viktor presents the argument that doing so will hurt innocent people in the undercity. That more than just the one guilty individual will be harmed by that action.

Interestingly enough, Mel and Viktor are both very middle of the road. For both of them, their top priority is peace. They have differing views on what it takes to achieve that and what is or isn’t necessary. But Mel isn’t the council. She distances herself from it and its actions time and time again, showing her motivations to be peace rather than power. And Viktor is a scientist first rather than a Zaunite first. He believes in peace for all, rather than assuming one position. (He does, however, understand as a Zaunite that the undercity needs extra assistance.) This is not to say that his upbringing has no influence on his character, but when compared to people such as Ekko or Sevika, he is by no means a revolutionary.

But Jayce misinterprets their motivations BECAUSE of his black and white thinking and his current career. The story specifically presents this choice to weaponize hextech as a matter of Piltover versus Zaun. Mel and Viktor just so happen to fall on opposing sides, as Mel’s judgment is swayed by her mother. Jayce, in that moment, is a councilor. So he sees this as a political question rather than a scientific one, as he might have at any other period in time. As a scientist he would have quickly rejected the idea, as his entire purpose was to save others as the magic saved him and his mother. In my opinion, this choice is presented in this manner to purposefully skew our perspective of Mel, and lead us to believe her priority is the council. (I have personal issues with the way this scene was handled, and the writers intent to write her utilizing stereotypes only to disprove them. I believe that it would have been much more affective for Ambessa to arrive earlier so we understand WHY Mel argues for the weaponization of hextech. But that is a personal grievance.)

I think that a lot of choices in Jayce’s story seem to contradict one another, or overshadow each other, which confuses many. In late season one he’s operating with council work as a focus, compared to early season one and early season two when he seems to only care about magic. We have a difficult time understanding what is important to him, and that is because Jayce is actively struggling to understand that himself. He struggles to manage the gray area of many issues, especially when offered two opposing choices. He also takes rejections extremely hard, and even the simplest slight can warp his entire world view. (This is NOT a dig on Jayce’s intelligence he is extremely smart but his head is ruled by his heart.) That leads to a lot of misunderstanding surrounding his motivations. It’s only in complete isolation - unburdened by pressure of disappointment - that he has time to sit with his rage and frustration, and consider where he really stands.

#arcane #jayce talis #i really hope this doesnt read as me undermining his intelligence #bpd jayce youre so real to me #rejection sensitive dysphoria #viktor #mel medarda #character analysis

22 notes · View notes

tenderwatches · 3 months ago

Text

Ch. 26 of Lies We Tell Ourselves is up!

𐡸.:𐫱:.𐡷

chapter teaser

‎𐡸.:𐫱:.𐡷

chapter excerpt

Chapter 26: Hypocrites and Hypolithons

The lab buzzes with an urgent energy as Ekko sits across from them, arms tucked around himself. The ragged state of his olive green jacket looks out of place against the pristine gleam of their workstations, but he wears it like armour. The defiance that sometimes makes itself apparent in Viktor’s personality is on full display in Ekko. It reminds Jayce of Vi in ways that make their shared upbringing in the Undercity clear.

“I was thinking about what you said about the arcane,” Ekko says, flicking a stark white dread from his eyes as he gestures to the collection of plant trial notes Sky accumulated for him. “See here, your trials indicate the burning of resources—too fast, and too little. It’s what I’m seeing with my tree. But you said something like that shouldn’t be possible, because this land is magically scarce, right?” He directs his words to Viktor, as he has most of the afternoon. Jayce tries not to be offended by that and blames their frantic introduction.

Viktor nods in response. “Yes, it is as I was saying the day we met. I theorise that proximity plays a role in this kind of deterioration. For us, the Hexcore. For you, something… different.”

Jayce watches Ekko spread several sketches of his tree’s deterioration across the table. The leaves show peculiar decay patterns—not the usual browning from drought or disease, but an almost crystalline brittleness at the edges.

“These patterns,” Viktor leans forward, tracing the edge of one leaf illustration with a finger, “they mirror the accelerated senescence we observe in our trials when the arcane energy is improperly channelled.”

Jayce looks between the two in front of him, then down at the sketches again. “V—could this be related to—” he begins, attracting Viktor’s rapt attention.

Viktor nods, eyes lighting with the spark of scientific discovery despite his exhaustion. “Yes, I was thinking the same.”

“You two care to clue me in?” Ekko questions, sounding less annoyed than he does curious.

Viktor continues, “Wild runes are… think of them as unpredictable flares of energy that manifest where the boundary between our world and the arcane is at its thinnest. They’re essentially magical anomalies that occur when that boundary is strained.”

“Like pressure points in a dam that’s about to break,” Jayce adds.

“Exactly,” Viktor agrees. “Normally, they’re rare and isolated, but they’ve been increasing since we began our Hextech work. Any manipulation of the arcane creates strain, but proper channelling—through gemstones of genuine, natural hexite—minimises the disruption.”

“So… proximity to something tampering with the arcane.” Ekko’s brow furrows. “What could cause it? No one in the Undercity is tangling with magic when there’s chemtech.”

Something clicks in Jayce’s mind, and cold realisation spreads through him. Viktor, ever attuned to his partner’s expressions, snaps to attention.

“The synthetic crystals—” Jayce cuts himself off, fumbling across the workstation with trembling hands to retrieve the copy of the schematics he’d made before handing off the originals to Caitlyn. “Clan Ferros’s operation—”

“Are they poisoning the Undercity?” Ekko interrupts, his voice sharp.

“Not literally—well, actually—” Jayce spreads the schematics on the table, pointing to a crudely rendered positive pressure chamber. “Look here. They’re attempting to replicate the conditions found near magical wellsprings, like the ones in Shurima. It’s like they’re… rerouting rivers of magic that were never meant to flow that way.”

Viktor leans in, his breathing slightly laboured as he studies the diagrams. “It is practically trickery. We know from our research that the arcane does not like that sort of thing—I would hesitate to say that it understands intent, but in a way, it does. It seeks balance.”

“Like when water finds its own level,” Ekko adds, “except this water is… angry, almost. Carving its way through the landscape.”

Jayce nods along, tapping his fingers against his lips as he thinks. Ekko’s comparison evokes exactly the right imagery; like a torrent of water eroding rock around it, the unnatural energy is destabilising the ecosystem, wreaking havoc as it’s pulled through. “Viktor,” Jayce says quietly, “what if it’s not just the plants… what if it’s the air as well?”

Viktor’s face looks paler than usual, gaunt and haunted. His mouth is a thin line, grim with certainty. “Yes. I was thinking the same. The worsening problems we’ve seen—”

“You’re telling me that Clan Ferros, that blade-leg bitch, is making the Gray?” Ekko’s voice rises with indignation.

“No, not entirely,” Viktor responds. “You know as well as I, the Gray has always been here. It is not necessarily related to magic at all. But this anomaly—this unbalance—I believe, increases the output, causing things to worsen. To decay.” He gestures to Ekko’s sketches. “Your tree is struggling because it can’t process the altered magical environment. Plants naturally filter and recycle magical essence, much as they do with air, but something is wrong here. Perhaps they cannot keep pace with the increased toxicity, or perhaps there is a wild rune created by this synthetic process, rendering the environment too volatile.”

“So,” Ekko begins to summarise, ticking off the points on his fingers. “Not only is this operation causing more Gray to seep up, the problem is compounded because the plants can’t keep up with filtering it.” His expression darkens. “And, the synthetic process is exacerbating the problem by disrupting the natural flow of magic.”

“Yes, it’s a feedback loop,” Jayce agrees. “And you’re right—it’s only going to get worse unless we can stop the production of synthetic crystals and find a way to stabilise the wild rune.”

“If there is one,” Viktor interjects.

Jayce gives him a small smile, appreciating that his partner is ever the pragmatist, even when it comes to his own theories. “Right. If there is one.”

Ekko nods grimly, gathering his sketches. “I’ll bring you more samples from affected areas, and my people will check if we’re seeing anything like this anywhere else. We’ll take air quality samples if we can.” With a short nod to both of them, he departs, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell as he seems to take them two at a time.

(Read the rest on AO3!)(Or start from the beginning!)

#jayvik #viktor arcane #jayce talis #jayce arcane #lies au #arcane fanfic #jayvik fanfic #slow burn #enemies to lovers #friends to enemies #jayvik fic #arcane fic #arcane #arcane AU #jayvik AU #my fic #ao3 #first fic #fic update

23 notes · View notes

surelysilly · 4 months ago

Note

Mr fear au but it's Danny after a... "Session"(you know what I mean) and the aftermath of that. Do Jon do aftercare or not lol

He does! In his own way. Worst bedside manner ever, essentially; not a single gentle bone in his body, but he gets,,, better? Good thing Danny's rather.... uhhh, out of it most of the time anyway.

so have a little how it started vs. how its going :P (wall of nonsense incoming, hope you enjoy these two individuals who should stay far away from each other <3)

how it started

(tldr Danny meets Scarecrow officially by helping him escape Killer Croc, who would have otherwise ripped Jon's face off. Crane then dragged him home because interesting.)

Danny thinks he might could get used to this. Nothing hurts. And even that sort of thought, sort of awareness, is a slippery one to hold. That there's anything that could exist outside of this. This being. Ah. Hm. Something — He shakes his head just a little. Nothing hurts. Not the fingers in his hair, nor the suds dripping down past his eyes. Not the deep, raw bite marks up his arm, nor the. The. Hm. “This is nice,” he murmurs, eyes slivers against the bright overhead light, and it really just is. Be quiet says the hands over his head. Be still says the comb ran through his hair. Hold your breath says the water that rushes up over his ears. “That's a funny thing to say,” Danny chuckles once the world is present again. He sniffs, and then lolls his head back a little against something soft — the light glimmers through beads of water. “Real funny.” Absolutely filthy says the hands that bend out his arms, prod the creases of bruised elbow. You will need to be clean. Danny hums. “I'll have you know,” he replies, “I took a real shower two weeks ago. That's pretty good.” That. Gets everything tilted sideways. It doesn't hurt though, the hard grip on his hair, and it's only for a moment. Probably means something. Be quiet. “Okay, okay,” Danny relents, and kind of just. Ugh. Hands pull him back up from the water, and it does actually kinda hurt that time. It got in his nose. “Okay. H-Hold my breath. Got it.” Why did you help me? Don't you know who I am? Wrinkling his nose, Danny drops his head back fully this time. Glasses glint in the shadow of a thin face. Mm. “‘Cos.” Danny smiles. Probably. “Strawman?” It's on the tip of his tongue. So, so close. God, who knew that getting fear gassed right in the face could make everything featherlight. Worth getting bit by a real alligator man. Danny snorts, curling up, and the water sloshes over his knees. At least it's not itchy. Be still. “Where are my clothes?” he asks muzzily, but can't be bothered to really be worried about it. Trashed. You will be given more. “That's nice.” Nothing hurts. “Hey… can I… y'know… You kinda promised...” Later. Easier than chasing the news. Last time Danny was clear on the other side of the city and missed out. And ended up short another forty bucks for something so lackluster compared to whatever fear toxin actually is. What are you? A meta? “Mhm,” Danny lies, and closes his eyes at the continued rough drag of a washcloth over skin. If he wasn't so terribly high this would be — “You?” No. “Huh.”

how its going

I couldn't exactly decide on the "how it's going" because none of this will probably actually show up in the actual fic really but. Here, two missing scenes, stolen moments, that are the gist if not 100% correct :9

and, really, im bad at lab rat stuff, but I see Jon sort of like... maintaining a clinical, scientific sort of mindset with Danny. Like a legit project, where he just... tweaks stuff, tests it on Danny, and then figures it will be so much WORSE on the average person based on the data he gets from Danny. Something like that anyway.

Danny never tells him he's a 'ghost' either, and he does have limits. It's all sort of ruined from the get out, but... yeah, lol.

so it's literally just Jon giving him fear toxin (gas, injections sometimes, etc) and watching for results. Some days are more professional then others though. *cough*

(Robbing banks is also not usually something Scarecrow does, but science requires money, and a jonesing Danny gets nosy and gets hit with the security ink lmao)

With a sigh, Danny braces his arms back over the rim of the metal tub. He's all too aware of the heat, the scalding sting of the hot water bearing down on the teasing weightlessness. This variant is. Too slow for him to enjoy. Great for whatever the hell Jon has planned for it, but not. Exactly what Danny needs to chase away the biting gnaw of a deep set ache. Danny drops his head back when the fingers in his hair fade away, squints up at a pinched frown. “Gonna give yourself more wrinkles doin’ that,” he teases, and Jon scowls, tugs hard on a handful of wet hair. “Ow.” The man leans in, glasses glinting in reflected light. “This is not going to come off easily,” he says, pressing hard at Danny’s stained jaw with one hand. “Why did you do that?” “Better me than one of the goons,” Danny says easily, and flexes one arm, just catches the edge of dyed skin in the corner of his eye. “They got places to be. I don't.” And it's not like he actually did it on purpose. He was just curious. Who gets to say they've seen thousands of dollars in cold hard cash before? Bank jobs aren't Jon's typical speed, but needs must, obviously. That gets an unamused sneer, and Jon bends closer. Breathes over Danny's lips Don't do that again and then licks into Danny's mouth. Obediently, he opens up to the brief, hard kiss, and doesn't fight when it's taken away with another forceful yank of his hair. “Y-Yeah alright,” Danny rasps, breathless, and closes his eyes against the rumble then spray of the shower head.

or, how its going, again

Danny truly thought he could sink no lower, but life's full of surprises like that, he guesses — to break new ground when he'd thought he'd long since hit rock bottom. “That wasn't the deal, y'know,” he says softly, and for lack of a better alternative, presses the mouthpiece of the hose to his lips and takes a deep, slow inhale. The world goes a bit fuzzier, but not enough to chase away the gnawing guilt — Danny exhales a cloud of green, resigned. “Not that I have much of a choice.” Jon hums, low and unsurprised. “No, you rather don't, do you,” he returns, and stops typing for a moment, the click of keys falling silent above Danny. The man knocks a sharp knee into the side of his head. “How does this variant compare to last quarter's?” “Meh.” Crane brackets Danny in tighter with his legs, and he squirms, uncomfortable and too warm — which is the point. “C’mon, you only just gave me this like three hours ago.” That gets an aggravated sigh, but he bows out his knees, and Danny goes limp with a sigh of his own. Another intake, then the breath released over his head. “Don't do that,” Jon snaps, “it fogs up my glasses.” Danny mumbles a mocking repeat of his words and carefully places aside the gas handle before shoving himself up and truly into the man’s lap. With a scowl, Jon leans around to one side, but Danny matches it, pressing closer, hands finding purchase on his thighs. It stretches the leads dotted across his body to the very limits of their length, the pulsing count of Danny's heartbeat jumping with a beep on the computer behind him.

anyway, they're gay your honor.

#answers #asks #dpxdc #dp x dc #batpoopwrite #mr fear au #wfts au #danny does become a conflict of interest and it's all downhill from there in the real worst timeline of this au #truthfully yes danny~/jonathan crane but they're awful and should be separated from each other immediately #fake uncles version is allowed but here... uuuhhh yeah #cw implied drug addiction #*tinks them together* now kiss #silly answers

30 notes · View notes

fandoms-in-law · 22 days ago

Text

Demonic Votes

Summary: Demons adapted to the modern world by being politicians, getting low power deals for each vote cast for them. Steve navigates that and all the deals his parents have around town while trying to help fight the Upside Down

Demons don’t appear at crossroads. To be accurate, the demons you’d want to make a deal with aren’t at cross-roads any more and it’s quite possible that you have agreed to a demon’s deal without ever knowing it.

Nowadays even demons end up making those small deals if they live among humans. MP’s and Politicians are often demons, getting people to accept their deals with votes. It might make it harder for them to get individual souls but they gained influence over many, increased with repeated votes.

Steve Harrington is one of the few people in human society about to definitively say he hasn’t. He could also say that most of his classmates have, but only one had learnt how badly those unthinking agreements could go.

He wasn’t the one to kill Billy, just to ensure that the vote made in school for something Billy had thought nerdy would double the strength of his sins on where he’d spend eternity. Learning to do that had been one of the few lessons from his parents Steve used.

The kids of the Party were safe. There was no demons younger than Steve in Hawkins and the ones older were at least twenty years older by appearance. On that front he knew he was safe to help them as long as he did it freely and without any words that could become deals preferably.

Luck was even on his side with the teenagers who’d gone to school with him since, in a fit of rebellion, none of his prom king campaigns, nor any of the others Hawkins High let students vote on, had included the clauses that would limit what he could do against his parents. His mother hadn’t been happy when they learnt that but was impressed that Steve had done it without them realising until it was too late.

The issue Steve had was Joyce, Hopper and Murray. They were essentially people he couldn’t help without the express wishes of whichever parent they had the most deals with: The unnoticed deals prohibited that.

“Lucas take the end.” It got him glared at, got Joyce worrying that Steve wasn’t trying to keep the kids safe, but it was the only change he could make to have a loophole that would let him help everyone. If Hopper was at the end, as suggested before, Steve couldn’t help everyone with the escape route. Their deals with his father prevented it after the campaign promises about making Hawkins a centre for scientific development.

He’d groaned to realised that, of course the lab was tied up in his parents deals. They never had cared for any child.

A deal can’t be used to combat a deal or El would have got one offered to her as soon as Steve met her. He’d started realising after the first monsters how deeply the lab had operated thanks to his mothers support. The few lab staff Steve saw were tied in knots with her deals.

“How is Eddie still alive?” Robin was the one to ask but it didn’t escape Steve’s notice that Dustin and Erica were the only other people visiting Eddie with him.

Through everything, the Scoops Troop were the ones who had most clues about the existence of demons thanks to the Russians.

Dustin let out a sob, clearly remembering the months they’d been convinced he wasn’t, that they’d had to abandon him to the Upside Down.

“He’s alive.” Steve swore in reassurance, moving to hold Eddie’s hand. “He came back to us.”

“Clearly,” Erica sounded annoyed at him, seemingly unconcerned about the revival. “We want to know how. Did you make a deal with him?”

Neither Robin or Dustin seemed surprised by the question.

“Yes. How long have you known?”

“After the fire.” She replied. “Those smarmy gits danced around their words because you were there. Eddie never died, did he?”

Steve sighed, “I don’t know honestly. He asked that I didn’t let Wayne be alone so if our presence around Wayne was enough at any point he might’ve been. It’s the first time I’ve had this level of connection so I couldn’t be sure where he was beyond outside of our Earth.”

“Sounds like I should be glad I never voted Harrington them. My boy said that demons had got sneakier than his games said.” Wayne remarked from the doorway. “Would that vote have stopped you taking Eddie’s request?”

“It would limit it but not be strong enough to block a full deal.” Steve replied, smiling slightly. “Deals spread out by votes aren’t very strong unless repeated.”

Wayne nodded, swallowing, “Do-” He broke off, reluctant to ask his next question.

Robin, Dustin and Erica watched the pair closely, glancing to Eddie only occasionally.

“I’m not going to kill Eddie.” Steve said, hoping that in mentioning no times he’d be able to since the was still a chance he’d be forced to in the future. “I have options for how a deal ends.”

“Thank you. Thank you for helping bring my boy back.”

Steve was shocked when the four people with him crowded him into a hug at once, but he understood. He hadn’t wanted to lose Eddie any more than they did.

#stranger things #steve harrington #robin buckley #dustin henderson #erica sinclair #scoops troop #demon Steve Harrington #wayne munson

16 notes · View notes

illmoure · 5 days ago

Text

"load cell" - akon & mayuri

a prompt i sourced from @aitheria - akon and mayuri in canonverse, disagreement

The smell of burnt hair was strong first thing in the morning, warm bitterness singed keratin. Late night turned early morning in a windowless lab room, running on ethanol fumes and the adrenaline of all-night assessment and analysis. Kurotsuchi had been adamant that such-and-such cause would have this this-or-that effect; Akon had been dubious.

Of course Mayuri’s science was solid and his protein synthesis was beyond compare, his amalgamations of amino acids an art form in and of themselves, but new horns having gone to his head, Akon had decided to test him. Countered with his own concentrations and ratios, proposing the perfect enzymatic equilibrium. Math theory a little half-baked for sure, but that wasn’t the point. Audaciously disagreeing, he dared to voice his doubts outright at the beginning of the night.

And it was with no small amount of smugness that Akon suggested they move onto the next test subject after the smoke had cleared. The specimen they had been working on was little more than charred flesh briquettes after so many hours and so many attempts. The systems couldn’t handle it; they’d essentially incinerated themselves in the process, helpless against the force of Mayuri’s high-octane entropy.

Akon carted off their burnt remains and dumped them into the hazards incinerator. Cleaned and sanitized their work station while Mayuri dragged purple fingernails down his notes. Inspired annotations made in the margins in green ink. Akon unlocked the lab and headed into the hallway to retrieve their next cadaver from across the way.

Nemu was still there waiting outside the door, hands clasped, even after glass had smashed into the wall beside her when she’d dared to ask how Mayuri was doing three hours ago. There were still shards in her braid. Akon pitied the infantilizing concern she was helpless to give him, beaten down at every opportunity. As of this moment, he realized as she watched him, he had become a victim of her scrutiny as she’d automatically deemed him a threat, honed in low on her frequency. His opposing Mayuri had been interpreted as ever so slightly dangerous, his disagreement a challenge, a hindrance to her master’s health.

To be fair, Akon had been at it for a while.

They were designing a brand-new cadaver lab – sterile steel tables in rows, strategically placed drains in the insulated floors, lines and wires carefully coiffed at each station. Akon had not agreed with the arrangement of utensil cabinets in relation to the sinks and fume hoods. Mayuri had not listened. The secondary computer lab was in need of an overhaul – new motherboards and crystal displays. Mayuri had refused Akon’s proposal of a gridded multi-screen display in favor of something more streamlined. Mundane even – the second floor meeting room needed a new layer of paint, and Akon had preferred a color three shades darker than Mayuri.

Superficial, and they had argued in light, unserious tones. Measuring the flow of their disagreement by pupil dilation, tool angle, and the pressure of fingertip presses against the plunger of a syringe. It had been gentle needling acupuncture on their beliefs and morals, Mayuri’s ego. It was harmless, essentially. But this experiment, this night, was something that mattered to his captain, a real intellectual passion. It held weight when it felt like a step closer to enlightenment, advancement, stimulation, and doubt from Akon was a shot at his pride and his scientific integrity. The intensity with which his captain worked through the night had been charged and intentional, almost defiant.

Akon gave Nemu a semi-sympathetic look as he pushed the cart forward towards the large specimen storage unit. He adjusted the inventory with his initials, signed his name on a new materials request and checked out the subject profile before even unloading the cadaver. Meticulous, still, for he valued integrity as much as this game.

For years, Akon had been a child to Mayuri; an apprentice, a student, a fledgling under his wing. But he was grown now, the undeniably appointed third seat with an intellect and independence that could finally be acknowledged and appreciated by his captain. Akon felt he had earned this right to disagree, to finally give voice to his own opinions and ideas. Arguing for the sake of it, just to see what Mayuri would do. Testing him with his own set of criteria and expectations, a reactionary reagent.

So far, it had been trivial. Mayuri pulled rank and moved on, scoffing or clicking hollow yellow teeth, enamel rattling. Bristling, but not brandishing anything that would harm. It had been fun to watch him realize Akon’s autonomy, discovering the sort of man he was deciding he wanted to be. Letting him have his refusals and rebuttals and enjoying the way he spoke to him as a comrade, still allowing himself to be berated by choice and station.

Akon was smug as he locked up the storage unit and moved back across the hall with their new materials, Nemu still watching him like a loyal bird of prey.

“Here we go, captain,” Akon said once he’d anchored the table back down, locking casters in place and attaching the appropriate sensors and wires. The stimulant was prepped for the central line, set aside so his captain could have the honors.

“And who do we have here?” Mayuri asked, raking his hands over the corpse in stasis, assessing the skin, the ridge of bone just beneath. Akon read from the file all the facts he knew his captain wanted to hear.

“Excellent,” Mayuri grinned with renewed vigor. Fresh fingers scooped up the syringe and stuck it into the polyvinyl tubing. While the body reawakened and the systems found their natural rhythms, Mayuri beckoned Akon back over to his desk.

“We’re using the delta formula this time,” he said with a voice as tight as a tripwire. Akon swallowed and watched as Mayuri titrated the sample, dialing in the next concentration. The delta mix had been Akon’s formulation, scratched out on that piece of paper like a hasty IOU. Akon could see it, trash-can wrinkled but laid out on the page of Mayuri’s notebook and held flat in the corners with a pen and a glass shootie of diluted morphine.

Victorious self-satisfaction was bittersweet, watching Mayuri kneel to his own weakness of needing to know. Akon hadn’t genuinely doubted him, but it was a pleasant surprise to see things not going Mayuri’s way, which they both knew was part of the allure of their work. Even if it annoyed him, irritated his pride, Mayuri couldn’t help but respect the audacity he had to disagree with him, and he couldn’t risk not knowing the truth just because of his genius. If there was a chance Akon was right, he would have to take it.

It would be a necessary factor in their future endeavors together. Either Akon would be right, and their knowledge would advance, science would continue marching on, or he would be wrong, and Mayuri could have the satisfaction of berating him for it, and all would be right with the world. With several vials of the new formula prepped, the body on the table began to stir, fingertips fighting the frozen fear of long-term sedation. Mayuri turned towards the table, and Akon took up his place at his side as they began anew.

(available on ao3 if you have an account)

#bleach #bleach fanfic #akon #mayuri #mayuri kurotsuchi

16 notes · View notes