#How To Find Structural Engineers

[mister-ancunin]

modern-professors!viklix keeps banging around in my brain . send help

[gaylittleguys]

watching the alien prequels, Prometheus was pretty good, but I think the concept probably would have been stronger if it wasn’t a capital A Alien movie, also I wish the human tech looked clunkier like in the originals but that’s ok. I guess. 😔 Starting out Covenant and I don’t care for the guy taking over as captain.

[mcmansionhell]

we've found it folks: mcmansion heaven

Hello everyone. It is my pleasure to bring you the greatest house I have ever seen. The house of a true visionary. A real ad-hocist. A genuine pioneer of fenestration. This house is in Alabama. It was built in 1980 and costs around $5 million. It is worth every penny. Perhaps more.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Come on, Kate, that's a little kooky, but certainly it's not McMansion Heaven. This is very much a house in the earthly realm. Purgatory. McMansion Purgatory." Well, let me now play Beatrice to your Dante, young Pilgrim. Welcome. Welcome, welcome, welcome.

It is rare to find a house that has everything. A house that wills itself into Postmodernism yet remains unable to let go of the kookiest moments of the prior zeitgeist, the Bruce Goffs and Earthships, the commune houses built from car windshields, the seventies moments of psychedelic hippie fracture. It is everything. It has everything. It is theme park, it is High Tech. It is Renaissance (in the San Antonio Riverwalk sense of the word.) It is medieval. It is maybe the greatest pastiche to sucker itself to the side of a mountain, perilously overlooking a large body of water. Look at it. Just look.

The inside is white. This makes it dreamlike, almost benevolent. It is bright because this is McMansion Heaven and Gray is for McMansion Hell. There is an overbearing sheen of 80s optimism. In this house, the credit default swap has not yet been invented, but could be.

It takes a lot for me to drop the cocaine word because I think it's a cheap joke. But there's something about this example that makes it plausible, not in a derogatory way, but in a liberatory one, a sensuous one. Someone created this house to have a particular experience, a particular feeling. It possesses an element of true fantasy, the thematic. Its rooms are not meant to be one cohesive composition, but rather a series of scenes, of vastly different spatial moments, compressed, expanded, bright, close.

And then there's this kitchen for some reason. Or so you think. Everything the interior design tries to hide, namely how unceasingly peculiar the house is, it is not entirely able to because the choices made here remain decadent, indulgent, albeit in a more familiar way.

Rare is it to discover an interior wherein one truly must wear sunglasses. The environment created in service to transparency has to somewhat prevent the elements from penetrating too deep while retaining their desirable qualities. I don't think an architect designed this house. An architect would have had access to specifically engineered products for this purpose. Whoever built this house had certain access to architectural catalogues but not those used in the highest end or most structurally complex projects. The customization here lies in the assemblage of materials and in doing so stretches them to the height of their imaginative capacity. To borrow from Charles Jencks, ad-hoc is a perfect description. It is an architecture of availability and of adventure.

A small interlude. We are outside. There is no rear exterior view of this house because it would be impossible to get one from the scrawny lawn that lies at its depths. This space is intended to serve the same purpose, which is to look upon the house itself as much as gaze from the house to the world beyond.

Living in a city, I often think about exhibitionism. Living in a city is inherently exhibitionist. A house is a permeable visible surface; it is entirely possible that someone will catch a glimpse of me they're not supposed to when I rush to the living room in only a t-shirt to turn out the light before bed. But this is a space that is only exhibitionist in the sense that it is an architecture of exposure, and yet this exposure would not be possible without the protection of the site, of the distance from every other pair of eyes. In this respect, a double freedom is secured. The window intimates the potential of seeing. But no one sees.

At the heart of this house lies a strange mix of concepts. Postmodern classicist columns of the Disney World set. The unpolished edge of the vernacular. There is also an organicist bent to the whole thing, something more Goff than Gaudí, and here we see some of the house's most organic forms, the monolith- or shell-like vanity mixed with the luminous artifice of mirrors and white. A backlit cave, primitive and performative at the same time, which is, in essence, the dialectic of the luxury bathroom.

And yet our McMansion Heaven is still a McMansion. It is still an accumulation of deliberate signifiers of wealth, very much a construction with the secondary purpose of invoking envy, a palatial residence designed without much cohesion. The presence of golf, of wood, of masculine and patriarchal symbolism with an undercurrent of luxury drives that point home. The McMansion can aspire to an art form, but there are still many levels to ascend before one gets to where God's sitting.

If you like this post and want more like it, support McMansion Hell on Patreon for as little as $1/month for access to great bonus content including a discord server, extra posts, and livestreams.

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[luv-lock]

Omfg just read your mark x alien girl reader and I’m obsessed and I’m in love😩😩my question is tho how would alien reader react if she ever found out eve was trying to get with mark? Would mark go out with eve just to save face n show ppl he’s not in love with some crazy alien chick? Would reader lose her mind? I need answersssss 🙇🏾‍♀️

No, she wouldn’t lose her mind. That implies she has something fragile to break in the first place. She isn’t human. She doesn’t love. She doesn’t grieve. She doesn’t even understand the concept of monogamy, jealousy, or emotional attachment in the way humans do. Mark is hers, yes—but not in the sense that she would weep if he strayed. He belongs to her in the same way a favorite meal belongs to a starving beast.

And let’s get something straight—she isn’t some cute, misunderstood alien girl fumbling through human emotions. She isn’t an affectionate, starry-eyed creature desperate for his love. And it’s not like she’s some naive virgin who’s fallen in love with Mark. She’s a dictator. A war criminal. A predator that has seen entire species rise and fall beneath her rule.

She is old. Really, really old. billions of years old. having evolved long before humanity even crawled out of the primordial soup. The Qu described as a nomadic, galaxy-spanning civilization with a godlike mastery of genetic engineering and nanotechnology. Maybe she's the last of her kind. Or maybe she simply left them behind, the way one discards a broken tool. Either way, it doesn’t matter. The universe has long whispered myths of the Qu, painting them as monsters in the dark, as something that should not be. But she doesn’t care about history or legacies. She doesn’t even care about the fear she inspires. She only cares about what pleases her in the moment.

And right now, that’s Mark.

No one knows where the Qu came from. No homeworld. No records. No evolutionary path that makes sense. Some say they are older than the galaxies themselves, remnants of something much worse, something forgotten. Others say they are proof that gods are real—and that they are cruel.

They do not build. They do not create. They do not leave ruins behind. The Qu are nomadic by nature, descending upon civilizations like parasites, taking what they want, and leaving only silence in their wake. They don't have a culture, history or moral. They don't care about fame, power, respect or fear. Think of them as cosmic gardeners, except their idea of gardening involves reshaping entire species into grotesque forms for their own purposes. They also have an aquatic larval stage in their life cycle, hinting at origins on a watery world, though their home planet (possibly called "Puwan-2" in ancient records) is a mystery.

Their society is a nightmare. A hive structure ruled by a single female, the queen, who is infinitely more powerful than the mindless, disposable males that serve her. Male Qu exist only to fight, kill, and die in her name. They are born knowing their place, existing only to be used, discarded, and eventually devoured. A queen will birth hundreds at a time, a swarm of violent, hungry creatures that live only to serve her. And when they are no longer useful? She eats them. Their bodies nourish her, strengthen her, sustain her.

They are obligate carnivores, meaning that while they can eat other things, only meat actually satisfies their hunger. And not just any meat—Qu queens eat their own males. Cannibalism is a normal part of their lifecycle.

The Qu’s defining trait is their obsession with remaking the universe according to their own inscrutable dogma. They travel from galaxy to galaxy, finding intelligent species and altering them—sometimes stripping away sapience, sometimes twisting them into bizarre, nightmarish forms. They don’t just conquer; they remake. When they encounter another species, they see a rival species daring to be more than animals and being intelligence and powerful—something the Qu consider their divine right. So, they get pissed.

The Qu invade the Star People’s galactic empire, which spans an entire arm of the Milky Way. The Star People are no slouches—they’ve got weapons that can blow up stars—but the Qu’s tech is on another level. They crush them in less than a thousand years, colonize every habitable world, and start experimenting. They transform Star People into countless new forms: some become mindless worms, others living tools, and a few are turned into tortured, sentient monstrosities as punishment for resistance. The Qu rule the galaxy for 40 million years, leaving behind massive, featureless pyramids (their weird architecture of choice) before eventually moving on to mess with other parts of the universe.

A queen is immortal. Or close to it. Time does not wither her. Age does not dull her. The only thing that can truly kill her is another queen, a clone of herself—a perfect copy birthed through self-fertilization, as some Earth reptiles do. But this is rare. Queens are narcissists. They see themselves as gods, as divine, as the peak of evolution. Creating another like themselves is… distasteful. And so they rarely do.

The result? A species with no future. A species destined to burn itself out. And maybe that’s what happened. Maybe that’s why she’s the last one. Or maybe… she simply got bored and left the others behind. Who knows?

The Qu’s motivations are tied to their ideology, which people describes as a kind of religious zeal. They believe they’re the rightful masters of the universe, tasked with remaking it in their image. This dogma started as a way to control their own power (possibly to avoid self-destruction), but over eons, it warped into blind fanaticism. They see other sapient beings as raw material—either to be reshaped into “useful” forms or punished for daring to rival the Qu’s mastery.

There’s a sadistic streak in them too. They don’t just alter species for utility; they do it to assert dominance. Species who resist them, like the ones dubbed “Colonials,” are turned into forms designed to suffer eternally. It’s not about hatred—it’s about control. They’re so far removed from empathy that they don’t even see other species as deserving moral consideration.

After 40 million years of domination, the Qu leave the Milky Way, presumably to screw with other galaxies. Their absence lets the post-species evolve—some into new intelligent species, others into extinction. Fast-forward 500 million years, these who hated them and were destroyed by them band together with other galactic civilizations to hunt down the Qu. They finally defeat them in a massive, offscreen conflict. It's not clear if the Qu are wiped out or just subjugated, but their reign of terror ends.

To say she loves Mark would be incorrect. Love is a human thing. Love is fragile and sentimental and full of limitations. But she does want him. And that’s far worse.

She is possessive of Mark—not because she sees him as an equal, not because she fears losing him, but because he belongs to her. She has decided this. And that means no one else can have him. Not because she’s jealous—jealousy requires emotional attachment—but because she does not share her things.

And she is incredibly affectionate with him. Why? Because she wants him to fuck her.

Mark isn’t just an amusing pet—he’s a potential mate. The first she has considered in… well, maybe ever. She is starving for physical pleasure, for something that isn’t just mindless obedience. The males of her species were drones—barely sentient, incapable of giving her any real satisfaction. Mark, on the other hand, is different. He has free will. He has fight in him. He is defiant, loud, emotional.

And that thrills her.

She enjoys licking and biting him not as an act of affection, but because she is genuinely considering eating him. Not metaphorically. Not playfully. Literally. She wonders how he would taste. If he would scream. If he would beg. The idea excites her. Not because she wants him dead—but because she could. Because he is fragile. Because his life is a flickering flame, and she could snuff it out on a whim. And yet… she hasn’t.

Because she likes him as he is.

He amuses her. He resists her. And that is something no one else has ever done.

Let’s say Mark did start seeing Eve. Or Amber. Or anyone, really.

Would she cry? No. Would she be heartbroken? No. Would she beg him to come back to her? Absolutely not.

She simply wouldn’t understand. She doesn’t grasp the concept of emotional exclusivity. The idea of Mark choosing someone else is ridiculous to her—because what does choice have to do with anything? She already decided he was hers. That should be the end of it. To her, Mark is an entertaining little pet—noisy, interesting, and fun to mess with. But at the end of the day, if she really wanted to, she could turn him into a mindless thrall who obeys her every whim. She just doesn’t, because what’s the fun in that? She enjoys him as he is.

And no, she’s not crazy or stupid. The reason she doesn’t speak other species’ languages isn’t because she can’t—it’s because she doesn’t care. She sees herself as a god. Why would a god bother to learn the language of ants? She doesn’t need their approval, and she certainly doesn’t care what they think of her.

Does she care if he likes Eve? No. Not emotionally. Not in the way a human woman would. But if she wants Mark, then that means Eve is an obstacle—and obstacles get removed. Easily. Effortlessly. Without a second thought. Mark isn’t in love with her? That’s fine. He doesn’t need to be. She doesn’t require his love. She requires his body, his attention, his submission.

And if she ever did get bored? If she ever decided he was no longer entertaining? Well… there’s always the option of eating him.

[yearningaces]

So...

You know how if you're (American) in another country, and find another American and all the sudden it's like 'Hey! Friend! Friend! That's my bestie!' That person could be from an entirely different state but all the sudden you're similar around the unfamiliar so you're buddies!

Does that happen with monsters?

Better yet-

Say you're a human, the only human being hired onto a large cargo ship that travels planet to planet through space. Most of the others you work with are so different in appearance and species you sometimes don't know even if some of them have eyes, or just use a form of echolocation.

Still! It's a nice job, you're given respect due to your status as (a deathworlder) a human, and you're settling in nicely the first few days.

There's a pack of aliens you haven't met yet though, The Aslai.

Huge creatures with a semi-humanoid appearance paired with patches of striped fur across varying parts of them. A maw that unhinges in three distinct separation points, fur tipped tails that vary with color, and slightly elongated limbs.

Of course, the Aslai are the engineers. They work in the sub-floor deck where the machinery and engines are stationed. Heavy creatures with prehensile tails that can lift just as much as their long, burly arms. Creatures made to be strong, and with vast intelligence, the Aslai are perfect for such jobs. Most times they flock to them, truthfully.

Like how winged and levitating aliens prefer jobs that involve them leaving the ship where they can move freely through open space with the right gear.

The first time you see one of the Aslai, they're walking with heavy boot steps to the mess hall. You both freeze in the hall though.

For you? It's got a human-ish face and you're experiencing one hell of a level of the uncanny valley effect in real time.

For Hesh, you look like a softer, mini version of the Aslai. Their tail flicks in excitement and with heavy steps they draw closer. A brighter fur pattern than their fellow Aslai, they're noticeable by anyone. They croon in a low gruff tone, reaching out and prodding at your arms, legs, cheeks, happily babbling in some method of communication you can't exactly understand.

It's when the other three Aslai suddenly appear with different fur patterns and facial structures, mimicking the first one that you seem to realize they're 'cooing' over you. Like if you saw a stray cat on the way home...

You're about to say anything when one of the botanist -a Threxacord by the looks of its mandibles- speaks sharply, "Don't you have somewhere to be, human??"

Technically it's right... You're not at your post, but you were told by your immediate boss you could go on lunch. You don't have a chance to explain that though, not when the second largest Aslai lifts you up and sets you on its shoulders.

"Don't talk to our human that way." The rough, crackley voice is a shock to anyone who hears it, but the pack of Aslai seem comfortable. You can only hand onto the horns atop it's head to keep in place as a different one continues, each on the same thought process.

"Drunum, shouldn't you be tending to your artificial soils?" It's more of a throaty growl than words, but the irritation is clear.

It's only when Drunum hisses as it retreat when the Aslai you're semi-surrounded by relax, looking over at you with bright, fanged grins. They seem to each be muttering variations of the same phrases.

"Oooh, little Aslai! Honorary Aslai!"

"Are you a meat eater too? I bet you're a meat eater-"

"You're warm blooded, that's great! So am I!"

"Look, you've got five fingers too! No claws, but that's okay!"

The pack easily brings you to the mess hall, deciding then and there you're one of them. Just a tiny version. Practically cousin species!

I was going somewhere with this

[gf2bellamy]

Hi!

If it's alright, can I please request Spencer finding out that the cute new neighbour he has a crush on works is now working in the FBI as her new job (whether or not she's a profiler for the bau can be up to you) or maybe vice versa where there's a cute new hire at work and Spencer is head over heels for her only to find out later that she is his neighbour?

next-door — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader is new to the team ( a month or so ) , mention of working on a case a/n: hiii !! hope you like this <3

Spencer Reid had always considered himself a creature of habit. His life was structured, predictable in its own way, and he liked it that way.

But everything changed the moment you sat down next to him on the jet, flashing a smile that made his heart race.

You were new. New to the team, new to the world he’d known so intimately for years, and Spencer couldn’t help but feel intrigued by you.  

“I like your socks,” you said, pointing to his mismatched pair.

Spencer blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. He glanced down at his socks, as if seeing them for the first time. They were mismatched, as usual—one blue, one red—and he was pretty sure he’d been teased about them once or twice by the rest of the team. 

To his surprise, you pulled your feet up onto the seat next to you, showing him your own mismatched socks—one striped, one with dots.

“Thanks,” he stammered, his voice betraying him as his cheeks flushed slightly. “I… I like yours too.” 

“I guess we’re sock twins,” you said with a grin, your eyes sparkling.

He nodded with a small smile, suddenly aware of the way his heart was beating a little faster than usual.

The rest of the day blurred by , but every moment spent with you only cemented the fact that he was more drawn to you than he had ever been to anyone. Spencer found himself thinking about you constantly. 

By the time the week came to an end, Spencer was completely smitten, his thoughts consumed by you.

He couldn’t stop replaying every moment you’d shared—the way you laughed at his jokes, how your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled, and the way your voice sounded when you said his name.

When you sat next to him on the jet again, he couldn’t help but feel his heart flutter as you greeted him with that same warm, easy smile.

The jet ride was much the same as it had been before—quiet, with the whirring of engines in the background—but all Spencer could focus on was you.

As he attempted to read his book on the metro ride home, his mind kept wandering back to you. Every word on the page blurred together.

When he arrived at his apartment building later that night, Spencer paused at the door to his apartment. He glanced back down the hallway, noticing a car he didn’t recognize parked outside. His brow furrowed as he brushed it off.

But as he walked up the stairs, something caught his attention, a familiar voice carrying down the hallway. 

“Yeah, Garcia, I think I could make it on Sunday,” you mumbled into your phone. Spencer froze, his heart pounding in his chest as he realized the voice was yours. He looked up, only to spot you standing at the end of the hallway, speaking softly into your phone. 

You must’ve heard him then, because your head snapped up, eyes meeting his. The phone call ended abruptly, and your mouth dropped open in surprise as you took a step toward him.

“Garcia, I’ll call you later,” you said before hanging up, a wide grin spreading across your face. “Spencer, hi.” 

Spencer’s feet seemed glued to the floor as he processed the sight before him. There you were, standing at the door of the apartment next to his. He blinked twice, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him.

“We’re neighbors?” he asked, his voice betraying a mix of confusion and disbelief. 

You smiled even wider, as though the idea was just as strange to you. “Apparently so,” you said with a small laugh.

Spencer stood there, staring at you, his heart still racing. He had spent the past week thinking about you more than he should have—more than he had thought himself capable of. And now, as if fate had played some elaborate trick on him, you were standing right there.

His mind scrambled to form a coherent thought, but all he could manage was, “This is… unexpected.” 

You let out a soft chuckle, tilting your head slightly. “Yeah, I’d say so.” Your eyes scanned his face. “I hope that’s not a problem?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. 

A problem? Spencer nearly laughed at the idea. If anything, it was the opposite. He shook his head a little too quickly. “No. Not a problem at all.” 

Your smile deepened. “Good,” you said simply. 

For a moment, there was only silence. Spencer’s brain worked on overdrive, his mouth opening and closing as if debating whether or not to say something more.

You seemed to notice his hesitance because your smile turned a little softer. “Well, I should probably get inside. It’s late.” 

Spencer nodded, stepping aside as you turned toward your door. But then, just as your hand reached the doorknob, something in him panicked at the thought of the moment ending. 

“Wait,” he blurted out, surprising even himself. 

You paused, glancing over your shoulder with curiosity. “Yeah?” 

His brain scrambled for something—anything—reasonable to say. “Um… do you—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He was an agent, for God’s sake, yet talking to you felt harder than solving complex behavioral patterns. “Do you like—uh—coffee?” 

The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to smack himself. Of course, you liked coffee. Most people did. What kind of question was that? But instead of laughing at him, you simply smiled, leaning against your doorframe. 

“I do,” you answered slowly, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Why?” 

Spencer swallowed, feeling strangely warm under your gaze. “There’s a coffee shop a few blocks away. I usually go there on Saturdays.” He shifted on his feet. “Would you, um… want to come with me?” 

Your lips pressed together, as if hiding a smirk. “Are you asking me on a date, Dr. Reid?” 

Spencer felt his face burn instantly. “No! I mean—yes? Maybe? Only if you want it to be! It doesn’t have to be. It could just be coffee. Or not. If you don’t want to. I just thought—” 

You laughed, cutting off his rambling with a shake of your head. “Relax, Spencer.” You grinned, reaching for your door handle again. “Sunday sounds great.” 

Spencer blinked, processing your words as his brain short-circuited. “Really?” 

“Really,” you confirmed, biting back another smile. “Goodnight, neighbor.” 

And with that, you disappeared into your apartment, leaving Spencer standing in the hallway, heart hammering, mind spinning, and a smile slowly spreading across his face. 

[unopposablethumbsao3]

Julian getting a little too enthusiastic in the gym after everybody finds out he's an augment.

He's never been able to actually push himself while working out in public before, he's always had to hold back to avoid attracting too much attention. So, horrific and traumatic as it was to have his secret revealed like that, to hold on to his career and his life and everything he cares about by the skin of his teeth, there are things he's looking forward to now, things he just couldn't do before.

All of which adds up to Julian in the gym at 0500, figuring out his absolute max deadlift, dropping it down to his 90% and doing set after set until he simply can't lift it anymore. It takes fucking ages, he's even stronger than he expected, and he's having such a good time...

Until about two hours later, right at the start of his shift, when he feels himself start to stiffen up. He tries to push through it, tries to just keep moving and get rid of all the lactic acid that's building up in his glutes, but there's only so much you can do when you've put your body through that and by lunch time, he's locked in a chair in his office and he doesn't think he can stand up anymore, actually.

Which, of course, is when Garak shows up to ask if he still wants to have lunch. And Julian would really like to say yes, but if he can't even stand up then walking to the Replimat is right out, so he just tells Garak that he's got to catch up on some research, actually, and can they take a rain cheque? And he adds his most charming smile for good measure, but now Garak is just *looking* at him, one of those inscrutable looks, with his eyes squinted and his head tilted to the side.

"My dear doctor, are you quite alright?"

And Julian could just tell him! He could just say 'no, actually, I worked out far too hard and now I can't actually stand up to go and get the muscle regenerator I would need to fix it, let alone to join you for lunch!' But that would require *admitting* that he'd overdone it, which of course is exactly what Garak warned him about that morning as he was leaving their quarters at 0430. 'Don't push yourself too hard, my dear, genetically engineered or not, human spines are simply structurally inadequate in some respects..."

And of course he was right, and of course Julian can't let him *know* he was right, and so they're at a stalemate. And Garak just keeps *looking* at him, and then he walks into the room and around the desk and he just stands there, looking down at Julian until Julian is just like "...yes?" And Garak's like, "oh, I just thought I would give you a kiss, since you can't join me. Because of your research." And Julian's like "...okay?" And Garak's just like "so why don't you stand up so I can kiss you properly?" And Julian knows he's fucked but of course he can't admit it so he just stares at Garak until Garak starts smiling and says "you can't, can you?"

And that's how Garak ends up carrying Julian out of the infirmary in the middle of the day to drop him in an Epsom salt bath while he lectures him on the importance of *moderation*, my dear, you really must learn *moderation*

[emmkayyy03]

✨ How Your Dominant Planet Secretly Shapes Your Teenage Brain ✨

Have you ever looked back at your late teens and wondered why you were so obsessed with certain things? Like, one friend was glued to their guitar and poetry journals, another was training for their fifth marathon, and you? You were probably neck-deep in your thing. Here’s the deal: your dominant planet was pulling the strings behind the scenes, shaping how your mind worked and what you gravitated toward without you even realizing it.

Let’s break it down:

🌞 SUN Dominant: "I need to shine—what’s the point otherwise?" Late teens for Sun-kissed folks are like a personal hero’s journey. You’re obsessed with figuring out who you are. Your brain’s constantly asking, Am I good enough? Do people see my worth? You might’ve been the captain of the debate team, the drama club star, or just that person who somehow made walking to the cafeteria look like a runway. How your mind works: Everything feels like a stage, and you want to perform your best—even in front of yourself. You seek validation, yes, but deep down, it’s about finding your inner confidence.

🌙 MOON Dominant: "I feel… everything. Is that normal?" For Moon folks, the late teens are an emotional hurricane. You’re all about understanding feelings, whether it’s yours or everyone else’s. You probably overthink texts (why’d they only reply with “k”?), cry over movies you’ve seen a million times, and have deep, borderline-therapeutic convos with your bestie. How your mind works: You process the world emotionally first, logically second. You’re learning how to handle your empathy without drowning in it.

🔥 MARS Dominant: "Let’s go! But… where are we going?" Mars kids are powered by action and passion, and your late teens are when you’re learning to channel that fire. Your brain thrives on challenges, so you probably signed up for every sport, pushed yourself in the gym, or got way too into proving someone wrong in an argument. Impulse control? We’ll work on that later. How your mind works: You process through doing. Sitting around theorizing makes you twitchy. You need action, even if it’s messy. Picking fights on the basketball court because the ref made a bad call, then realizing you’re actually just mad your crush didn’t text you back.

💬 MERCURY Dominant: "Wait, how does that work? Tell me everything!" Mercury-dominant teens are curiosity machines. Your brain’s like a search engine that never stops running. You want to know why, how, who, and what if. You’re that kid who can’t let a fun fact go without looking it up. Debates? Bring ’em on. Trivia? Your jam. Group chats? You run them. How your mind works: You connect ideas at lightning speed. Learning isn’t just a necessity; it’s your love language. Staying up until 3 a.m. watching YouTube videos about conspiracy theories, then showing up to school explaining why aliens totally built the pyramids.

💎 VENUS Dominant: "Why settle for okay when life can be beautiful?" Your late teens are a crash course in pleasure, relationships, and aesthetics. You’re probably experimenting with your style (cue questionable fashion phases), figuring out love (hello, hopeless romantic), or diving into art and music. Life needs to feel good, or it’s just not worth it. How your mind works: You’re tuned to beauty and connection. Your decisions are emotional but driven by desire—whether it’s for love, art, or the perfect selfie.Spending an hour perfecting your eyeliner just to go to the grocery store because what if you meet someone cute?

🌍 SATURN Dominant: "I’m too busy for nonsense." While your friends are out making impulsive mistakes, you’re busy building your future. Saturn-dominant teens have an old-soul vibe. You’re focused on responsibility, probably working a part-time job while juggling school and worrying about saving for college. Fun? Sure, but only if it’s productive. How your mind works: You crave structure and long-term success. While others wing it, you plan 10 steps ahead. Skipping a party to study for finals because failing isn’t an option—not because of pressure, but because you expect better from yourself.

🚀 RAHU Dominant: "What’s the wildest thing I can do right now?" Rahu teens are like explorers charting unknown territory. You’re obsessed with breaking rules, chasing thrills, and doing the forbidden. If it’s edgy, you’re into it. You’re the one sneaking out, dyeing your hair neon green, or trying things that make adults nervous. How your mind works: You’re wired to seek more. More excitement, more knowledge, more of life’s extremes. Going on a spontaneous road trip with friends, breaking the rules, or getting into something your parents wouldn’t approve of—just because it felt like the next big adventure.

🌌 KETU Dominant: "I’m here, but also not really here." Ketu teens are all about spiritual detachment. You’re introspective, reflective, and a bit aloof. While everyone else is chasing their dreams, you’re figuring out why dreams matter at all. Meditation, tarot, or even just staring at the stars for hours—you’re vibing on a higher plane. How your mind works: You reject surface-level stuff, diving into the depths of existence. But you also need to learn to be present. Skipping out on big social events to sit at a park by yourself, journaling about the mysteries of life, or getting into spiritual practices like meditation because they felt more authentic than anything else.

🚀 JUPITER Dominant: "Knowledge is freedom, and I’m going after it!" Jupiter-dominant teens are all about growth, knowledge, and the bigger picture. Your late teens were likely filled with plans for the future, exploring new ideas, and constantly looking for ways to improve. You may have been the one always talking about your next big trip, your dream career, or the philosophies that shaped your world view. How your mind works: You crave expansion and understanding. Learning is your path to freedom. Deep-diving into a topic you just discovered, researching potential career paths, or discussing ideas about travel, culture, and self-improvement with anyone who would listen. Your teenage years were wild, weren’t they? Which planet had your brain on lock? Reblog with your planetary dominant and let’s compare chaotic late-teen stories. 🌠

[moonlightwritingf1]

The Snowstorm Argument | LN4

°❆⛄⋆.ೃ࿔🦌*:･❄️ summary ━━━━━━━ Y/N and Lando go to a cabin to reconnect, but his constant phone use for work frustrates her. After a tense argument, Y/N feels ignored. After a heartfelt conversation, Lando promises to make her a priority, and they start to heal their relationship.

°❆⛄⋆.ೃ࿔🦌*:･❄️ pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

°❆⛄⋆.ೃ࿔🦌*:･❄️ word count ━━━━━━━ 1.4k

The hum of the car engine was steady, almost hypnotic, as the tires crunched over the snowy road. Outside, the world looked like a winter postcard: endless stretches of trees blanketed in white, their branches drooping under the weight of fresh snow. The narrow road twisted through the forest, the dim light of the overcast sky casting long shadows that danced across the windshield.

Inside the car, the atmosphere was anything but serene.

Y/N sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her arms crossed over her chest, her gaze fixed out the window. The seat heater hummed beneath her, but it did little to thaw the chill that had settled between her and Lando. She’d been looking forward to this trip for weeks, clinging to the hope that a weekend away in a remote cabin might offer the reconnection they desperately needed.

But the constant buzz of his phone had started the moment they left the city and hadn’t stopped since.

“Are you serious, Lando?” she finally muttered, her voice tight.

He glanced at her briefly, his phone in one hand and the steering wheel in the other. “What?” he asked, his tone more distracted than defensive.

“Your phone,” she said, gesturing toward the glowing screen. “You’ve been on it the entire drive.”

“It’s work,” he replied, as if that excused everything.

“It’s always work,” she snapped, unable to hide her frustration.

He sighed, his thumb still scrolling through an email. “You know how it is, Y/N. Things don’t just stop because I decide to take a weekend off. This is just... part of my life. You knew that when we got together.”

Her stomach twisted at his words. “I knew it would be demanding,” she said, her voice low but trembling. “But I didn’t think it would mean I’d have to compete with your phone every second of the day.”

“I’m not asking you to compete,” he said, his tone tinged with impatience.

“Then stop making me feel like I have to,” she shot back.

The sharpness in her voice caught him off guard, and for a moment, he glanced over at her, really looking at her. The tension in her posture, the way her jaw was set, the hurt flickering in her eyes. But instead of addressing it, he sighed again and turned his focus back to the road.

The cabin came into view as the snow began to fall harder, large flakes swirling in the wind and obscuring the outlines of the small, wooden structure nestled among the pines. Y/N felt a flicker of relief at the sight of it, hoping the warmth inside would somehow thaw the icy distance between them.

Lando parked the car and turned off the engine, finally setting his phone down in the cupholder. “We’re here,” he announced, his voice lighter, as if the tension from the drive could be erased with those two words.

Y/N didn’t reply. She grabbed her bag from the back seat and stepped out into the cold, the wind biting at her cheeks as she trudged toward the cabin door.

“Y/N?” Lando called after her, his confusion evident.

She ignored him, focusing instead on unlocking the door and stepping inside. The warmth of the cabin wrapped around her instantly, the faint smell of pine and woodsmoke filling the air. She dropped her bag near the door and turned to find him standing just inside, brushing snow off his jacket.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his brows furrowed.

“What’s going on?” she repeated, her voice rising slightly. “Are you seriously asking me that, Lando?”

“Yeah, I am,” he replied, his frustration beginning to show. “You’ve been in a mood the whole drive, and now you’re storming off. What did I do?”

Her laugh was sharp and humorless. “What did you do? You spent the entire drive glued to your phone, barely even acknowledging that I was sitting next to you.”

“I was working,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“This was supposed to be about us,” she said, her voice trembling. “About getting away from everything. Reconnecting. But you couldn’t even make it two hours without checking your phone.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” he argued, throwing his hands up. “You don’t get it, Y/N. If I don’t stay on top of things, everything falls apart. It’s not like I enjoy being glued to my phone, but this is my life. It’s my job.”

“And what about me, Lando?” she shot back, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “What about our life? Our relationship? Where do I fit into all of this?”

“You fit,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “You do.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m always playing second to everything else?” she asked, her voice cracking. “To your career, your team, your fans... even your phone.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Her accusation struck a chord he wasn’t ready to confront, and for a moment, the only sound in the cabin was the howling wind outside.

“I thought you understood,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I thought I did too,” she replied, wiping away a tear. “But I’m starting to wonder if you do.”

The argument simmered into an uneasy silence. Y/N turned away, her chest tight as she busied herself unpacking groceries in the small kitchen. Each item she placed on the counter felt like a distraction, a futile attempt to hold herself together.

Lando stood by the fireplace, staring at the unlit logs as if they held the answers to everything. He ran a hand through his curls, his frustration and guilt warring inside him.

Outside, the snowstorm raged on, the wind battering against the windows and piling snow high against the cabin walls.

Hours later, Y/N sat on the couch, her knees tucked under a blanket as she stared into the fire. The flames danced and flickered, their warmth soothing her body but doing little to calm her mind. Lando sat in the armchair across from her, his phone abandoned on the kitchen counter.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.

She looked at him, startled by the vulnerability in his tone. His elbows rested on his knees, his head bowed slightly as if he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes.

“I don’t want to keep hurting you,” he continued, his voice low. “But I don’t know how to be what you need. I feel like I’m failing you.”

Her chest ached at the raw honesty in his words. She shifted on the couch, her voice soft when she finally spoke. “I’m not asking you to have all the answers, Lando. I just need to feel like I matter. Like we matter.”

“You do,” he said, lifting his head to look at her. His blue-green eyes were earnest, filled with a desperation she hadn’t seen before. “You matter more than anything. I just... I don’t always know how to show it.”

She hesitated, searching his face for any sign of insincerity. But all she saw was a man who was trying, even if he didn’t always get it right.

“I’m not asking for perfection,” she said finally. “I’m asking for effort. For presence. For you to show me that I’m not just an afterthought in your life.”

He nodded, his jaw tightening as he processed her words. “You’re not an afterthought. You’re... you’re everything, Y/N. And I know I don’t always act like it, but I’m going to do better. I swear.”

She studied him for a long moment, her heart aching with a mix of love and frustration. “I want to believe you, Lando. I really do. But it’s hard when—”

“I’ll prove it to you,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “Not just this weekend. Not just with words. I’ll show you that you come first. That we come first.”

The intensity in his gaze made her throat tighten. She wanted to believe him—wanted to believe that things could change.

“Okay,” she said softly, the word trembling on her lips.

He moved to sit beside her on the couch, his hand reaching for hers. When their fingers intertwined, the warmth of his touch sent a shiver through her.

“I love you, Y/N,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “More than anything. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make you believe that.”

Her heart swelled at his words, and for the first time all day, the tension in her chest began to ease.

“I love you too,” she whispered, leaning into him.

The fire crackled softly as he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. Outside, the snowstorm continued to rage, but inside the cabin, the warmth between them finally began to grow.

[thatdisasterauthor]

Wildland Firefighters Deserve Fun Children's Museum Exhibits Too!

Why do the structure crews get to have all the fun, huh? Go to just about any children's museum and you're likely to find a little fire station or a fire truck, probably with some fun but flimsy costumes, maybe a fake fire hose to haul around or a toy axe. There's probably a mural on the wall of a cartoon burning building, complete with dalmatian. And kids love it! So many kids fall in love with the idea of being a firefighter at those exhibits.

But not once have I seen or heard of a similar exhibit for wildland firefighters. Possibly this is because most people don't realize that wildland firefighters and structure firefighters are not the same thing. Which is all the more reason to have an exhibit about it for kids, honestly! Let's start the learning young about what wildland fire is, how to stay safe from it, and what wildland firefighters do via an interactive, playful exhibit!

Since I work as a wildland fire dispatcher and study disasters, and I've designed museum exhibits before at other jobs, I figured this was an "I'll just do it myself" sort of scenario. And thus, my little wildland exhibit was born!

The idea behind this exhibit is to create a simple, semi self-directed play area for ages ~4-8 themed around a wildland fire scenario of protecting a small cabin from an approaching wildfire. It would have three main play areas: the Velcro Forest, The Cabin, and the Firetruck Climber, and there would be simple signage sharing facts about what wildland firefighters do and how they are different from structure firefighters.

The murals throughout the exhibit would be detailed, showing the diverse terrain wildland crews can work in, and also some of the support they get from aircraft like helicopters and slurry bombers.

Play Area 1: Firetruck Climber

The firetruck climber would be modeled after a Type 4 wildland engine, simplified into a kid friendly structure. It would have working lights that are non-flashing and low light for sensory safety, and the lights could be turned on and off from within the cab. Inside the cab is a dashboard with a toy radio, moving wheel, and two seats. Along the side of the truck is an interactive panel of pump controls, and a series of cubbies to store the play gear in the exhibit just like real wildland firefighters store their gear in their trucks.

The play gear would include costume yellow shirts, green pants, and boots just like what wildland firefighters wear, with an explainer that they wear very different gear than structural firefighters and don't use any portable breathing systems. Other gear would include toy Pulaskis (the wildland specific type of axe), toy hoes and rakes, and toy chainsaws.

Play Area 2: The Velcro Forest

One of the main techniques for fighting a wildfire is removing the fuel it needs to burn, and that's what the velcro forest is all about. It is on the side of the exhibit closest to the fire (but the fire is not moving directly at it! You never work in front of a fire!). The trees are plastic covered foam blocks held together with velcro so they can easily be knocked down and then "cut" apart with the toy chainsaws. There are also moveable foam bushes on the ground.

The ground mural would include a strip of brown where anything on the forest floor had been scraped away to dirt, to represent the technique of cutting line.

Simple signage would explain the concept of removing fuel and cutting line to help stop the movement of dangerous fires.

Play Area 3: The Cabin

The third play area is the cabin you are trying to protect from the oncoming fire. This area would primarily be focused around the concept of defensible space and how a home can be protected by clearing away landscaping and removing burnable items from areas such as porches.

Gift Shop

To carry the learning outside the exhibit itself, I'd love to the gift shop carry things like children's books about wildfire (though there aren't a ton to choose from, sadly), toy wildland firetrucks, wildland fire kids costumes, things in that vein.

--

So yes! Wildland firefighter based children's exhibit! I think it would be great fun, and serve as a good way to introduce children (and their parents) to the knowledge that wildland firefighters are very different than structure firefighters. Will this sort of exhibit ever actually exist? Who knows! But I sure think it should.

Subscribe on Patreon here.

[riverbends]

BLUEBIRD

(andrew “pope” cody x f!reader)

part two: flight | mdni | part 1 | MASTERLIST

—For someone who appears so tremendously stoic, you are mystified by the pained shudder in his breath.

tags: angst, stalking, pain kink, mentions of pope's suicidal tendencies, unwanted proximity bordering on assault (not with pope), heavy yearning, canon-typical mommy issues wc: 5.1k cat says: yeah i'm posting this a few hours earlier YES idk why i bother tagging 'angst', i feel like it's an inherent part of anything involving pope cody

This, he tries to tell himself, is better.

Because at least he is contained and resolute outside your house. At least he is here and not in that blinding suburban hell. At least he isn’t parked up on someone else’s street, waiting—desperately hoping—for her to come running back.

No, instead, he placates the memory of that child by watching you from his pickup truck, here and there, throughout the day. Not every day, just some odd ones. Sits opposite your humble one-storey abode and memorises the yard and the low, red brick border and the porch and the font of the street number on your mailbox and the way you sit on your front steps in the morning as you nurse a mug in both hands. Sometimes joined by your daughter, who entertains you like she was born to make you break out into laughter. Sam, he remembers. Of course he does. He remembers exactly what you were wearing the first and second time he saw you. Remembers the charms clinking against your car keys and the press of your hand on his wrist as you tried to shoo his money away last week.

He doesn’t know how you like to make your coffee on the mornings you sit outside. Doesn’t know if you’re even drinking coffee. Not at all privy to the finer details.

But he studies you like he’s planning a job.

There is a day where he finds you at a park around the corner from your house. It seems to be a routine between you and Sam—not every day, just some odd ones. He’s not sure how he manages to keep himself composed at the familiarity of it. A swing set and a girl and something…akin to penance? To a fleeting pardon? He is aware of how foolish it was to think that the love of a child could grant him absolution; could clean him.

This is the picture of innocence, though. With a wide smile splitting your mouth, you pull Sam’s seat as far back as you can while she squeals in the delight of anticipation. You count down, gathering momentum. Harnessing wind. A big push, and your baby takes flight. He is convinced, for a fraction of a second, that Lena is the one suspended in air, her hair blowing out around her like wings. But you’re cheering Sam on as she settles back down with slow, declining kicks.

Pope is gone before he can let himself unspool like an old cassette tape. Like something nobody wants anymore—something everybody has moved past.

You should really pay attention to your surroundings. He thinks you’re too easy to find, too easy to see without being seen himself (or he’s just disturbingly perceptive and he doesn’t like to think about the fact). But he has to remember your life and his are not one and the same. You have absolutely no reason to be as paranoid, as perceptive, as he is. You are not conditioned, he presumes, to go in with all teeth the moment you’ve been found out.

He knows that you pick up double shifts at the diner so your daughter doesn’t go hungry. He knows you sit in your car, before and after work, with your hands gripping the steering wheel as you press your forehead to the curve of the gap between them. What else is he to do with all of this time on his hands? If he’s not on a job, if he’s not in the fighting cage, if he’s not sitting in Lena’s old room, what more is there?

That’s what it is—a life without. He was built to saunter through battlefields in blood-stained stupor, not to live. His brothers might do this for the bountiful rewards that a good, well-structured job would bring. But this is way he was engineered. A steel-bodied machine; a soldier. The wolf in the black of night.

For as long as he can remember, ‘living’ is a hollow promise. ‘Living’ is the last thing Smurf raised him to do. He’s been on decades-long orders to traipse the darkness, eyes peeled and unblinking, watching for the threat of movement since childhood. He doesn’t know that, sometimes, he is the mirror of his long-dead father. Bogged down in the same paranoid craze that Colin wrestled with before Pope and Julia were nestled in Smurf’s womb—the sodden mire that seems to keep expanding. How strange it is to perfectly reflect a man and his hysteria without ever having known him. To inherit his father’s ghosts like warm heirlooms and spend his life wondering why he is the way he is.

No old photographs, no worn-out clothes, no well-loved car to be passed down to him. Just the name of a hockey player his father liked—Feels like a boy to me. Hey, Andrew, come on out and prove me right, you hear me?—and, of course, the loose screw. The thing in the cavity of his brain that ticks away like a faulty fire alarm. So, no, he can’t say that he ‘lives’ as much as he is haunted.

—yeah, after Andy Bathgate. Greatest hockey player of all time. You don’t like it? “Andy” for short.

Andrew David Cody, growing in a belly beside his sister as their father speaks only with him (Smurf has always held the belief that Andy would’ve softened him. In a good way. Had Colin lived long enough to give their son the nickname he wanted).

The haunting is why Pope doesn’t fight his habits. On the contrary, he clings to them like he’s hanging from the chin of a cliff, clawing for permanence so hard that his nails are scraped raw and bloody down to bone. He is intimate with this—latching onto pain. It saves him every time, and it pools on his tongue like blood medicine.

Won’t change a thing about Lena’s room in the Cody house. Won’t stop chipping into the fund he’s built for her. Won’t stop buying the food she used to eat and letting it go stale and mould-green because he obviously isn’t purchasing that shit to eat it. He is nourished by memory. Remembrance feeds him full.  

It draws him back to the stupid grocer’s a week after seeing you. Though, he is here on a different day and a different time, hoping you’re not around. He can’t stomach that. Can’t force himself to remain poised and pretend the thought of you alone doesn’t make his head spin. It always did back then. With somebody else. That beach house and that little girl and that woman who stopped seeing him the way she used to as soon as he was thrown in a cell. Couldn’t even look at him when he got out. What is he left with now? His ghosts? His father’s ghosts?

Everything festers—

Six different brands of amber-brown maple syrup stare back at him from their shelves, and it’s torture. She should be here. She would tell him which one to get. Try her best to strain her little legs and reach up high for a bottle until he has to pluck it down for her. She would probably pout about it—I almost got it. He would nod—I know. Pope wonders if her brand new parents and her brand new sister take her out to get brand new maple syrup for their brand new pancakes and he feels his fists stiffen into stone weights at his side.

And then something tumbles into the side of his leg and lands on the floor with a thump and a small yelp that soon turns into sore snivelling. He frowns at the syrup before looking down to his left where he finds Sam all curled up, snotty-nosed and weeping as she firmly presses her hands over her right knee. When she meets his gaze, she’s suddenly sobbing in a way that chokes her words. He wonders if the fresh evidence of his recent cage fight has frightened her. The little white butterfly stitch. The colours blemishing his skin are rich and ugly after all—plum purple and screaming red. Her eyes dart all over his bruised face as if her collision alone was turbulent enough to hurt him in such a way.

“I’m sorry, mister, I’m really sorry,” she hiccups. “I’m sorry, I promise I’m sorry.” Apologies keep stringing from between her chattering teeth while he watches her fuss over her knee.

Pope lifts his chin and surveys the surrounding aisle in search of you before looking down again. He can’t really leave her—not that he would do such a thing anyway. He knows how helpless children can be. For him, driving a pocketknife into someone’s jugular vein is an easier feat than abandoning a lost child.

“Where’s your mom?” he asks. Sam blinks away her tears and drags her free hand under her leaky nose.

“I dunno,” she mumbles, bottom lip wobbling. “She told me to get a jar of honey and- and wait for her.”

He looks around once more, waiting for you to show up. Part hope, part dread. It doesn’t really occur to him that he might look uncaring or indifferent to the observing eye. He’s too caught up in the familiarity of this. Transported back to a time where he would’ve caught Lena to steady her with one hand before she could even hit the floor. Gravity was secondary to his caution for that girl. Light and physics be damned. Had Lena fallen like this, he wouldn’t think twice before scooping her up in his arms.

“We’re gonna look for her,” is all he says before leaning down, leather jacket creasing around his shoulders as he hauls Sam up by her underarms. The moment he hitches her on his hip, he has to anchor himself before his world tips over. It was instinct—the lift, the motion, the hold. Muscle memory. Just someone else’s daughter this time. Yours.

“Is your knee okay?” he asks, carrying her down the aisle like she’s weightless; eyes searching as he turns a corner. Sam nods before her arms loop around his neck and it feels like they’re locking. Feels like he’ll never be able to get out again.

Lena used to cling to him just as tight when he carried her, as if mere air would rip her away from him if she didn’t hold on with her life (but he never really let that happen, remember? Gravity? Light and physics? Laws that bent to his will. Logic that yielded to his love. Until he looked away for only a moment and everything slipped—). She’d get tired and rest her head on his shoulder, little nose tickling the crook of his neck. Craig once joked that Lena always latched onto Pope like a baby spider monkey.

“Yeah, she’s got the eyes too,” his brother laughed.

Pope shrugged, “Well, spider monkeys nurse on their mothers for at least three years.”

“Right, so they grow up like any normal kid,” Craig scoffed and flicked Deran a look, who only shook his head and minded his beer. The frown pulling Pope’s brows weighed deeper then.

“The mothers take their young everywhere,” he said, some faraway look blooming in his eyes. Remembered he had to pick her up from school soon. “Y’know, a lot of female monkeys tend to stick with their mothers long after they’ve grown up. It’s not uncommon in primate families.” Craig and Deran listened without absorbing anything, but he was elsewhere. Thinking about attachment, and the sheer force of it; the endurance. How, at the time, it felt like nothing in the world could tear through it—through him and his child. A fool’s dream. “Severance is harrowing,” he murmured, “for the both of them.”

Aisle after aisle, he walks across the far end of the store with his head stiffened to his right, pace picking up as he scans through the gaps until he freezes. A man towers over you in the middle of the drinks aisle, locking his hand around your wrist and gritting harsh whispers against your temple. You’re shaking your head, trying to claw at the man’s forearm with your free hand. A scene of proximity so clearly unwanted that you’re squirming against him the way a joint-locked animal twitches under pressure with little fight left in it. Pope feels his body load up like a gun. Safety off.

Electric heat charges through his legs, ready to storm forward with purpose, but then the heel of your palm cracks against the man’s cheek and the sound of it is sharp. Cuts through the low buzz of the radio hits from the store’s speakers.

Sam stirs in the warm crib of leather-clad arms, “Mommy?”

You fight whiplash at the speed of your own split of attention, head snapping to your left where you find your daughter wrapped around the torso of your friend who is not your friend because you’ve only met him twice before. Your friend who wears vivid contusions like he was kissed all over the face. The touch of bursting knuckles instead of your a soft mouth.

Andrew.

The sight of him holding your daughter at the end of the aisle has you ripping yourself away from your foe with a strength you thought you had misplaced until hearing her voice. Pope watches you rush toward him, hands reaching for Sam’s face like lungs stretching for air. But his eyes creep back to the man you’ve left behind, who contests Pope’s undaunted glare. He’s taller than Pope, but lean. Hair sweeps over his forehead, spine hunches slightly with a carelessness. Could snap the bastard in seconds.

“Hey, baby, hey,” you smile weakly, stroking a thumb over Sam’s chin before combing your fingers through her hair. Pope is roped back in. Can’t focus on anything but your gentle fretting and fussing. “Didn’t I tell you to get me some honey?” You ask and Sam nods, eyes downcast like she’s about to apologise. Again.

“I ran too fast,” she whispers.

It’s clear to you now—how he’s holding her. As if he has held her like this since before she could walk. You feel his eyes on you as yours drop to find a pale blotch of red flushing through the skin of her knee, bent leg tucked beneath the crook of his elbow.

The man behind you gnashes your name in his teeth. Pope is near ready to pounce again.

“You move on fast, don’t you?” He laughs bitterly, burrowing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Sam peels her arms away from Pope’s shoulders and he takes it as a sign to let the girl regain her footing. She’s encircling your thighs with the tight lock of her hands as soon as he eases her down. Your fingers trace over her shoulders as she hides her face.

Pope steps closer and lowers his head to look into your eyes like he thinks it’ll give you no other choice but to meet his gaze. Like he’s quite confident you’ll let him in that way. His voice is only for your ears when you do. “You want me to handle him?”

Maybe this is the first time you really start to consider using the word ‘strange’ to describe him. His generosity seems to know no bounds and it just confounds you. The chocolate pretzels, the cash, bringing Sam back to you. Strange. A complete stranger. You’ve never met someone with such a reclusive disposition who’d still give the shirt off their back to…you. Of course, it makes you feel sceptical. Of course, you’re going wonder if he’s trying to get something in return.

But those bruises suggest he has many means of getting what he wants. His face, his knuckles. Not just today, not just last week, but even the first time you met him, though the marks were the least visible at the time. It’s gotten consecutively worse over the three instances where you’ve run into each other. You can put two and two together. Must be a pastime of some sort, and a strange one at that. Strange. If he has some other agenda, you’d wager he’d have already taken it by force. He must pity you, then? Thinks you can’t take care of yourself so he has to do it for you?

(Unbeknownst to you, he is so inexplicably drawn in. It’s been too long since he’s allowed himself to dive head-first into this kind of naivety. You seem to nurse the promise of oasis and, of this, Pope is almost certain).

“I’m okay, trust me,” you nod once but his frown only deepens with doubt. He has never been this close before. Not uncomfortably close, but close enough that you think you can see the broken capillaries of the skin of his purple under-eyes. The thin adhesive strip closing the wine-red wound of his cheekbone. A part of you wants to press on a small welt. See if it hurts. See if he’s just stone.

He keeps searching your eyes, unrelenting. It takes the soft pressure of your palm on his sternum and a whispered please to disarm him. You see it, too.

The shift in his face reminds you of the fierce thoroughbreds you grew up watching. Creatures of majesty, condemned to the never-ending racetracks where their victories were gambled on. Raised to fill the pockets of insatiable betters and disposed in meat trucks when they no longer served their purpose. But you remember visiting these gentle giants in their stalls, sneaking a sugar cube or two in your little hands. The way their ears perked forward at something sweet. Nostrils flaring, head lowering. Trusting you enough to guide them to the reward in your hand.

He looks at you with the same keen interest and that rapt hunger you could only ever find in the eyes of an animal—this formidable racehorse leaning into your open palm. Mighty Orphnaeus surrenders.

Neither of you notice the man’s absence until Sam coughs into your leg. Pope still feels the phantom shape of your hand on his chest after you’ve stepped away to look over your shoulder. Paralysed, he watches the angular muscle flex in your neck as you turn. He’s itching to get out; escape. Thick, sinewy arm choking between iron bars as he searches for the lock to his own cell.

He can’t figure out if you make him feel twice as caged or closer to freedom than he’s ever been. Either way, Libertad brands the skin you touched through his shirt. Any closer to the left, and he’s confident you could’ve torn his heart out with its caustic chambers and rotten valves, leaving shreds of flesh and clotted blood dribbling down your wrist. Any closer, and he’s terrified you could’ve discovered that he was never in possession of anything resembling a heart to begin with. Though this wretched organ batters his ribs with persistence, the absence of it would not surprise him in the slightest.

“Where was she?” you ask. Pope blinks back into his senses. Has to wet his tongue like a sponge just to speak.

“She ran into me in the,” he struggles to remember now, “breakfast aisle. I think she hurt her leg.”

You gently tip Sam’s head back and tuck your chin to your chest to make eye contact, “Now, what’ve I told you about running in places we shouldn’t be running?” You wear some faux pout of sympathy as her brain tries to download an explanation. “Did you apologise to Mr. Andrew?”

Sam nods her head vigorously before craning her neck around to ramble another string of I’m sorry’s.

“I’ll be alright,” he says, voice tight.

Momentarily, you’re crouching to take a look at the bruise on her knee—a fresh but fading blotch the size of a quarter. It could be a longing for childhood or a longing for the child he lost, but when she balances a hand on your shoulder as you pull up the bend of her knee to kiss it better, he aches something fierce. There were times, of course, before Smurf’s love turned acrid; perverse. Times when his only sibling was Julia, times when innocence was preserved. When a kiss on a bruise was the only aid he needed, no strings attached.

“Thank you, I’m sorry she’s—” you push yourself up from the floor, “—a bit unaware of her surroundings sometimes.”

“They tend to be,” he agrees.

“You got kids?”

It’s a harmless question in your head, but you can’t say the same for him. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think a bullet just narrowly missed his ear and fucked with all the gears in his brain. Cogs bursting apart.

“Uh, she fell off her ATV thingy. Got a few scrapes.”

“Where’s Baz?”

“I don’t know, man.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Put her on the phone.”

“Okay.” A beat, and distantly: “It’s- it’s Uncle Pope.”

“Hi.” Relief, then. Waves of it, rivalling the crashing shore in front of him. Roaring at him with foam and ferocity in the cool of this night. Like it was God who saw him draw the gun to his head and knew only her voice would lift his finger off the trigger.

“Hey,” he breathed. “Are you alright?”

“He tackled me.” She had been crying.

“What? Who- who tackled you?”

“A man. So I wouldn’t get hit by the car.”

The parties always bothered him, but he was never really driven to shut them down like he did now. Grabbing the shotgun from the fireplace and pulling the cords from the speakers. The sea was his oracle that night—the child, his saviour.

“No,” Pope answers flatly. You’re perceptive enough to recognise that the pause before might be an indication of something he’s chosen not to share. So, you nod.

“Well, can you let me repay you?” Your hands rest on your hips. “For last time, at least, because that was absurd,” you laugh.

“It wasn’t a loan.”

“What were you shopping for?” You ask, ignoring his rejection to your offer. He narrows his eyes like he’s caught on to a game you’re playing.

“Nothing. Just maple syrup,” he says. “I don’t need it.”

You roll your lips into a line, trying to force back a smile. For many reasons beyond you, the enigmas he has presented over time don’t necessarily scare you away like they probably should. Shadow, retrospectively speaking, has never been good for you. Furtive men who show you mere glimpses of the skeletons in their closet before tightening the padlock. They give you a thirst you can’t slake. You’re always left to jam your way in, and what you find has you staggering back. Isn’t that how one of your exes ended up cornering you in this aisle? Isn’t that why you sent Sam to find something you didn’t need? Isn’t that how your thoroughbred brought her back to you?

But he is so singular in his ways. Remarkably giving. Stuck between deciding if he should glue his eyes to yours or look at everything in existence but your face. You haven’t forgotten the way his shoulders had tensed at your closeness before resting upon touch—like he was bracing for impact. Like you have the power to tear his very soul asunder. For someone who appears so tremendously stoic, you are mystified by the pained shudder in his breath.

His body seems to translate what he refuses to confess. He betrays himself.

“Then why do you look for it?”

He thinks on it—“Habit.” No matter how little sense it makes to you, that is all he knows. Habit. Repetition. Return. Chases his own tail like a blind mutt most of the time.

In the suspension of sound, he says—doesn’t ask—he’ll walk you and Sam out to your car. He almost pays for your groceries, but he’s afraid it might frustrate you the second time around. You’re doing all the talking at the self-checkout while he quietly passes items for you to scan, ears keen for the stories you recount about Sam as a toddler. At one point, you draw the faintest ghost of a laugh from his chest and it fills you with this ludicrously enormous sense of accomplishment. You yearn to hear the sound of it once more—to actually see it grace his face, too.

He learns that Sam is actually ‘Samantha’, and that you named her after a friend with whom you no longer speak. Not for any tragic reason, just time, you tell him. A high school friendship that ran its course. He wonders, then, if you’ll somehow keep him in your life for longer than these passing grocery run-ins (longer than his frequent observations from his pickup outside of your house—outside of your knowledge).

Sam skips ahead of you as Pope, who had silently collected the bags of food against your objections, walks by your side like he’s holding feathers. The leather of his jacket catches on your arm sometimes.

“Can I ask about the bruises?” You ask out of nowhere, keeping an eye on Sam as you all walk the crossing. “Don’t tell me I should see the other guy.” A breath, just short of another laugh, leaves his throat.

“Maybe you should,” he says, adjusting his hold on the bags. He won’t say anything about the other bruises he’s hiding under his jacket, and how it hurts a little to carry the weight of the food. “Sort of a hobby. Hole-and-corner cage fights and the usual betting.”

—formidable racehorse.

“And how does one get into cage fighting?” You look at him, brows raised with astonishment.

He locks his gaze ahead, looking around for your sedan. “My…mother puts me in. For catharsis, I guess.”

“And is it?” you press. “Cathartic?”

The three of you settle by the trunk of your car. Sam crouches in front of a tyre to trace over the bolts while you wait for Pope to give you an answer. You wait until it’s clear to him that you’re expecting something. Truth.

“Sometimes, yeah,” he shrugs. “It doesn’t require much thought and I s’pose I’m good enough at it.”

“And the bruises?” You finally move to pop the trunk, prompting Sam to jerk a door open and hop into the backseat out of boredom.

Pope bends at the waist to lower the bags into the empty compartment before stepping back and shutting the rear for you. “I don’t really mind them.” He would’ve called them reminders. Or punishment. Or penance. Only if he was sure you wouldn’t ask why.

“Maybe you should,” you playfully echo his words from earlier and he rests his hands in the pockets of his jacket. The corner of his mouth creases at your quip, and it might rival the feeling you get when a glass of wine plunges you in a heady buzz. Blurring the world around you with a dull kind of bliss. He dizzies you with a fucking quarter of a smile and you open your mouth before you can give yourself a chance to think. “Can I do something?”

He is wordless again. Searching. Again. Narrows his eyes like he did in the store, like he’s trying to feel around in the dark despite seeing your pleading face shining before him in broad daylight. Then, a nod. Then, stillness. Your hearts leap into a synchronised crescendo of beating as you let yourself approach him, slow as the sun breaking out of its horizon. There is not a single moment where his eyes aren’t locked on yours, even when your hand finds the side of his neck and he feels your thumb barely graze a welt on the corner of his jaw.

Pain is nothing to him here. Pain is almost sublime when you softly press your lips to the tender skin near his butterfly stitch. Ghosting the scar that aches most. He shudders the same way he did when your palm was on his chest in the drinks aisle. A kaleidoscope of light deluges his vision and all he can do is close his eyes to absorb the heat from your mouth as it permeates the skin of his cheekbone. All he can do is clench his fists in his pockets and pray that you’ll move the pressure up to the stitch. Kiss him where it really hurts. Kiss him better.

He’s not sure he can remain standing any longer when your warm mouth and your soft palm leave him untouched again.

You don’t know what possessed you, but you can’t pretend it hadn’t been on your mind for a while. You can’t pretend the bruise isn’t calling you back to make contact again. To cradle his jaw, to caress his wounds in a way that impels his hands to tear out of his pockets and search for purchase of your hips in a desperate attempt to steady himself under your touch.

His eyes peel open to find you again, only a breath away.

Courage embraces you once more. “Give me your phone.”

He is so stunned, he can’t compute the image of you adding your number to his contacts but that’s exactly what you’re doing as he struggles to make fucking sense of what you just did.

“Invite me to a fight,” you say, short of breath as you return his phone. “Or whatever you want. Or don’t, it’s up to you.”

Pope barely nods, too distracted by his phone displaying the standard digits of your number and the print of your name above it. Mouth, too dry to give you words. He’s still lingering by the trunk when you climb into the driver’s seat.

Once you click in your seatbelt, you can really feel the sheer velocity of your heart, like it’s darting all over your body. Electrifying you.

Sam kicks your seat, eager to go home.

“Okay, baby, I know,” you calm her down as you adjust the rearview mirror to find…nothing. Just the utter absence of him. Maybe you really should’ve kissed him; pressed your mouth against his properly. Maybe he wouldn’t have liked that. Would he? He’s still a stranger in most ways—in every way that’s supposed to make you keep your distance.

You toss and turn in bed with grating regret over how forward you were in the parking lot. If anything, you must’ve looked vain. So arrogantly sure of yourself that you’re convinced you can peck someone on the cheek and order them to give you their phone so you can insert yourself into their life before they have the chance to object.

But once the tail of sleep curls itself around you, your phone lights up, vibrating on your bedside table as it bears a foreign number on its screen.

—this formidable racehorse leaning into your open palm. Mighty Orphnaeus surrenders.

[robin-evry]

What about twst Yuu is like The Herta from hsr?

𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐀!𝐘𝐔𝐔 🪄🪞🔮

Esteemed Genius Society #83, human, female, young, beautiful, attractive. It's said that she lives in the far edge of the Cosmos, almost never leaving. Sounds like her appearance this time... must be for some issue that requires a personal touch, right?

Credits towards the artist

Is highly interested in twst, imagine herta!yuu studying in their lab and suddenly a black carriage appears in their vision and teleports them towards another universe.

How amusing, when they walk out of the coffin and realize the area they're in isn't the same universe they immediately burst out laughing finding this situation amusing, which means there are other universes proving herald hunch theory over the imaginary tree is correct meaning there are other worlds outside of their universe. A way to expend their knowledge.

another universe where there's no nous meaning they have grasp over knowledge that nous doesn't have even excess due to being in another universe, feeling them with excitement.

Herta!yuu has no interest in going back home, they have more knowledge to discover in this world and plus if they want to they can go home at anytime.

When the mirror declared them as magicless, herta!yuu would be a little offended but still understand they are in another universe with a different set of rules and structure.

And Crowley brought them towards ramshackle, herta!yuu give Crowley the most disgusted look ever towards him that even manages to scar him mentally, HOW DARE HE PUT A GENIUS LIKE THEM INTO SOMEWHERE SO INHATEBLE.

Overnight the ramshackle was turn into a castle perfect for a genius like them as well instead of resting, herta!yuu immediately went straight into the Library studying the world and its magic. They manage to understand and excel in the magical system as well as understanding highly complicated magical structures to the point manage to reverse engineering spells.

They by far manage to learn the entire NRC education just within overnights even the ones that most developed mages in the world lack to understand, so during at class they realize, they already learn about this and so they don't need to learn about this again. So herta!yuu after one class literally skip school for the entire day to focus on much more complicated topics.

They visited Sam shop and asked whether or not he got some scraps laying around that he wishes to get rid off and good thing he has some willing to give away in return herta!yuu gave him a manuscript that could sell over a million thaumarks.

Similar towards back in their universe their manuscript would carry millions towards billions worth due to it carrying highly advance research that no one has ever managed to enter it or solve it. It's wanted by many kingdoms and students, Crowley would try to negotiate with them to give him some of their manuscript but was usually met with rejection and ruggie would try to steal one but since herta!yuu rarely go to school it's hard so he tried to get close with the first years so if they ever went to visit herta!yuu he would manage to snatch one. As well as having a large collection of ancient magical artifacts they use for studies and if they find them boring will put them on displays or use them in the ridiculous ways, the first years was gagged when finding one of those artifacts being used as mixer some of this artifacts could also be auction as well destroy the school if use it wrong.

Alright back towards the scraps from Sam, herta!yuu use those leftovers to create their signature puppets to help them manage their studies as well attend school in their place. This could lead to moments where others are unsure if they're speaking to the real herta!yuu or just another puppet.

they rarely exert effort unless something truly interests them. They often sigh and say, "Ugh, do I really have to do this?" before eventually solving a problem in record time.

The ramshackle has an army of puppets that have different duties, some fill in herta!yuu attendance at school meanwhile helps them manage their research, some function as servants and babysitter for grim. Idia are by far curious about their puppets and want to study them but don't know how to approach herta!yuu.

Many students seen herta!yuu as an enigma, rarely appearing or never even once appear towards school only using puppets believing that they have better things to do. The smartest student in nrc that never ever once made an appearance physically because they have better things to do.

And even when herta!yuu make an appearance they will always be accompanied by puppets making sure their needs are taken care of, food, water and more and when kalim ask them why would they use puppets, herta!yuu response with saying that puppets are more efficient as well not carrying the burden of humans. As well finding themselves more capable than others.

The teachers have a love and hate relationship with them, trein and Vargas wish them to physically attend classes without using puppets as well as manage to find ways to outsmart them for crewel sees herta!yuu as a genius no doubt but finds them mostly focus on themselves than other other people

Herta!yuu prefer not to socialise with people they prefer over themselves rather than people who would socialize when the person isn't even the same level of intelligence as you causing them to have complications towards interaction.

They are also very blunt and if they find things uninterested they just usually drop it not giving effort, they lack understanding over emotions due to them always choosing logic, they have never once panicked. Not during Overblots, not when lost, not when Grim sets something on fire. "Screaming won’t solve the problem. Calculations will."

During kverblot Situations herta!yuu slowly claps and says, "Oh wow, another dramatic transformation. So original." before actually stepping in to help.

Vil absolutely hates to despise their behavior of laziness or valuing other things, as well as very bitter due to their natural beauty and when he asks why would they not thrive for betterment herta!yuu response with "I'm already perfect what else do I need to improve ".

[treatmelikeasmut]

The Artist and the Engineer// Part 2 Good Facial Structure

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Pairing: Viktor x Fem!Artist!Reader

Series Synopsis: Heimerdinger wants a commemorative painting done of Viktor, who is not fond of the idea.

Chapter Synopsis: Viktor tries one more time to convince Heimerdinger out of the portrait.

Word Count: 2.3K

Author’s Note: I'm going to try and update with one chapter a week!

Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog your favorite fics ❤️

~*~*~*~

The morning came with blaring sun through the lab windows. Viktor blinked against it as he stirred from his slumber. The room was chilled with the night. Leeching from the floor up through his skin into his bones. His spined ached with it. His leg ached with it. His hip protested as he stretched. He’d slept slumped on his workstation. Though it was nothing unusual, he still cast a glance over his shoulder. The emergency couch sat vacant. Why hadn’t he slept there? It would’ve been worlds more comfortable.

All at the once, the previous day returned to him. Heimerdinger’s request. The portrait. You. And all at once annoyance slammed back into him, simmering in his chest. The bell overhead tolled seven. Would the professor be in yet? Viktor needed to find a way out of this. For the sake of his research was what he kept telling himself. Although you seemed perfectly nice, he was making great headway and didn’t want to risk the momentum.

In the night, his papers had made their way across the desk and onto the floor. He scrambled to cobble them together. Which ones went together, again? What was this drawing for? How distracted had he been when he’d done these? Half of his notes were incoherent. A couple of papers had to be spun to decipher which way was up. There were ink smudges from his fingers, which he found to be stained. Viktor rifled through the mess on his desk, searching for a rag to wipe his hands.

That was when a word caught his eye - ochre.

It was written plain as day in the middle of a page. There was a decided divide between the word and the rest of the notes on the page. Had he written that? He must’ve, that was his scrawl. But when had he done that - and why? He was quick to blot it out before Jayce made an appearance. Then he found himself wondering just why he’d done it.

Jayce came with food and hot drinks not long after. Viktor had not found anymore out-of-place words. The refreshments were accompanied by a smug grin. As if Jayce was glad to see Viktor covered in ink and bleary eyed from the uncomfortable resting place. He didn’t say anything as he set down a pastry and a covered cup on Viktor’s station. But the look on his face spoke louder than anything.

Viktor stood, his joints protesting after sitting still so long. “I’m going to see Heimerdinger.”

He scooped up the pastry, ignoring Jayce’s watchful gaze as he left. He straightened out his sleep rumpled clothes the best he could between bites. This time of morning, the academy was quiet. Everyone settled into their morning classes. He found the professor in his office, already sitting with someone.

Heimerdinger didn’t look at him, but held up a finger. So Viktor tucked himself patiently into the corner and finished off his meager meal. Stuffing the wrapper in his pocket. He wasn’t really paying attention to what was being said. Mostly due to the hushed tones of the conversation. But also because he was distracted by the yordle’s likeness where it stared out from behind the desk. The portrait you had done.

It truly was expertly crafted - at least from the little Viktor knew of art. The light was hitting the painting just so. Illuminating all the brushstrokes immortalized in the lacquer. The way the Heimerdinger in the painting looked almost as alive as the Heimerdinger it hung above. Eyes sharp, discerning. The fact the professor’s fur looked as though it would be soft if you touched the canvas.

“Very good!” the professor announced, back to speaking normally. Viktor flinched. “Then we’ll meet again next month.”

The person stood, nodding to the professor and then Viktor as they made their exit. He thought he saw the word Treasury on the front of their folio. Heimerdinger turned to Viktor and greeted him warmly, gesturing to the now unoccupied chair in front of the desk.

“Good morning, sir,” Viktor said, suppressing a yawn. He lowered himself into the seat. A bit disgusted to find it warm.

“What can I do for you this fine morning?” The professor shuffled mindlessly through the papers on his desk. Briefly picking one up and seeming to skim it before moving onto another. “I see you’ve slept in the lab again. - Did anyone tell you there’s ink on your face?”

Viktor rubbed at his cheek with his shirt sleeve, but quickly gave up the effort. Frowning instead at his stained hands. “Yes, sir.”

Heimerdinger tsked. “That really isn’t a healthy practice. You don’t live far, why don’t you ever stay the night at home?”

“I do, often.” Viktor wasn’t even convinced by his own words.

“You should be sleeping in a proper bed. Honestly, you should really be making sure to take time for yourself. Even as important as your research is - you can’t do anything if your body isn’t taken care of.”

“I - yes - I will, sir -” Viktor shook his head, realizing the diversion. “That is not why I’m here -”

“You’ve come to talk about the portrait.” The professor sighed, tapping the edge of a stack of papers on his desk, then setting them aside. His gaze was sharp as he met Viktor’s. “I figured as much.”

Heat built under Viktor’s collar. He was not a fan of the look Heimerdinger was giving him. “Well, I -”

To his relief, the professor’s gaze quickly shifted back to the papers on his desk. “I was glad to hear you sat well for the artist yesterday, I expect that to continue. I’ve seen the sketches so far, there is no doubt this project will be a huge success.”

Viktor muttered, “I wish I shared the enthusiasm.”

“She had nothing but good things to say about you, you know?”

This caught Viktor off guard, he was not expecting a good review. He shifted in his seat. “What things?”

Heimerdinger cleared his throat, making a show of thinking on the conversation. “That you were a very nice subject. Something about having a good facial structure and admirable cheek bones.”

Stunning eyes, whispered your voice. Viktor catapulted it from his mind immediately. The annoyance at Heimerdinger turned inward. Why did that one comment stick to him? Then his brain replayed what the professor said, and heat crept up from his collar and burned in his ears.

“There’s no need to be embarrased,” Heimerdinger chuckled.

“I -” It came out as more of a choking sound. “I am not embarrassed.”

“Now, I’m no great judge of art myself, I must admit. But I do believe she’s correct.” The professor’s eyes gleamed now. “The portrait is going to look very noble when it’s finished.”

Viktor scrabbled to come back around to the point. He held up his stained fingers. “Surely, sir, I could just have a new pen? - Or a new chair for the lab? Even a nice meal would be sufficent commemoration. I assure you, I do not need a painting. I’m just your assistant.”

Heimerdinger shook his head. “Those things will fade, Viktor.”

“And the painting will not?” Viktor asked, brows furrowed.

“The portrait can be restored when its colors dull. - Trust me when I say you aren’t going to find a used pen in any museum. Even if it had the greatest scientist to ever live's teeth marks in it. People remember art, Viktor, not chairs or fine meals.”

Viktor leaned forward in his seat. “But I would remember those things.”

The professor waved him off. “You’re doing far greater work than just being my assistant. That research you’re doing will revolutionize the world as we know it.”

“Jayce is The Man of Progress, why not have his portrait done? He is the one who represents us to the council.”

“Being a noble and proclaimed Man of Progress, I’m sure Jayce has had more than enough portraits painted of himself.” Heimerdinger looked at Viktor evenly. “What you’re contributing to Hextech is just as important as any speech Jayce gives.”

“Which is why I should be doing that instead of wasting an hour each day -” Viktor began to argue.

“Think of it as a mandated break in your day. Just an hour -”

“But sir -”

'“I could make it two, or even three,” the professor warned. “Do not make me push my authority on you, boy.”

Viktor cringed at the thought. He opened his mouth to rebuttal, but no further argument formed. So he closed it again, reclining back against the cushion with a heavy sigh.

“Try to get to know her,” Professor Heimerdinger pushed. “You don’t have to be friends. But, if you’re going to be spending the next few months together, it would be best to meet in the middle. I know she won’t be here today, so perhaps take the time to consider what you might like to know about her.”

Viktor frowned, hanging onto the word months. “How long will this take?”

“How ever long she needs. I expect you will treat her kindly and respectfully.”

“Of course, sir.” Viktor sighed. He thought for a moment. “Tell me, what do you know of her?”

“As you know,” the professor started, he seemed pleased Viktor was playing along. “She graduated last year. Since then, she’s been doing commission paintings for some of the highest ranking families here in Piltover. - I’m surprised Jayce isn’t familiar with her, in fact I believe his mother sat for her quite recently. Beyond that, I know pity little, I’m afraid. Our sessions were done in short sittings over the course of her time at the academy.”

Viktor hummed, filing away that information for later. “Do you know where she is today? Will this be a…reoccuring absence?”

Heimerdinger’s eyes were sharp for just a moment before they swept down to his desk. “A pressing family matter. She’ll be back tomorrow, worry not. – She's very dedicated to her craft. You may not appreciate it yet. But art records things we may forget. I’ve seen many things, and sometimes the works of art from that era hold more truths than documents.”

Viktor hummed, acknowledging but not accepting. Then he stood. “I shall take today to get things in order for my time away from the lab.”

Heimerdinger nodded, glancing up at him as he made for the door. “Make sure to think about what I said, m’boy. There’s no harm in getting to know her better.”

“I will, good day, sir.”

Viktor made sure the door had shut all the way before he groaned in frustration. He was not at all pleased with this outcome. He thumped his way across campus and back to the lab. Jayce was already tinkering away with something and didn’t acknowledge his entrance. Which he found he was thankful for. Repressing another sigh, he fell into his chair. A migraine was starting to worm in behind his eyes. He tried his best to ignore it while he sorted out his notes.

“Your visit with Heimerdinger didn’t go well?” Jayce asked after a few minutes of silence.

“What makes you say that?” Viktor muttered, staring at where his hand had been hovering for far too long without writing.

“Just a hunch.” Then Jayce added, “Did you bargain for a new pen?”

“I tried.” Viktor rolled his eyes, swiveling his chair towards him. Jayce was already half turned to him with an arm slung over the back of his seat. “I was unable to convince Heimerdinger to abandon the portrait. He instead wants me to befriend the artist -”

“Really?” This seemed to pique Jayce’s interest. He smirked at Viktor. “I think you should.”

Viktor frowned at him in turn. “And where would be the value? We’re in completely separate fields.”

“Always value in a new connection.” Jayce sighed, pushing himself out of his chair. He went over and clapped his hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “You kept me from literally jumping off a building. So let me help keep from socially jumping off a building.”

Viktor grimaced. “I -”

“Just make some small talk,” suggested Jayce, shrugging. “Ask if she prefers tea or coffee, flirt a little - she’s not going to bite. It’ll be good for you.”

“Flirt,” Viktor scoffed. He brushed Jayce’s hand off his shoulder. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m just saying you should give it a try.” Jayce gave him a meaningful look.

“I believe that is more your area of expertise.” Viktor recalled his conversation with Heimerdinger, and gladly reached for a separate conversation thread. “Heimerdinger tells me your mother has sat for this artist of late. Do you know anything about that?”

“Not much.” Jayce thought for a moment. “I bet she’s that woman I saw.”

“I have to imagine it should be obvious if there was an easel or something.”

“I remember she was attractive. - I’ll see what I can find out.”

Humming, Viktor nodded and turned back to his work station. Of course that would be something Jayce noticed. He, on the other hand, hadn’t paid enough attention to notice one way or the other. He flung the thought from his mind that he’d have to make the judgment tomorrow when he saw you.

He spent the day collecting as many notes as he could and laying out a plan for Jayce. Experiments to do, blue prints and schematics to review - it was only an hour a day. A handful per week. But that could be the difference between success and failure. Jayce didn’t bring you up again, and Viktor tried very very hard not to replay the conversation with Heimerdinger.

Get to know you.

Make small talk.

Viktor could do that.

Flirt?

Well – that would be a whole other playing field.

______________________________________________________________

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[supernova41st]

Can I request tf2 mercs with a reader who is genuinely terrifying. Like there quiet, sneaky, uncanny, basically reader is kinda like the mercs very own cryptid. (Bonus points if reader is tall af<3)

Boo 🤍

A/n: Spy’s is a little short here 😣 I hope you weren’t too eager to see his lol. I got a little experimental with this one, not too much tho. Also I’ll be going on another break, I know I just finished one but I’m going through an unexpected rough time rn. So sorry guys, hope you enjoy <33

Warnings: Video used may be a spoiler for s2 of scream queens, Praying is used in a humorous light

To start things off, you introduced yourself in the worst way possible. The bus that you were supposed to take got broken down so you had to find your way through the base without knowing where the entrance was. So what’d you do? Bang into a bunch of glass windows at 3am while it was RAINING. Some of the mercs were up trying to fix up the power generator and..

I saved that clip for weeks I’m so happy I have a reason to use it now

I know they’re all supposed to be big bad mercs but you scared the living FUCK out of them.

Scout

This man went running. He went all the way from the generator to the fucking bunks in the span of a minute! So what’d he do when he got to his room? He grabbed his cross necklace, got on his knees, and started PRAYING.

“Please god Jesus frickin’ Christ hear my prayers, save me-I’m sorry about all those magazines I keep under my bunk and I’m sorry that I told spy to go fuck himself when he told me I couldn’t pull bitches and I’m sorry I call girls bitches please just don’t let me friggin’ die dude!!”

He just kept chanting the same things until Miss Pauling found him cradling himself on his bed with a blanket wrapped around him.

“Scout what are you doing?”

“THERE IS A GHOST IN THE BASE.”

“Oh, you mean y/n?”

‘Hi 👁️‍🗨️👁️‍🗨️’

Yea he was pretty freaked out by you. To make it worse, you always just stare at him. He can’t remember a single moment where he looked at you and didn’t catch your tiny pupils locked onto him.

At first he’d just gently wave awkwardly while you did the same so freakishly. Eventually he decided to say something because it was scaring him, something he’ll never admit

“Yo you got a problem or somethin’, what’s with all the stares?”

“Nothing, I just like looking at you. Your structure pleases me.”

“..oh, well that’s actually-wait I thought-hold on do you really-pfft-Yeesh, I didn’t expect you out of everyone to haha.. Yknow”

Yeah he was blushing like crazy, such a straightforward compliment.

He’s still scared of you, but he uses you as his hype man every now and then. He’ll fish for compliments and WILL receive them

“Dontcha think I got some nice racks for a guy?”

“..Totally”

He could literally walk up to you and threaten to kill you and your reaction is just “yuh go for it”

If you’re freakishly tall then he calls you tree. Cuz

If you’re on the shorter side then he would just pick you up from the shoulders and kiss you on the forehead. He knows you won’t do shit, you’re literally just 🧍‍♀️

(gotg reference)

“I am hideous? :(“

“You kiddin’? You’re horrifying to look at”

Engineer

He didn’t even notice everyone else went running, he just kept on working on the electrical box. So when he stood up and saw you staring straight into the glass, he jumped a little but was mostly just confused

“What in the..”

“tap tap-Can you let me in?”

You’re lucky he didn’t go running like everyone else, you probably would’ve died from the flu if you spent another second outside in the freezing rain.

He puts a bell on you. He just had one laying around and tied it around the your wrist, it didn’t work because of how stiff your movements were so to ‘help’ you rang it against his ear.

“..”

“…..🔔🔔🔔🔔”

“GOD DAMN IT- oh, y/n”

“Sorry, the bell wasn’t ringing how you wanted it to so I rang it myself”

“Uh-huh, thanks for the warning partner”

From my experience southern people love to make conversation, but you aren’t really familiar with that. So when he tries to flirt it gets pretty awkward

“How’s it goin’ sugar, I reckon your looking quite nice today”

“👁️‍🗨️👁️‍🗨️”

“..you gonna say anythin’ back?”

“Oh, um.. I like your face.”

“Woah, alright then.”

He feels so embarrassed when he stands next to your tall ass, it makes him feel belittled. Especially when you actively have to look down just to make eye contact

But if you’re short then he loves it. Finally for once he doesn’t have to be reminded of his height when standing next to anyone.

Spy

He’s gone as soon as you show up. Like straight up disappears. He doesn’t like to show fear-makes him look weak

He’s convinced you could still see him though, cuz you happen to look in his direction even while he was invisible.

You don’t scare him as much as the others, if anything he took a bit of a liking to you because you stressed him out the least compared to the others. He always stood next to you + you were always his first pick for missions

You always make small talk with him. He doesn’t enjoy it but he still responds

“What is under your mask?”

“That is none of your business.”

“Why? Do you look like me?”

Spy doesn’t know if he should feel offended or annoyed

You don’t necessarily startle him like everyone else but you do make his heart jump slightly when you pop out of nowhere, you can see it in his pupils but never his body.

Pyro

HE RAN TOO BUT DIDN’T KNOW WHY LMFAO

He just saw everyone running and went ‘oh okay we’re doing this now 🏃‍♂️’

But seriously, he fell in love with you at first sight. Your features felt so intricate to him, you always gave each other blank stares, zoning into each other’s eyes.

‘⚫️ ⚫️’

“👁️‍🗨️👁️‍🗨️ hi”

“⚫️ ⚫️ mmf”

You’re the only person who can fully understand him. No, not using his body language, you can actually tell what he’s saying. He aw’s at that, finally someone knows what he’s saying.

It makes him more self aware than how he was before, he’ll say some really petty shit and when you react he panics

“Mmph mmm”

“um pyro I need you to calm yourself”

“Mm!”

Somehow you disturb HIM, you’ll point something out to him and talk to him like he’s crazy which makes him crazy

“Pyro, you reek of fire, it’s 30° outside, and it’s a cease day. Do you have any thoughts?”

“Mmmf mmm mph ☹️”

*plz leave me alone

Since you and him are so observant, the rest of the mercs are a little spooked by you guys. You’ll be in the corner with him watching and everyone is fairly weirded out.

“Mm mmmfmm mm”

“Pyro you’re hilarious.”

“What did thing say?”

“He said that if you were a littlest pet shop figure you’d be #508”

“..heavy is not sure what he expected”

[oaksgrove]

Lieutenant’s Sanctuary

pairing: Platonic Task Force 141 & Lieutenant!Reader, CallSign ‘Reaper’

synopsis: After years of tradition, the 141 team decides it’s time to crash at Lieutenant Reaper’s place for the first time. They’re expecting something practical and minimal, but instead, they find a storybook-like sanctuary.

warnings: Fluff, humor, found family vibes, and Soap being Soap.

word count: 1700

a/n: I’m such a sucker for Found Family and tiny cottages so this was so cute to write!

Every time Task Force 141 returned from deployment, they followed the same ritual: gather at someone’s place to decompress. It started as an impromptu thing—no one ready to face an empty flat just yet—and quickly became tradition.

Ghost’s apartment was Spartan: a single chair, a TV that looked like it had seen combat, and exactly one fork in the kitchen drawer. Soap’s place? Chaos incarnate, with mismatched furniture and a fridge stocked solely with beer, takeout boxes, and mystery condiments. Gaz’s flat was sleek and modern, but he was never there long enough to enjoy it. Price’s house was comfortably captainly, with sturdy furniture and the scent of pipe tobacco lingering like a welcome mat.

But no one had ever been to Reaper’s.

“You got a place, Reaper?” Soap asked, leaning against the Humvee after their latest mission. “Or d’you just materialize out of the shadows like a proper ghost?”

Reaper glanced up, her expression unreadable beneath the smudges of dirt and exhaustion. “I’ve got a place,” she replied simply, tossing her gear into the back of the vehicle.

“Really?” Soap pressed, grinning. “I thought you just slept hanging upside down somewhere…”

“It’s a house,” she replied, voice as flat as her expression. “And it’s off-limits.”

Soap didn’t relent. “So you do live in the shadows! Does it come with creepy fog and a drawbridge, or bats coming out of the chimney…?”

Reaper gave him a deathly glare through the rear mirror

“It’s a house,” she deadpanned. “And no bats.”

Soap wasn’t done. “How do we know you’re not just haunting an abandoned castle somewhere?”

“Because I’m not you,” she shot back smoothly.

The team laughed, but Soap was relentless. “So, when are we visiting this haunted manor of yours?”

Reaper sighed, rubbing her temples. “Fine. One visit. But don’t touch anything.”

And with that ominous warning, the deal was sealed.

The drive to Reaper’s place was unnerving, to say the least. Pavement gave way to gravel, gravel turned to dirt, and dirt became a narrow trail flanked by looming trees. The deeper they went, the quieter it got.

“Are you sure you’re not leading us to a burial site?” Gaz asked, staring out the window at the oppressive forest.

Reaper didn’t answer, her silence only adding to the tension.

“Swear I saw this in a horror film once,” Soap muttered. “Five soldiers go into the woods, only one comes out.”

When they finally pulled up, everyone stared in stunned silence. Nestled by a bubbling stream, the house was a picture-perfect storybook cottage. The small structure had ivy creeping up its stone walls, a pitched roof dusted with moss, and a chimney that puffed lazy spirals of smoke into the air. The garden surrounding it was meticulously cared for, with rows of herbs, vegetables, and vibrant flowers. Wind chimes tinkled softly in the breeze.

“Did we take a wrong turn?” Soap whispered. “This looks like something out of Sleeping Beauty.”

“Is this where you live,” Ghost asked dryly, “or where you lure unsuspecting hikers?”

“Are we meeting a witch to trade for supplies?” Gaz joked, his arms crossed as he surveyed the scene.

Reaper cut the engine and grabbed her bag. “It’s mine. Don’t get too comfortable.”

Before anyone could respond, a low bark rumbled through the trees.

The massive dog bounded out from behind the house, a massive blur of fur and slobber. “Bloody hell!” Soap yelped, scrambling behind Ghost, who, to his credit, stood still as the enormous Saint Bernard thundered toward them stopping in front of Reaper, wagging his tail so hard it could have knocked a grown man over. Clifford, as Reaper introduced him, was as big as he was slobbery.

“You never said you had a bear,” Soap muttered, peeking out from behind Ghost.

“Harmless,” she said, scratching behind his ears.

“Harmless, she says,” Soap grumbled. “That thing could bench-press me.”

Clifford tilted his head at Soap’s voice, letting out a deep woof before trotting over to sniff at his boots.

Gaz, meanwhile, was practically cooing at Clifford. “You’ve got a dog? That's adorable.”

Reaper raised a brow. “I’m not adorable.”

“Your cottage begs to differ,” Gaz shot back, gesturing to the idyllic scene around them.

Ghost raised a brow. “You live here?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Ghost gestured helplessly at the idyllic scene. “You don’t exactly give off ‘granny in a cottage’ vibes.”

Reaper smirked faintly. “Good.”

“Figured you’d live in a dungeon,” Soap teased. “Not... whatever this is.”

If the outside surprised them, the interior rendered them speechless. The cabin was minimal yet cozy, every detail carefully curated. Handmade quilts and pillows adorned the couch, and shelves were lined with jars of dried herbs and homemade preserves. String lights cast a warm glow, and a faint aroma of lavender and something earthy lingered in the air. A bookshelf in the corner overflowed with worn novels and journals, while a small fireplace crackled softly.

Ghost, who rarely spoke about anything unrelated to missions, ran a gloved hand over the carved wooden mantle. “You made this?” he asked, nodding to the intricate designs.

You nodded, a little sheepish. “Most of it. I like working with my hands when I’m not… you know, shooting.”

Soap was already poking around, pulling open cupboards and exclaiming over jars of pickled vegetables. “You’ve got jam? Like, homemade jam?” He held up a jar like it was a precious artifact. “She’s got jam, boys. Homemade bloody jam!”

“Yes,” Reaper said, crossing her arms. “Try not to break anything.”

“Did you crochet these pillows too?” he teased, holding up a throw pillow embroidered with flowers.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Keeps me busy.”

“Busy,” Soap repeated, incredulous. “You’re secretly everyone’s gran, aren’t you?”

“Oi, I’m not that old,” you protested, swatting at him with a dish towel.

“But look at this!” he said, holding up a patchwork quilt.

Reaper didn’t dignify that with a response, just shrugged, but Clifford let out a loud snore from the corner, effectively ending the discussion.

As Reaper prepared a hearty stew, the team gravitated to the kitchen. Soap and Gaz hovered like starving children, while Price helped slice bread.

“Is this… homemade?” Price asked, nodding at the loaf cooling on the counter.

“Figured you’d be hungry, it’s not that hard.” Reaper said, not looking up from the pot.

“Not that hard,” Soap mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “Meanwhile, I nearly set my flat on fire boiling pasta.”

Dinner was a revelation. Ghost surprised everyone by going back for thirds, and Soap declared it the best meal he’d ever eaten (between mouthfuls of stew and bread).

“Not bad, Lieutenant,” Ghost muttered, which from him was practically a glowing review.

“You’ve ruined us,” Gaz added, wiping his plate clean. “How’re we supposed to go back to regular food after this?”

“This is the best thing I’ve eaten in months,” Soap muttered around a mouthful of bread.

“You’ve been hiding this paradise from us?” Gaz said, gesturing at the cozy interior.

“Thought you preferred your chaos,” Reaper replied, smirking faintly.

“We do,” Soap said quickly, “but this? This is next level.”

By the time the meal ended, the team had fully invaded every corner of Reaper’s space. Soap challenged Gaz to cards, Clifford sprawled across Price’s feet, and Ghost—ever the enigma—quietly helped Reaper chop vegetables for tomorrow’s meal.

“You don’t have to,” she said with a sympathetic smile.

“I know,” Ghost replied simply, his tone soft.

“You’re full of surprises,” she said as he handed her a perfectly diced carrot.

“You have no idea,” Ghost replied, his tone unreadable.

As the night wore on, the team sank into an unspoken rhythm. Soap’s laughter mixed with the crackle of the fire, and even Ghost’s stoic presence seemed lighter.

Price absently scratched behind the dog’s ears, looking unusually relaxed. “You’ve got quite the setup here, Lieutenant.”

Reaper glanced at him, settled into one of the armchairs near the fire, her expression softening slightly. “Thanks, Captain.”

As the night wore on, the unspoken bond between them deepened. For all her stoicism in the field, Reaper’s home was a haven—a place of warmth and quiet that each of them hadn’t realized they desperately needed.

By morning, it was decided.

“This place is a bloody sanctuary, this is the spot now,” Soap declared, stretching as the sunlight streamed through the windows. “First day back, we’re coming here.”

Reaper raised a brow. “I didn’t agree to that.”

“You didn’t disagree either,” Gaz pointed out, grinning.

Reaper sighed, but there was no real frustration in her tone. “Fine. But next time, you’re bringing the beer.”

“Sorry, Ghost,” Soap added. “Your spooky flat’s been officially replaced.”

Ghost shrugged, leaning against the wall quietly observing as Reaper worked on mending a tear in her field jacket. “Fine by me.”

For all her darkness in the field, Reaper’s home was paradise, and her team decided they’d never let her live it down.

“Well, Reaper,” Soap said, biting into a fresh slice of bread, “you’re officially the heart of this team.”

She rolled her eyes, though couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t mind having you lot here—as long as you pull your weight in the garden.”

As the team loaded into the Humvee, Clifford gave each of them an affectionate nuzzle. Reaper stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her usual stoicism softened by the faintest smile.

“Drive Safely” she said simply.

And they knew they’d return—because for all her darkness in the field, Reaper’s home was a haven, and they were lucky to be part of it.

-

Months later, after another long and grueling deployment, the team returned to the cabin. This time, Clifford greeted them like old friends, and the warm light spilling from the windows felt like a beacon.

Reaper, standing in the doorway, simply smirked.

“Welcome back.”

[alpaca-clouds]

I really find it frustrating how very different in regards to effort the different companion quests in BG3 are.

Like, you have Astarion and Shadowheart who both have those really nice paced out companion quests with a rather good structure in the story, a dungeon for that quest each and this big bombastic finale with stuff that is only connected to their quest and nothing else. They both also - regardless of whether you romance them or not - have quite a few of cut scenes connected to the quest.

Then there are Gale and Lae'zel. Their companion quests are a lot more weaved into the actual main quest which you can see both positive and negative. Positive: They are a lot more related to the plot. Negative: You will do most of the stuff from their quests either way. You can argue that the creché is a dungeon connected to Lae'zel, and you can also make the argument that Laroakan's tower is kinda Gale's dungeon.

Then there is Wyll, who mostly just hangs around during Act 1 and 2 and then has a little tiny bit of quest in Act 3, though the game will very much make sure to push you into the quest even if you have not recruited Wyll or Wyll has left the party. So, yeah, depending how you read it, there are two dungeons that are kinda connected to Wyll (the Iron Throne and then the Ansur dungeon).

And then... there is Karlach. Karlach's quest can be summarized by: "Fight some fake paladins, get one piece of infernal iron, get a second piece of infernal iron, defeat Gortash." The Gortash fight is not even like the two Wyll dungeons, that are not really Wyll exclusive (I mean, technically none of the quests is), that are optional outside of the Wyll questline. No, you will have to confront Gortash in one way or another to finish the game, no matter whether you have Karlach recruited or not.

And it makes it just feel so very... unsatisfying. I think a lot of the problems that people (like me) have with act 3 of the game really are connected to the fact that the endings for the companions outside of Astarion and Shadowheart feel rather, well, as I said: unsatisfying.

I mean, yes, Gale and Lae'zel are connected with the plot, but also their resolution is kinda pushed somehow into this "post-final-boss" scene and hence feels not really as if it actually resolves somethng. Especially as it feels also so very disconnected from basically everything else in the game you do with them.

With Wyll I would even argue that technically the post-Ansur stuff could almost serve as a proper resolution... If the dialogue was not bugged as hell. At least it is for me. And of course it still does not compare at all with the stuff happening with Astarion and Shadowheart.

And then there is Karlach. I just... I am sorry, I hate how the game handels Karlach. Especially because she is such a cool character. But her companion quest gives you less to do than your average side-quest. It is a fucking fetch quest. That's it. And it has no proper resolution. Because in Act 3 there is not even an attempt made to solve her issue. I spoke about that before: I would be totally fine if there was a quest in Act 3 where the player tries to get the engine fixed in the city. BUT THERE ISN'T. It is like: "Well, Dammon does not know anything. Tough luck Karlach. You gotta either die or go back to hell." Meanwhile I am like: "THEN ASK SOMEONE ELSE?" Ask the Ironhand Gnomes, ask the Gondians, ask bloody Gortash, try to make a deal with Raphael. Like, there has to be something, right?

And look, while I would have loved some Halsin content in Act 3, I am fine with the fact that there is not really anything. That is alright. Because really, the entire Act 2 stuff and how Halsin is interwoven with it might very well be the game's highlight for me.

Just as I am fine that Jaheira and Minsc are more like cameos with not that big of a role in Act 3.

(Again, I cannot talk minthy, because I failed to recruit her so far because I do not like to play evil characters.)

But... Yeah. I will not go here and argue that the game is incomplete. It is not. But it still is very frustrating how the game handles the companion quests in this regard, because the companions are the beating heart of the game. And I think the ending of the game would have been more satisfying if the companion quests had been more comparable in quality.